The Origin and Character of God Ancient Israelite Religion Through The Lens of Divinity 0190072547 9780190072544

The Origin and Character of God
The Origin and

Character of God
Ancient Israelite Religion through
the Lens of Divinity
T H E O D O R E J. L EW I S
1
3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Lewis, Theodore J., author.
Title: The origin and character of God : ancient Israelite religion through
the lens of divinity / Theodore J. Lewis.
Description: New York, NY : Oxford University Press, 2020. |
Includes bibliographical references. |
Identifiers: LCCN 2020015308 (print) | LCCN 2020015309 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780190072544 (hardback) | ISBN 9780190072568 (epub) |
ISBN 9780190072575
Subjects: LCSH: God (Judaism) | Judaism—History—To 70 A.D. |
Palestine—Religion—History. | Palestine—Religious life and customs.
Classification: LCC BM610 .L494 2020 (print) |
LCC BM610 (ebook) | DDC 296.3/11—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020015308
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020015309
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Marquis, Canada

For Dawn
Contents
Acknowledgments ix
Abbreviations xiii
1. Introductory Matters 1
2. The History of Scholarship on Ancient Israelite Religion:
A Brief Sketch 17
3. Methodology 48
4. El Worship 73
5. The Iconography of Divinity: El 119
Section I: Methodology and Iconography 119
Section II: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and Divine Images 128
Section III: The Iconography of Ugaritic ʾIlu 142
Section IV: The Iconography of Israelite El 155
6. The Origin of Yahweh 209
Section I: The Meaning and Revelation of the Name Yahweh in
the Hebrew Bible 210
Section II: The Name Yahweh in Extra-Biblical
and Epigraphic Sources 227
Section III: The Geographic Origins of Yahwistic Traditions and
the Debate Concerning Northern (Canaanite) Versus Southern
(Midianite) Origins 252
7. The Iconography of Divinity: Yahweh 287
Section I: The Iconography of Yahweh: Anthropomorphic and
Theriomorphic Traditions 287
Section II: The Iconography of Yahweh: Aniconic and
Abstract Traditions 333
8. The Characterization of the Deity Yahweh 427
Part One: Yahweh as Warrior and Family God 427
Section I: Yahweh as Divine Warrior 428
Section II: Yahweh the Compassionate and Family Religion 473
Part Two: Yahweh as King and Yahweh as Judge 495
Section I: Yahweh as King 495
Section II: Yahweh as Judge 513
viii Contents

Part Three: Yahweh as the Holy One 575
Conclusion 674
Notes 701
Works Cited 905
Subject Index 1019
Citation Index 1045
Acknowledgments
Producing this volume was only possible due to a large support system of many
people over many years. I was taught by stellar teachers who have left their im-
print on my work more than they know. As the onomastic portions of the present
work will illustrate, it is important to leave a record of the names of such giving
people. I am deeply thankful for the efforts and the humanity of teachers from the
University of Wisconsin–Madison (Michael Fox, Menahem Mansoor, Norman
Roth, Keith Schoville, Barbara Fowler, Barry Powell), the Hebrew University
in Jerusalem (Shraga Assif, Moshe Greenberg, Sarah Groll, Victor Avigdor
Hurowitz, Rafi Kutscher, Alexander Rofé), and Harvard University (Michael
Coogan, Frank Moore Cross, Paul Hanson, Thomas Lambdin, Patrick Miller,
William Moran, Piotr Steinkeller). I also learned much from Douglas Gropp
and Choon-Leong Seow, my classmates at Harvard, and from Marc Brettler and
Bernard Levinson, my classmates at Hebrew University.
I found supportive colleagues helping me to grow at the University of Georgia
in its Department of Religion (Alan Godlas, Kenneth Honerkamp, George
Howard, Russell Kirkland, Sandy Martin, William Power, Shanta Ratnayaka,
Thomas Slater, David Williams), in Athens, Georgia (Howard and Linda Abney,
Chris and Cheryl Cornwell, Ed and Lucy Larson, William and Amburn Power,
Henry F. and Karen Schaefer), and at Johns Hopkins University in its Department
of Near Eastern Studies (Betsy Bryan, Jerry Cooper, Paul Delnero, Marian
Feldman, Mike Harrower, Richard Jasnow, Jake Lauinger, Alice Mandell, P. Kyle
McCarter, Glenn Schwartz, and Ray Westbrook). I am a historian of religion who
was blessed to have been trained in Near Eastern languages and civilizations (not
theology, as close readers will see) and even more so to have made my home for
the past eighteen years in a Near Eastern studies department with colleagues
in Assyriology, Egyptology, and Northwest Semitics as well as in Near Eastern
archaeology and art history. I have had the privilege of editing Near Eastern
Archaeology for the American Schools of Oriental Research (thanks are due espe-
cially to Billie Jean Collins), and serving with dedicated board members promoting
the amazing work of the W. F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research in
Jerusalem. For years I have also had the privilege of editing the Writings from
the Ancient World series (SBL Press). Thanks to working with stellar WAW
authors and editors, I have enjoyed learning of the entire ancient Near East
broadly through a wide variety of literary genres. Special thanks for this endeavor
x Acknowledgments
go to Bob Buller and Simon B. Parker. I also thank the members of the Biblical
Colloquium, who have provided rigorous feedback to my work for many years.
The list of scholars and researchers from whom I have learned is endless, as
documented throughout the volume and in the lengthy bibliography. I fear I will
leave so many out should I begin to list their names. Hopefully the citations of
their work can underscore my indebtedness. I must mention five scholars who
graciously read portions of my manuscript and provided me with substantial
feedback: Daniel Fleming, David Noel Freedman, Peter Machinist, Kathryn
Medill, and Sara Milstein. Taking the time to go through another’s work and
offer incisive feedback is a hallmark of collegiality. Thank you. Those who know
Daniel Fleming’s extraordinary investments to improve the research of others
(faculty and students alike) will not be surprised to read of my deep indebtedness
to him for covering my drafts at every turn with probing historical challenges to
rethink my approach and the very categories of my analysis. I am also indebted
to the numerous students who have pushed me in my thinking, especially those
graduate students who read earlier drafts of the present work in seminars on an-
cient Israelite religion at Johns Hopkins University.
On an institutional level, I am indebted to Johns Hopkins University. The im-
portance of strong institutional support for the humanities is needed more than
ever, and I thank the numerous leaders who make this a reality at Johns Hopkins
day after day, year after year. A special thanks to the Blum family for endowing
the Blum-Iwry Chair, which I have the honor of holding, as it celebrates the life
of Samuel Iwry. (See the oral history of his life, To Wear the Dust of War: From
Bialystok to Shanghai to the Promised Land.) For the current volume, I also owe
a large debt to fellowship support from the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial
Foundation, from the Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of
Pennsylvania, and from the National Endowment for the Humanities.
Words cannot begin to express my appreciation of Oxford University Press for
agreeing to publish a manuscript of such length and with so many images. Special
thanks to Steve Wiggins (truly a scholar and a gentleman), Drew Anderla, Amy
Whitmer, Melissa Yanuzzi, the typesetting team at Newgen, and especially Sue
Warga, who took on the herculean task of copy-editing such a large and technical
manuscript. I am deeply indebted too to WordCo Indexing Services for produ-
cing the subject index and to Noah Crabtree for producing the citations index.
I am delighted to give thanks to the many individuals who kindly helped in
securing permissions for the images that occur in the volume, and in some cases
the images themselves, as noted in the various credit lines. These thoughtful
individuals include Susan Allison, Yael Barshak, Robert D. Bates, Adam L. Bean,
Amnon Ben-Tor, Nelly Beyman, Stephen Bourke, Edward F. Campbell, Felicity
Cobbing, Billie Jean Collins, Stefanie P. Elkins, Yosef Garfinkel, Garth Gilmour,
Joseph A. Greene, Ze’ev Herzog, James K. Hoffmeier, Kathryn Hooge Hom,
Acknowledgments xi
Sarah Horowitz, Jean-Baptiste Humbert, David Ilan, Yael Klein, Kay Kohlmeyer,
Marilyn Lundberg, Valérie Matoïan, Amihai Mazar, Nadine Meouchy, Michael
Moore, Dick Osseman, Jaimie Owen, Nava Panitz-Cohen, Alan Paris, Zev
Radovan, Seth Richardson, Lucia Rinolfi, David Schloen, Olaf Tausch, Gary
Lee Todd, Christoph Uehlinger, Andrew Vaughn, Kim Walton, Ziony Zevit and
Bruce Zuckerman. A special word of thanks goes to Kim Walton (of Walton
Image Supply) for her heroic efforts in tracking down and organizing the many
possible sources for images. I am indebted to Kim for her efficiency and many
hours on my behalf. I also need to express a special word of appreciation to
Amnon Ben-Tor and the Selz Foundation Hazor Excavations, as I use more
images from Hazor than from any other site.
I close with deep thanks to my family. One of the chapters in this volume
articulates the vital importance of family religion. So too the importance of
family in every aspect of life. Though they have both passed, I honor the lives
of my father, Harland Richard Lewis, and my mother, Jean Margaret Van Den
Heuvel Lewis, whose love, concern, and work ethic were formative. The poign-
ancy of life without them finds solace only in the memory of their devoted caring.
And where would I be without the love and supportive prayers of my in-laws,
Jess and Jan Daniels? My siblings (Sally, Michael, Martin, Andrew, Matthew)
have always provided the deepest bonds of support. My children (Eric, Meghan,
Hannah, Liam) have been the richest of blessings. One of my greatest delights
and honors is to be a father to such amazing individuals.
To Dawn Tierney Lewis, wife, lover, best friend, intellectual, musician, com-
panion, and contemplative soul-mate: I am ever thankful for the depths and joys
of love we share. You have lived with this book for so long, ever patient, ever sup-
portive, ever wise in your counsel. I dedicate this book to you, my love.
Acknowledgments combine acts of recognition and expressions of gratitude.
How then could I do any other than to close by giving all thanks and honor to
the subject of this volume, “the God who holds in his hand our every breath and
every path” (Dan 5:23)?
Abbreviations
1Q Dead Sea Scroll text number from Qumran Cave 1

A. Tablet signature of texts from Mari
Akk Akkadian
ANEP The Ancient Near East in Pictures Relating to the Old Testament. Edited by
James B. Pritchard
ANET Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Edited by James
B. Pritchard
Arb Arabic
Arm Aramaic
BDB Brown, Francis, S. R. Driver and Charles A. Briggs. A Hebrew and English
Lexicon of the Old Testament
C stem causative stem (e.g., Hiphil in Hebrew)
CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of
Chicago
Chr Chronicler
CIS Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum
CoS The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo and K. Lawson
Younger
CT Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum
CTH Catalogue des textes hittites. Emmanuel Laroche
CWSS Corpus of West Semitic Stamp Seals. Nahman Avigad and Benjamin Sass
D Deuteronomy-related source (of the Pentateuch)
D stem doubled stem (e.g., Piel in Hebrew)
DN deity name
DNWSI Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions. Jacob Hoftijzer and
Karen Jongeling
DSS Dead Sea Scrolls
xiv Abbreviations
DtrH Deuteronomistic History

Dtr1 Deuteronomistic History (Josianic edition)
DULAT A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition.
Gregorio del Olmo Lete and Joaquín Sanmartín
E Elohist source (of the Pentateuch)
EA El-Amarna tablets
G stem ground or simple stem (e.g., Qal in Hebrew)
Gen rab Genesis Rabbah
GKC Gesenius’ Hebrew Grammar. Edited by Emil Kautzsch. Translated by
Arther E. Cowley
GN geographic name
HALOT The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Ludwig Koehler,
Walter Baumgartner and Johann J. Stamm
H Holiness source/code (of the Pentateuch)
Heb Hebrew
Impf imperfect or prefixal verbal form
J Jahwist/Yahwist source (of the Pentateuch)
JPS Jewish Publication Society Translation of the Hebrew Bible
KA Kuntillet ʿAjrud
KAI Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften. Herbert Donner and
Wolfgang Röllig
KAR Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts. Edited by Erich Ebeling
KB Koehler, Ludwig and Walter Baumgartner. Lexicon in Veteris
Testamenti libros
KH Ketef Hinnom
KTU Die keilalphabetischen Texte aus Ugarit. Edited by Manfried Dietrich,
Oswald Loretz and Joaquín Sanmartín
KUB Keilschrifturkunden aus Boghazköi
LB Late Bronze Age
LXX Septuagint
MHeb Medieval Hebrew
MT Masoretic Text (of the Hebrew Bible)
N stem N-prefix stem (Niphal in Hebrew)
NAB New American Bible
NEB New English Bible
Abbreviations xv
NIV New International Version

NJPS Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation according to the
Traditional Hebrew Text
Non-P The non-Priestly writings in the Pentateuch that included J and E in the
documentary hypothesis
NRSV New Revised Standard Version
OG Old Greek
OL Old Latin
P Priestly source (of the Pentateuch)
Pf perfect, perfective or suffixal verbal form
PN personal name
RES Répertoire d’Épigraphie Sémitique
RIH Ras Ibn Hani (excavation number)
RS Ras Shamra (excavation number)
RSV Revised Standard Version
Syr Syriac
Syr-Hex Syro-Hexapla, translation of Origen’s six-column edition of the Hebrew
and Greek texts into Syriac
Sum Sumerian
TAD Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt. Bezalel Porten and
Ada Yardeni
tD/Dt stem doubled stem with infixed t (e.g., Hitpael in Hebrew)
Tg Targum
TUAT Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments. Edited by Otto Kaiser
Ugr Ugaritic
V Vulgate
VAT Vorderasiatische Abteilung Tontafel. Vorderasiatisches Museum, Berlin
WAW Writings from the Ancient World. SBL Press
1
Introductory Matters
This volume is a reference work about God—the god who comes to be under-
stood in different ways by Jews, Christians, and Muslims through the ages. Can
you imagine a more daunting challenge? Hence the length of this book. And its
brevity. One would have to write endlessly to cover such a topic, only to realize
that any treatment would remain incomplete. Immediately one must choose how
to approach the material and selectively what to cover. My approach is that of a
historian of religion rather than that of a theologian. Specifically, I write as a his-
torian of the religion of ancient Israel as it is understood within its ancient Near
Eastern context, primarily the societies of ancient Syria, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon
and Egypt. These ancient cultural and sociological contexts gave birth to funda-
mental understandings of God that would come to be foundational to Judaism,
Christianity, and Islam. Prior to articulating the selective scope of the present
volume, it is worth pausing to ponder the vastness of the task before us.
The Scope of a Comprehensive Volume

on Ancient Israelite Religion
Deciding on the scope of the present work presents a challenge. As a refer-

ence volume, it should present a resource for readers who seek to delve into the
subjects it treats, presenting the issues at hand as well as the primary and sec-
ondary sources to which the reader may turn for additional study. Yet the subject
of the present volume, ancient Israelite religion, is far too large to be covered in a
single volume. This is especially true if one desires to probe its various topics with
the depth of research they deserve and to present readers with the primary texts
and secondary literature where they can dig deeper still. Consider what a com-
prehensive volume on ancient Israelite religion should entail.
History of Scholarship and Methodology
Foundationally, the reader should be introduced (but briefly) to the history

of scholarship and the present state of the field such that she appreciates the
river into which she is stepping. There are a number of ways to approach the
2 The Origin and Character of God
topic, so ideally the reader should also be presented with the author’s meth-
odological principles (whether she agrees with them or not). Articulating a
thoughtful methodology is a desideratum, for today’s analyses of Israelite re-
ligion (indeed, of the academic study of religion in general) are dramatically
different from those of past generations. So far, so good. The two chapters
that cover this are Chapter Two, “A Brief History of Scholarship,” and Chapter
Three, “Methodology.”
Divinity
The overwhelming task of articulating ancient Israelite religion comes into

sharper focus when one ponders the lengthy list of topics that must be addressed.
Surely the gods must be given their due (within Israel and within its broader
cultural context), yet cracking the door to divinity invites a plethora of the pre-
ternatural. Even if we restrict ourselves to only the male gods of the Levant and
only those of the Iron Age, we still face dealing with Athtar, Baal, Baal Hammon,
Bethel, Chemosh, Dagan, El, Elyon, Eshmun, Gad, Hadad, Horon, Melqart,
Milcom, Molek, Mot, Qadosh, Qaus, Reshep, Shamash, Yahweh, Yam, and
Yarikh. Even this list is partial, as it does not include the various local and re-
gional manifestations of the same deity.1 Obviously, female divinity needs a sim-
ilar full and nuanced treatment, and here too the list is lengthy, including named
deities (Anat, Anat-Yahu, Asherah,2 Ashtart/Astarte,3 Ashtarot, Baalat, Ishtar,
Qedeshet, Qudshu, Tanit) and those known through titles and iconography (e.g.,
Queen of Heaven, Dea Nutrix, Mistress of Animals). Fleshing out divinity fur-
ther would have to include the plural gatherings known as divine councils and
assemblies. Examining the preternatural in ancient Israel more broadly would
necessitate looking at entities linked to the heavens and the angelic as well as the
netherworld and the demonic.
Sacred Time, Sacred Space
Israelite religion took place in sacred time and sacred space, and these too would
have to be studied fully for a comprehensive understanding. Even the briefest of
surveys of the former would have to work through reams of calendrical sources,
and surveys of the latter with volumes of archaeological data. Ziony Zevit’s
(2001) masterful study of Israelite religions reveals the daunting task of artic-
ulating the many and varied forms of sacred architecture with ever increasing
examples coming from each new season of excavations. That sacred trees and
sacred waters—even agrarian threshing floors—were also places of cult increases
Introductory Matters 3
the level of difficulty.4 Of course, the religious paraphernalia filling such sacred
spaces would need attention as well (e.g., apotropaic objects, censers, cultic jew-
elry, cultic symbols, incense, lampstands, the Nehushtan, mĕzûzôt).
The Practice of Religion
Clearly, one would soon need to address cult per se, and here too there is a
staggering amount of material about the actual practice of religion. Hopefully one
could settle on an organizing principle (political? sociological? economic? ideo-
logical? theological?) that could facilitate articulating the varieties of royal cult,
family and household religion, priestly tenets, prophetic and mantic practices,
the daily religion of the sages writing reflective literature, and last but not least
apotropaia thought to be effectual. Reform movements would need to be juxta-
posed with counterreform measures. While certain rituals and religious festivals
would take center stage (e.g., Sabbath observance, circumcision, sacrifice,
Passover, yôm kippur), the comprehensive treatment we are envisioning would
have to include a wide array of rituals (birth rituals, healing rituals, funerary rit-
uals, ritual bathing, clothing, anointing, purification rituals, dedications, fasting,
oaths, vows, temple rituals, etc.) and the full calendar of festivals and feasts (ḥag
maṣṣôt, ḥag haqqāṣîr, ḥag hāʾāsîp, ḥag šābūʿôt, ḥag hassukkôt, bikkûrîm, pesaḥ,
New Year’s festivals, New Moon, Sabbatical Year, Jubilee Year, etc.). Dare we men-
tion cults of the dead, cultic prostitution, and child sacrifice? The finely tuned
differences of offerings (zebaḥ, šĕlāmîm, ʾāšām, ḥāṭṭāʾt, ʿōlâ, tĕrûmâ) would have
to be scrutinized diachronically and synchronically, as would dietary regulations
and rationales.
With the manipulation of blood seen as particularly distinctive in Israelite re-
ligious practice, one would have to examine whether blood was used symboli-
cally and/or instrumentally, whether Passover blood should be understood as
apotropaic, whether daubing blood on the right ear, thumb, and big toe is best
seen as purificatory or as an indexical sign.5 And once we start to consider the
human body, Catherine Bell’s voice in our head urges us to consider the “ritual
body” and the “socialized body.” How does ritual performance (e.g., garbing,
anointing) reveal how Israelite religion was used ideologically to construct and
reinforce hierarchy?
Religious Personnel: Kings, Priests, and Prophets
Once humans enter the picture, the scope enlarges still further to include the
different personnel involved in the various types of religion. Israelite religion
broadly construed includes the king as a (the) primary cultic officiant together
with a wide variety of priestly functionaries and various intermediaries as-
sociated with prophecy in its many forms. For a comprehensive look, each of
these would have to be addressed for their religious components. Kings were
closely associated with divinity and often perceived as the primary cultic actor
who provides access to the gods. They were involved in the performance of cult,
such as making burnt offerings (ʿōlôt) as well as the so-called peace offerings
(šĕlāmîm) and, in King Ahaz’s case, even blood manipulation. In addition to the
performance of cult, Israelite and Judean rulers were the primary sponsors of
religion, building and maintaining altars, sanctuaries, and temples. A glance at
the remarkable finds at Kuntillet ʿAjrud (a remote site on the Darb el-Ghazza
caravan route under royal control) reminds us to include well-trained scribes
in any scenario of royal cult, as they were the ones used by monarchs to pen po-
etic theophanies (KA 4.2) similar to what we find in the Hebrew Bible’s oldest
war poems.
Ideologically, some have claimed divinity for the Judean king, and this too
would need to be thoroughly examined. Were kings thought to be divine, or
merely elevated leaders, or perhaps “infused with divinity” just short of being
deified? A look at royal cult would also have to include the king’s role in judicial
affairs, as earthly kings were to be righteous in imitation of the Divine Judge, who
gifted them with discernment. Righteousness (ṣĕdāqâ), as the prophet Amos
underscores, is parallel to justice (mišpāṭ).
Just as royal cult was a mainstay of Israelite religion of the monarchic pe-
riod, so too priestly cult was an ever-present reality. The pages of the Hebrew
Bible present us with Aaronids, Levites, Levitical priests, Mushites, the priests
of Nob, Shilohnites, and Zadokites, not to mention groups known as “priests
of the second order,” “the priests of the high places,” and the kĕmārîm priests.
Even David’s sons are called priests. Yet another category are the male and female
Nazirites who, in the formulation by the Priestly Source (P), vow a temporary
threefold abstinence: refraining from cutting their hair, avoiding intoxicants and
unclean food, and avoiding any contact with a corpse.
Though an arduous undertaking, a comprehensive treatment would have to
unpack the Hebrew Bible’s descriptions of ongoing negotiations over sacerdotal
power, status, and cultic privilege. This is true particularly for understanding
holiness in the biblical tradition. For, in addition to holiness being about cultic
purity (i.e., cleanness void of moral, social, and/or ritual pollution), holiness
also served as an indicator of rank among cultic personnel. For example, the P
traditions advocate that only Aaronid priests (in contrast to the non-Aaronid
Levites) are called holy. Analogously, just as holiness served as an indicator of
rank among priestly personnel, so too holiness served as an indicator of Yahweh’s
supremacy over the gods. Aged Israelite lore proclaimed:
Who is like you among the gods, Yahweh? mî-kāmōkâ bāʾēlim yhwh
Who is like you, feared in holiness? mî kāmōkâ neʾdār baqqōdeš
(Exod 15:11)
Again, God must be given his due.

A third group of religious personnel central to our task would be intermedi-
aries best known from the Hebrew Bible’s prophetic corpus but now expanded
to encompass the divinatory arts (see Kitz 2003; Nissinen et al. 2003, 2019;
Hamori 2015). Prophetic perspectives have always had their appeal to historians
of Israelite religion due to the prophets’ varying modes of experience (visionary,
auditory, audiovisual, dreams, ecstasy, omens, etc.) and modes of communica-
tion (verbal and nonverbal symbolic acts). Wide-ranging religious viewpoints
come from their different chronological, geographic, and sociological contexts.
The last is particularly needed for revealing how prophetic engagement with
royal and priestly cult was tied to one’s sociological setting (see Wilson 1980).
Indeed, the roles of prophets and priests could be symbiotic (cf. Ezekiel the
kōhēn) as much as they could be adversarial. Prophets cannot simply be reduced
to outsiders speaking truth to religious power, as they themselves could be
practitioners of cult. Elijah may never have been called a priest, yet he builds
an altar “in the name of Yahweh,” procures a bull and fuel source, cuts the sacri-
ficial animal into pieces, and invokes the deity through petitionary prayer—all
resulting in divine visitation. Moreover, “cult” should not be reduced to the sac-
rificial. That Elisha, “a holy man of God” (ʾîš ʾĕlōhîm qādôš hûʾ), was thought to
resurrect the dead is just as much a part of Israelite religious belief. That a va-
riety of divinatory procedures—those legitimized and those branded illicit—are
attested (belomancy, cleromancy, extispicy, necromancy, oneiromancy) urges us
to expand our definition of how divine intermediaries functioned (see Kitz 2003;
Hamori 2015). That the primary medium used by the high priest to seek the will
of God was the divinatory, binary Urim and Thummim once again shows how
the priestly blends with the prophetic.
Other Religious Actors
The three groups of personnel just described (royal, priestly, and prophetic
intermediates) scratch only the elite surface of religious actors. Ancient
Israelite religion encompassed far more than the elite preoccupation of using
religion to obtain, secure, and bequeath power, be it the throne’s or the temple’s.
The non-elite religion of private individuals, families, and households was of
abiding concern, as it addressed the transitions of life (birth, marriage, death).
Thus our panoramic look at Israelite religion should treat the petitioning of the
Divine Parent for safe births, fit children, and sturdy livestock; for snakebite
remedies and sexual potency; for good weather, adequate water, and abundant
crops. Lest we draw dichotomous categories too rigidly, we should remember
the porous boundaries between elite and non-elite religion: kings, priests,
high-ranking officials, elite merchants, and the like shared similar concerns
with commoners, as they all petitioned the divine for personal health and
prosperity.
During desperate times, certain individuals regardless of social standing
turned yet elsewhere to seek succor. Though the precise literary genre of
incantations is missing from the pages of the Hebrew Bible (contrast, for ex-
ample the Ugaritic ritual texts), the Hebrew Bible nonetheless knows of such
activity—activity that was certainly at home within ancient Israel (though often
deemed illicit) (see Lewis 2012). Thus a comprehensive coverage of the religion
that was practiced in ancient Israel would have to explore the following incanta-
tion specialists: ḥōvēr ḥāver “enchanter of spells” (Deut 18:11; Isa 47:9,12); ḥôvēr
ḥăvārîm mĕḥukkām “expert enchanter of spells” (Ps 58:6); mĕnaḥēš “omen inter-
preter” (Gen 44:5,15; Deut 18:11); mĕkaššēp “sorcerer” (Exod 7:1; 22:17; Deut
18:11; Mic 5:11); mĕʿônēn “cloud watcher?” (Deut 18:11; Mic 5:11; cf. Arslan
Tash II); ḥăkam ḥărāšîm “skilled enchanter” (Isa 3:3; cf. Deir Alla I.36); nĕvôn
lāḥāš “expert incantation specialist” (Isa 3:3); mĕlaḥăšîm “incantation spe-
cialist” (Ps 58:6); baʿal hallāšôn “master of the tongue” (Qohelet 10:11); ʾōrĕrê-
yôm “those who curse the day” (Job 3:8); ʿōrēr livyātān “those who (are skilled at)
rousing Leviathan” (Job 3:8); ʾaššāpîm/ʾāšĕpîn/ʾāšĕpayyăʾ “exorcist” (Dan 1:20;
2:27, 4:4; cf. Akk ʾāšipu). As we learn from the presence of amulets in the archae-
ological record, the prevalence of apotropaia thought to be effectual should not
be underestimated.
The Reflective Side of Israelite Religion
Also among the religious actors were those who sought to reflect on society, di-
vinity, and the human condition, the sages who have left us with probing remarks
that scholars have called “wisdom literature.” Wisdom (ḥôkmâ) in biblical tradi-
tion is grounded theistically: “The fear of Yahweh is the beginning of wisdom,
and the knowledge of the Holy One is understanding” (Prov 9:10). It has a great
respect for the elderly and a strong sense of community: “Ask your ancestor, and
he will tell you; Your elders, and they will inform you” (Deut 32:7). It privileges
collective truths, accrued over time: “Indeed, inquire of bygone generations,
Ascertain the insights of their ancestors; For we are but of yesterday and know
nothing; Our days on earth are but a shadow. Will they not teach you and tell you,
Utter words out of their understanding?” (Job 8:8–10).
Thus a comprehensive treatment of Israelite religion would need to articu-

late the “wisdom perspective”—that religion had better be about how to make
the right choices in life, how to get along with people, how to live life decently,
how to avoid personal disaster, how to drink deeply of God. For these concerns,
about religion in its applied form, the historian of religion would have to turn
his focus away from the grand affairs of state, history, politics, and law. Wisdom’s
goal is personal holiness, marked by honesty, self-control (especially in speech),
diligence, and morality, and dedicated to securing a life of well-being, decency,
and dignity. Godly wisdom stands in contrast to “folly” (ʾiwwelet), a term used
to encapsulate self-destructive behaviors focusing on oneself apart from God.6
The thorough treatment we are envisioning would have to appreciate the va-
riety of literary forms used to express these perspectives (axioms, disputation
speeches, exhortations, folk wisdom, maxims, pithy expressions, precepts,
proverbs, reflections, theodicies) together with how wisdom is personified as
a woman bidding one to dine (Prov 9:1–3). It would have to explore religious
reflections on suffering (see Job) and on finding order among the absurdities and
perceived randomness of life (see Qoheleth) as it probed questions of theodicy.
It would need to be attuned to the ways in which authors were self-referential as
they included descriptions of “interiority” (see Niditch 2015). In short, it would
have to “look at life honestly, as the sages of Israel surely did,” in order to “see
goodness, beauty, and justice” along with life’s “evil, ugliness, and injustice” (Fox
2000: 3).
Aesthetic Presentations of Israelite Religion:

Literature, Music, Art, and Dance
Many readers of a volume on Israelite religion who have a passion for the human-
ities would want to see substantial coverage of the ways in which literature, the
visual arts, music, dance, and drama were used by the ancients to express their
religious beliefs. In this desire they stand in good company, for text (the Hebrew
Bible and the epigraphic record) and material culture reveal that the ancients
widely embraced the humanities. One need look no further than the many
examples of literary craftsmanship (puns, double entendres, storytelling, etc.),7
melodious psalms, the large percentage of the Hebrew Bible that was written in
poetry, David’s ritual dance (2 Sam 6:12–16), Elisha’s music-induced prophecy (2
Kgs 3:15; cf. 1 Sam 10:5–6), Job’s morning stars singing (Job 38:7), or the tradi-
tion that God gifted Bezalel and his craftsmen with superior artistic skills to be
used in his service (Exod 31:1–11; 35:30–35).
The Priestly Tradition offers the strongest apology for how God desires the
best of the humanities to be used in religious service—in the creation of sacred
architecture (Tent of Meeting, Ark, kappōret, altar, basin), religious furnishings

(incense stands, lampstands, tables, utensils), and the paraphernalia of cult (from
priestly vestments to anointing oil and incense). P elaborates on how God called
Bezalel personally, how he filled him with his divine spirit (rûaḥ ʾĕlōhîm), with
ability, intelligence, and knowledge in every kind of craft (bĕḥokmâ ûbitĕbûnâ
ûbĕdaʿat ûbĕkol-mĕlāʾkâ; Exod 31:3; 35:31). God desires and empowers
his artisans to work skillfully in a variety of media and with various artistic
techniques (Exod 31:4; 35:32–35).
There are aesthetic reasons why the Hebrew Bible is chanted (Jacobson
2017: 4–10), why its psalter is the hymnbook of the church, why its pages are
vital to the canon of English (and non-English) literature curricula, and why its
stories are a canvas for the history of art, not to mention the worlds of theater and
film. Turning again to religion, when the great English humanist and apologist
G. K. Chesterton (1908: 60, 63–64) mused about his “ultimate attitudes toward
life; the soils for the seeds of doctrine,” he quipped: “I had always felt life first as a
story: and if there is a story, there is a story-teller.”
Conclusion to the Scope of a Comprehensive Volume

on Ancient Israelite Religion
The preceding survey articulates the breadth of scope that a comprehensive

volume should entail, together with the daunting task of carrying out such an
endeavor. To make matters even more challenging, Chapter Three will address
the academic disciplines and methodologies needed to write a history of Israelite
religion. Obviously, a single volume of manageable length cannot cover all of the
aforementioned features unless one chooses to present a brief flyover, and then
one ends up with an introduction rather than a reference volume. The best ap-
proach, then, is to be selective in choosing several broad areas of concentration
that are representative of the whole.
Taste and see that Yahweh is good . . . (Ps 34:9 [Eng 34:8])
The Scope of the Present Volume
The present volume is a synthetic presentation of core elements of ancient

Israelite religion. The varied topics mentioned earlier have undergone a distilla-
tion process that hopefully, as with an aged Scotch, brings out the intense flavors,
colors, and aromas of the remarkable past without being reductionist. Israelite
religion must be understood through texts (the Hebrew Bible and the epigraphic
record) and material culture, yet also within its broader ancient Near Eastern
cultural and historical context. Synthesizing so much material runs the risk of
oversimplifying, yet in our age of narrowing specializations there remains a great
benefit in looking at the broad picture.
An Organizing Principle: Studying Ancient Israelite Religion

through the Lens of Divinity
There are many options for organizing our material, as varied as the many topics
just mentioned. Ziony Zevit (2001: 79) wisely uses the materiality of cult, espe-
cially the variety of sacred architecture and the epigraphic record, “as a matter
of research strategy” in order to appreciate the multiplicity of Israelite religions.
Rainer Albertz uses a sociological lens to view the history of Israelite religion
from small family groups to a centralized state, but also with a keen eye on per-
sonal piety (Albertz 1978, 1994; Albertz and Schmitt 2012). Susan Niditch (2015)
looks to descriptions of self-representation and self-contemplation to view the
individualistic experience of religion. Debra Ballentine (2015) looks afresh at
how religious myths of combat functioned ideologically as much as they de-
lightfully entertained. Mark Smith (2001b, 2002a, 2004, 2008, 2016) repeatedly
turns to divinity as a conceptual category to organize his multifaceted studies
of Israelite religion. Karel van der Toorn’s (2018b) varied essays on Israelite reli-
gious beliefs and practices are now collected under the title God in Context.
Similar to the work of Smith and van der Toorn, the present volume looks
to divinity as an organizing principle, though this book will include a variety
of theoretical perspectives, including those of the historians of religion already
listed. By using divinity, I do not mean to narrow the topic theologically; rather,
writing as a historian of religion, I intend to explore divinity as a window to the
historical, the sociological, the performance of cult, the ideological, and the aes-
thetic. I have chosen to look at literary and iconographic portrayals to see how
humans represented their deities and in so doing represented themselves and
their religious world.
Why the lens of divinity? Daniel Schwemer (2016: 1–3) articulates the divine
orientation of Hittite cult in ways that resonate with the religions across the an-
cient Near East, including (with certain adjustments) ancient Israel:
The sphere of the divine forms part of the Hittite landscape; mountains,
rivers and rocks are regarded as numinous powers, as are the sea, the sun
and the storm. The gods inhabit the various regions of the cosmos and the
land, but, at the same time, they reside in houses built for them by mortals
whose relationship to their divine lords is conceived in analogy to that of a
slave to his master. The people take care of and provide for the gods whose
contentment and favorable presence are considered to be essential for the
prosperity of the land.
The basic patterns of how and when mortals provide [for] and honour
the gods are . . . shaped by the conceptualisation of divine beings in analogy
to human authorities (anthropomorphism). . . . The observance of the cult
is regarded as a prerequisite of the gods’ favour; it thus plays a central role in
establishing and preserving the exclusive relationship between the Hittites and
their gods.
James Kugel (2011: 28–30) concurs lucidly:
The peoples [of the ancient Near East] had always deferred, and referred, to
God or the gods in all things, going back to time immemorial. . . . The gods’
looming presence in the ancient Near East has, of course, some practical
consequences. . . . [H]‌ow someone thinks about God . . . has very much to do
with how that person conceives of himself or herself, and more precisely, how
such a self conceives of itself fitting into the world.
Mark Smith (2001b: 103) poignantly adds:
To understand divinity is to extrapolate from the human condition to express

reality that cannot be entirely described; and to understand humanity is in turn
to make some sense of divinity that can be sensed only in part. . . . [D]‌ivinity
is not simply humanity writ large. . . . The ancients struggled with the limits
of their understanding of divinity. . . . It was a mystery of something beyond
themselves.
Seven Tastings
The distillate before you has seven flavors. As a first taste, Chapter Four considers
the worship of El, the deity who appears in the name of the eponymous ancestor
Israel. Sociologically, the flavors here are those of ancestral traditions, the so-
called God of the Fathers, and family religion—standing apart from the religion
of a centralized state and hierarchical priestly cult. The literary portrayals of El
worship must be complemented by a look at the aesthetically physical. Was El
imagined in the form of an enthroned, benevolent patriarch, a majestic bull, or
even a solid block of stone? Chapter Five, our second taste, blends in the iconog-
raphy of El situated within a comparative study of ancient Israel’s neighbors, es-
pecially the robust ʾIlu religion of Late Bronze Age Syria (Ugarit). The numerous
cults of standing stones (known elsewhere as betyls or “houses of El”) attested

archaeologically throughout Iron Age Israel’s history will also be sampled.
Yahweh is far and away the dominant deity of Israelite religion, such that
Patrick Miller (2000: xviii) can assert that “the centrality of this deity” and his
“nature and character” are “at the heart of all the practices of Israelite religion”
(my emphasis). Thus our remaining five tastings will probe the historical ques-
tion of the origin of Yahweh and the various ways in which he was character-
ized.8 Chapter Six provides a third tasting with an emphasis on the historical.
Readers can evaluate the Hebrew Bible’s foundation stories about Yahweh (and
vis-à-vis El worship) juxtaposed next to the epigraphic record, with datable texts
ranging from Egyptian geographical lists of the fourteenth and thirteenth cen-
turies BCE to a ninth-century BCE Moabite inscription and multiple ninth-and
eighth-century BCE Yahwistic inscriptions from a remote site on the Darb el-
Ghazza caravan route just south of Qadesh-Barnea (Tell el-Qudeirat), a site with
a long biblical pedigree. Anyone who enjoys hypothesizing about the identity of
Moses’s father-in-law or connections to Midianites and Kenites will find an array
of theories that can be sampled alongside archaic Hebrew poetry (biblical and
epigraphic) describing militaristic wilderness theophanies.
Chapter Seven offers yet another tasting (our fourth) of the ways in which
divinity was represented, with a detailed exploration of Yahweh’s image
in text and object. Whether Yahweh was embodied anthropomorphically,
theriomorphically (with bulls and lions), or as taking up residence in solid stone
is situated within the broader philosophical debate coming from ancient Israel’s
well-known aniconic traditions, which advocated that the image of God cannot
and must not be fashioned. Anthropologically, here we come up against Rudolph
Otto’s theories that humans can be fascinated by the irresistible appeal of the nu-
minous while at the same time standing in utter dread of the danger, even le-
thality, of the sacred.
The ubiquity of anthropomorphic language used of Yahweh resides on the
pages of the Hebrew Bible alongside multiple traditions that represented Yahweh
abstractly. With its ethereal qualities, fire was consistently chosen as representing
Yahweh’s presence, from Moses’ burning bush and Elijah’s “proof of divinity” con-
test on Mt. Carmel to fiery anthropomorphisms where Yahweh’s mouth breathed
fire and his nostrils snorted smoke. The ancients also developed a notion of ab-
stract “radiance” that they assigned to their gods (e.g., Akkadian melammu), and
for several biblical authors (e.g., the Priestly Source and Ezekiel) Yahweh was
best conceptualized as kābôd, a term that we will do our best to define. A third
attempt at portraying the divine abstractly was developed by Deuteronomic/
Deuteronomistic scribes. They asserted that the very Name (šēm) of Yahweh
could capture his essential nature and represent his presence “residing” in the
Jerusalem Temple in a way that avoids (humanlike) limitations such as sitting on
a throne. Yet other thinkers imagined that Yahweh might manifest as an invisible
presence, and here they were echoing their neighbors to the north (in Ayn Dara,
Syria) who carved a series of gigantic footprints representing an invisible deity of
enormous size walking into his (or her) inner sanctum.
The remaining chapters correlate the ways in which Yahweh was charac-
terized with the practice of cult, and with a variety of ideologies, religious
expressions, and understandings throughout society. The plurality of religious
actors described earlier in our panorama (kings, priests, prophetic intermedi-
aries, sages, and the non-elite) will be addressed—though, again, through a
representative sampling and without any attempt at an exhaustive coverage.
Chapter Eight (our fifth taste of Israelite religion) intentionally juxtaposes two
extremes: Yahweh as warrior and Yahweh as parent. Our intent is to provide a
corrective for those who choose to view religion (especially biblical religion)
narrowly, asserting that “the God of the Old Testament” is militaristic and thus
they want nothing to do with him. In the ancient world (known for its brutality
no more than ours) gods had to fight for their adherents. For whatever reason
(the desperate petitions of the victims of brutality crying out for justice, or the
aggrandizing and legitimizing of a self-serving monarch), gods were perceived
as and needed to be powerful—to right wrongs, protect crops, and vanquish ene-
mies. As a shock to our modern perspective, to say that a god is “holy” can em-
phasize that he is militarily powerful. Ḥērem battles are cultic as much as they are
military. A soldier “consecrates” himself for the sacrality of war. Moreover, the
notion of Yahweh as divine warrior transcended the mundane to include what
has been labeled “cosmic” warfare, where a superendowed deity was able to van-
quish seven-headed dragons that threatened society at large.
Yet as we see with all societies, alternative voices were at the ready to provide
a counternarrative that God is a force of peaceful existence. Thus Chapter Eight
balances tales of divine warfare with powerful rhetorical aspirations of disarma-
ment. People can choose to beat their swords into plowshares, to learn of war
nevermore. Surprisingly, we come across juxtaposed similes that depict Yahweh
as both “like a warrior” and “like a woman giving birth” (Isa 42:13–14). Such
language gives us a thirst for the ways in which Yahweh was portrayed as a com-
passionate family god. The rest of Chapter Eight then explores the non-elite reli-
gious actors sketched in the panorama. How is it that the warrior God can stoop
to dry one’s tears? Using the language of family religion (what Saul Bellow called
“kitchen religion”), we will see that Yahweh is portrayed as a caring father to his
child Israel, like a mother nourishing her newborn.
Another blended (sixth) taste is found in Chapter Nine: it intentionally
juxtaposes God as king and God as judge. Just as pondering Yahweh as a family
god provided a window into domestic cult, so viewing Yahweh as king helps us to
peer into royal cult, and seeing Yahweh as judge provides an avenue into ancient
Israel’s judiciaries. Some scholars advocate that the metaphor of Yahweh as king
was the primary way in which the ancients understood their god. Reciprocally,
the way they conceptualized kingship was informed by the actions of their
monarchs and the ideology of royal power and prestige. As already noted, both
actions and ideologies were wrapped in theocentric garb, as kings were the pri-
mary cultic actors and, at least for the Davidides, occupied their thrones because
of divine providence. Chapter Nine then looks at royal cult, including the reli-
gious lives of Israelite and Judean monarchs and their putative divinity, all set
against the backdrop of ancient Near Eastern royalty. As Yahweh was the Eternal
King, so the anointed monarch sat on Yahweh’s eternal throne (wayyēšeb ʿal-
kissēʾ yhwh lĕmelek; 1 Chr 29:23; Ps 45:7 [Eng 45:6]). As Yahweh was the king par
excellence, so “incomparable” language was used of certain kings (e.g., Solomon,
Hezekiah, Josiah), as they were linked to the divine especially via cult. Some
kings receive considerable attention for their sponsoring and performance of
cult—not just the favored David and Solomon, but also Ahaz, whose blood ma-
nipulation is unparalleled among all the other kings of the Bible. (Elsewhere such
activity is solely the prerogative of priests.)
Ideologically, while Judean kings were not considered to be divine (nowhere
do they ever receive cult), they nonetheless were infused with divine qualities. As
Yahweh was seen as the chief magistrate and divine lawgiver, so Judean monarchs
were ordained of God to ensure justice (mišpāṭ), equity (mîšōr), and righteousness
(ṣedeq, ṣĕdāqâ). Chapter Nine thus rounds out our look at royal religion by con-
sidering Judean kings, who were viewed as “kings of justice,” to borrow a phrase
from their Mesopotamian neighbors. It articulates judicial ideals found across
the Near East that sound quite contemporary, as they provide legal safeguards for
the disadvantaged of society (especially widows, orphans, and the gērîm, or non-
Israelite residents). It also explores whether kings actually enacted laws, in light of
the poor documentation for royal legislation within the Hebrew Bible.
Considering ancient Israelite societies at large, over long chronolog-
ical and geographical spans, Chapter Nine also looks at non-royal judiciaries.
Understanding the origin and organization of early Israelite judiciaries is fraught
with challenges, yet this need not stop us from exploring what can be said about
the roles of the paterfamilias, fathers and mothers, kinsmen, tribal “heads”
(rāʾšîm), tribal “officials” (šōṭĕrîm), judges (including the female Deborah), town
elders, and priests. A theocentric constant is again in full view: the notion of God
as judge permeates all social levels. So too we find the divinely inspired judicial
ideal of rendering decisions without partiality, providing justice for native and
non-native resident alike, with all social rungs (kaqqāṭōn kaggādōl) receiving
equal treatment.
Chapter Nine also considers the abuse of judicial power by documenting,
albeit briefly, prophetic voices speaking out against injustice. Sociologically, it
mattered not if prophets commissioned by Yahweh stood within the power struc-
ture or without. Advocating for justice was their vocation. As will be detailed
later, they employed a variety of literary genres (e.g., judicial parables, judgment
oracles, covenant lawsuits) to advocate change for the disenfranchised.
Finally, Chapter Nine focuses attention on the reflective nature within
Israelite religion, where sages probed the nature of the judicial ideal as it applies
to divinity. The theodicies left for us to ponder are nuanced and existential. They
include affirmations that Yahweh is indeed just (Leibniz’s théodicée), but that
lessens not the absurd and maddening ways in which divine retribution plays out
(thus Qoheleth). Boldly, the reflective side of Israelite religion also made space
for direct challenges to the Almighty. One need not only imagine taking God to
court, says Job; an actual legal case can be filed. Yet with litigation comes a ver-
dict, and likely not what the litigant Job had in mind when he first strove to put
God in the dock.
For our final tasting we offer a holiness blend. Using divinity once again as an
organizing principle, Chapter Ten explores the notion of Yahweh as the Holy One
to speak primarily about priestly religion. When many people think of the prac-
tice of Israelite religion, they imagine priestly cult, and with good reason. As pre-
viously mentioned, a wide variety of sacerdotal personnel and their activities are
ubiquitously documented. The sheer volume of this material and its unparalleled
relevance for understanding Israelite religion can be daunting, even paralyzing.
Surely one must have the brilliance and constitution of a Jacob Milgrom or a
Baruch Levine to understand this material fully. True enough. But this need not
keep us from appropriating their insights (and those of other dogged researchers)
to sketch a partial picture. Still, the reader should be forewarned: even the partial
picture presented in Chapter Ten is not for the timid. Yet exploring priestly cult
in detail is essential for understanding Israelite religion—hence the bulk of our
chapter even as a distillate.
Chapter Ten examines the concept of holiness broadly construed within an-
cient Israelite religion. Perhaps counterintuitively, it begins with an overview
of non-cultic understandings of holiness. Again, this is intentional, in order to
awaken the reader cross-culturally, to bring the reader to consider that within
the Levant to call a god holy can likely be an affirmation of power, especially mil-
itary power. Surprisingly, here there is no hint of what comes to define holiness
in priestly and Deuteronomic traditions (e.g., sacerdotal rank, cultic purity, so-
cial and ethical behaviors, and being withdrawn from common use). The earliest
passages of the Hebrew Bible on holy divinity resonate with what we see in Late
Bronze Age Levantine antecedents and from the ninth-/e ighth-century BCE ep-
igraphic record at Kuntillet ʿAjrud: to say that Yahweh is holy is to say that he is
powerful. All such passages—including archaic poetry and the lethal holiness
of the Ark narrative (with poor Uzzah as an object lesson matched only by the
deaths of Nadab and Abihu), not to mention Hosea’s and Isaiah’s “Holy One of
Israel”—are examined in turn.
The cultic management of holiness takes up the core of Chapter Ten. One text
after another reveals how the actions of individuals within a sacred location and
the delimiting of sacred space correlate with social and cultic status. It is easy to
see how the concept of holiness is used ideologically to construct and reinforce
rank, power, and privilege. This is especially true in the promotion of Moses,
Aaron, and the Aaronid priests. And yet curious oddities will jump out to the
reader. For example, though Moses is the preeminent authority throughout this
material (and though we use the exclamatory “Holy Moses!”), the verb qdš is
never used of Moses throughout the Hebrew Bible apart from a single (late) ref-
erence. Moreover, though the inaugurator of cult, Moses is never explicitly called
a priest and never undergoes any type of consecration ritual. The discussion in
Chapter Ten probes why this may be so.
Building on the work of Catherine Bell and others on ritual performance and
the ritual body, Chapter Ten examines two particular ritual acts (clothing and
anointing) that serve to construct and reinforce social realities and hierarchies.
It is shown how the ritual clothing of Aaron is an act of investiture that formally
bestows and confirms the authority due his rank as high priest. Vestments are
used to mark both his subservience before God and his elevated status before
humans. The ritual substances (oil and blood) and manner (pouring versus
sprinkling) of anointing similarly mark sacerdotal rank.
Chapter Ten also devotes special attention to cultic actors (“holy” personnel)
per se and across a wide swath of literature. As Saul Olyan (2000: 35) perceptively
notes, there is nothing more fascinating than to see how “among the ranks of
the cultic elite, distinctions of status . . . are often expressed through the idiom
of holiness.” One need probe no further than P’s adamant assertion, mentioned
previously, that only Aaronid priests (kōhănîm) are holy. In this volume the
reader will see how each tradition (e.g., Priestly Source, Holiness Code, Ezekiel,
Deuteronomy, Deuteronomistic History, and Chronicles) has its own nuances
and terminology about who can be holy and why it vitally matters for the con-
trol and exercise of cult. Readers not familiar with this material should gain a
new appreciation for how the Hebrew Bible preserves opposing voices with re-
gard to restricting and expanding holiness. Of special interest for the latter are
P’s traditions about temporary Nazirites who were able to achieve a higher level
of sanctity, especially women who have no other cultic role in P’s scheme. Even
more striking is the Holiness Code’s (H’s) comprehensive notion of holiness that
includes the entire community (not only priests) and covering a wide array of
cultic, economic, judicial, moral, and social parameters.
Conclusion
I never imagined that I would begin a book on religion (and on God!) by talking
about Scotch. Hopefully the distillate before you has the maturity to capture a
taste of Israelite religion with all its complexities. Hopefully it is robust yet supple,
offering something for every palate with surprising notes, layered aromas, and
intricate coloring. And hopefully it is well balanced, able to warm the soul as on a
wintry day and linger long with a smooth finish.
2
The History of Scholarship on Ancient
Israelite Religion: A Brief Sketch
Introduction: Schematizing Intellectual History
Schematizing the history of human thought into categories is always risky, yet
pedagogically necessary in order to focus discussion. Dividing history into
periods usually predisposes us to treat them as antithetical. When C. S. Lewis
gave his inaugural lecture as professor of medieval and Renaissance literature
at Cambridge in 1954, he remarked that the opposite is often preferable. In his
field of study, he noted, following Jean Seznec, “as the Middle Ages and the
Renaissance come to be better known, the traditional antithesis between them
grows less marked” (1955: 1–3). The same could be said of the history of human
thought presented in this chapter as one realizes the degree to which thinkers
(ancient and modern) are indebted to their predecessors. On the other hand,
one could adopt Thomas Kuhn’s (1970) well-known “paradigm shift” model and
assert that the major advances that have propelled fields of study are not at all
gradual or linear, but revolutionary in character. Here too one could easily dem-
onstrate insights gained because certain scholars stepped outside of accepted
dogma and saw things in a new light (cf. Rendtorff 1993b).
Clearly, the best reconstructions of intellectual history resist such binary
oppositions, realizing that continuity and novelty can coexist. Out of neces-
sity one must provide structures within which to view the vast sweep of human
thought as it pertains to the study of religion. To quote Lewis again, “We cannot
hold together huge masses of particulars without putting into them some type of
structure. . . . All divisions will falsify our material to some extent; the best one
can hope is to choose those which will falsify it least” (1955: 3–4). With this hope
in mind, the following brief outline of the history of scholarship is presented for
heuristic purposes. Not all aspects of biblical scholarship are treated, only those
with direct impact on the study of ancient Israelite religion. Even so restricted,
the secondary literature is vast and can only be sketched.
The Growth of the Critical Study of the

Bible: The Enlightenment
It is common to find introductory books that assert that the critical study of
the Bible began with the Enlightenment in eighteenth-century Europe (e.g.,
Fohrer 1972: 17; Frei 1974: 51; Oden 1987: 19). To be sure, traditional beliefs
regarding the Bible were already being questioned prior to this time. As early
as the late medieval period Ibn Ezra (1092–1167) was intimating that portions
of the Pentateuch were incompatible with Mosaic authorship, as were the latter
chapters of Isaiah with the eighth-century BCE Isaiah ben Amoz.1 Yet the late
seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries do represent an increase in direct
challenges against the traditional views of the church and synagogue. Richard
Simon (1638–1712) would contest the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch
based on his literary studies, while Jean Astruc’s (1684–1766) isolation of divine
names and duplicate narratives would mark the beginnings of source criticism
(cf. Knight 1973: 39–58).
Thus, for our purposes, the Enlightenment is a convenient place to start the
story of intellectual history as it influenced the study of the Bible. And yet, if a
personal caveat may be permitted, I would argue that in choosing this period we
need to be careful not to imply even subtly the denigration of pre-Enlightenment
intellectual activity (due to the unstated view that scholarship must be skeptical
to be critical). Working backward in time from the Enlightenment, one can ap-
preciate biblical insights (even critical in nascence, although rarely skeptical)
coming from many avenues of inquiry (philosophical, theological, exegetical)
from diverse groups, including Jewish (e.g., Spinoza, Maimonides, the Qimhis,
Ibn Ezra, Rashi), Catholic (e.g., Thomas Aquinas, Anselm), and Protestant (e.g.,
the sixteenth-century reformers) scholars.
Though often hailed as monolithic, the Enlightenment period was certainly
not uniform in its expression. At various points one finds intellectualism as
well as anti-intellectualism, belief in progress as well as pessimism, theism
as well as deism and atheism, credulity as well as skepticism. Nonetheless, the
Enlightenment spirit in general placed emphasis on human reason, experience,
and autonomy as it rebelled against external authority. “Sapere aude! [Dare to
be wise!] Have courage to use your own reason!—that is the motto of enlight-
enment,” opined Immanuel Kant (1959: 85). As epitomized in the work of Kant,
Enlightenment thought is a product of seventeenth-century Rationalism and
eighteenth-century British Empiricism. In rejecting Rationalism (which wanted
to argue for the existence of God but from reason instead of revelation), Kant
argued that one simply cannot have a scientific theology. The human mind is
capable of wrestling with the material world; it is powerless for speculating theo-
logically. Following David Hume, he denied the necessity (non-contingency) of
The History of Scholarship on Ancient Israelite Religion 19
God, the classic doctrine of previous historical theology, thereby reducing “reli-
gion” to human morality. For Kant, future historical researchers could no longer
appeal to any truth claims that a biblical author may make. They must be satis-
fied with describing only religious people, their beliefs, and their morality. One
cannot theorize about God.
The empirical spirit of the Enlightenment did not go unchallenged. As the
eighteenth century drew to a close, poetic writers who yearned for passion and
aesthetics rather than scholasticism revolted against rationalism and Kantian
skepticism. Some Romantics followed in the footsteps of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
in their emphasis of feelings, imagination, intuition, and a return to nature. The
Romantic who left his mark on the study of ancient Israel more than any other
was the prolific Johann Gottfried von Herder (1744–1803), himself a student
of Kant.2 “The historian, Herder said, must loathe metaphysical abstractions
and purely rational constructs. The proper historian must rather work as does
an artist or a poet” (Oden 1987: 9). And thus Herder did, as he emphasized
the Volkspoesie of the early Hebrews (see his two-volume The Spirit of Hebrew
Poetry).
Such was the world of intellectual thought when the history of biblical schol-
arship was entering its most pivotal century, the nineteenth. It is hard to over-
estimate the impact of nineteenth-century German intellectual culture on the
critical study of the Bible. Oden (1987: 5–6) has rightly noted how the German
intellectual paradigm would become infectious elsewhere on the Continent
as well as in England and the United States, often unconsciously, as academic
institutions modeled their program of biblical studies after that of their German
counterparts.
The Biblical Scholarship of Germany

in the Nineteenth Century
German scholars of the nineteenth century inherited the Enlightenment’s em-

phasis that the individual should prefer his own reasoning over institutional re-
ligion (tradition and dogma) when it comes to interpreting the Hebrew Bible.
At the same time, many were still wrestling with the theology of the church.3
Helping bridge the gap was Johann Gabler, who advocated that one should de-
marcate between articulating the religion of the Bible in its historical context and
using the biblical texts to formulate a systematic theology to be used for dog-
matics.4 The former is a descriptive task that concerns itself with historically and
culturally conditioned material, while the latter amounts to theology proper
with its aim of instructing believers. In so doing, Gabler helped chart a course
for his fellow German historians of religion as they tried to free their discipline
from the strictures of dogmatic theology (although Gabler himself saw his work
as benefiting dogmatic theology).
The stage was set. Over the next century German scholars would reconstruct
(for better and for worse) the development of Israelite religion in ways that were
decidedly different from those that had been handed down by the synagogue and
church over hundreds of years. They did this through a variety of approaches
indebted to (1) Gabler’s views on the proper method for describing biblical re-
ligion (historical, language-based studies), (2) continued source criticism (e.g.,
Gabler’s contemporary J. G. Eichhorn, who built on the work of Astruc), (3) the
philosophical spirit of the times, which celebrated the individual exercise of
reason, and which was soon to face Hegelian Idealism and social Darwinism,
and (4) the Romantic spirit, typified by the work of Herder. Along with these
approaches, and in part through Martin Luther’s animosity toward the Jews,
came a disturbing trend to treat Judaism (especially the post-exilic period) in
a very derogatory manner. Thus it was that the data of the Hebrew Bible were
transformed into remarkably different syntheses.
Wilhelm de Wette (1780–1849), a pupil of both Gabler and Herder, is known
in biblical circles primarily for his contribution to Pentateuchal studies, which at
the time were being done mostly along literary levels (see Dozeman 2017: 53–62;
Rogerson 1992). De Wette made his mark in 1806 when he equated the literary
strand known as D with the “book of the Law” found during Josiah’s reform in the
eighteenth year of his reign (621 BCE). By advocating that D was in fact authored
at the time of Josiah’s reform, de Wette made 621 BCE the benchmark for reana-
lyzing the history of ancient Israelite religion. D’s central thesis is the central-
ization of worship. Thus de Wette argued that those literary strands that were
ignorant of centralization were prior to 621 BCE, while those that presupposed
centralization were later than 621 BCE.5
The ramifications of de Wette’s work went far beyond literary analysis. In the
words of Robert Morgan and John Barton, “Theories about the dating of the
Pentateuchal sources ceased to be primarily solutions to a literary puzzle and be-
came a tool for rewriting the history of Israel, and especially its religious institutions
and theological ideas” (1988: 78). De Wette divided his material into the pre-exilic
period, which he called “Hebraism,” and the post-exilic period, which he called
“Judaism.” He then drew a caricature of the latter that reflected his low opinion of
Judaism: “Judaism is the unfortunate reinterpretation of Hebraism. . . . [W]‌hereas
Hebraism was a matter of life and enthusiasm, Judaism is a matter of the concept
and literalism” (Albertz 1994: 4). In the spirit of Herder’s poetics, de Wette made
“Hebraism” soar as it burst into life, while Ezra’s Judaism was dying on the vine,
without “life and animation” (Hayes and Prussner 1985: 100).
Like de Wette,6 Johann Karl Wilhelm Vatke (1806–1882) is also known for
his contribution to Pentateuchal studies, in particular his insight that P was later
than D, although much of the credit for this was to be given to the later treatments
by Karl Heinrich Graf (1815–1869) and Julius Wellhausen (1844–1918).7 Also
similar to de Wette is the degree to which Vatke’s overall construct of Israelite re-
ligion owes more to his philosophical understandings and speculations. In place
of de Wette’s Romantic Herder, Vatke turned to German Idealism in the person
of G. W. F. Hegel (1770–1831). Vatke adopted Hegel’s dialectical process (thesis,
antithesis, synthesis) as his own philosophy of history, with the prophetic mate-
rial forming the antithesis between the pre-prophetic (thesis) and post-prophetic
(synthesis) stages. In contrast to older notions that Israelite religion emerged as
a full-fledged monotheistic system during the time of Moses, Vatke argued that
early Hebraic worship was primitive and astral in nature (Yahweh being identi-
fied with Saturn). Moses, in contrast, tried to spiritualize this nature religion and
argued for Yahweh as the solitary national deity. Yet for Vatke it was only with the
prophets and the wisdom tradition (and ultimately with Christianity) that the
religion reached its spiritual climax.
With Graf ’s further elaboration of P presupposing centralization and thus
being later than D, the new paradigm had arrived in nascent form.8 It broke away
from the old paradigm, the traditional view (the law prior to the prophets) of
an early Mosaic monotheism and an Israel that battled the polytheism of the
nations throughout its history with the law functioning as a national constitu-
tion and theological conscience. The new paradigm, based on the law coming
after the prophets, was dramatically different.9 It argued for the evolutionary na-
ture of Israelite religion, which grew out of a primitive beginning, with mono-
theism arriving on the scene late and through the insights of the prophets rather
than Moses.
All the new paradigm needed to win the allegiance of the next generation
was an eloquent spokesperson, and such was to be found in Wellhausen, whose
name has become synonymous with German source criticism. Every reader of
Wellhausen’s superbly crafted Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel (1878)
is struck not by its originality (cf. de Wette, Vatke, Graf) but by its brilliant
synthesis. There is little wonder why it became the dominant statement of the
German position. Key to the splendid simplicity and symmetry of Wellhausen’s
reconstruction was his introductory chapter on the centralization of worship.10 If
the literary strand known as D is associated with Josiah’s reforms and the insights
of the prophets, then the material that lacks a central sanctuary (JE) must rep-
resent the earliest phase of Israelite religion (a primitive one at that), while the
material that presupposes centralized worship (P) must represent the law codes
of the post-exilic Judaic community and its Temple. Similarly, the development
of monotheism follows suit and only evolves late, once again with the insights of
the prophets and centralization. In Wellhausen’s famous remark: “One God one
sanctuary, that is the idea” (1965: 34).
Thus for Wellhausen, Israelite religion is unilinear and evolutionary in nature,

progressing in positive fashion from primitive, animistic origins to the ethical
monotheism of the prophets. Yet once it reached such heights, it would lose its
ability to grow and became a static, mechanical abstraction in post-exilic Judaism
(cf. Oden 1987: 23). As Stephen Geller has pointed out, Wellhausen contrasted
the primitive youth of JE and the maturity of the Deuteronomic reform with the
“lifeless” Priestly Code of the “Jewish” stage. According to Wellhausen’s carica-
ture of “Judaism,” “the warm pulse of life no longer throbbed in it to animate
it . . . the soul was fled, the shell remained” (Geller 1985: 43).
There are those who choose to ignore Wellhausen’s philosophical underpinnings.
For example, Morgan and Barton argue that Wellhausen advocated literary crit-
icism in order to be “free from contamination by any particular philosophical
theory.” In their opinion, Wellhausen worked in the spirit of the German histo-
rian Hans Mommsen to achieve “research free of presuppositions” (Morgan
and Barton 1988: 79–86). Yet most assessments, especially any that incorporate
Rudolf Bultmann’s (1957) famous essay on the impossibility of doing exegesis
without presuppositions, have not ignored the theoretical framework through
which Wellhausen filtered his work.11 While he may not have been a fan of Hegel
(cf. Morgan and Barton 1988: 79–80), Wellhausen nonetheless was a product of
his time. In the words of Rudolf Smend, “Wellhausen stood at as great a remove
from Hegelian speculation as a German historian of the nineteenth century could
without falling right out of context.”12 In addition, it is no mere coincidence that
1859 saw the publication of Charles Darwin’s (1809–1882) The Origin of Species.
Geller (1985: 43) is right to see Wellhausen refracting his view of Israelite history
and religion through the optimistic evolutionary lenses of social Darwinism.13
Finally, from the Romantic Herder and Heinrich Ewald (1803– 1875),
Wellhausen inherited his high view of “the prophetical party” that brought about
“the great metamorphosis of the worship” (1965: 368). Ewald, Wellhausen’s
teacher at Göttingen, taught with great conviction14 that the prophets possessed
“the divine spark of the true knowledge [that] was brought to consciousness by
the spirit of God.”15 Thus for Wellhausen, who harbored an antipathy for the
post-exilic phase of Israelite religion, the prophets were geniuses “resting on
nothing outside themselves . . . They do not preach on set texts; they speak out of
the spirit” (1965: 398). For Wellhausen, the prophets were the great innovators of
Israelite religion: their individual awakenings brought about the ethical reform
that culminated in monotheism.
Even though Wellhausen saved his greatest praise for the prophets, it was his
attempts to understand the earliest (what he called primitive) stages of Hebrew
religion that was to mark the next great methodological phase of scholarship,
the comparative approach. In 1887, almost a decade after writing his famous
Prolegomena, Wellhausen published Reste arabischen Heidentums, gesammelt
und erläutert (Remnants of Arabic paganism collected and explained), which

attempted to flesh out primitive Hebrew religion through the use of pre-Islamic
Arabian parallels, even though more relevant ancient Near Eastern texts had
been published for some time prior (e.g., portions of the Gilgamesh Epic were
published as early as 1873; cf. George Smith’s so-called Deluge Tablet [1873: 213–
234]). Today, with our wealth of comparative material coming from the Late
Bronze and Iron Ages, turning to the pre-Islamic material looks rash, and it is
little wonder that it produced such poor results. In the end, despite his noble
attempt at using extra-biblical materials, Wellhausen’s theories remained essen-
tially literary, and it was up to William Robertson Smith and Hermann Gunkel to
chart new methodological paths.
William Robertson Smith: A Sociological Approach

to Biblical Studies
William Robertson Smith’s Kinship and Marriage in Early Arabia (1885) and
Lectures on the Religion of the Semites (1889)16 marked a new yet short-lived
direction in understanding religion as a social phenomenon.17 According
to Robertson Smith’s famous dictum, “religion did not exist for the saving of
souls but for the preservation and welfare of society.”18 Sociologists (e.g., Émile
Durkheim and Max Weber) were indebted to Robertson Smith’s pioneering
work in studying societal evolution, as was Sir James G. Frazer of Golden Bough
fame. Yet this was not to be the case among biblical scholars of his time.
Like his contemporary Wellhausen, Robertson Smith’s appeal to “comparative
religion” looked to pre-Islamic Arabian Bedouin tribalism to illuminate Israelite
religion rather than the more relevant texts coming from ancient Egypt and
Mesopotamia. This was due to Robertson Smith’s prejudice that Semitic peoples
were primitive in nature. Because Mesopotamian religion was not primitive in
nature but, rather, “complex” (a result of, he said, “a large pre-Semitic element” of
its population), one must not use these ancient texts for purposes of comparison,
because “ancient and primitive are not synonymous terms; and we must not look
for the most primitive form of Semitic faith in a region where society was not
primitive” (1972: 13). Robertson Smith then underscored what he deemed the
primitive nature of Arabian tribalism (“destitute of ethical motives” and without
“any spiritual conception of the deity or any lofty conception of man’s chief end”)
in order to heighten the superiority of ancient Israel’s worship, with its “entirely
different spirit and meaning.”19
Robertson Smith’s approach backfired. Despite his apologies, he did not convince
large numbers of biblical scholars (certainly not those with theological interests)
to embrace a sociological method.20 Too much suspicion lingered that Robertson
Smith’s approach was not “safe or advantageous” for the training of ministerial
students, and thus he was removed from his chaired professorship in the Free Church
College in Aberdeen (Johnstone 1995: 19–20). In the words of Norman Gottwald
(1979: 293), “After W. R. Smith and J. Wellhausen studied the applicability of bedouin
tribalism to early Israelite tribalism, so headlong was the retreat away from any fur-
ther sustained anthropological and sociological studies of Israel that biblical study
has been almost totally divorced from the social sciences for half a century.”
Hermann Gunkel and the Rise of the

History-of-Religion Method
Thanks in part to the growth of the emerging field of Assyriology, the com-
parative method lived on as the nineteenth century turned to the twentieth,
especially through the works of Hermann Gunkel (1862–1932) and the history-
of-religion school. The origin of the history-of-religion school has rightly been
traced back to Albert Eichhorn, but it was Gunkel who gave it a compelling voice
together with his students Hugo Gressman and W. Baumgartner.21 Gunkel rec-
ognized early in his career the importance of myth as a category of religious
thought. In particular, Gunkel isolated the combat myth (Chaoskampf) in the
Mesopotamian sources (e.g., Enuma Elish), which he then compared to similar
combat myths in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, from Genesis’
creation accounts to Revelation’s apocalyptic narratives (1895, 1901).22 Such
comparative sources inspired Gunkel to advocate that it was possible to get be-
yond Wellhausen’s literary approach to the prehistory of the text and the pro-
cess by which the stories grew over time. Through studying the literary forms
(Gattungen) of contiguous cultures one would be in a better position to sketch
the history of Israel’s literature and the life settings (Sitze im Leben) in which they
were produced. Whereas Wellhausen was transfixed by internal source criticism,
Gunkel argued that the biblical texts were the result of a long process of growth
that can be traced through oral tradition.23 Finally, Gunkel argued that the histo-
rian of ancient Israelite religion must be able to participate in the feelings of the
ancients in order to achieve historical understanding. Here, once again, we feel
the influence of Herder’s idealism and romanticism.
The “Babel-Bibel” Controversy
Soon after the appearance of two of Gunkel’s primary works (1895, 1901),
Friedrich Delitzsch, a professor of Assyriology from Berlin University, gave a lec-
ture to the German Oriental Society that resulted in what came to be known
as the “Babel-Bibel controversy” (Babel being the Hebrew name for Babylon).24
The basic data that formed the basis of Delitzsch’s lecture were well known by this
time.25 Yet rarely has a single lecture had such an impact on intellectual history.
The year was 1902, and this was no ordinary academic meeting. Surrounded by
an aura of German nationalism, Delitzsch addressed the elite of German society,
including Emperor Wilhelm II, a patron of ancient Near Eastern exploration for
personal satisfaction and national aggrandizement.26
In the course of his lecture, Delitzsch emphasized not only that stories between
the biblical narratives and the Mesopotamian texts were parallel but also that the
former were dependent on the latter for their origin. This was nothing new; in-
deed, it was similar to Gunkel’s comparative method.27 Yet the high-profile na-
ture of the lecture, Delitzsch’s preference for the ethical superiority of Babylonian
civilization to Israelite, and several putative parallels that bordered on the sensa-
tional turned this “Babel-Bibel” talk into a national and international debate. At
stake was the uniqueness of biblical revelation and the preeminence of Israelite
culture, and thus Delitzsch drew the ire of the majority of the religious commu-
nity both in Germany and abroad. After a follow-up lecture the next year that
was significantly more heretical theologically, Delitzsch lost the support of the
emperor, which in turn resulted in his third lecture being given outside of the
Oriental Society.28 Nonetheless, the gauntlet had been thrown down.
Four reactions typified the times and lived on into the new century. Delitzsch’s
approach came to be known as the “pan-Babylonian school.”29 As already men-
tioned, the majority of those with religious or theological interests rejected
Delitzsch quite summarily due to his denigration of the superiority and unique-
ness of the biblical witness. A third group continued Gunkel’s and Gressman’s
use of comparative material with their intent of “uplifting us and bearing us on-
ward [to] the Religion of the Bible in all its glory and dignity.” Thus for these
scholars, the history-of-religion approach freely utilized the comparative ancient
Near Eastern texts but was opposed to “a dragging down of what is Biblical to
the level of the non-Biblical.”30 The fourth group were Assyriologists who went
about their work (not always relating it to the Bible) while staying out of the fray
created by Delitzsch.31 This group would ultimately find a voice in later scholars
who argued for the autonomy of Assyriology apart from biblical studies.32
Because three of the four responses embraced the use of ancient Near Eastern
material, setting the Bible in its larger cultural context and looking at its pre-
history outweighed theological approaches at the end of the nineteenth cen-
tury and the beginning of the twentieth. The steady influx of newly discovered
Mesopotamian texts (especially Hammurabi’s code, newly published by Jean-
Vincent Scheil in the same year as Delitzsch’s first lecture) continued to fuel a
raging thirst to know more about the ancient Near East and to see the Bible in the
light shed by these new discoveries.
The Theological Rejoinder and the Biblical

Theology Movement
At the turn of the century the theological approach to the Bible was in eclipse
for several reasons. Ongoing historical-critical analysis questioned the chro-
nology of the biblical story line (e.g., the law was seen as late and not early, as
the Bible depicts). The history-of-religion approach asserted that one needed
to look outside the Bible for illumination. Enlightenment philosophies that
questioned traditional beliefs persisted as new disciplines emerged, of which
sociology had the greatest impact. The latter is best characterized by the works
of Émile Durkheim (who was born into a rabbinical family), the most notable
being The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, published in 1912. Durkheim
gave functional, non-theological explanations (e.g., social imperatives, divi-
sion of labor, promotion of group solidarity and renewal) for what was once
derived solely from the religious and metaphysical realms. Religious rituals
are not the by-product of beliefs and ideas; rather, the opposite is the case.
Societal needs create sacred institutions and rituals. In addition to being func-
tional, Durkheim’s method was also reductionist: “Religion has only a social
function.”33
Though their discipline was not in vogue, it would be a mistake to portray early
twentieth-century theologians as being in mass retreat. Most continued pressing
the contributions and relevance of theology. It was not so much that theologians
rejected historical critical scholarship in toto (although some conservative
theologians did just that) than that they felt critical methodologies were incom-
plete because they ignored theology and the prominent role the Bible played in
the life of the church. The atmosphere would soon become more adversarial with
the advent of World War I, which dealt a crushing blow to the optimism and
progressivism that underlay most critical methods of the post-Enlightenment
era. Suddenly theology found a new voice of relevance. Theologians stressed
the centrality of divine revelation and the supernatural, concepts that had been
sidetracked by the then current anthropocentric methods.
This resurgent interest in biblical theology was led by Karl Barth and Emil
Brunner and went under various names (e.g., neo-orthodoxy, dialectical the-
ology, theology of crisis, theology of the Word). This rejoinder was so appealing
to a postwar populace searching for theological assurance that, according to
Rainer Albertz, “academic interest in history-of-religions accounts had been
paralysed.” It is true that some scholars (E. König, E. Sellin, G. Fohrer) keep a
foot in both worlds by writing both Old Testament theologies and treatments
on Israelite religion. But for the most part theologians had won the day. Albertz
writes harshly of the lack of method of those who attempted works on Israelite
religion:
The histories of Israelite religion . . . which have continued to appear since the
First World War are largely uninteresting résumés which in method and his-
torical system hardly go beyond those of Wellhausen and the beginnings of
the history-of-religions school. . . . [T]‌he few “histories of Israelite religion”
which were written after the Second World War under the domination of Old
Testament theology mark more of a step back in method and system. (Albertz
1994: 8–9)
The theological revolution was exported to America in the late 1920s and 1930s,
where it coincided with American particularities (e.g., the fundamentalist-
modernist controversies, the Scopes trial, the stock market crash in October
1929, the migration of universities away from church affiliations), leading
Brevard Childs to advocate distinguishing an American “Biblical Theology
Movement” distinct from—although related to—its European counterparts.34
Childs chronicled the growth of the movement especially in the late 1930s and
1940s and underscored that “although the challenge to recover the essential mes-
sage of the Bible was often couched in polemical language, it was also clear that
the basic assault was not directed against historical criticism as such. . . . [T]‌he
major thrust was directed against the misuse of historical criticism by the theo-
logical liberals . . . having lost themselves in the minutiae of literary, philological,
and historical problems.” Childs (1970b: 15) deemed this “an exercise in trivia,
in which tragic process the profound theological dimensions were overlooked.”
The Myth-and-Ritual Approach
In England and Scandinavia the situation was different from the 1930s through
the 1950s.35 The contributions of Samuel Henry Hooke (1874–1968; University
of London) and Sigmund Mowinckel (1884–1965; University of Oslo) stand out
and are often referred to as the “myth-and-ritual” or “patternist” approach.36
This method has also been described pejoratively as “excessive forms of com-
parative religion” (Albertz 1994: 244 n. 4). Foundational to the biblical myth-
and-ritual approach was the work of the Scottish social anthropologist James
G. Frazer (1854–1941), whose famous work on mythology and religion, The
Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, had grown from its two-volume
first edition (1890) to twelve volumes in its third edition (1915).37
John W. Rogerson (1974: 66–73), who described Hooke as the theoretician
of the myth-and-ritual position, argued that Hooke was primarily influenced
by three factors: the ritual theory of myth from such scholars as Frazer and the
classicists Jane Harrison and Gilbert Murray, the publication of Mesopotamian
texts describing the New Year’s festival by Heinrich Zimmern and François
Thureau- Dangin, and the diffusionist method in vogue among English

anthropologists in the 1920s. For his part, Mowinckel was influenced by his
teachers Gunkel and V. P. Gronbech (University of Copenhagen); the latter’s
essays on ritual drama were published as The Culture of the Teutons in 1912.
Svend Aage Pallis, who wrote The Babylonian Akîtu Festival (1926)—which was
used extensively by Hooke—was also a student of Gronbech.
The myth-and-ritual approach assumed a more or less homogenous cul-
ture throughout the ancient Near East. In contrast to Robertson Smith’s and
Wellhausen’s reliance on “primitive” Arabian parallels, Hooke looked to
Mesopotamia as an advanced culture whose myths and rituals permeated the an-
cient Near East, including ancient Israel. Moreover, for Hooke the Mesopotamian
texts clearly showed that myth and ritual were inseparable and integrated at a
deep level, because the texts themselves mentioned the recitation of the Enuma
Elish myth during the Akitu festival. In addition, inferences from the texts could
be used to establish a “pattern” that could be replicated throughout the ancient
Near East. In particular, the myth-and-ritual approach hypothesized that the
myth of a dying and rising god was acted out in ritual by human participants,
especially kings. Together with the divine combat myth, these stories pointed to-
ward the triumphal procession of the deity (= the king) leading to coronation (cf.
Hooke 1933: 8). Because the cognate cultures were formed around the same basic
skeleton, it is not surprising that similar myth-ritual “patterns” were created for
ancient Israel through the works of Hooke and Mowinckel’s followers, who in-
cluded over the next decades Aubrey Johnson (1935, 1955), Julian Morgenstern
(1917, 1938a, 1938b, 1938c), Theodore Robinson (1933), R. de Langhe (1958),
Ivan Engnell (1943, 1969), and Theodor H. Gaster (1961, 1969). Even though
textual data were lacking, some of these scholars saw enough hints in the Hebrew
Bible to reconstruct for ancient Israel an Akitu-type New Year festival out of the
feast of Asiph, a seven-day New Year festival corresponding to the seven days
of the Genesis creation story (Hooke 1963: 121), the death and resurrection of
Yahweh, the pairing of Yahweh and the goddess Anath (Robinson), a sacred mar-
riage from the booth (= a divine bridal chamber) of the Feast of Tabernacles,
and an extensive sacral kingship where the king is a “divine being . . . a pow-
erful, superhuman being . . . He is a god” (Mowinckel 1956: 62, emphasis his).38
A trend emerging from the myth-and-ritual approach was to look at the phe-
nomenology of religion. Engnell, and the Uppsala school associated with him,
argued for getting away from a “book mentality” and a strictly literary approach
to reconstructing ancient Israelite religion so that one may appreciate how reli-
gious communities weave rituals and myths into a seamless garment that defines
their existence.
The myth- and-ritual school suffered from insufficient data, conjectural
reconstructions, and methodological imprecision.39 Yet even devastating
critiques did little to slow the fascination with such a grand theory. Harold Louis
Ginsberg (1950: 157) eviscerates Gaster, noting how “no philological dragon
has ever stood in the way of the recognition of a single halfway tenable hypo-
thesis of the metasemasiologists [the “meaning-behind-the-meaning” school],
but their dogmas have more than once barred their way to an understanding
of the sound observations of others.” More recently, their misinterpretation
of the Mesopotamian texts has been even more noticeable.40 Bruce Lincoln
(2008: 221), in critiquing the “staunch devotees of the ‘Myth and Ritual School’
[who] continued to espouse Frazerian positions even into the 1960s,” levels his
critique squarely at Frazerian theory due to “the breadth of its popularity.” Of
Frazer he writes:
Like all grand theorists, however, and especially those of the armchair variety,
he was guilty of distortion, pretentiousness, procrusteanism, selective blind-
ness, cultural condescension, and a host of other failings. As each of his errors
was identified, his project slowly deflated, with the result that his theories not
only lost their power to transport, they began to look a bit pathetic. . . . At pre-
sent, Frazer stands alongside Friedrich Max Müller as one of the ancestors
remembered with more embarrassment than gratitude, let alone reverence, by
several interrelated disciplines that once hailed him as one of their founders
(anthropology, folklore, history of religion).41
A telling sign of the decline of the myth- and-ritual approach in Israelite

religion—at least in its excesses—was the work of Helmer Ringgren. Though
Ringgren stated that he was “consciously allied with the so-called Uppsala
school” (indeed, he succeeded Engnell at the University of Uppsala), his mod-
erate approach distanced him from his predecessors, especially in his restrictions
of “patternism” and his rejection of the divine kingship paradigm.42 Despite dev-
astating critiques, many facets of the myth-and-ritual comparative approach still
linger today due to large degree to the discovery of the Ugaritic texts, to which
we now turn.
The Ugaritic Discoveries
In 1928 a Syrian plowman accidentally ran over a tomb, setting in motion events
that would change forever our understanding of ancient Syrian (referred to by
many as Canaanite) religion. Through the efforts of Claude F. A. Schaeffer, the
principal archaeologist, and Charles Virolleaud, the primary epigrapher, an an-
cient kingdom came to life, and hundreds of alphabetic cuneiform texts came to
be published in record time.43 It soon became clear that the tell from which the
tablets came (Ras Shamra) was none other than the ancient city of Ugarit, a city
known from its mention in texts from Mari, Bogazköy, and Tell Amarna. The
new texts were written in a previously unknown language that was, appropri-
ately, called Ugaritic.
It is hard for us today—with multiple editions of the texts to study, a
mushrooming literature including journals and series devoted to the study
of Ugaritic culture, and subsequent excavations by the French Mission to Ras
Shamra under the direction of Jean Margueron and Marguerite Yon and the
Syrian-French Mission work of Yves Calvet, Bassam Jamous, Jamal Haydar, and
Valerie Matoïan—to imagine the constraints facing scholars at the birth of a dis-
cipline. What was clear to early interpreters was that Ugaritic was a Northwest
Semitic language remarkably close to Hebrew with a Canaanite religious vocab-
ulary and mythology akin to that of the Hebrew Bible with regard to deities (ʾIlu/
ʾEl, Baʿlu/Baʿal, Dagan/Dagon, Rashpu/Reshep, ʾAthiratu/ʾAsherah, ʿAnatu/
ʿAnat, ʿAthtartu/ʿAstarte), cosmic “monsters” (Yammu/yām, Litanu/Leviathan,
Tunnanu/tannin, Motu/māwet/môt), shades of the dead (Rapiʾūma/Rephaʾim),
cultic terminology (especially that related to sacrifices and offerings), and cultic
personnel.44 Thus early studies of Ugaritic language and religion were juxtaposed
with Hebrew and ancient Israelite religion from the outset, with several scholars
adapting Ugaritic religion into a myth-and-ritual scheme.45
Over time the Ugaritic texts would come to have the most profound impact on
the study of ancient Israelite religion of any manuscript discovery of the twen-
tieth century (far more than even the Dead Sea Scrolls).46 Furthermore, the value
of these texts for Northwest Semitic philology, linguistics, and prosody was con-
siderable. My intent is not to trace such influence here but to point out how the
archaeological discoveries at ancient Ugarit, combined with continuing archae-
ological finds throughout the entire ancient Near East (temples, temple para-
phernalia, cultic figurines, tombs, letters, onomastica, seals, inscriptions, etc.),
reinvigorated the history-of-religion approach to biblical studies from the 1930s
to the present. The Ugaritic texts provided so many new points of contact with
ancient Israel that a revolution in biblical studies soon got under way as scholars
debated once again how ancient Hebraic culture related to its Near Eastern envi-
ronment. Once again, polar positions occupied the debates.
Ancient Israel’s Distinctiveness Vis-à-Vis Its Environment
The biblical theology movement flourished even more during and after World
War II, as once again its emphasis on revelation resonated with a restless au-
dience. Coinciding with this robust interest in the relevance of the theological
enterprise were new assertions of the distinctiveness of ancient Israel coming
from unlikely allies: archaeologists and Near Eastern specialists. One would
have thought that all those involved in unearthing and studying the compara-
tive material of cognate cultures would naturally ally themselves with a history-
of-religion approach. The opposite was true for such noted archaeologists and
Semitists as William Foxwell Albright, Henri Frankfort (1946, 1951; see too
Frankfort and Groenewegen-Frankfort 1949: 241–248), and Thorkild Jacobsen
(1976: 164), all of whom spoke of the uniqueness of Israel’s faith.47 Even against
the amazing finds coming from Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Syria, Albright espe-
cially firmly held to the distinctiveness of ancient Israel’s religious and intellec-
tual achievements.
William Foxwell Albright
Between the 1930s and the 1960s, especially in America, one could not find a
more influential scholar than William Foxwell Albright (1891–1971), whose
work in “Oriental studies” and archaeology (cf. Albright 1935, 1940, 19571966b,
1968a, 1968b) would almost single-handedly shape an entire generation of schol-
arship.48 Albright wrote his 1916 dissertation, “The Assyrian Deluge Epic,” under
the guidance of Paul Haupt and devoted a significant amount of his early research
to Mesopotamia.49 When the Ugaritic discoveries were coming to light, Albright
(along with Ginsberg) offered some of the earliest analyses of these texts from
ancient Syria and their relevance for ancient Israelite religion (Smith 2001a: 24–
25).50 Compare, for example, how the Ugaritic texts form a core of Albright’s
Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan: A Historical Analysis of Two Contrasting Faiths
and Archaeology and the Religion of Israel.51 Albright expanded his scholarly rep-
ertoire even further when in 1926 he undertook the first major excavation of his
career at Tell Beit Mirsim. Over time Albright would come to be known as the
dean of biblical archaeology and a pioneer in the subfields of epigraphy, paleog-
raphy, and ceramic typology.52 Albright insisted that archaeology was indispen-
sable for turning biblical studies into a “scientific discipline.”53
Albright’s overarching purpose was to reconstruct the cultural and intellec-
tual history of the ancient Near East in a way that would highlight biblical re-
ligion as its crowning achievement. As much as he genuinely appreciated the
civilizations of the ancient Near East, he reserved his highest praise for the in-
tellectual and spiritual accomplishments of ancient Israel and the majesty of its
literature as found in the Hebrew Bible.54 Albright (2006: 17–21) articulated “the
sublimity and the poignancy” as well as the “delicacy” of the affective literature
of Mesopotamia and Egypt. He was frank in stating that “the literature of Israel
seldom rises to emotional heights which cannot be paralleled somewhere in
the ancient Near East outside of Palestine.” And yet for Albright (2006: 22–23),
“Hebrew literature [being] much younger . . . could select the choicest motifs
and situations from its folkloristic and literary inheritance, and could transform
them by passing them though the crucible of Israelite affective and spiritual ge-
nius.” Moreover, wrote Albright (2006: 115), the nature of the god Yahweh (one
“without sexuality or mythology”; “invisible . . . [with] no graphic nor plastic
representation”; “not restricted to any part of His creation”) “was radically dif-
ferent from all figures of pagan mythology . . . He remained uniquely superior to
all possible competitors.”55
Yehezkel Kaufmann
Yet even Albright’s effusive language could not match the rhetoric of Yehezkel
Kaufmann (1889–1963), who was, without doubt, the strongest proponent of an-
cient Israel’s distinctiveness. Kaufmann is commended by some and ridiculed by
others, often misunderstood, and even ignored.56 His challenge to classical criti-
cism deserves close attention.
Kaufmann’s most significant work was an eight-volume history of Israelite re-
ligion, appearing between 1937 and 1956.57 Some have failed to appreciate how
Kaufmann differs from the Christian biblical theology movement.58 Kaufmann
emphasized, as did the biblical theology movement, the sharp divergence of
monotheistic Israelite religion from the polytheistic religions of the rest of the
ancient Near East. But Kaufmann went even further. He asserted categorically
that “the Bible is utterly unaware of the nature of and meaning of pagan reli-
gion” (1972: 7). Similarly, he wrote that “Israelite religion was an original crea-
tion of the people of Israel. It was absolutely different from anything the pagan
world ever knew” (1972: 2). This new way of looking at the world “was created,”
said Kaufmann, “by the impact of the monotheistic revolution which occurred
at Israel’s birth as a nation in the days of Moses.”59 Had Kaufmann lived later
in time, he might have borrowed Kuhn’s phrasing to label such a revolution in
thinking a “paradigm shift.”
Benjamin Sommer (2017: 205) astutely summarizes: “For Kaufmann . . . mon-
otheism is about the nature of divinity, not about the number of divinities; it is a
matter of quality, not quantity.” The sovereignty of the biblical God who was tran-
scendent and utterly distinct from his creation became an overriding theme for
Kaufmann. His comment on the absence of myth in the biblical legends reads:
The store of biblical legends lacks the fundamental myth of paganism: the
theogony. All theogonic motifs are similarly absent. Israel’s God has no pedi-
gree, fathers no generations; he neither inherits or bequeaths his authority. He
does not die and is not resurrected. He has no sexual qualities or desires and
shows no need of or dependence upon powers outside himself. (Kaufmann

1972: 60–61)
The absence of divine sex and death in the ancient Near Eastern context was
startling for Kaufmann. Indeed, it was Kaufmann who wrote that “the Hebrew
of the Bible possesses no word to designate a feminine deity: it has no ʾēlā, ʾelīlā,
or ʾelōhā” (1951: 181). The key to the biblical riddle, said Kaufmann (1951: 193),
was the Israelite concept of idolatry, “which was lifeless, without gods or
mythology.” Kaufmann (1972: 61) did admit that “we do find vestiges of Israel’s
ancient mythology imbedded in the Bible, and there was ‘idolatry’ in Israel; yet
the biblical God has no mythological features” and the vestigial idolatry that is
represented is merely fetishistic.
Kaufmann’s preoccupation with the absence of myth can also be seen in
his remarks about how various West Semitic deities are presented in biblical
literature:
We know today that these deities [Baal, Chemosh, Milcom, Dagan, etc.] were
both bound up with natural phenomena and the subjects of mythical accounts.
Not so in the Bible. Here there is no allusion to the natural functions of any
god, nor to other of his mythological qualities. Gods are identified only by the
nation which serves them: thus there are gods of Egypt, Sidon, etc. But there
is no god of the sun, earth, or sea. Nor is there any indication of cosmogonic
activity, genealogical descent, generations and matings, wars and victories.
Most amazing is the absence of sexual differentiation among the gods of the
gentiles. . . . In no Biblical story does any of the heathen gods appear as actor
or acted upon, as conscious or perceptive, as speaking, moving, eating, etc.
(Kaufmann 1951: 180–181, 183)
The nature of divinity in ancient Israel will be discussed in detail in the following
chapters. On the macro level, it is easy to see how Kaufmann’s use of strong cate-
gorical language evokes a charge of naiveté, although Moshe Greenberg cautions
us not to overreact to Kaufmann’s use of hyperbole.60 Yet, as pointed out by Jon
Levenson, Kaufmann failed to recognize how the biblical polemics themselves
are hyperbolic in nature. Levenson criticizes Kaufmann’s imprecise definition of
myth (especially as applied to Israelite kingship) and his misunderstanding of
interreligious polemics (as applied to divine icons) that are satirical and reduc-
tionist by nature (Levenson 1985: 107–111). “We cannot conclude from the inac-
curacy of the Israelite poet’s satire that he had no understanding of the spiritual
life of his Canaanite neighbor and nothing in common with it,” writes Levenson.
“To do so would be to miss entirely the situation out of which interreligious
polemics grow. . . . Syncretisms do not form between things that have nothing
in common” (Levenson 1985: 110). Sommer (2017: 239) concurs: “Kaufmann’s

approach is deeply unrealistic insofar as he insists that monotheism and poly-
theism are worlds apart.”
Kaufmann’s rhetoric was also undercut by Albright’s emphasis on the an-
cient Near Eastern setting in which Israelite religion emerged. Whereas Albright
shared Kaufmann’s passion for the uniqueness (and superiority) of ancient
Israelite religion, his command of Levantine material culture as well as cognate
language and literature (especially Ugaritic) compelled him to write that “the
early Hebrews’ . . . borrowings and adaptations from Canaanite culture” did not
support Kaufmann’s “extreme” position. Even more forcefully, Albright (2006: x)
would exclaim that “there was so much exchange of cultural influences between
Israel and its neighbors on all sides of its tiny territory . . . that the ignorance
presupposed by Kaufmann’s view is simply incredible.” Further dialogue with
Kaufmann’s philosophical challenge would next come from one of Albright’s
most influential students, Frank Moore Cross.
Frank Moore Cross
One of the most substantive works on Israelite religion in the 1970s was a col-
lection of programmatic essays by Frank Moore Cross entitled Canaanite Myth
and Hebrew Epic (1973).61 Cross, a scholar known especially for his work in
Northwest Semitic epigraphy and the Dead Sea Scrolls, was of the firm opinion
(instilled by his teacher Albright) that achievements in analyzing epigraphic
material were due to a well-defined typological method of dating the histor-
ical change of alphabetic scripts and pottery. Yet for Cross (1982: 123–124), “all
human artifacts are amenable to typological study.” Thus we see Cross applying
his typological method to the study of ancient Israelite religion and even ideas in
general. He writes:
Are we not to expect the breaking in of the sui generis, the radically new, in po-
etry, in religious ideas, in philosophical speculation? I do not think so. I believe
it is as illegitimate methodologically to resort to the category of the sui generis
in explaining historical sequences, as it is contrary to scientific method to resort
to the category of miracles in explaining natural occurrences. (Cross 1982: 130)
Cross followed Albright in critiquing Kaufmann’s position, which acted as his

foil. Cross would assert:
The religion of Israel has been conceived as a unique, isolated phenomenon,

radically or wholly discontinuous with its environment. In extreme form these
views are rooted ultimately in dogmatic systems, metaphysical or theological,

and often serve an apologetic purpose. . . . The claim that Israelite religion “was
absolutely different from anything the pagan world ever knew” to quote the
late, great Yehezkel Kaufmann is now being swept away under an avalanche
of archaeological evidence. But this claim should never have been made. It
violates fundamental postulates of scientific historical method. The empirical
historian must describe novel configurations in Israel’s religion as having their
origin in an orderly set of relationships which follow the usual typological se-
quence of historical change. (Cross 1982: 131)
In short, whereas Kaufmann (1972: 60) asserted that the notion of God’s sov-
ereignty “first appeared as an insight, an original intuition,” Cross retorted in
his defense of the typological method that there are no new ideas (cf. Qoheleth
1:9–10). Nevertheless, Cross (1982: 131) stated that his approach was intended
“not to denigrate the importance or majesty of Israel’s religious achievement.”
With greater nuance than Albright (and with less of Albright’s stringency), Cross
wrote: “Characteristic of the religion of Israel is a perennial and unrelaxed ten-
sion between the mythic and the historical.” Cross preferred the term “epic,”
rather than “myth,” to characterize Israel’s lore.62 “This epic,” wrote Cross, “rather
than the Canaanite cosmogonic myth, was featured in the ritual drama of the
old Israelite cultus. . . . Israel’s choice of the epic form to express religious reality,
and the elevation of this form to centrality in their cultic drama, illustrates both
the linkage of the religion of Israel to its Canaanite past and the appearance of
novelty in Israel’s peculiar religious concern with the ‘historical’ ” (1973: viii–ix;
emphasis mine).
Cross (1973: 143) was of the firm opinion that “Israel’s religion in its begin-
ning stood in a clear line of continuity with the mythopoeic patterns of West
Semitic, especially Canaanite myth.” At the same time Cross could speak of the
“radical differentiation” of the Yahweh cultus in the Proto-Israelite league, which
split off from the El cult (1973: 71). “[Ancient Israel’s] religion did emerge from
the old matrix, and its institutions were transformed by the impact of formative
historical events . . . which came together in the days of Moses and in the era of
the Conquest” (1973: 143).
Newer Studies of Myth
As seen from the history of scholarship just traced, the study of Israelite religion
is intimately tied to the study of mythology in general. Having looked at how
scholars such as Hooke wedded myths and rituals, how Kaufmann completely
rejected the presence of myth in the Bible (as did Albright), and how Cross
widened the dialogue to include epic as well as myth, it is best to pause to survey
briefly how the larger scholarly community has wrestled with new definitions
of myth.63 Several surveys on the topic, some of which have been written by
historians of Israelite religion, can allow our sketch to be brief.64
The modern study of mythology, which is often traced to post-Enlightenment
thought, frequently takes as its point of departure how modern readers have
inherited from the Grimm brothers an overly simplistic notion of myths as
stories about the gods and how, in popular vernacular, myths are equated with
falsehood.65 In contrast, contemporary mythologists define myths in various
ways consistent with their chosen fields of study. Sociologists, in the wake of
Durkheim, underscore how myths mirror social structures or how they func-
tion to validate social order. Anthropologists try to personalize mythology by
describing the cultural context of modern storytellers, as opposed to the notion
that myths come from nowhere and have existed since the beginning of time.
Historians have largely replaced the myth-and-ritual model with a myth-and-
politics paradigm that posits political backgrounds and historical referents un-
derlying the tales. Scholars of narrative structure emphasize that myth has more
to do with the plot of a tale than with the tale itself. To many folklorists, myths
are just one type of lore that can be traced throughout disparate cultures with
amazing similarity. Ever since Claude Lévi-Strauss, structuralists would go even
further to see underneath myths a “deep structure” of shared humanity and its
dichotomies (Niditch 1993: 22). Psychologists view myths as products of the
human unconscious in either a Freudian or Jungian sense. Modern historians
of world religions like to show how myths describe universal themes of human
existence and ask ultimate religious questions. Some (e.g., Joseph Campbell) ho-
mogenize myths into comforting mystical storytelling that celebrates humanity’s
shared mysteries, while others (e.g., Wendy Doniger) point out how myths can
be subversive and far from soothing to the status quo. Yet others (e.g., Debra
Scoggins Ballentine) concentrate on how myths are ideological productions.66
For example, conflict myths (see Chapter Eight) are primarily used to legitimize
gods and humans alike (and to delegitimize their rivals), not to mention broader
sociopolitical structures. According to Ballentine, conflict myths encode hi-
erarchical taxonomies, marking dominant versus subservient characters and
establishing which behaviors are “natural” (“given,” “universal,” “foundational”)
and which are errant. The recasting and revising of myths function similarly as
ideologically charged productions.
A universal definition of “myth” that would cover all facets of ancient Israelite
religion (and that of the rest of the ancient Near East) is neither attainable or de-
sirable.67 Some historians of religion have gone so far as to argue that the word
“myth” is so overworked that it has lost its communicative value and we should
instead speak of “original tales.” I do not favor abandoning the use of the word
“myth,” because it carries with it cultural weight (e.g., conveying the religious
imaginations of a society) that transcends the simple narration of a story. It is
also best not to delimit the genre of myth as if it marked a discrete boundary;
literary genres commonly overlap, so we should not be surprised if stories of the
gods also involve human characters and vice versa.
Scholars have debated whether the biblical material is better described as
mythopoeic or mythopoetic. The mythopoeic has to do with “myth making”—
though often recasting older Near Eastern myths in Israelite dress rather than
creating new myths. To borrow the words of the folklorist Stith Thompson
(1965: 175–176): “It is always easier to borrow a myth or tale than it is to con-
struct one.”68 In contrast, the mythopoetic describes the use of “mythic imagery,”
where only echoes of myths are preserved in attenuated form. I have suggested
elsewhere that this is analogous to vestigial features documented in the archae-
ological record (Lewis 1998: 47). Arguing for mythopoeic over mythopoetic,
Bernard Batto (1992: 1) writes that “myth permeates virtually every layer of bib-
lical tradition from the earliest to the latest.” In contrast, Mark Smith (1994c: 299)
contends that “ ‘mythic imagery’ . . . is more prevalent in biblical texts than myth.”
In the material that follows I will argue that ancient Israel contained both mytho
poeic and mythopoetic material on a continuum, with a larger concentration of
the latter.
The Fribourg School of Iconographic Study
The 1970s saw the use of a new tool for the study of the Syro-Palestinian
world: iconography. In 1972 Othmar Keel’s The Symbolism of the Biblical
World: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms (now in its fifth
German edition) offered a massively detailed study of how visual symbols could
supplement the written text. Biblical scholars had utilized iconography prior to
this time, especially those with knowledge of Mesopotamian glyptic art.69 Yet
systematic studies were rare in a discipline that preferred philology and theology
to the worlds of archaeology and art history.
Keel’s work on the Psalms was a systematic attempt at blending literary
symbols and visual symbols to unpack the conceptual world of the biblical au-
thor. Moreover, as keenly as Keel recognized the contributions of iconography,
he was aware of its limitations and the chance of misinterpretation. Keel (1997: 9)
would write: “We constantly run the risk of reading these pictures too concretely,
or having avoided that risk, of treating them too abstractly.” Of course, the same
can be said of analyzing a text. At least iconographic representations are easier
to fix in historical context than the biblical material, which emerges from a long
editorial process.
Keel continued his impact in the subsequent decades. Scholars associated

with his Fribourg school (e.g., Urs Winter, Silvia Schroer, Thomas Staubli, Izak
Cornelius, and especially Christoph Uehlinger) have turned out numerous
volumes (mostly in the Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis series), including exhaustive
studies of the previously overlooked seals and amulets.70 Whereas Keel’s initial
offering was broadly construed (covering conceptions of the cosmos, destruc-
tive forces, the temple, conceptions of God, the king, and humans before God),
his later work, including several coauthored works, thoroughly documented di-
vine images, both male and female. Especially noteworthy in this area is Keel
and Uehlinger’s Gods, Goddesses and Images of God in Ancient Israel (1998;
German 1992). Female divine iconography is especially relevant now that studies
are reassessing ancient Israelite religion in light of the archaeological finds at
Kuntillet ʿAjrud and Khirbet el-Qom and their mention of the Canaanite god-
dess Asherah and/or her symbol (asherah). The most comprehensive work here
is the iconographic study by Cornelius (2004).
It is a very good sign indeed when one now finds articles on art and ico-
nography in standard reference works such as the Anchor Bible Dictionary,
Civilizations of the Ancient Near East, and the Handbook of Ugaritic Studies, and
textbooks devoted to using iconography for biblical exegesis.71 Extensive new
databases such as Schroer’s four-volume Die Ikonographie Palästinas/Israels und
der Alte Orient (2005–2018) provide researchers with unparalleled resources
that would have been rare just a generation ago. The future holds great promise,
especially as the Fribourg school continues its amazing productivity. Even more
encouraging, iconographic study is no longer restricted to the Fribourg school.72
Revising Historical Hermeneutics
The mid-1970s also ushered in a vibrant discussion that continues into the
present—often with heated rhetoric—regarding Israelite historiography.73 The
newer hermeneutical schools of thought have been called “revisionist” and
“minimalist,” the latter term referring to skepticism regarding to the historical
veracity of the biblical text. Like German criticism of the nineteenth century,
these discussions are not restricted to historical matters and impact how the bib-
lical text can be used to reconstruct ancient Israelite religion (see Chapter Three,
on methodology).74
While certainly not monolithic, as its critics often make it out to be, the overall
approach of these historians is to date the majority of biblical texts to the post-
exilic periods. Works that have contributed to or are associated with this para-
digm shift include those by Thomas L. Thompson, John Van Seters, Niels Peter
Lemche, Gösta Ahlström, Keith Whitelam, Robert Coote, Giovanni Garbini,
Philip Davies, and Margaret Gelinas.75 By lowering traditional dating into the
Persian and even Hellenistic periods, these scholars overturned frameworks de-
rived from Albrecht Alt (e.g., settlement hypothesis) and Albright (the biblical
archaeology approach). The historiography offered in these works is derived
from newer sociological and anthropological models as well as studies of the
Bible as literature. As a result, new avenues of research addressed social and ideo-
logical history along with a reexamination of questions of ethnicity.
The revisionist approach has been portrayed by Thompson (1992: 383) as a re-
turn to “the dictum of Wellhausen that a biblical document reflects the historical
context of its own formation rather than the social milieu of its explicit referents
to a more distant past.” For Thompson, “the essential thrust of Wellhausen’s axiom
continues to haunt us.” Such methodological assumptions of the revisionist ap-
proach have prevented it from winning wide acceptance among historians and
the many archaeologists and epigraphists who have weighed in on the debate.76
Lemche (1996a: 9) overstated the movement’s influence when he pronounced
that extracting historical information from the biblical text is “an old-fashioned
endeavor . . . considered a thing of the past by many of today’s scholars.” On the
contrary, many historians of Israelite religion continue to emphasize that the
biblical witness is not “a theological fiction of later utopians” (Albertz 1994: 24).
Moreover, it is still possible to seek out a “critically assured minimum” (Mettinger
1988: 56) from which we may reconstruct ancient Israelite religion, at least partly
(see Chapter Three). Smith’s (2014a: 42–43, 211–283) study of early biblical war-
rior culture carefully argues that there are “texts that reflect traditions or even
textual composition in the tenth century (or perhaps ninth century) or earlier.”
Nonetheless, the revisionist hermeneutic proved valuable for chastising those
who analyzed the biblical text uncritically (although what constitutes proper
criticism is in the eye of the practitioner). It is clear that the text must be studied
in conjunction with modern approaches to extra-biblical ancient Near Eastern
texts and archaeology, to which we now turn.
Archaeology Reasserts Its Influence
The biblical archaeology movement that flourished from the 1930s through the
1960s, and which became synonymous with the names William Foxwell Albright
and G. Ernest Wright, focused on using archaeology to demonstrate the unique-
ness of ancient Israelite religion. The Albrightian model has often been labeled
biblicist in nature even though Albright wrote widely disseminated works
that showcased extra-biblical material, such as Archaeology and the Religion of
Ancient Israel and Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan. In addition, Albright’s lack of
interest in using the archaeological realia to unpack the actual practice of ancient
Israelite religion has led William Dever (1987: 217) to describe his era of archae-
ology as “the ‘revolution’ that failed to materialize.” In the time since Albright’s
generation of archaeologists (the majority being biblical scholars), the discipline
of Syro-Palestinian archaeology has taken pride in extracting itself from the
Bible and theology and turning to the social sciences.77 The archaeology of an-
cient Israel is no longer seen as a branch of biblical studies or as the handmaiden
of biblical history; rather, it is a multidisciplinary field that aims at describing so-
cioeconomic and cultural histories through studying environmental forces, the
development of technology, food production, population growth, materiality,
monumentality, and so on.
In the years that followed, some Syro-Palestinian archaeologists embraced
trends in processual archaeology (also known as “New Archaeology”) and post-
processual archaeology that arose in the wake of Fernand Braudel’s theoretical
framework of la longue durée and the rise of the French Annales school (see Levy
and Holl 1995: 3–8). As historians turned their focus from political, military, and
diplomatic history to long-term perspectives (la longue durée) that included ge-
ography and climate, economic cycles, and large-scale social and cultural factors,
so too archaeologists turned their focus from the material culture of great people
and grand events to “the archaeology of society,” with its fascination for eve-
ryday life. An early example can be seen in Thomas Levy’s edited volume The
Archaeology of Society in the Holy Land (1995).78 No longer do these scholars
write only of stratigraphy and pottery typology; theoretical frameworks from the
likes of Lewis Binford, Colin Renfrew, and Ian Hodder are well integrated into
their analyses.79 Older processual archaeology prided itself in being ahistorical,
which made it a welcome companion for the revisionist historians previously
mentioned (cf. Whitelam 1996: 9–10, 66–67). Thankfully, the post-processual
archaeology that started in the mid-1980s has brought a welcome correction to
some of the more doctrinaire versions of the New Archaeology.80
In the last three decades, archaeology has reasserted its influence as an in-
dependent discipline capable of unearthing the practice of Israelite religion
without being subservient to biblical studies.81 Some archaeologists such as John
Holladay part ways with the biblical text entirely, reconstructing Israelite religion
from an explicitly archaeological approach.82 In contrast, Dever, through a series
of methodological essays dating back to 1983, called for a true dialogue between
archaeology and text (which he calls a “curated artifact”)—even though his latest
work is entitled Beyond the Texts (Dever 2017). Only by combining the realia of
religious practice (both legitimate and illegitimate, public and private) as seen
from the archaeological record with a sophisticated reading of the biblical text
can historians of Israelite religion achieve their goal. The following aspects of
Israelite religion (staggering in scope) have greatly benefited from recent archae-
ological research: altars (large and small), burials, cultic paraphernalia, cultic
figurines, cultic stands (incense and other), divine images, domestic/house-

hold religion, ethnohistory, gate shrines, gendered archaeology, Iron Age I cult
centers (e.g., the “Bull Site,” Hazor, Mt. Ebal, Shechem), Iron Age II cult centers
(e.g., Arad, Bethsaida, Kuntillet ʿAjrud, Lachish, Megiddo, Tell Dan), magic of
all sorts (amulets, incantations, magic bowls, etc.), the Midianite hypothesis and
Qurayya ware, model shrines, non-elite religion, religious architecture, religious
inscriptions, scarabs and seals, sacrificial practices, standing stones, and votives.
Scholars have been responding to Dever’s call, yet such a huge undertaking will
take some time to be realized by biblical scholars, who are predominantly trained
as philologians, and by archaeologists who prefer fieldwork (or pure theory) to
such syntheses.83
The Social Sciences Rejoined
The interface of the social sciences and biblical studies has been traced by
others and need not detain us here.84 As has been mentioned, the use of soci-
ological and anthropological applications for biblical studies waned after the
initial experimentations by Robertson Smith and Wellhausen. Nonetheless,
these fields continued to mature independently and eventually were applied to
biblical studies with such enthusiasm that today their influence is everywhere.
One scholar stands out from all others as the pioneer and most articulate voice
of modern social-science biblical criticism: Norman Gottwald. Gottwald’s The
Tribes of Yahweh, published in 1979, carried with it the subtitle A Sociology of the
Religion of Liberated Israel. A collection of Gottwald’s articles entitled The Hebrew
Bible in Its Social World and in Ours (1993) shows that Gottwald’s concerns (and
those of many of his followers) were not restricted to the sociology of the ancient
world but also encompassed our present context, including the hermeneutics of
class welfare, liberation theology, Marxist thought, peace studies, and economic
ethics. Thus it is not surprising that even though social science criticism cuts
across the full spectrum of ancient Israelite society (including the archaeolog-
ical and historiographic material just mentioned), the majority of early schol-
arship concentrated on the sociopolitical and socioeconomic rather than cultic
studies per se. To be sure, there is a continuity between the former and the latter
(see again the work of Gottwald), and ethnographic research has taught us to see
societies as total systems.85
In subsequent years more works were devoted to ancient Israelite religion.
These included general studies (e.g., Cook 2004) and specialized analyses such
as the works of Mary Douglas (1966, 1993), Howard Eilberg-Schwartz (1990),
Frank Gorman (1991), Walter Houston (1993), Jonathan Klawans (2000, 2006),
and Isabel Cranz (2017) on purity codes and rituals; those of Gary Anderson
(1987), Bruce Malina (1996), and William Gilders (2004) on sacrifices and blood
rituals; those of Robert Wilson (1980), Thomas Overholt (1989), and Jonathan
Stökl (2012) on prophecy; those of Carol Meyers (1983, 1988, 1991, 2002, 2003a),
Phyllis Bird (1997a, 1991, 1987), and Hennie Marsman (2003) on the socioreli-
gious roles of women; and those of Kristine Garroway (2014) on the social roles
of children, Ronald Hendel (1988, 1992) on the aniconic traditions, Mark Smith
on cultural memory (2004) as well as cross-cultural discourse with respect to di-
vinity (2008), C. L. Crouch (2014) on the role of religion in identity formation,
and Brian Schmidt (2016) on the social history of magic. New analyses of the
Hebrew Bible’s priestly hierarchies (see Chapter Ten) have benefited from the
work of Michel Foucault, Pierre Bourdieu, Caroline Bell, and others on ritual
performance and the socialized body.
The landmark attempt at integrating a social analysis across the full spec-
trum of ancient Israelite religion is the work of Albertz (1994) and more recently
with Rüdiger Schmitt (Albertz and Schmitt 2012) (their onomastic approach is
described in Chapter Three).
From Ze’ev Meshel to Rainer Albertz:

Personal Piety and Family Religion
There were three scholars working independently in the mid-to late 1970s, two
of them archaeologists, the other a historian of religion, whose work would serve
as harbingers of the next decades. Through three seasons of excavations in 1975–
1976, Ze’ev Meshel excavated the Iron Age site of Kuntillet ʿAjrud (also referred
to as Ḥorvat Teman) on the Darb el-Ghazza caravan route.86 The inscriptions
(mentioning “Yahweh and his A/asherah”) and iconography (thought by some
to represent the divine pair) revolutionized the field of Israelite religion. Each of
these will be treated in detail in this book (see Chapter Six, pp. 236–241; Chapter
Seven, pp. 325–330). Suffice it to say that the field has never been the same since.
Every treatment now incorporates this material, as it demonstrates how Israelite
religion was far more pluralistic than one might have guessed from a cursory
reading of the Hebrew Bible. Whereas the Hebrew Bible has notable passages
disparaging the abominable Canaanites, here we have Yahweh paired with one
of the best-known Canaanite goddesses. The amount of secondary literature de-
bating whether we have here a god and his consort (“Yahweh and his Asherah”)
or, more likely, a god and a cultic object of some sort (“Yahweh and his asherah”)
is staggering.87
A few years later, two paleo-Hebrew inscriptions (dating to the end of the sev-
enth century BCE or the beginning of the sixth) were found at Ketef Hinnom in
Jerusalem in excavations under the direction of Gabriel Barkay. Their discovery
in 1979 set the field ablaze, as they constituted our oldest attestations of a biblical
passage: the famous priestly benediction of Numbers 6:24–26. Yet for Israelite
religion, it was not merely the paleographic value of these inscriptions (on which
see Chapter Six, pp. 247–250) but the medium on which they were written (two
silver amulets) together with their context (both texts were found in close prox-
imity in a “repository” of a grave complex that totaled five burial chambers). The
study of this material presented early analyses of what would later come to be
known as the study of the “materiality” of texts (see Barkay et al. 2004). Here we
have written evidence of the name of Yahweh (and a biblical passage) being used
apotropaically (see Lewis 2012). Moreover, “the use of the confessional state-
ment in Ketef Hinnom I . . . introduces a context associated with personal piety
and family life—that of family tomb and burial of an individual. The blessing it-
self [i.e. Numbers 6:24–26], which is found in a cultic context in the MT, is thus
shown by these inscriptions also to have been used in personal and family con-
text” (Barkay et al. 2004: 68; my emphasis).
This new window into personal piety occurred at the same time as the ap-
pearance of Rainer Albertz’s groundbreaking work Persönliche Frömmigkeit und
offizielle Religion: Religionsinterner Pluralismus in Israel und Babylon (1978).
Key to Albertz’s understanding is how personal piety relates to the religion of
the family, especially in contrast to what he terms “official” religion. By the latter,
Albertz (2008: 92) means the religion that “claims to be . . . valid for the whole so-
ciety” and thus includes “not only the state religion of kings and priests but also
the opposing preaching of the prophets.” In contrast, “the degree of institution-
alization in family religion was very low,” as its “target group . . . was that face-to-
face community that lived together in the house of the family head, the center of
its everyday life.”88
While disparate in nature, the works of these three scholars contributed to the
growing trend we have been sketching—from the French Annales school (men-
tioned earlier) and its impact on history and archaeology to the use of the so-
cial sciences to study of marginalized groups. The focus was now firmly fixed on
non-elite (e.g., non-royal, non-priestly) communities that were slighted in the
past in favor of the religion of the privileged. Family religion, ancestral cults, and
patrimonialism received close analysis, especially from comparative perspectives
using cognate ancient Near Eastern cultures (e.g., van der Toorn 1996b, 2008;
Schloen 2001; Fleming 2008; Lewis 2008a). Key works on the archaeology of the
family and domestic cults also appeared (e.g., Stager 1985a; Daviau 2001; Schmitt
2008). Evidence of the flowering of this interest can be seen in how Sarah Iles
Johnston’s edited volume Religions of the Ancient World (2004) contains a dedi-
cated section on “Religious Practices of the Individual and the Family.” Compare
too Household and Family Religion in Antiquity (2008), edited by John Bodel and
Saul M. Olyan, and the landmark Family and Household Religion in Ancient Israel
and the Levant, by Albertz and Schmitt (2012). The latter contains an impressive
collection of archaeological data covering domestic ritual assemblages and Iron
Age cult places as well as a comprehensive analysis of personal names.89
In the study of family religion, the religious lives of ancient women started to
emerge as scholars willed themselves to look for them (cf. Meyers 2002, 2005,
2010; Marsman 2003; Ackerman 2006, 2008a, 2016; Olyan 2010). Here feminist
criticism led the way.
Feminist Contributions
Much of the early history of scholarship on Israelite religion was male-

dominated. Intellectual historians can debate the best place to pick up the study
of feminist contributions as they impact biblical study, but surely a watershed
event came in 1895 with the publication of the first volume of Elizabeth Cady
Stanton’s (1895–1902) The Woman’s Bible, followed by the second volume in
1898. Though Stanton assembled a “revising committee” to complete the task, by
far the bulk of the work bears her imprint.90 One should situate Stanton’s achieve-
ment historically by remembering that Wellhausen’s prolegomena was published
just some twenty years earlier, in 1878, with Robertson Smith’s Lectures on the
Religion of the Semites only a decade removed, in 1889. Gunkel’s Schöpfung und
Chaos was of the same vintage (1895), with the first edition of his Genesis (1901)
right around the corner. Thus we find in The Woman’s Bible references to source
criticism (especially the work of Astruc and Graf) and even Norse mythology.
Yet Stanton’s undertaking is best understood within the women’s suffrage and
abolitionist movements. And here she is ever so bold. She starts her introduction
as follows:
From the inauguration of the movement for woman’s emancipation the Bible
has been used to hold her in the “divinely ordained sphere.” . . . The Bible teaches
that woman brought sin and death into the world, that she precipitated the fall
of the race, that she was arraigned before the judgment seat of Heaven, tried,
condemned and sentenced. Marriage for her was to be a condition of bondage,
maternity a period of suffering and anguish, and in silence and subjection, she
was to play the role of a dependent on man’s bounty for all her material wants,
and for all the information she might desire on the vital questions of the hour,
she was commanded to ask her husband at home. Here is the Bible position of
woman briefly summed up.
The vital need, wrote Stanton, was “to issue a Woman’s Bible, that we might have
women’s commentaries on women’s position in the Old and New Testaments.”
Understandably, the pioneering work of Stanton received mixed receptions

among readers based on whether they felt her work to be liberating or threat-
ening. The full flowering of her contributions would not be realized for biblical
studies until decades later, when the second wave of feminist scholarship would
emerge. Yet the field has consciously looked back to Stanton’s groundbreaking
work, as evident in the intentionally titled The Women’s Bible Commentary, ed-
ited by Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe, which was first published in
1992 (with a revised and updated third edition issued with Jacqueline E. Lapsley
in 2012).
The so-called second wave of feminist biblical studies emerged in the mid-
twentieth century. Ever since Phyllis Trible’s God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality
(1978), gender studies have produced a staggering volume of research on bib-
lical topics.91 Surveys of the field and comprehensive bibliographies are easy to
find, though they are hard pressed to remain current due to the rapid pace of
publications.92 In addition to the The Women’s Bible Commentary, subsequent
years have seen such highly visible publications as the Feminist Companion
to the Bible series, edited by Athalya Brenner and Carole Fontaine; Women in
Scripture, edited by Carol Meyers, Toni Craven, and Ross Shepard Kraemer;
Women in the Hebrew Bible: A Reader, edited by Alice Bach; Feminist Biblical
Interpretation, edited by Luise Schottroff and Marie-Theres Wacker; and the
three-volume Feminist Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Retrospect, edited by
Susanne Scholz—not to mention a plethora of books and detailed articles on lit-
erature, theory, and ideology (e.g., Brenner 1985; Bach 1997; Bird 1997; Exum
1993, 1996; Fuchs 2000; Shectman 2009; Ackerman 2016; Gafney 2017). These
studies impact the way in which the biblical text is used (or jettisoned, as some
prefer) in today’s communities, both scholarly and lay-oriented.93 It is now com-
monplace to come across volumes that articulate how women’s voices, though
marginalized in our androcentric texts, can be resurrected even though the na-
ture of our sources makes many aspects unrecoverable.94
Of special relevance for the practice of religion are those studies that go beyond
literary analysis by integrating insights gained from archaeology and cognate an-
cient Near Eastern cultures.95 In particular, the field of feminist scholarship has
advanced through such works as those of Meyers on archaeology (discussed at
greater length in the following section), Brenner (1985), Bird (1987, 1989, 1991),
Susan Ackerman (1989, 1998a, 2003, 2008), Marsman (2003), Deborah Rooke
(2007, 2009), Jennie Ebeling (2010), and Cynthia R. Chapman (2016) on the
sociological roles of women in religious institutions; Erin Fleming on the poli-
tics of sexuality (2013); Jo Ann Hackett (1989) on the methodology of studying
“fertility” religion; Tikva Frymer-Kensky (1992) and Joan Westenholz (1989;
Asher-Greve and Westenholz 2013) on Mesopotamian religion; Jessie DeGrado
(2018) on applying cognitive linguistics to understand Hosea’s qĕdēšâ; and Wilda
Gafney (2017) on critiquing the Bible’s enslavement of women. Feminist criti-

cism has also led to a renewed interest by scholars, both female and male, in the
presence of goddesses in Israelite religion (see the Conclusion).96
Over the past decades, Silvia Schroer (1987, 2005–2018), Elizabeth Bloch-
Smith (1992a, 1992b, 2005, 2006, 2015), Susan Ackerman (1992, 1998a, 2003,
2008a, 2016), Ann Jeffers (1996), Diana V. Edelman (1996), Susan Niditch (1997,
2015), Elizabeth Larocca-Pitts (2001), Beth A. Nakhai (2001), Hennie J. Marsman
(2003), Francesca Stavrakopoulou (2004; Stavrakopoulou and Barton 2010),
Tallay Ornan (2005a, 2006, 2011, 2016), Deborah Rooke (2007, 2009), Anne
Marie Kitz (2014), Marian Broida (2014), Erin Darby (2014), Kristine Garroway
(2014), Esther Hamori (2008, 2015), Debra Scoggins Ballentine (2015), Cynthia
R. Chapman (2016), and Isabel Cranz (2017) have produced some of the most
vibrant volumes on Israelite religion. A lasting benefit of such scholarship is that
historians of Israelite religion are now more prone to look beyond the public and
elite face of religion (e.g., royal or state-sanctioned religion; the central sanctuary
of priestly cult) to address domestic and private worship (e.g., local sanctuaries,
family rituals). They are now more likely to attempt to reconstruct not only nor-
mative religion (i.e., that which has been unduly privileged as normative) but
also non-sanctioned (non-privileged) elements of religious expression that
powerfully shaped Israelite society. As was noted earlier in this chapter, these
emphases fit extremely well with trends in the sociological analysis of family and
domestic cults.
Carol Meyers: Engendering Archaeology
One feminist scholar’s work on Israelite religion stands out among all others: that
of Carol Meyers. Over a lengthy career, Meyers has successfully blended writing
on both archaeological and textual aspects of Israelite religion.97 A particular
focus of her work examines the agrarian basis of the majority of the population of
Iron Age Israel and Judah vis-à-vis the urban elites that produced the ethnohis-
torical sources (primarily the Hebrew Bible) that we use to reconstruct Israelite
religion. Her focus on agrarian culture naturally includes a study of the house-
hold, especially the gendered qualities of its social space. Meyers articulates
how ethnographic and ethnohistorical data have underscored the central role of
women in food preparation and textile production (see the Conclusion). In pre-
modern societies, argues Meyers, each of these roles had considerable economic
value.98 Moreover, when one factors in the central role of women in household/
family religion, one may conclude that “women were not much more disad-
vantaged in their participation of communal religious activities than were non-
priestly males” (Meyers 2002: 279).
Obviously, the study of material culture plays a vital role in articulating

agrarian and household religion. It is regrettable that, even decades after the
second wave of feminist scholarship reset scholarly agendas, Meyers (2003a: 429)
would have to write that “identifying gendered social space is a project that has
received very little attention in traditional Syro-Palestinian archaeology.” In re-
sponse, Meyers has boldly critiqued the way archaeological data are recovered
and published. “Gender archaeology,” she writes, “should be incorporated into
the conceptual framework of all projects. Anything less represents a bias that
should be deemed as ethically intolerable as tossing away the remains of periods
that do not interest the excavator.”99
Conclusion
The history of scholarship presented in this chapter is the briefest of sketches, yet
it allows the reader an appreciation of various ways in which our subject matter
has been addressed. The current state of scholarship on ancient Israelite religion
(and Hebrew Bible studies) is growing exponentially and cannot be easily syn-
thesized, though it will be addressed at every turn in the chapters that follow.
One could argue that there has never before been such an age of scholarly pro-
ductivity, as new source material becomes available and as vibrant theoret-
ical models address the challenges of our postmodern age (see J. Collins 2005;
Stavrakopoulou and Barton 2010; Schmidt 2016). Much of this scholarship
wrestles with one’s methodological approach, to which we now turn.
3
Methodology
Introduction
The aim of this volume is to present a work that is worthy of the ideas imagined
by the people who lived in ancient Judah and Israel, ideas that should captivate a
modern audience for their intrinsic quality and for their historical relevance. Its
goal is also to present a synthetic volume that can be used as a reference work for
readers of varying backgrounds. In order for readers to contextualize what they
find before them, they should be presented with the methodological choices that
one faces when reconstructing ancient Israel’s past.
How should a historian of religion attempt to address ancient Israelite religion
given the inherent difficulties involved in such a task? What methods should be
employed when one stands at such a great distance from the culture in question
and when the source material (textual and archaeological) is so sparse? Even with
great advances in literary and redactional analysis, more nuanced applications of
the social sciences, and the growing sophistication in handling the archaeolog
ical record, we still come back to a haunting question: What percentage of the in
formation is available to the historian? The nature of our source material and the
necessary scholarly tool kit need to be squarely addressed in order to articulate
the methods that have the best potential for discovery.
The Disciplines Needed
The academic disciplines needed to write a history of ancient Israelite religion

and not just a history of biblical religion (discussed later) are many. Ideally the
investigator would possess the skills needed to work with texts, including epi
graphy, onomastica, textual criticism, Northwest Semitic philology, compara
tive Semitics, linguistics, exegesis, source criticism, redaction criticism, genre
theory, and a wide array of literary analyses, modern and postmodern. Ideally,
the researcher of the Hebrew Bible would have an appreciation of diachronic
and synchronic perspectives. Additionally, the researcher’s tool kit would in
clude training in archaeology, both as a field archaeologist and as a theorist, not
to mention a knowledge of landscape archaeology, which asks new questions
about the effects of water pathways and climate on culture. Art history must be
Methodology 49
privileged as well, for visual representations have their own complex narratives
that complement as much as challenge textual narratives and stretch the study
of objects into questions of identity, networks of cultural exchange, and collect
ive memory. Obviously, the social sciences must be included, as no tapestry
about texts and objects can be woven without the fabric of society. From socio
linguistics to ritual performance to gender to ethnicity to spatial theory, the
social sciences are imperative for understanding the ideological nature of cult,
where social actors negotiated status, power, and prestige. Lastly, the historian
of religion must embrace, not shun, the discipline of philosophy of religion/
theology.1 Properly employed, it explores the varieties of religious experience
regarding the nature of divinity and the preternatural as well as the nature of
humanity. Questions of metaphysics are on the table as much as questions of
theodicy and ethics; questions of human aspirations as much as those of human
frailties. Philosophical explorations of “the ideal” can be examined, whether ju
dicial, political, or societal. The relevance of these past musings for the present is
profound. In Philip Davies’ (2011: 152, 164) words, “The Bible is rich in philo
sophy. . . . The claim that much of the Bible is an intellectual product perme
ated with philosophical reflection should manage to attract some dinner-party
interest.”
The present volume does not pretend to be comprehensive. Yet it attempts
to dabble seriously enough here and there in the scholarly enterprises just
discussed that readers can imagine what would be required to undertake a thor
ough analysis combining the many requisite disciplines. If readers come away
with a renewed appreciation for the difficulty of reconstructing an ancient relig
ion when we stand at such a great distance, are so removed culturally, and have
such meager data, then one of the author’s preliminary goals will be achieved.
Yet it is the hope that the reader will persevere (despite scholarly reservations at
every turn) with the ultimate goal of appreciating the fascinating world that is
ancient Israelite religion.
Preliminary Matters: Defining “Religion”
Scholars have a tendency to search for the ideal definition, even though Catherine
Bell’s (2007: 283) quip is well known: “No field ever moves forward because a
good number of people agree on the definition of some central concept that then
allows them to get down to work.”2 Our colleagues who work within religious
studies departments or are involved otherwise with the American Academy of
Religion know all too well how every new school year brings with it new exam
ination copies of the latest textbooks wrestling with the definition of “religion,”
including “insider” and “outsider” perspectives. Seven theories of religion (Tylor
and Frazer, Freud, Durkheim, Marx, Eliade, Evans-Pritchard, Geertz) are not
enough (Pals 1996); we must have at least eight (Pals 2006), for how could one not
include Max Weber? Make that nine (Pals 2015) with William James. Opposing
theories are easily set at odds under the rubrics of substantive-phenomenological
versus functionalist-explanatory perspectives. Where Mircea Eliade (1949: xiii)
asserts that religion must be studied “at its own level . . . as something religious”
due to the sacred being essentially irreducible, Edmund O. Wilson (1998: 266)
opines that “all tangible phenomena, from the birth of stars to the workings of
social institutions, are based on material processes that are ultimately reducible,
however long and tortuous the sequences, to the law of physics.”3
In view of the academic disciplines needed for such a study, it is obvious that
many and varied theoretical models are likewise necessary for the investigation
of ancient Israelite religion. Because we now take for granted the necessity of
interdisciplinary work, especially in the humanities and social sciences, we are
as astonished as Pals (1996: 9; 2015: 8) to read of the “naive overconfidence” and
“vaulting ambition” of past scholars who assumed that a single theory of religion
was attainable, much less desirable. Even Eliade (1949: xiii), with his narrow def
inition, conceded that “because religion is human it must for that very reason be
something social, something linguistic, something economic—you cannot think
of man apart from language and society.”4
Defining Israelite Religion: Two Notable Developments
Bringing the discussion into the present—inheriting trends that emerged in

the 1970s (see Chapter Two, pp. 42–44)—we find two notable developments
in defining Israelite religion. The first has to do with the pluralistic nature of
religious experience within any society. For ancient Israel, Rainer Albertz
(1978: 3; 1994: 19; Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 3) deserves credit for using Günter
Lanczkowski’s phrase “internal religious pluralism” to describe the religious
differences within varying layers of society (e.g., royal religion vs. household reli
gion). Ziony Zevit (2001) makes the point explicit by titling his magisterial study
The Religions of Ancient Israel—note the plural. (Let the reader understand that
the singular “religion” in the subtitle of the current volume is used collectively.)
Studies such as Francesca Stavrakopoulou and John Barton’s Religious Diversity in
Ancient Israel and Judah (2010) are now common. Even within a single tradition
(e.g., Yahwism) we find a plurality of opinions. Compare the diversity of thought
about divine representation—from Yahweh’s dominant manifestation by fire to
P’s and Ezekiel’s kābôd presence, from Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic “name
theology” to Zion traditions that have Yahweh invisibly enthroned. Others envi
sion the Almighty residing aloft and bowing the heavens to descend to earth (Ps
Methodology 51
18:10 [Eng 18:9]; Ps 144:5). (See Chapter Seven, pp. 333–426.) Aniconic physical
representation resides beside bold literary anthropomorphisms. (See Chapter
Seven, pp. 287–290.) Sociologically, note the diverse notions about sacerdotal
status and which individuals are hierarchically marked by “holiness.” (See
Chapter Ten, pp. 616–643.) Theologically, Yahweh is held by some as the fiercest
of warriors, issuing calls to holy war, and by others as the tenderest of fathers and
mothers, making pleas for compassion. (See Chapter Eight.) Politically, to some
Yahweh is the ever-just monarch and judge, while others deem it proper to haul
him into court. (See Chapter Nine, pp. 545–557.)
With diversity in mind, modern historians of Israelite religion are a world
apart from their past counterparts, who often sought to define the essence of par
ticular aspects of ancient Israelite religion. Sacrifice is a case in point, with its
blood symbolism. As early as 1956 E. E. Evans-Pritchard (1956: 281) listed at
least fourteen underlying motivations for sacrifice, but it was not until 1980 that
M. F. C. Bourdillon (Bourdillon and Fortes 1980: 23) would write that “any ge
neral theory of sacrifice is bound to fail.” The work of Ronald Hendel and Jacob
Milgrom resonated similarly for biblical studies. Writing on sacrifice as a cul
tural system, Hendel (1989: 369) cautions that we should not be under the illu
sion that “there is necessarily some essential idea that underlies the history of
ritual practice,” and adds, “The primary locus of meaning is the system of reli
gious concepts, not a single postulated essence that guides a rite through history.”
Milgrom (1991: 442) is succinct: “No single theory can encompass the sacrificial
system of any society.” As for blood symbolism, the theoretical and contextual
studies at our disposal today (e.g., Gilders 2004; Lewis 2006a; Feder 2011), not to
mention studies on the archaeology of sacrifice (e.g., Porter and Schwartz 2012),
make A. Leo Oppenheim’s (1964: 192) musings about “the ‘blood consciousness’
of the West” and “the magic power of blood” appear quaint. Thus when we turn
to examine the priestly anointing ritual that uses blood and oil (see Chapter Ten,
pp. 627–629), we will necessarily look to contextual data from the ancient city of
Emar along with considering how blood functioned as an indexical medium of
priestly prerogative, status, and power.
The second development is related to the first, as scholars underscored that
defining the diversity of Israelite “religion” must include the lives of the non-elite.
Here I quote from the summary in Lewis 2008a: 60:
Over the last century, many historians in the wake of the French Annales school
turned away from what they saw to be a narrow study of political, military,
and diplomatic history (i.e., “traditional event-based narratives”) to articu
lating long-term perspectives (what the French termed la longue durée) tied
more to geography and climate, economic cycles, large-scale social and cul
tural factors, even the history of perception (“mentalities”). Archaeologists
went from focusing on the material culture of great people and grand events
to “the archaeology of society” with its fascination for the mundane and or
dinary. Textual scholars “read between the lines” of texts written (and edited)
by those who wielded power to glimpse the lives of the semi-literate who held
less or none at all. In particular, the lives of ancient women started to emerge
as scholars willed themselves to look for them. Thus it is that we find ourselves,
historians of religion of the present generation, focusing on non-elite (e.g.,
non-royal, non-priestly) communities that were slighted in the past in favor of
the religion of the privileged.
This reexamining and redefining of Israelite “religion” focused particularly on

the cultic activities of families and households. (See Chapter Eight, pp. 473–494.)
Suffice it here to quote Saul Bellow’s The Adventures of Augie March:
Grandma, all the same, burned a candle on the anniversary of Mr. Lausch’s
death, threw a lump of dough on the coals when she was baking, as a kind of
offering, had incantations over baby teeth and stunts against the evil eye. It was
kitchen religion and had nothing to do with the giant God of the Creation who
had turned back the waters and exploded Gomorrah, but it was on the side of
religion at that.5
Preliminary Matters: Defining “Israelite” Religion
If the subtitle of the present work, Ancient Israelite Religion, necessitates pon
dering the definition of “religion,” it might also call for a defense of using the term
“Israelite” vis-à-vis geography, chronology, ethnicity, linguistics, and culture. In
short, the term “Israelite” is used here heuristically, according to scholarly con
vention, to designate the religions of ancient Israel and Judah (from the Iron Age,
Persian, and Hellenistic periods) found in textual sources such as the Hebrew
Bible (what could be termed “biblical religion”) together with that gleaned from
other written sources (e.g., inscriptions, onomastica) and with what can be
inferred from material culture. The geographic and chronological scope includes
widespread ancestral traditions as well the religions of the northern (Israelite)
and southern (Judean) kingdoms, not to mention the religions of the exilic and
post-exilic periods. By following the convention of using the name “Israelite” as
an umbrella term, I do not mean to homogenize distinctly different Israelite and
Judean religions into a unified whole. The impossibility of so doing should be ob
vious. (The Israelite religion and cultic apparatus at Tel Dan in the north simply
cannot be homogenized with the Judean religion of the south, as can be seen in
the Jerusalem Temple.) Yet this is not to imply that there are no particulars (e.g.,
Methodology 53
belief in the god Yahweh) that would be shared by disparate groups. Such shared
beliefs would have been facilitated by a shared scribal tradition (Rollston 2006;
Sanders 2009: 126–133; Carr 2008: 120–121).
The umbrella term “Israelite” is simply an acknowledgment that our textual
sources are a nightmare for the historian of religion who thinks she/he can sep
arate northern/Israelite traditions from texts (i.e., the Hebrew Bible) that have
been transmitted, reimagined, and even reworked by southern/Judean hands. To
borrow Daniel Fleming’s (2012: 32) wording, “All of [the Bible’s] contents have
been filtered through Judahite assumptions,” so the final product exhibits the
ubiquitous overlay of Judahite revision. Sociolinguistically, northern (Israelian
Hebrew) dialectic and cultural features were “collected, edited, and [re-]written
in Jerusalem and Judah” using standardized Judean Hebrew (Schniedewind
2013: 77–78). If one were to write a history of religion only from material culture,
then one could be site-specific and talk about Israelite versus Judean religions.
Yet once one incorporates the Hebrew Bible (our best textual witness), the entire
dataset changes and so too must our approach.
While there are exciting new attempts at teasing out traditions about “the
legacy of Israel in Judah’s Bible” (Fleming 2012), acute methodological problems
remain that are hard to overcome. These include (1) how to distinguish “gen
uine” traditions about Israel from “reused” and “invented” traditions, especially
when all three types have been mixed together in what has come down to us in
the Hebrew Bible,6 and (2) how to determine the mechanism for the transmis
sion of genuine traditions about Israel as well as the geographical and chron
ological parameters for such transmission.7 The future of historical research
along Fleming’s lines when combined with new archaeological data holds great
promise. Yet at present the hurdles remain high. Thus, with regret, we default to
the heuristic convention of speaking of ancient “Israelite” religion.
The Nature of Our Source Material, Part I: Texts
Textual sources are central to reconstructing any religion, and for ancient Israel
we have the Hebrew Bible, epigraphic material, and onomastica. The nature of
epigraphy and onomastica will be dealt with first, followed by an exploration of
the parameters of using the Hebrew Bible as a historical source. In recent years the
importance of using textual sources has experienced a renaissance due to tech
nological and hermeneutical advances. In addition, the growing interest in ma
teriality and monumentality (Osborne 2014) throughout the social sciences and
humanities has resulted in textual scholars moving beyond philological study to
examine how physical objects (including texts) provide windows into human be
havior and cognition. History adheres to material objects. Consider, for example,
how excavations at Tell Tayinat reveal how a copy of Esarhaddon’s Succession

Treaty was placed in the inner recesses of a dark temple for its symbolic and com
municative value (see Deut 31:24–26; Exod 25:16; Josh 24:26). Similarly, the
Ketef Hinnom amulets inscribed with a priestly blessing can be taken into the
tomb, where the apotropaic power of a biblical text facilitates Yahweh rebuking
the Evil One (Lewis 2012). In the years ahead, the study of the dynamic nature of
texts and their life cycles will certainly generate new understandings of religion
as scholars go beyond treating texts as passive objects.
Textual Sources: Epigraphy
In many ways, the field of epigraphy has rewritten the history of ancient Israelite
religion.8 The discovery of new epigraphic sources of information arrived at a
time when the historical study of the Hebrew Bible was undergoing a crisis as
a result of the collapse of analytical literary models of the past that no longer
proved convincing (e.g., the documentary hypothesis) and the application of a
variety of postmodern theories from the broader humanities and social sciences.
It is thus quite understandable that Zevit (2001: 75–79), who views himself “as
modern, not post-modern,” argues: “Israelite religion is most approachable
through its manifestations in physical evidence discovered in archaeological
excavations [including] inscriptions and drawings.” For Zevit, the “specialized
discipline[s]‌” of archaeology and paleography provide the needed “hermeneu
tics” of interpretation.
Restricting our tally here to Israelite male divinity, in the pages to follow
readers will find that epigraphic sources have played a key role in discussions
of the identity of El (Proto-Sinaitic, Ugarit, Deir ʿAlla, Kuntillet ʿAjrud), El
Elyon (Sefire), El-Elyon, “Creator of Heaven and Earth” (Elkunirsha, Karatepe,
Jerusalem, Hatra, Leptis Magna, Philo of Byblos), El Shaddai (Ugarit, Deir ʿAlla),
Baal/baal (Ishbaal, Kuntillet ʿAjrud), Yahweh (Shasu, Mesha stela, Kuntillet
ʿAjrud, Khirbet el Qom, Khirbet Beit Lei, Ein Gedi, Arad, Ketef Hinnom,
Lachish), and Yahweh, the Holy One (Ugarit, Kuntillet ʿAjrud).
As readers will see, epigraphic sources are also integral to larger questions such
as whether the god El virtually disappears in the Iron Age (decidedly not, in our
opinion); whether Albrecht Alt was correct about his notion of “the God of the
Fathers”; whether there existed a Transjordanian “El repertoire”; whether El was
the original God of Israel and/or the original god of the Exodus; whether El and
Yahweh are distinct deities and/or syncretized into one; whether one should look
geographically to the north or to the south for the origin of Yahweh; whether
Judean Chaoskampf traditions (e.g., Yahweh’s battle at the sea and with Sea) are
different from their Near Eastern counterparts; whether Yahweh and Asherah
Methodology 55
are equally worshipped at Kuntillet ʿAjrud; whether a proper name can be used
in a construct chain in Hebrew (i.e., the meaning of Yahweh Seba’ot in light of
Yahweh of Teman); whether the name of Yahweh could be used apotropaically
(e.g., Ketef Hinnom); whether ḥrm, “holy war,” is found outside of the Bible (e.g.,
Ugarit KTU 1.13, Moabite inscription, Sabaean texts RES 3945 and DAI Ṣirwāḥ
2005-50); whether family religion is integral to Yahwistic theology (e.g., Khirbet
Beit Lei’s mention of “god the compassionate”); whether Job’s complaint against
Yahweh resonates with known examples of a plaintiff accusing a superior of
abusing power (e.g., Meṣad Ḥashavyahu); whether cultic objects are designated
as “holy” in the archaeological record and how early (Hazor, Beersheva, Arad,
Tel Miqne); and whether Yahweh is attested as “the Holy One” apart from the
Bible (e.g., Kuntillet ʿAjrud). The simple fact alone that the earliest attestation of
the divine name Yahweh comes from the ninth-century BCE Moabite inscrip
tion of King Mesha underscores the need for historians of Israelite religion to
control the Northwest Semitic epigraphic record.
This is not to say that the use of epigraphy has been without its missteps. In
Chapter Four (p. 97) readers will find my critique of one of the world’s leading
epigraphists (and a beloved teacher) with regard to three inscriptions used to un
derstand the deity El Olam. A heavily relied-upon reading of “El, the Ancient One”
(ʾl dʿlm = ʾil dū ʿōlami) in an inscription from Serabit el-Khadim can no longer be
sustained. Two other epigraphic sources that were used for comparative purposes
(Ugarit KTU 1.108 and one of the Arslan Tash amulets) are now interpreted quite
differently and can thus no longer carry the weight once placed on them.
The field of epigraphy is also beset with the real possibility that any inscrip
tion that does not come from a controlled excavation could very well be a forgery.
Where past miscreants did not have either the technology or the economic incen
tive to produce forgeries that could fool the trained epigrapher, today’s forgers have
both. As a result, certain epigraphic finds of the past that were once thought to be
genuine (e.g., the Moussaieff Ostraca, the Ivory Pomegranate inscription) are now
called into question to such an extent that they cannot be used. Other, more re
cent forgeries (e.g., the so-called Jehoash inscription) have been unmasked more
quickly and thus have not entered into the secondary literature to much degree.9
A clear benefit of using the epigraphic record is the ability to date inscriptions
(using archaeological context when available together with script typology), in
contrast to the inability to date most biblical texts with any certainty. In contrast
to the post-monarchic dating of many biblical texts, a good deal of the epigraphic
record relating to ancient Israelite religion dates as early as the eighth century
BCE, with a few examples dating to the ninth century BCE (the Mesha inscrip
tion, Kuntillet ʿAjrud), and, rarely, the late eleventh or tenth century BCE (the
Ishbaal inscription). Granted, the amount of epigraphy that we possess is a drop
in the bucket.
Textual Sources: Onomastica
Because of its complicated nature as well as its vital importance for reconstructing
ancient Israelite religion, the onomastic record has been a mainstay in the field
ever since the publication of Martin Noth’s Die israelitischen Personennamen in
1928 followed by the appearance of approximately ten thousand Amorite per
sonal names (PNs), especially from Mari (Huffmon 1965; Streck 2000).10 Israelite
onomastics has benefited from a plethora of insightful analyses by scholars such
as Rainer Albertz, Richard Hess, and Ran Zadok. The academic discipline of
onomastic research has continued to grow ever since, with an ever-expanding
database from all cognate fields of study, especially Akkadian (Zadok 1997: 93).
Modern treatments of Israelite religion frequently address the onomastic re
cord and the parameters of its use for historical reconstruction.11 Seth Sanders
(2015: 59) optimistically writes: “Despite their limits, inscribed names provide
our single clearest source of evidence for early Israelite religion because, unlike
edited literary texts, they can be precisely dated and confidently connected with
society beyond Judahite scholarly circles.”
Onomastics, simply defined, is the study of names and their meanings, origins,
and history. Various types of names include personal names (anthroponyms),
place names (toponyms), and, especially important for the current study, divine
names and theophoric elements in anthroponyms and toponyms.12 Specialists
also investigate prosopography, the science of identifying particular individuals,
which for ancient Israel is gleaned mostly from seals, seal impressions, ostraca,
letters, votive inscriptions, and graffiti. Many of these sources present epigraphic
challenges, especially when correlated with the ever-complicated biblical re
cord.13 Broadly construed, onomastic science is a part of anthropological lin
guistics, where in addition to the etymology and history of names ethnographers
examine how names reveal ethnicity, settlement patterns, and acculturation;
how naming practices can reveal insights into society; and how names encode
linguistic features. Obviously, historians of ancient religions stand at such a his
torical and cultural distance from their subject that some of these analyses are
beyond their ability. Yet the growth of onomastics within ancient Near Eastern
studies and related fields (e.g., the Helsinki Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project’s
The Prosopography of the Neo-Assyrian Empire and Oxford University’s Lexicon
of Greek Personal Names, now expanded into Anatolia) over the past few
decades has been astonishing.
The primary methodological hurdle with onomastics is the same hurdle we
have with other types of information: the lack of a large enough dataset. As Hess
(2009: 11) writes regarding the provisional nature of the enterprise: “Since we
have no complete census of all the names in any city or region in the Ancient
Near East, it is always possible that names relevant to our comparative study may
Methodology 57
have been present but are now missing due to the vicissitudes of the preservation,
discovery, and publication of the names.” Equally concerning is lack of schol
arly control in selecting only provenanced material to study. Sanders (2014: 222)
writes of “a naïve tendency to prefer statistically friendly quantity over archaeo
logical and epigraphic quality” despite repeated calls by epigraphists challenging
the authenticity of many seals, seal impressions, and inscriptions.14 Yet such ap
propriate cautions should not minimize the provisional contributions that on
omastics can make. Moreover, the database of provenanced material, though
relatively small, has shown steady growth in recent years.
Other methodological difficulties with our raw data include the inability of
writing systems to indicate telling linguistics features such as vowels (Canaanite,
Aramaic, and Ugaritic apart from its system of three alephs), vowel length
(Akkadian, Amorite), and the doubling of consonants (cf. Zadok 1997: 93–94).15
When we do have writing systems that can mark such linguistic features, as with
the Masoretic Text (MT), other complications arise, such as late developments
(e.g., the segolation one finds in names such as ʾĕlîmelek, ʾābîmelek, ʾāḥîmelek)
that historically would not reflect the pronunciation of a name in Iron Age Israel
(*-malk; cf. PNs such as malkîʾēl). Layton (1990: 19) summarizes: “The end
product is a unified language that tends to mask or eliminate altogether genuine
dialectal differences of temporal and/or local origin.” Moreover, in the Masoretic
Text, foreign names are often represented in Hebrew form: “The Aramaic PN br
hdd occurs in the Bible under the Canaanite form ben-hădad, and the Aramaic
PN *Hadad-ʿidrī appears in Hebrew guise as hădadʿezer.”
As for using the onomastic record to understand Northwest Semitic divinity,
Jeffrey Tigay (1986), Dennis Pardee (1988b), Roger Callaway (1999), and Rainer
Albertz (1978, 2012) have offered additional methodological cautions. Almost
every scholar notes the elite nature of most of our data (and connections to the
state) and how this can skew our understanding. Pardee’s (1988b: 144) study
argues for contextualizing Hebrew onomastic patterns and variations within
the broader ancient Near East (using Phoenician-Punic, Ugaritic, and Eblaite
sources for comparison). He points out how “different divine names will occur in
different genres.” Note the markedly different distribution of deities occurring in
the Ugaritic onomastic record when compared to mythological texts, deity lists,
and ritual texts (Pardee 1988b; 2002a: 222–224). For example, where the latter
three sources would attest to a vibrant cult dedicated to the goddess ʾAtiratu
(Asherah), we have but one attestation of her name as the theophoric element
in a personal name. The god Motu (Death) may have captured one’s attention
in myth, yet not in the ritual texts, where he is never the recipient of offerings.16
Turning to Israelite material, Pardee (1988b: 124–126) notes how the Hebrew
Bible’s long list of “proper and acceptable designations of Hebrew deity . . . ʾēl,
ʾēlōah, ʾĕlōhîm, yāh, Yahweh, ʿelyôn, šadday” together with compound names (ʾēl
ʿelyôn, ʾēl šadday, ʾēl bĕrît, ʾēl ʿôlām, ʾēl rīʾî, yahweh ṣĕbāʾôt) does not correspond
to the much smaller set of divine names in the onomastic record. A case in point
is Pardee’s startling observation that “never does a person bear [the full name
Yahweh], neither in the Bible, nor in extrabiblical sources.”
Methodologically, the interpreter must also factor in how certain terms (e.g.,
ʾil, bʿl) are inconclusive when it comes to representing a divine name (El, Baal)
or a simple noun (god, lord). Appellatives that substitute for a divine name (e.g.,
Father, Brother, King, Rock, Light, Lord) are not explicit as to the god in ques
tion. Some original names may be subsequently altered along ideological lines,
as with MT examples of changing baʿal names to bōšet names (cf. Tigay 1986: 8;
Rollston 2013b: 377–382). Moreover, writes Tigay (1986: 17), “onomastic habits
change slowly,” so a family can hold on to a theophoric naming practice well after
their devotion has changed.17 Due to social pressures, those of a certain faith
(e.g., polytheists such as Ahab, Jezebel, and Athaliah) may give their children
names (e.g., Yahwistic names) that do not align with their religious practice.
Among the population at large, one can easily imagine the reasons (e.g., political
motivation, fear of repression) where one would adopt the name of the national
deity yet in practice worship a different deity.
Rainer Albertz and the Social Context of Personal Names

The most revolutionary methodological change with regard to Israelite
onomastica has come from Rainer Albertz. Chapter Two (pp. 43–44) noted how
over the past three decades we have witnessed the study of family and house
hold religion (variously defined) grow from a small subdiscipline within an
cient Israelite religion and gender studies to today’s maturing discipline, a field
of study in its own right. At the center of this paradigmatic change was Albertz,
and at the center of his research was a new approach to studying Israelite
personal names.
The study of Israelite personal names and their theophoric elements has often
focused on distribution patterns and percentages in an effort to document the
breadth of Yahweh worship (especially in the eighth and seventh centuries BCE) as
part of a process of pantheon reduction. (For such statistics, see Chapter Six, note
5.) Historians of Israelite religion typically used onomastica to globalize about the
nature of religion (e.g., Israelite vs. Canaanite; Israelite vs. Judahite; polytheistic vs.
monotheistic) and the prevalence of Yahweh (over against El, Baal, Asherah, Bes,
etc.). Diachronically, onomastica were sometimes sifted to demarcate the per
centage of Yahweh names according to historical period (pre-monarchy, united
monarchy, divided monarchy, exilic, and post-exilic; e.g., Fowler 1988: 365–370).
In short, frequently scholars looked to articulate “the dominance of a deity in the
religion of the people” and the degree to which “the Yahwistic names outnumber
the non-Yahwistic divine names” (Hess 2007a: 306, 308, 310).
Methodology 59
As important as such questions may be, Albertz argued that they were sorely
misguided, as they largely ignored the social context of personal names. In
three defining works spanning three decades, the last of which was co-authored
with Rüdiger Schmitt, Albertz underscored the importance of social context
for uncovering ancient Israelite religion (see Albertz 1978; 1994; Albertz and
Schmitt 2012). In particular, Albertz (Albertz 1978: 49–77; Albertz and Schmitt
2012: 245–367) studied how the verbs and nouns in the large majority of personal
names were expressions of personal piety. Rather than reflecting matters of state
and priestly cult, the petitions, thanksgivings, hopes for salvation, confessions,
and concerns about the birth process that are found in names had more to do
with personal religion and life cycle events. Such sentiments, argued Albertz,
were similar to what we find in non-royal psalms and oracles of salvation.
Moreover, similar expressions of personal piety could be found throughout the
onomastica from the Levant (Ammonite, Aramaic, Moabite, Phoenician), such
that a cross-cultural comparison was not only a possibility but a desideratum.18
A Survey of Onomastica in the Present Volume
In the present volume, readers will see how onomastica have played a significant
role in many different discussions. For El worship (see Chapter Four), the name
Jacob-el (yaʿqub-ilu, “May El Protect”), from the toponym lists of Thutmose III,
Ramses II, and Ramses III, and the name “Israel,” in the Merneptah victory stela,
tease the historian trying to reconstruct the worship of El in the Late Bronze Age,
whereas West Semitic anthroponyms with El anchor the deity’s presence in the
Iron Age, contrary to some scholarly reconstructions. In the Hebrew Bible, we
find El present in the name of the eponymous ancestor Israel. An etiological tale
involving Hagar’s distress and a sacred spring connects the deity El Roi to the
name of a well (Beer-Lahai-Roi). Other well-known toponymic references to El
worship occur in the narratives about Bethel and Peniel. As for understanding
the intriguing deity El Shadday, here too we find scholars referencing onomastic
sources that range from Late Bronze Age Egypt to P’s fascinating list of (archaic
or archaizing) El and Shadday personal names in Numbers 1:5–15. From this
list and elsewhere, the nature of Israelite El as a benevolent provider resonates
with onomastica attesting to the deity as a stable “rock” (ʾElî-ṣûr, Ṣûrî-ʾēl, Ṣûrî-
šaddāy) guiding and protecting his flock.
Turning to Yahweh (see Chapter Six), onomastica have been at the center
of determining the pronunciation of the tetragrammaton (Yhwh) as well as
speculations about the deity’s origin. Due to the Masoretic tradition’s lack of his
torically accurate vowels, scholars have turned to the onomastic record (together
with other avenues) to reconstruct both vowels of the name *Yahweh. As readers
will see, anthroponyms from the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Nērî-yāh, Nĕtan-yāh) as
well as sentence names from Amorite onomastica (e.g., yawi-ila, yahwi-Dagan,
yawi-Addu) together with Greek transcriptions of the divine name (Iaoue and
Iabe) have proved crucial for historical reconstruction. As for the meaning of
the name Yahweh, the well-documented use of sentence names in Akkadian and
especially Amorite onomastica lies behind one of the dominant proposals that
reconstructs Yahweh as originally a cultic name of El (i.e., “El who creates the
heavenly armies” was *ʾēl zū yahwī ṣabaʾōt).19 (For exposition and critique, see
Chapter Six, pp. 220–222.)
As for the historical origin of Yahweh, Egyptian toponyms from the Shasu
texts as well as the Book of the Dead give us our very earliest data (Eighteenth
and Nineteenth Dynasties, fourteenth and thirteenth centuries BCE) but are
surrounded by murky questions of their own and have thus generated volumes
of research. (See Chapter Six, pp. 229–233.) For definitive Northwest Semitic
epigraphic sources documenting Yahweh, we have the Mesha stela, Kuntillet
ʿAjrud, and Khirbet el-Qom, which bring the discussion down to the ninth and
eighth centuries BCE. Kuntillet ʿAjrud, as readers will see, is especially tanta
lizing not only for its Yahwistic anthroponyms (e.g., ʿObadyaw, Yawʿasah) but
also for toponyms that locate Yahweh in the north (Yahweh of Samaria) and the
south (Yaweh of Teman). Bridging the gap between the thirteenth-century BCE
Egyptian material and the ninth-/eighth-century BCE Kuntillet ʿAjrud material
is the late eleventh-/early tenth-century BCE Ishbaʿl Inscription from Khirbet
Qeiyafa. Once again it is an anthroponym that drives the discussion. And once
again the methodological hurdles we have noted prove how hard it is to work with
such data: does Ishbaʿl refer to Baal or Yahweh? (See Chapter Six, pp. 234–235.)
As for the merging of El and Yahweh, the many literary traditions that re
inforce the seamless wedding of the two (e.g., Yahweh is El Olam; yhwh ʾēl
ʿôlām) find corroboration in the onomastic phenomenon of “equating names,”
where El is Yahweh and Yahweh is El (e.g., ʾlyhw, yhwʾl). (See Chapter Six,
note 1.) Sociologically, the ways in which both El and Yahweh were involved
in family religion are strongly echoed by our onomastic data. (See Chapter
Eight, pp. 480, 493–494.) When it comes to the Hebrew Bible’s other literary
characterizations of Yahweh, one sees both the strengths and the limitations of
the onomastic record. The notions of Yahweh as warrior, as king, and as judge
are reflected in the onomastic record, biblical and epigraphic. (See Chapters
Eight and Nine.) Yet, quite curiously, there is no evidence that people used per
sonal names to express their devotion to Yahweh as holy. (See Chapter Ten.)
That such a core aspect of Yahweh’s character is not reflected in personal names
provides yet another methodological caution. For it reveals that even one of
our greatest resources for reconstructing ancient Israelite religion can none
theless come up empty.
Methodology 61
Textual Sources: The Hebrew Bible and Textual Criticism
If historians of religion speak about their methodology, they are more likely to
talk about theory (anthropological, archaeological, literary, ritual, social). Rarely
do they delve into the necessity of textual criticism (or, for that matter, philology
and comparative Semitics). Theory is sexy; the nut and bolts of a text, not so
much. For the historian of ancient Israelite religion, the situation is the very op
posite, as the Hebrew Bible, an artifact with multiple layers of textual transmis
sion, constitutes a (perhaps the) primary source of information.
The importance of the field of textual criticism for biblical studies needs no
justification, and no apology will be presented here. Biblical exegetes are ada
mant about the need, as all serious commentary series attest. Even newer series
concentrating on reception history (e.g., the Eerdmans Illuminations series)
or those wedding diachronic and synchronic approaches (e.g., Kohlhammer’s
International Exegetical Commentary on the Old Testament) do not do so at the
expense of textual criticism. Granted, space restraints may mean that only cer
tain series will give textual criticism the full attention it deserves. Thankfully,
newer text editions (such as the Biblia Hebraica Quinta series and the series The
Hebrew Bible: A Critical Edition) that provide commentaries on textual variants
and reconstructions fill these gaps. Ideally, for the historian, the two fields of tex
tual criticism and exegesis must go hand in hand if we are to have any hope of
reconstructing the religion of Israel from the Iron Age, Persian, and Hellenistic
periods.
Textual Sources: The Hebrew Bible and Source Criticism,

a Limited Dataset
As we saw in Chapter Two, since the nineteenth century source criticism has played
a large role in Pentateuchal interpretation and not merely for solving questions of
literary cohesion. As Morgan and Barton (1988: 78) astutely observed: “Theories
about the dating of the Pentateuchal sources ceased to be primarily solutions to
a literary puzzle and became a tool for rewriting the history of Israel, and espe
cially its religious institutions and theological ideas.” Thus historians of Israelite
religion must be attuned methodologically to how different literary strands pre
sent quite different portrayals (remembrances, imaginations) of Israelite and
Judean cults. Moreover, unlike our nineteenth-century counterparts, today’s
historians face an even greater challenge: the field of source criticism has
undergone such scrutiny in recent decades that there is little consensus on key
issues such as the existence, content, and dating of certain sources. There are se
rious debates over scribal models of formation (documentarian, fragmentary,
supplementarian) and, with respect to Pentateuchal law collections, genuine

methodological differences between “supersessionist” and “complementarian”
approaches (see Berman 2016). The lack of consensus has led to a general sense
that Pentateuchal studies is “parochialized,” with only rare instances of produc
tive dialogue (Dozeman, Schmid, and Schwartz 2011: xi), “fractured” (Erisman
2013: 552), and, in the mind of some (e.g., Berman 2014a), “a field in crisis.”20
Alternatively, one could argue that the revitalized field of source criticism has
never been stronger, as the weaknesses of older models give way, even if a re
placement consensus is quite unlikely.
Rehearsing the particularities of today’s source critics is beyond the scope
of the present volume, and readers have plentiful resources (introductory and
technical) to help wade through the various and nuanced positions.21 The heu
ristic challenge for the present work (on reconstructing ancient religion) is to
adopt a model that is sensitive to the nature of our data and has descriptive
terminology that is inclusive enough for readers of varying approaches. Three
strategies immediately present themselves as options. The first strategy is to
agree that today’s source criticism is in crisis and to retreat from its use as an
analytical tool. A second is to favor strongly one of our current models over
another—for example, using classical nomenclature (JEDP) though with revised
understandings, or advocating for alternative terminology (P, non-P) together
with specific notions of scribal formation and historical context. A third strategy,
adopted here, has four components:
1. Using source criticism as a helpful (though limited) analytical tool that

reveals parallel streams of tradition showcasing how ancient Israelite reli
gion was not static
2. Using classical nomenclature (JEDP), though not dogmatically (non-P is
used as well) and with heuristic intent
3. Insisting that we do not have a large enough dataset to make the type of sta
tistical evaluations that are so common in our field
4. Admitting our limitations—that often the literary presentation of cult may
be all we have, with the realia of cult no longer recoverable
These four components deserve further comment.
Source Criticism as a Helpful (Though Limited) Analytical Tool

for Looking at Non-Static Cult
Given the widely different conclusions of today’s source critics and the massive
amounts of minutiae, pondering a retreat from using source criticism is un
derstandable. Yet such a flight is neither wise nor helpful. For source criticism,
even with all its flaws and irreconcilable debates, is the best mechanism to show
Methodology 63
how the Hebrew Bible is not static.22 The cultural memories that we read on
the pages of the Hebrew Bible were written by individuals from a wide variety
of backgrounds who learned of their traditions from a wide variety of sources
(written and oral). They also added to and subtracted from their inherited
traditions and reshaped them to address the needs of their own quite different
historical contexts. The notion that individuals would reshape, revise, or even
rewrite their inherited traditions based on their own historical and sociolog
ical contexts should not be surprising, even for today’s most conservative reader
holding a high view of Scripture. Listening to any modern sermon or homily
easily reveals how even canonical Scripture is not static. It can be orally updated
(sometimes faithfully, sometimes co-optatively) to speak afresh to the present.
Reading any of today’s many volumes that apply the teaching of the Hebrew Bible
to our human dilemma readily shows how Scripture is regularly re-presented in
written form (sometimes faithfully, sometimes co-optatively) to speak afresh to
the present.
The updating and reframing of an inherited text—though maddening to the
historian interested in the indigenous context that occasioned a text’s initial
writing—is an indicator of the significance of the text in subsequent tradition.
Appropriating a given text is a sure indicator of the social power of that text.
Writers rarely appropriate something that has minimal cultural importance.
Rather, we appropriate significant texts that we agree or disagree with in order to
increase or to lessen the text’s influence.
When modern believers appropriate Scripture, they are following their bib
lical counterparts. For example, consider one of the most well-known traditions
in Judaism: the prohibition against “boiling a goat in its mother’s milk” (lōʾ-
tĕbaššēl gĕdî baḥălēb ʾimmô). The prohibition is found in three sources: (1) in
Exodus 23:19, a part of what source critics have called “the Covenant Code”
(Exod 20:19–23:19); (2) in Exodus 34:26, a part of the so-called Ritual Decalogue
found in Exodus 34:11–26; and (3) in Deuteronomy 14:21.23 The minimal words
here bear little relation to the subsequent, expansive kashrut on meat and dairy.
Regardless of how one defines and dates these three sources, and re
gardless of how they relate to one another (whether they are complemen
tary or supersessionist), it is clear that these three sources provide differing
presentations of a singular practice. Two of the three align, having a surrounding
context of a festal calendar, sacrifice, and the presentation of first fruits within a
temple context (Exod 23:19 and Exod 34:26). In contrast, the third source (Deut
14:21) situates our text within a dietary context: the prohibition of eating non-
slaughtered meat, the social and economic benefits from non-Israelites’ eating of
such, and identity formation (via consecration). As for the historian of religion,
with such minimal and conflicting data he is hard pressed to recover historical
details about such a practice, though many have tried.24 What one can conclude
is that our divergent sources do point to varying streams of tradition reflecting

different understanding of this singular practice. These different understandings
(remembrances) developed and coexisted in dialogue over a long duration. In
the cultural memory that the ancients handed down (and eventually canonized),
it was important to preserve each of these streams of tradition.
For a more helpful diachronic application, consider the streams of
Pentateuchal traditions regarding the practice of child sacrifice and how they
were inherited by later authors. Here we benefit from Heath Dewrell’s (2017) per
ceptive analysis. Dewrell argues that the Covenant Code’s law of child sacrifice
without a redemption clause is early: “The firstborn of your sons you shall give to
me” (bĕkôr bānêkā titten-lî; Exod 22:28b–29 [Eng 22:29b–30]). Ezekiel inherits
this tradition and thus, regrettably, must deal with it by having God admit that
he himself “gave his people statutes that were not good [ʾănî nātatî lāhem ḥuqqîm
lōʾ ṭôbîm] and by which they could not live” (Ezek 20:25–26; cf. 16:19–21; 23:37–
39). In contrast, other streams of tradition (J’s Ritual Decalogue [Exod 34:17–26]
and P [Exod 13:12a–13]) added a redemption clause such that no children are
actually sacrificed. Yet other streams of tradition (e.g., Deuteronomy’s Law of
the Firstborn [Deut 15:19–23]) dealt with the matter by replacing the Covenant
Code outright. Their own legislation omitted humans from the list of firstborn
sacrifices, which then apply only to animals. Jeremiah, closely agreeing with
Deuteronomy, seems to be speaking directly to Ezekiel 20:25–26 when he asserts
three times that Yahweh never commanded child sacrifice, for it is an abomina
tion that “never even entered his mind” (Jer 7:31; 19:5; 32:35).
The value here of source criticism and intertextual analysis is that it can give
us a partial look at cultic practice and suggest plausible (though tentative) dia
chronic scenarios. In the present case, once again, the day-to-day realia of child
sacrifice are irrecoverable, and comparative studies and archaeology have yet
to provide clarification.25 Yet our literary sources reveal an incredibly vibrant
cultural memory. While the practice of child sacrifice was eventually eradi
cated, its memory lived on for hundreds of years—provoking later authors who
strongly objected to such practices (rightly so!) to have to deal with how to frame
their inherited authoritative traditions. That they chose dramatically different
approaches underscores the diversity of the various forms of Yahweh worship
in ancient Israel. Source criticism, with its focus on diverging information and
presentation, forces a close reading of texts. By grappling with contradictions
(real and apparent) and mixed evidence, we can better account for (and better
appreciate) the diversity of testimony on cultic practice (here child sacrifice) as it
now resides in the pages of the Hebrew Bible. Older treatments of our discipline
narrowed the discussion, either viewing “ancient Israelite religion” as a static,
monolithic tradition or treating it as a simple dichotomy between “official” (= “or
thodox”) Yahwism and a “popular religion” that was cast as heterodox in nature.
Methodology 65
Instead it makes much more sense to argue for multiple streams of traditions
where different Yahwistic groups held a variety of positions with regard to cultic
practice. The field of source criticism, despite its “fractured parochialization,” re
mains a viable analytical tool for the historian of religion.
Using Classical Nomenclature (JEDP), Though Not Dogmatically

(non-P is used as well) and with Heuristic Intent
Heuristically, the current analysis uses classical source critical nomenclature of
JEDP (together with non-P vocabulary) to engage the widest audience (for ex
ample, current advocates of an E source). Pragmatically, it is easier for advocates
of alternative models/nomenclature to make the necessary adjustments when
they read long-standing classical nomenclature than the other way around. It is
easier for a non-documentarian to frame this material within his understanding
than for a documentarian to take broader terminology (e.g., non-P) and deter
mine if it was classically defined as J or E.26 Yet the reader should not impute
to our use of classical terminology a rigid understanding of any of these four
sources, especially when the jury is still out as to their existence, dating, na
ture, and content. For example, even though we refer to the J source, the reader
should not conclude that we are backtracking to the days of Gerhard von Rad
with his “great personality” ingeniously working during a period of “Solomonic
Enlightenment.” As can be seen in our critique of the Graf-Wellhausen source
paradigm in Chapter Two, we certainly would eschew any attempt to chart a
linear (evolutionary) course for a monolithic Israelite religion.
Readers will also find that unless there is a secure context (historically and/
or linguistically), the presentation here is intentionally vague when it comes to
the dating of source material, preferring broad categories such as “ancient lore”
or “late material.”27 Our sources give us windows into “streams of tradition.”
These are ongoing traditions that inherit older material. As active traditions,
they regularly update or revise this material with later layers of tradition. (See
the discussion of child sacrifice texts earlier in this chapter.) Thus any source,
even in a later incarnation, can preserve earlier tradition. (For example, com
pare the onomastica in Num 1:5–15, discussed in Chapter Four.) It goes without
saying, then, that dating a tradition is a difficult endeavor, for a late updated/
revised feature in a text may reside alongside genuinely early material. Here I am
in agreement with Benjamin Sommer (2011: 106) when he advocates: “For most
biblical texts, general rubrics [e.g., archaic, pre-exilic, post-exilic, Hellenistic] are
the best we can apply with any intellectual honesty.” My preference for “streams
of tradition” also resonates with Sommer’s (2011: 106–108) critique of “pseudo-
historicist reductionism” that fails to appreciate how “literature that endures for
millennia does so precisely because it transcends its setting,” especially when it
grapples with ideas of “deep humanistic significance.”
The Size of Our Dataset and Statistical Evaluations: Limited Data

and the “Propp Principle”
All too commonly scholars make evaluations (regarding dating, source, se
mantic range of a word, etc.) based on the number of occurrences and distri
bution patterns of a specific lexeme. There is a lot to be said for the statistical
study of our material, yet our conclusions need to be measured. Often biblical
scholars make assessments that statisticians would challenge due to the nature
of our dataset. Often the assumption is that we have a complete or nearly com
plete dataset of lexemes, rendering our assessments statistically valid. In truth,
we have a very small dataset with which to work, and it is minimally representa
tive of language use both chronologically (across the entire Iron Age and later)
and spatially (across the southern Levant).
In addition to a limited linguistic dataset, consider too how often writers of
the Hebrew Bible are silent on matters of cult that were out of their purview.
I have written elsewhere (Lewis 2012) of how incantations were certainly used
in ancient Israel (cf. the early sixth-century BCE Ketef Hinnom amulets), yet
apotropaia are absent from the pages of the Hebrew Bible. Incantations are often
associated with domestic/family/local religion (see Chapter Eight) that addresses
personal concerns such as safe births, healthy children, the treatment of illness
(including snakebite remedies), marriage rites, sexual potency, mourning rites,
and burial rituals. Much of this activity is not recorded by the individuals who
come to articulate the “normative” biblical perspective (e.g., Priestly, prophetic,
Deuteronomistic, wisdom-school parties), as their interests lie elsewhere. In ad
dition, these individuals were prone to ignore and/or condemn practices they
deemed unworthy for various reasons that were linked to their control of cult.
Narrowing our material even further, consider how our texts can even be
silent on normative cultic practices. A good illustration of this is the lack of
any mention of cultic singers and musicians in the Pentateuch and their rela
tive absence in the Deuteronomistic History in contrast to the Chronicler’s
portrayal of their prominent roles (2 Chr 29: 25–30). Situating the discussion
within its broader historical context, Gary Knoppers (2004: 619–620) notes how
“musicians and singers were a constituent feature of temple worship” throughout
the ancient Near East. Thus rather than Chronicles inventing fictional scenarios,
“the complete absence of singers from the Pentateuch and from most of the
Deuteronomistic work tells us more about the limitations of these sources than it
does about the conditions of the Jerusalem Temple during the monarchy.”
Lastly, William Propp (2006: 793) objects strenuously to how we use the
meager data that we have; I hereby label his argument “the Propp Principle.”
Propp challenges the “scholarly axiom” that “we are obliged to adopt as provi-
sional truth the most likely and parsimonious reconstruction, based on the evi-
dence available” (italics Propp’s). In response Propp boldly writes:
Methodology 67
No doctrine could sound more innocuous but be so pernicious. What obliges

us? Who? Given the gaps in our knowledge, the complexity of historical pro
cesses and our inability to conduct proper experiments, we should aim rather
for multiple, parallel hypotheses, as complex as the events they purport to ex
plain. We can and must take into account the 95 percent of information hidden
from our view, the sea bottom connecting solitary islands of data. The only sen
sible response to fragmented, slowly but randomly accruing evidence is radical
open-mindedness. A single, simple explanation for a historical event is gener
ally a failure of imagination, not a triumph of induction.
In short, historians of religion need to ponder the sober reality that our dataset
is extremely limited. (Is saying that we possess even 5 percent too generous?)
We need to be appropriately agnostic. In addition, we need to be appropriately
humble with our conclusions given our cultural and historical distance. At the
same time, we should be adventurous enough to articulate measured statements
about which scenarios are more likely to be on the right path.
Admitting Our Limitations Regarding the Realia of Cult

A significant percentage of the present volume has to do with the deity Yahweh
and various representations of Yahwistic cult. Readers then may be concerned
to read the conclusion of one of the most respected historians of religion in our
field. Mark Smith (2001b: 146) soberly remarks that it may very well be that “the
original profile of Yahweh may be permanently lost.” When combined with the
mere 5 percent of the data that we have to work with for reconstructing cultic
practice (the Propp Principle), we could begin to wonder whether there is just
too much uncertainty to the endeavor.
As we hope to show in the pages that follow, measured judgments can be
made. Some archaeological, epigraphic, and linguistic data can situate our bib
lical source material within more confined parameters. Ancient Near Eastern
comparanda can underscore the undeniable cultural continuum within which
ancient Israel’s religious culture is perfectly at home.
Yet readers will also see admissions that sometimes all we have is the literary
portrayal of cult (what could be called “biblical religion”), with the realia of
cultic practice being irrecoverable. This was noted already regarding our ina
bility to probe deeper into the realia behind the prohibition regarding “boiling
a goat in its mother’s milk.” This was due in part to its minimal treatment (a few
verses). In contrast, we could examine the extremely well attested data we have
for Passover (pesaḥ) and unleavened bread (maṣṣôt) traditions. These include
(1) narrative texts from various sources (Exod 12:1–20 [P]‌; Exod 12:21–27 [tra
ditionally J]; Exod 12:43–50 [P]; Exod 13:3–10 [traditionally E]; Josh 5:10–15;
2 Kgs 23:21–23; Ezra 6:19–22; 2 Chr 30:1–27; 2 Chr 35:1–9); (2) non-narrative
regulations (Exod 23:10–19 [Covenant Code]; Exod 34:18–26 [so-called Ritual

or J Decalogue]; Lev 23:4–8 [H]; Num 9:1–15 [P]; Num 28:16–25 [P]; Deut
16:1–8; Ezek 45:21–25); and even (3) extra-biblical material in the “Passover
Letter” from fifth-century BCE Elephantine (TAD A 4.1; P. Berlin 13464). Even
with such detailed sources and an overwhelming amount of secondary litera
ture, we are still hard pressed when it comes to describing the realia of cultic
practice for the two festivals over time. We are faced with a diverse array of
cultic actors, social contexts, technical vocabulary (ḥag, môʿēd, miqrāʾ qōdeš,
ʿăṣārâ, ʿăbōdâ), cultic offerings, temporal markers, and guiding rationale (so
cial bonding, social regulation, construction of cultural memory, pilgrimage,
regulation of cult, legitimization of a centralized cult place, etc.). Substantive
questions remain murky: How, when, and why did two discrete types of rit
uals (sacrificial/apotropaic versus harvest/rite of riddance) become linked?
Historians of religion must acknowledge that the literary presentation of reli
gion (e.g., incorporating pesaḥ into the narrative about the plague of the first
born) is mostly what we are able to describe, not a diachronic analysis of the
realia of ritual practice.
The Nature of Our Source Material, Part II: Material Culture
Archaeology uses the physical remains (material culture) of the past to recon
struct how humans interacted with their physical world, from human subsist
ence and social organization to economic realities and cultural experiences—all
of which intersected with religion. Today’s discipline is a highly interdiscipli
nary enterprise combining the social sciences (especially anthropology) and the
humanities (especially history), with the natural sciences playing a key role in
the study of skeletal remains (human and animal), biodiversity, artifacts, archi
tecture, and physical environments. Landscape archaeology is particularly adept
at using newer technologies (GIS applications) to reconstruct ancient societies
(e.g., water pathways, human settlement patterns, travel networks).
For protohistoric and historic periods (in contrast to the prehistoric),
scholars integrate archaeological data with textual materials. As widely acknowl
edged, the field is marked by an unevenness, with archaeologists having less
(sometimes little) training in ancient languages and textual scholars having less
(sometimes little) training in archaeology. As each discipline has become more
sophisticated and more specialized, the gulf has grown wider. As I have explored
elsewhere with respect to reconstructing mortuary activities and afterlife beliefs
(Lewis 2002), each discipline has inherent strengths and weaknesses. Our best
historical reconstructions emerge from both disciplines working critically and
independently, yet informing each other when integrated.
Methodology 69
In recent years archaeology and cultural anthropology have contributed to

theoretical constructions of identity formation, gender, and ethnicity as well as
cognitive issues of beliefs and ideologies. The cognitive issues are particularly
relevant for the study of religion, yet the hurdles are many. As my archaeologist
colleague Glenn Schwartz has quipped, “It is easier to learn from ancient phys
ical evidence about what people ate than what they thought.”28
The limited nature of the present work will not use archaeology to address
the varied forms of sacred architecture, as they have been well covered by Zevit’s
(2001) magisterial treatment.29 Yet when it is appropriate additional discussion
will be added either where such treatment is lacking (e.g., the fascinating Ayn
Dara Temple) or in light of more recent research (e.g., assessing the religious na
ture of the important site of Kuntillet ʿAjrud now that the final report has been
published). With the focus of the present work on divinity, we will address three
primary ways in which archaeology has entered the debate, all having to do with
divine representation. These include discussing anthropomorphic and therio
morphic artifacts as well as “standing stones” (masseboth, sing. massebah) that
represent a type of “material aniconism.” (See Chapters Five and Seven.) In those
chapters we will also provide methodological comments about the misuse of ma
terial culture, the nature of our limited dataset, and the criteria for determining
whether a specific artifact can be categorized as divine.
The Nature of Our Source Material, Part III: The Ancient

Near Eastern Context and Comparanda
Now and then a scholar turns a phrase in a memorable way. At a lecture in the
early 1980s I heard Peter Machinist quip that a phrase such as “the Bible and the
ancient Near East” assumes that the former was not a part of the latter. This short,
incisive remark called for comparativists to ponder how our terminology can re
veal subconscious understandings. Scholars who have used the phrase “the Bible
and the ancient Near East” (rather than “the Bible in the ancient Near East”)
are typically biblicists who actively promote studying the Hebrew Bible within
its ancient Near Eastern cultural contexts. Yet the phrase has also been found
within the broader humanities ever since the discoveries of the Rosetta Stone,
the Gilgamesh Epic, Enuma Elish, and the Ugaritic texts (cf. Chapter Two) forced
humanists to realize that the core text of Western civilization had antecedents.
As Machinist observes, underlying such a phrase is a failure to embrace
fully the reality that the Hebrew Bible is an ancient Near Eastern production.
Ancient Israel and ancient Judah are fully Near Eastern cultures, and their lit
erary productions are fully Near Eastern. That the Hebrew Bible has lived on
as a scriptural text to the present (and been domesticated by modern people
to address their situations) does not erase its essence as a product of the an
cient Near East. For all its sociological and theological uses in later Judaism
and Christianity (and Islam as well), the Hebrew Bible is at its core an ancient
Near Eastern text that emerged out of an ancient Near Eastern world. It is thus
essential for all interpreters (historian, rabbi, minister, imam, philosopher,
English professor, lay teacher, general humanist) to situate the Hebrew Bible
firmly within its West Asian historical and cultural context. It would seem
that such an obvious hermeneutic would need no defense. Yet a glance at the
way in which the Hebrew Bible is taught within religious institutions and sec
ular universities reveals how little this hermeneutic is embraced. For various
reasons, even religious institutions require less and less Hebrew and Aramaic
of their students, not to mention facility with the other languages of the ancient
Near East (e.g., Akkadian, Egyptian, Phoenician, Sumerian, Ugaritic) and their
many dialects. It is understandable how our culture requires that the Hebrew
Bible be studied with post-historical-critical approaches (especially the im
portant fields of feminist and post-colonial interpretation). Yet the growth of
these disciplines need not come at the expense of studying the emergence of
the Hebrew Bible as an ancient Near Eastern production. Indeed, contextu
alizing the Hebrew Bible in its world can provide important correctives to its
misuse in reception history and safeguards against its misapplication for our
modern context.
The present work is not exhaustive, yet it is intentional about looking at features
of ancient Israelite religion through an ancient Near Eastern lens. Obviously,
there is the dilemma of how much comparanda to include. The amount of rel
evant ancient Near Eastern material is staggering, as one can see from perusing
the contents of the four volumes of The Context of Scripture (edited by Younger
and Hallo), the numerous titles in the Writings from the Ancient World series
(published by SBL Press), and similar collections (e.g., ANET, LAPO, TUAT,
Dalley 2008, J. Foster 2001, B. Foster 2005, LAS, Chavalas 2007, Hays 2014,
Walton 2018), including electronic databases (e.g., CDLI, CCP, ETCSL, Oracc).30
I hope to have struck the right balance, with some readers wishing I had included
more and others wishing I had included less.
What distinguishes modern comparative analysis from earlier attempts as
discussed in Chapter Two? Today’s comparativists shun the “parallelomania”
of old, where—according to Samuel Sandmel (1962: 1), who coined the term in
his SBL Presidential Address—a scholar extravagantly “overdoes the supposed
similarity in passages and then proceeds to describe source and derivation as
if implying literary connections flowing in an inevitable or predetermined di
rection.” Instead today’s scholars are much more prone to follow Shemaryahu
Talmon’s (1978b) acclaimed essay on comparative method. Where past scholars
went in search of similarities (parallelomania) and homogenizing cultures (e.g.,
Methodology 71
Ugarit and Israel), Talmon (1978b: 345) urges that “our concern should be with
difference as much as with likenesses.”
Yet in avoiding homogenizing “parallelomania,” one should not slip into a
naive contrastive approach using categorical language, as we saw with Kaufmann
in Chapter Two. Today’s comparativists, for the most part, work as cultural
historians rather than as apologists arguing for the uniqueness of a given “pure”
trait. Machinist (1991: 197) has written insightfully on the question of distinc
tiveness in ancient Israel:
There has been a determined search for clear concepts and behaviors which
would neatly separate Israel from the cultures being compared with it. . . . The
goal here has been a kind of “trait list” . . . in which “x” could be marked as
present in Israel but absent elsewhere in the ancient Near East, or vice-versa.
But establishing such traits is an elusive business . . . Indeed, as the increasing
volume of archaeological discoveries makes clear, some correspondence always
seems to be waiting to be found somewhere in the ancient Near East . . . for what
is proposed to be a distinctive concept or behavior in ancient Israel.
Instead, argues Machinist (1991: 200), the modern historian needs to study the
configurations of traits and ideas to understand the distinctiveness of ancient
Israel—or, for that matter, any culture. This is not to say that the Hebrew Bible
itself is not apologetic, for it does indeed contain assertions of distinctiveness,
beginning with its earliest literature (Exod 15:11 proclaims: “Who is like you
O Yahweh?”). Yet such passages need to be studied for their internal rhetoric.
Machinist (1991: 202, 210–212) is certainly correct to situate these in the context
of identity formation. As we will explore in Chapter Six, Israel’s preference for
the supremacy of Yahweh aligns with how surrounding cultures used divinity
in their own identity formation (e.g., Tyre’s selection of Melqart and Baal/Baal-
Shamem, Sidon’s recognition of Eshmun as their chief god, Moab’s elevation of
the god Chemosh, the Edomite choice of Qos, and the Ammonite adoption of
Milcom).
Today’s comparativists recognize the failures of past approaches that drew
simplistic comparisons of similarities between Israel and another culture without
factoring in differences in literary genres and historical settings. Again, see
Talmon’s (1978: 351–356) remarks on Gattungen and Sitz im Leben. Historians
of religion are now quite wary of drawing any direct comparisons between
cultures unless one can defend the mechanisms of cultural transmission with
attention to scribal culture and sociolinguistics.31 Instead, today’s comparativists
underscore the broad cultural continuum of ancient Near Eastern societies in
every period starting with the Middle Bronze Age. For our purposes, Chapter
Six (pp. 256–269) will unpack the Canaanite and Aramean cultural continuum,
especially from the Late Bronze Age through the Iron Age and from the northern
Levant to Egypt. Today’s comparativists rarely argue for one-to-one comparisons
between cultures and, due to the past errors of grand theorists, they refrain
from describing a meta-narrative in which every ancient Near Eastern culture
adopted a singular story. Instead, they advocate the shared cultural continuum
painted with broad strokes while respecting how each society wove its stories in
culturally specific ways.
Conclusion
With respect for the disciplines needed to carry out the present endeavor (see
pp. 48–49), and acknowledging the present author’s limitations, we begin our
study with an examination of El, the deity who appears in the name of the epony
mous ancestor Israel. The limitations of our data and methodological challenges
will be addressed in due order, yet hopefully readers will gain an appreciation for
this exciting aspect of ancient Israel’s religious experience.
4
El Worship
Conceptualizing divinity is difficult, even for those of us with ample exposure to a

particular theistic tradition. Occasionally we are successful in understanding how
contemporaries outside our frame of reference conceptualize the divine, but only
through substantial exposure and dialogue. How then are we to understand the
religious mindset of people (both individual persons and collective groups) living
in the ancient Near East in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages, from whom we stand at
so great a distance?1 All that we can hope for is a general impression derived from
the words and objects they have left behind. In ancient Israelite religion divinity
was dressed in predominantly male language, and thus we begin with this here.2
The Deity El
The logical place to begin looking at ancient Israelite divinity is with El, the deity
whose name is found in the designation of the eponymous ancestor “Israel.” This
variant name for the patriarch Jacob is usually taken to mean “El reigns supreme”
or “El contends.”3 It is often argued that the absence of Yahweh in this name,
together with the name of the Shechemite deity “El, the god of (the patriarch)
Israel” (Gen 33:20) and the absence of Yahweh (and Baal) in anthroponyms and
toponyms in early literature, indicates the antiquity of El worship over Yahweh
worship. This too makes a discussion of the deity El a proper launch point for
examining Israelite divinity.
How did West Semites of the Iron Age conceptualize the deity El in word and
object? What traditions did they inherit about this deity from their Late Bronze
Age predecessors? What functional role did they ascribe to El in their various
societal structures? Immediately we run into ambiguity in text and artifact. The
etymology of the common Semitic (apart from Ethiopian) word ilu/ʾel is beyond
our grasp.4 It was used both as a generic appellative (“god”) and as a proper name
(“El”), but often our texts are anything but clear about which usage is being em
ployed.5 The iconography of male figures in bronze and stone is equally vague
due to the lack of accompanying inscriptions that could ascertain identity. As
for inherited traditions, we run up against the problems of comparative method
ology articulated in Chapter Three. It would be foolish to assert that conceptions
of a deity are homogenous transhistorically and transculturally, yet a brief sketch
of the deity El in contiguous cultures can be instructive for painting a broad reli
gious picture against which one can situate Israelite El worship.
What did the divine name El connote in Canaan and its environs in the Late
Bronze Age? How did such connotations live on, and how were they transformed
in the Iron Age to influence an Israelite cult that came to be dominated by the
worship of the deity Yahweh? F. M. Cross, following Ignace Gelb, J. J. M. Roberts,
and Herbert Huffmon, argues that El had a long Semitic pedigree dating back to
the Pre-Sargonic period and was especially popular during the Amorite period
of the eighteenth century BCE.6 Yet in many cases the use of ilu/ilum (and the
logogram DINGIR) reflects the ambiguity mentioned earlier. Thus we cannot al
ways determine whether names such as Ilum-bānī mean “the god is my creator”
or “El is my creator.”7
El in the Late Bronze Age Levant
Broadly speaking, the word ilu is used in East Semitic (Mesopotamian) culture
more as an appellative for deity and as a designation of spirits good and evil
than as the proper name of a deity.8 In any event, the Late Bronze West Semitic
material is more relevant for painting the backdrop that we desire. Here we are
blessed with a substantial corpus of material that comes from the land of Canaan
itself: the Amarna letters, a collection of 382 tablets from the fourteenth century
BCE. These letters represent diplomatic and administrative correspondence be
tween local rulers in Canaan and Egyptian pharaohs, primarily Amenophis III
and Akhenaten (see Moran 1992; Rainey 2015). Even though the Amarna tablets
are written in (peripheral) Akkadian, the language of diplomacy at the time, they
reflect a distinct Northwest Semitic morphology and syntax (and occasionally
vocabulary), which is attributed to their native Canaanite setting.
If we were able to step back into Canaan in the Amarna period, we would find,
in the words of William L. Moran, “largely a provincial and, in many respects,
a very heterogeneous culture, the product of a long, complex history, of which
we know but a very small part” (1992: xviii). The same would seem to apply for
their religious culture if it is valid to put any stock in the theophoric elements
in personal names found in the Amarna correspondence. (See Chapter Three,
pp. 56–60, on the methodology of using onomastica.) Richard Hess’s (1989;
1993: 233–242) catalogue of divine names shows a pluralistic religious environ
ment, including Egyptian (Amon, Api, Horus, Hu, Ḫaʿpi, Jah, Ptah, Rēʿ, Seth),
Mesopotamian (Anu, Aššur, Baštu, Ninurta), Kassite (Ḫarbe, Šugab), Hurrian
(Ḫebat, Iršapppa, Teššub), and Indo-Aryan (Índraḥ, Rta, Yamáḥ) deities along
side general Semitic ([H]‌addu, Dagan, ʿAmmu) and West Semitic deities (ʿAnat,
ʾAsherah, ʿAštart, Baʿlu, Beltu, El, Milku/Malik, Ṣaduq, Yamm).
El Worship 75
There is no indication of any superiority of the deity El from this catalogue

of names. The ruler of Ḫasi may assert through his name Ildayyi (“El is my suf
ficiency”)9 that El meets his every need (EA 175: 3), to which a Tyrian mes
senger named Ilumilku could add that “El is king” (EA 151: 45).10 Ben-Elima
(EA 256: 15), if he could convince his contemporaries to believe in enclitic mems
as much as some modern Hebraists do, might even claim that he was “the Son
of El” like a famous Syrian king named Kirta. But the majority of those living in
Canaan at this time would beg to differ, as they looked to deities other than El for
personal protection and blessings such as the birth and well-being of children.11
To be fair, we should not weigh the Amarna letters very heavily. They are
straightforward correspondence of a fairly stereotypical nature. While they may
be full of international tension, political intrigue, and administrative detail, they
have precious little comment on religion in general and meager data on the na
ture of the deities reflected in the personal names. Once again, we see that it is
hard to reconstruct religion solely from onomastica. At least the plethora of
different divine elements should give us pause about being too narrow in our
reconstructions.
Clearly, the Amarna letters do nothing to assert the preeminence of El in
Late Bronze Canaan, and there is little hint that he gains any prestige in the
Ramesside period that follows, where the elite of society are engaged in emu
lating high Egyptian culture (Higginbotham 1996; cf. Tazawa 2009). What is
truly fascinating and intriguing from this time period, especially for deter
mining the deity associated with the eponymous ancestor Israel, is the occur
rence of the name Jacob-el (“May El protect”) in toponym lists of Thutmose III,
Ramses II, and Ramses III.12 Gösta Ahlström (1993: 230 n. 8) answers Thomas
L. Thompson’s (1974: 49 n. 229) charge that we “are dealing with place names
and not tribal names” by reminding us that “in the Semitic world, geograph
ical names and names of people could often be the same, for instance, Ephraim,
Assur.” Nonetheless, these occurrences are far too meager to glean much about
the worship of El in the Bronze Age, not to mention their use for reconstructing
patriarchal religion.
Where then can we turn if texts from Canaan itself fall short in describing
the deity El in West Semitic religion of the Late Bronze Age? Some scholars have
emphasized the Semitic worship at Serabit el-Khadim as reconstructed from
the Proto-Sinaitic inscriptions. These texts are notoriously difficult to decipher.
Though putative epithets derived from these texts (d tb, “the Merciful One”; ʾEl
dū ʾōlam, “the Eternal One”) have played a large role in previous reconstructions
of the deity El (Albright 1966a: 24; Cross 1962a; 1973: 18–20), they are now so
much in question that they must be set aside.13 In any event, the Canaanite pan
theon at Serabit el-Khadim (Baʿlat, El, Lady of the Serpent(s), Resheph(?), and
ʿAnat) is so syncretized with Egyptian deities (Baʿlat = Hathor, El = Ptah) that it
is difficult to distinguish Canaanite from Egyptian elements (cf. Tazawa 2009).

In short, Meindert Dijkstra’s (1997: 92) conclusion that “the character of El at
Serabit is not at all clear” is apt and prevents us from going any farther with this
material.
ʾIlu (= El) at Ugarit
Leaving the Egyptian sphere of influence and looking north to the Syrian
coast, we come to the Late Bronze Age kingdom of Ugarit, a West Semitic cul
ture that shares close religious affinities with ancient Israel and which has the
fullest representation of the deity ʾIlu (= El) both in word and object of any an
cient Near Eastern society.14 Our intent at reviewing this material is to sketch
the West Semitic backdrop, not to equate Ugaritic religion with early Israelite
religion.15
The deity ʾIlu occurs at Ugarit in a wide array of literary genres (mythological
texts, epics, deity lists, ritual texts, etc.), and his role of the head of the pantheon
was sketched early in Ugaritic research (see Eissfeldt 1951; Pope 1955). Ritual
texts refer to a “temple of ʾIlu” (bt ʾil, e.g., KTU 1.119.14; cf. too qdš ʾil in 1.119.6),
and it may be that the acropolis temple usually designated “the temple of Dagan”
(based on the nearby discovery of the Dagan stela; cf. KTU 6.13, 6.14) was in
reality ʾIlu’s. ʾIlu invites both gods and shades to his “house”//“palace” (bt//hkl)
for banquets (KTU 1.20–22; 1.114). In other texts his abode is watery, being situ
ated “at the sources of the two rivers, at the confluence of the double-deep” (mbk
nhrm bʿdt thmtm, KTU 1.100.3) or “the channels/fountains of the double-deep”
(ʾapq thmtm, KTU 4.4.20–24, etc.).16
ʾIlu’s epithets describe him as “father” (ʾab) to both gods (cf. ʾab bn ʾil, KTU
1.40) and humans (ʾab ʾadm), and in discourse both groups frequently refer to
“Bull ʾIlu” (a sign of power and virility) as their father. Family metaphors (bn il,
dr il, dr bn il) are used to describe deities and humans as his children.17 ʾIlu is des
ignated “the father of years” (ʾab šnm), which seems to be a positive description
of his eternity and seniority rather than a stage of advanced old age.18 Similarly,
the description of his gray hair and beard should be understood positively, as
the gray is associated with ʾIlu’s wisdom (KTU 1.4.5.3–4; though compare the
reference to it in the context of ʿAnatu’s threats against ʾIlu [KTU 1.3.5.24–25;
1.18.1.11–12]).
Along with being the father of gods and humans, ʾIlu also plays the role of cre
ator, though this conclusion is drawn more from inference rather than from ex
plicit references.19 Marvin Pope concluded that “it is altogether probable that El
was a Creator God, but the Ugaritic evidence is by no means explicit. [Virtually]
all the Ugaritic allusions to El’s creativity are in terms of generation and pater
nity.”20 To date we have found no Ugaritic myth celebrating ʾIlu’s creation of the
El Worship 77
world. One text (KTU 1.16.5.25–41) does mention how ʾIlu magically creates an
exorcist named Shaʿtiqatu by “pinching off clay” (rt + yqrṣ), an expression used
elsewhere of Enki’s and Yahweh’s creation of humanity.21 The one explicit text
preserved regarding ʾIlu’s “creative” powers is KTU 1.23, where he engenders the
deities Dawn and Dusk (šḥr wšlm) in very human fashion:22
ʾIlu’s “hand”* grows long as the sea, [* a euphemism for phallus]

ʾIlu’s “hand” as the ocean.
ʾIlu’s “hand” is long as the sea,

ʾIlu’s “hand” as the ocean.
ʾIlu takes a pair of brands,* [* representing two goddesses]

Twin brands from atop the firestand.
He takes them into his house.
ʾIlu lowers his scepter,

ʾIlu is generous with the “staff ” in his hand . . .23
Lo! the maiden pair cries out:
“O husband! husband!
Lowered is your scepter,
Generous the ‘staff ’ in your hand.
Look! a bird roasted on the fire,

Basted and browned on the coals.”
The pair became his wives,

Wives of ʾIlu, his wives forever.
He bows down to kiss their lips,

Ah! their lips are sweet,
Sweet as succulent fruit.
In kissing, conception,
In embracing, pregnant heat.
The two travail and give birth

to the gods Dawn and Dusk.
Some have argued that ʾIlu is a deus otiosus who suffers from impotency.24 Such
a view is difficult to maintain in view of his ribald behavior in this text and else
where (cf. KTU 1.4.4.38–39, where ʾIlu brazenly brags: “Does the yd [a play on
words meaning both “hand” and “love”] of ʾIlu the King excite you, the love of
the Bull arouse you”). ʾIlu is repeatedly portrayed in KTU 1.23 as an amorous
kisser who successfully impregnates two females.25 Nowhere else in Ugaritic
myth does the creator of the gods have any problems with impotency. Consider,
for example, ʾIlu’s epithet tr, “the bull” (KTU 1.1.4.12; 1.2.1.16; 1.3.4.54;
1.3.5.10, 35; 1.4.1.4, 1.4.2.10, 1.4.4.47, etc.), connoting virility, strength, and
dignity—a fitting title for the head of the pantheon in a society well acquainted
with herds (see Curtis 1990: 31).26 As already noted by Wesley Toews (1993: 55–
56), ʾIlu’s “bull” epithet “has a close association with the concept of El as pro
genitor.” A bronze bull may even have functioned as ʾIlu’s divine symbol (see
Chapter Five).
ʾIlu is known for his wisdom; an astute person in the Kirta Epic can be referred
to as “being wise like ʾIlu” (KTU 1.16.4.1–2). Elsewhere, the goddess ʾAthiratu
proclaims:
Your decree is wise, O ʾIlu,

Your wisdom is eternal,
A fortunate life is your decree . . .
You are great, ʾIlu, you are so wise,

Your gray beard instructs you. (KTU 1.4.4.41–43; 1.4.5.3–4)
ʿAnatu uses the same speech in KTU 1.3.5.30–31, perhaps less than sincerely,
and both her words and ʾAthiratu’s (which take place in the context of trying
to secure a house for Baʿlu) could be sheer flattery for purposes of manipula
tion. Rhetorically speaking, some tradition of ʾIlu’s wisdom (consider the for
mulaic pattern in both texts) must stand behind such usage for the words to have
their desired effect—whatever may be the intent of the goddesses. The Ugaritic
behind the translation “a fortunate life” is ḥyt ḥẓt, which designates ʾIlu’s gov
erning of one’s fate (if Arabic cognates for ḥẓt are preferred) or a connection with
divination (if ḥẓt is to be connected to Northwest Semitic cognates designating
“arrows” and hence belomancy; cf. Smith and Pitard 2009: 353).27 There is some
indication that ʾIlu was associated with the divinatory arts. In the story about
ʾIlu healing the mortally ill King Kirta, ʾIlu uses magic and clay to create an apo
tropaic figure known as Shaʿtiqatu (ʾank ʾiḥtrš w ʾaškn; KTU 1.16.5.25–28).28 We
may even have a reference to “the house of ʾIlu” as “the house of magic/the magi
cian” (bt ḥrš; KTU 1.12.2.60–61).
El Worship 79
Even more prominent is ʾIlu’s beneficence, which can be seen in his frequently
used title lṭpn ʾil d pʾid, “the Gracious One, the Benevolent God.”29 Another of his
titles associates his beneficence with his holiness (lṭpn wqdš, “the Gracious and
Holy One”).30 Thus we find ʾIlu beseeched by gods and humans looking for his
blessings, especially the granting of children. In response to a request from Baʿlu,
ʾIlu blesses Daniʾilu with a son in the tale of ʾAqhatu (KTU 1.17.1.24ff). In the Kirta
Epic, ʾIlu blesses King Kirta with a wife and children (revealed through a dream
and also in conjunction with a request from Baʿlu; KTU 1.14.1.26ff; 1.15.2.12ff);
one of those children, Yassibu, later stages a revolution against his father. The
same story also tells of ʾIlu’s beneficence in healing an ailing Kirta by magically
creating an exorcist who expels the disease (KTU 1.16.5.10ff).31 ʾIlu’s beneficence
is familial, yet the emphasis on securing Kirta’s royal office underscores (at least
for Ilimilku, the scribe of this text) ʾIlu’s divine parentage of the king. According
to Simon Parker (1977: 173–174), the Kirta Epic demonstrates “the virtues of El
as the incomparable savior,” for it is ʾIlu alone who delivers Kirta from his various
dilemmas, not the gods in general. Thus “the poem in effect makes El the one and
only reliable object of faith.” “El is the unrivalled master of specifically royal af
fairs, but by extension of human affairs in general.”
Some Ugaritians celebrated ʾIlu’s benevolent provision of something that, ac
cording to Judges 9:13, cheers the hearts of gods and people: wine. A social insti
tution reputed for its drinking, known as the marzeaḥ, is attested throughout the
ancient Near East (including the Bible).32 At Ugarit it is particularly associated
with ʾIlu, who invites the gods (and even the shades of the dead in KTU 1.20–22)
to his banquets and presides over vintage rites (cf. KTU 1.41; 1.39; 1.23).33 At one
of these banquets (KTU 1.114), ʾIlu, the patron of drinking, drinks to excess, the
results of which are described in very human language:
ʾIlu slaughters game in his house,

Butchers beasts in his palace,
Bids gods to the cuts of beef.
The gods eat and drink,

Drink wine till sated,
Vintage till inebriated . . .
ʾIlu sits . . .
ʾIlu settles into his bacchanal [mrzḥ]
ʾIlu drinks wine till sated,

Vintage till inebriated.
ʾIlu staggers to his house,

Stumbles in to his court.
Thukamuna and Shunama carry him,34

Habayu then berates him,
He of two horns and a tail.
He slips in his dung and urine,

ʾIlu collapses like one dead
ʾIlu like those who descend to Earth.35
The text ends with two goddesses presenting what seems to be a cure for individ
uals (ʾIlu included) suffering from hangovers. In many ways, then, ʾIlu is all too
human in his frailties. Some scholars even question whether ʾIlu was deprived
of his authority as head of the pantheon as a result of a conflict with Baʿlu (e.g.,
Kapelrud, Oldenburg). There is nothing explicit in the Ugaritic texts to support
such a notion (Mullen 1980: 92–109), and according to David Schloen, the tension
in these texts may have to do more with sibling rivalry (between Baʿlu and both
Yammu and Môtu) than with a rebellion to overthrow ʾIlu.36 The deity lists found
at Ugarit (KTU 1.47, 1.102, 1.118, 1.148; cf. RS 20.024)37 are not all uniform in their
presentation (a fact further complicated by what may be hierarchical listings of dei
ties elsewhere in a variety of formats).38 Nonetheless, the prominent position of
ʾIlu in these lists is “fairly stable” (cf. de Moor 1970: 219). See too KTU 1.65, which
describes the “family of ʾIlu” as well as attributes of ʾIlu’s grace and constancy.39
Another text, reflecting the fusion of Hurrian elements in Ugaritic society (KTU
1.28), praises ʾIlu as an exalted high god (Dijkstra 1993). Note too in this vein the
common epithet of “king” (mlk, mlk ab šnm, mlk dyknnh) applied to ʾIlu in the
mythological texts and his royal portrayal in KTU 1.23 (cf. Lewis forthcoming a).40
It is perplexing to see scholars who, despite evidence to the contrary, say that the
“title [‘king’] is not applied to El in the Ugaritic inscriptions but to Baal.”41 Rather
than seeing Baal’s kingship as replacing ʾIlu’s, most scholars assert that the two
kingships work in tandem but on different levels. Mark Smith summarizes well:
Both El and Baal are called “king” (mlk)42 though in complementary ways: El
remains the executive order of the universe and Baal is the sustainer of the
cosmos. El is not deposed in an active struggle with Baal; nor is El degraded
or demoted by Baal. El retains his dignity in a way comparable to Ea in Enuma
Elish. . . . El and Baal differ more in function than in realm.43
This is not to say that ʾIlu is omnipotent, though some have suggested his role
as a divine warrior (cf. KTU 1.6.6.27–29).44 He does show signs of weakness,
El Worship 81
and any reflex of a warrior tradition is minimized in light of the battle prowess
of ʿAnatu and Baʿlu. In addition, cultic prayers, such as the one embedded in the
ritual text KTU 1.119, show us that when faced with a crisis many Ugaritians
looked to Baʿlu for military help. In the ritual section of this text, which precedes
a description of the city under siege, offerings are presented to Baʿlu-Ugarit, that
is, Baʿlu who was seen to be the protective deity of the city. Despite the royal
theology of the Kirta Epic, where ʾIlu is the patron of kings (cf. too KTU 1.23),
it seems that Baʿlu was more prominent as the dynastic god, to judge from the
use of (h)addu as the only divine element occurring in royal names (Smith
1994b: 90).
The Hittite Elkunirsha Myth
Before leaving the Late Bronze Age, one should mention traces of the Semitic
deity El in the Hittite myth of Elkunirsha and Ashertu, preserved only in
fragments from approximately the thirteenth century BCE.45 While native
Hittite myths are found imbedded in ritual texts, many Hittite myths are of for
eign (primarily Mesopotamian) origin. From the basic outline and divine per
sona of the Elkunirsha myth, scholars typically conclude that Hatti also imported
this “Canaanite” tale from the northern Syrian coast even though the detailed
storyline is not preserved in any extant Ugaritic text. In contrast, Itamar Singer
(2007: 637; cf. Dijkstra 2013: 83) refers to this imported myth as “West Semitic/
Amorite” (without christening it as “Canaanite”), arguing for its origin “from
inner Syria and beyond” due to its mention of “the abode of Elkunirsha [being
located] at the source of the Euphrates.”
Elkunirsha, the husband of the goddess Ashertu, is described as living in a tent
(from which Röllig [1999a: 280] infers a nomadic cultural setting). The name
Elkunirsha is evidently the Hittite translator’s rendering of “El, the Creator of
Earth” (ʾl qn ʾarṣ),46 an epithet known elsewhere: (1) in the eighth-century BCE
Phoenician-Luwian inscription from Karatepe (KAI 26A III: 18); (2) in a par
tially restored eighth-/seventh-century BCE Jerusalem inscription ([ʾl] qn ʾrṣ);47
(3) in late Aramaic texts from Palmyra (cf. too bʿ[l]‌šmwn qnh dy rʿh from Hatra;
KAI 244:3); and (4) in a Neo-Punic text from Leptis Magna (Miller 1980). A re
flex is also to be found in Genesis 14:19, 22, which mentions “El Elyon, Creator of
Heaven and Earth” (ʾēl ʿelyôn qōnēh šāmayim wāʾāreṣ).48 If qnh refers to creation,
as seems almost certain despite dissenting voices, then reference to El here as
“creator” (qn) nicely pairs with Ugarit’s ʾAthiratu, who bears the epithet qnyt ilm,
“creatress of the gods.”49
In 2013 Dijkstra published a fragmentary Hittite prayer to Elkunirsha that is
even more tantalizing. What we have preserved of the text refers to a libation
ritual petitioning the deity as “Lord of the Dream/Sleep, Son of the Dark Earth
[i.e., the netherworld], husband [or brother?] of the Sun Goddess of the Earth
[i.e., the netherworld], Deliverer.” In addition, Elkunirsha is referred to as “Lord
of the Dream, evil dreams, evil shortened years, shortened months, shortened
days” (see Dijkstra 2013: 79–80). It seems clear here that the deity Elkunirsha
was perceived to be able to counter ominous dreams (born of the netherworld?)
that afflicted the sufferer. At Ugarit we read of the deity ʾIlu appearing to King
Kirta in a dream (even providing him with ritual instructions) in order to se
cure a wife and an heir (KTU 1.14.1.35–1.14.3.51). In the Baal Cycle, ʾIlu himself
has a dream (yes, even the gods dream!) that portends the return of Baal from
the netherworld (KTU 1.6.3.1–21). All these data are fragmentary, yet there is a
clear indication that in the Late Bronze Age supplicants of the Northern Levant
looked to an El figure (Hittite Elkunirsha; Ugaritic ʾIlu) to address their worries,
from familial concerns to chthonic perils. Comparatively, Dijkstra (2013: 86–87)
concludes that such broadly attested notions of an El figure as “the Lord of Sleep
and Dreams” exhibit a deeply rooted tradition that lies behind the notion of
“Yhwh as the El who neither slumbers nor sleeps and is able to deliver the wor
shipper from all perils of the night.” To assess such a claim, one must determine
the vibrancy of El worship in the Iron Age.
El in the Iron Age
Some scholars assert that the deity El virtually disappears as one approaches the
Iron Age except for Israel, where El loses his independent nature as he is conflated
with Yahweh. Such reconstructions are based in part on misunderstandings of
the Ugaritic texts that assume (1) that there was a major conflict between ʾIlu
and Baʿlu (Oldenburg 1969) and (2) that ʾIlu/El was a deus otiosus. Karel van der
Toorn (1992a: 87) says as much when he writes the following: “El is a common
Northwest Semitic god to whom the devotion is largely rhetoric in the first mil
lennium B.C.E. Having turned into a deus otiosus, his place was gradually taken
by Baal-shamem or Baal-shamayin.” Once scholars assume that El has lost his
status, they argue that the Ugaritic evidence is irrelevant for understanding the
nature of El in the Syro-Cannanite religions of the Iron Age (see Rendtorff 1966;
1993a; 1994; Niehr 1990: 3–6, 7–22; 1996: 46). As noted earlier, ʾIlu was not
dethroned or castrated by Baʿlu at Ugarit nor was he thought to be impotent.
Even though the Northwest Semitic inscriptional material we have at our dis
posal does not constitute a large corpus, it nonetheless underscores El’s presence
in the Iron Age and cautions against reducing El worship to mere rhetoric.50 El
is regularly positioned in the second slot (after Hadad) in the eighth-century
BCE Sam’alian (Aramaic) pantheon (cf. KAI 214.2–3, 11, 18–19; KAI 215.22).
El Worship 83
In another eighth-century BCE Old Aramaic text, El (paired with Elyan) is one
of the gods invoked to witness a treaty (discussed later). According to Edward
Lipiński (2000: 614), “The name ʾIl is the commonest theophorous element in
the Aramaic personal names of the first millennium B.C. and it certainly reflects
the importance of the cult of ʾIl among the early Arameans.”51 Walter Aufrecht
(1999) argues that El, and not Milcom, was the chief deity of the Ammonites.52
Rainer Albertz and Rüdiger Schmitt (2012: 341) write that “all selected Levantine
onomasticons show a considerable portion of El-names.”53 Concurring with
the conclusions of Ingo Kottsieper’s analysis (1997: 25–50), they note how “El
still played a significant role in the Levant of the 1st millennium. . . . El was still
regarded as a high god, but his activity was seen to be particularly focused on the
protection of individuals, whereas Hadad, Baal, and other deities gained more
prominence in political realms.” Albertz and Schmitt (2012: 354–355) go on to
suggest that “the Hebrew Bible presents a similar picture” (with El being tied es
pecially to family religion and Yahweh to the political sphere), and our analysis
will largely bear this out.54 Such analyses would also be buttressed by the study of
Ryan Thomas (2019) if he is correct that in the first millennium BCE the god El
is to be equated with the god Gad as the deity responsible for one’s personal good
fortune and fate (cf. the common noun gad).
In short, when placed alongside the El worship attested in the biblical corpus
(not to mention later Phoenician and Old South Arabic material) and the pres
ence of bull iconography in the archaeological record (see Chapter Five), one
concludes along with Alberte Naccache (1996: 255) that “our perception of a
change [in El’s status] might simply be due to the randomness of the available
data, and that the Canaanite/‘Phoenician’ and Aramaic conception of El’s nature
had remained basically the same as that held by the Amorites.” Thus it makes
more sense to side with those scholars who argue for the ongoing cult of El in the
Iron Age.55
El and the God of the Fathers
In the biblical corpus, the origin of El worship is concentrated in the patriarchal

narratives that have occasioned well-worn debates regarding their historicity.
Past scholarship has seen the likes of John Bright (1981: 97), who argued, in the
spirit of his teacher William Foxwell Albright, that “the patriarchal religion as
depicted in Genesis is no anachronism, but represents a historical phenomenon.”
In contrast, Thomas Thompson (1974: 314), in the spirit of Julius Wellhausen,
countered that “the quest for the historical Abraham is . . . fruitless,” and it is
this view that has been widely embraced by historians and archaeologists alike
in the generations that followed, including up to the present. Along with such
historical debates, we find a substantial reassessment of Pentateuchal source crit

icism. Once built upon the sure foundation of the documentary hypothesis, with
subsequent work being variations on its theme, it has for the last few decades
been characterized by considerable instability (cf. Chapter Three).
Nonetheless, modern historians of Israelite religion insist that one can
uncover a “critically assured minimum” (Mettinger 1988: 56) from which to
work. David N. Freedman, in a series of seminal articles56 building on earlier
work with Frank Moore Cross,57 argues that truly archaic poetry (e.g., Exod
15, Ps 29, Judg 5, Num 23–24, Gen 49) can be identified through orthographic,
prosodic, and linguistic analysis.58 Smith (2002a: 54–57) uses such poetry
to show how a variety of Canaanite deities converge in “Israel’s earliest his
tory.”59 More recently, Albertz’s sociological approach asserts that though the
patriarchal traditions suffer from inaccuracies, their historical value remains
an open question. He contends that though “the cultural milieu of Palestine
presupposed by the patriarchal narratives . . . does not go back beyond the
conditions of Iron Age I,” the tradition about patriarchal religion “differs mark
edly at a series of points from Yahwistic religion.” Thus he insists that “it is
hardly possible to regard the view of the beginnings of the religion of Israel as
a whole projected in the Pentateuch as a theological fiction of later utopians”
(1994: 24, 28; cf. Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 52–56). Similarly, van der Toorn’s
study concludes that “early Israelite religion consisted of a variety of local
forms of family religion” (1996b: 255; see Ackerman’s [2008a] analysis of Judg
17–18, building on the work of Stager [1985a]). According to van der Toorn
(1996b: 65), this religion provided “the ground from which national religion
eventually sprang” but also had to be reconciled with “a new type of religion,
promoted and patronized by the state, and focusing on Yahweh as the god of
the Israelite nation.”
The point of departure for many historians of religion has been Albrecht Alt’s
study of the “the God of the Fathers,” originally published in 1929. Alt made a
clear distinction between the El deities mentioned in the patriarchal sagas (El
Bethel, El Olam, El Roi, El Elyon, El Shadday)—to which he added El Berit from
Judges 9:4, 46—and the deities referred to as “the god of my/your/their father” or
“the god of Abraham/Isaac/Jacob.” The former, which Alt (1968: 6, 19, 37) called
“the Elim,” represented “a very ancient type of religious practice” involving
minor deities (numina) associated with local Palestinian sanctuaries. The latter,
the theoi patrōoi, were nameless and siteless. In other words, “the god of the fa
ther” did not bear a personal name, but was identified by the name of the person
(the head of the clan or tribe) who first encountered the deity. Thus we come
across “the Shield of Abraham” (Gen 15:1; see Alt 1968: 37–38, 85 n. 179), “the
Fear of Isaac” (Gen 31:42, 53), and “the Mighty One of Jacob” (Gen 49:24). Such
a personal encounter did not occur at a particular site, underscoring for Alt the
El Worship 85
nomadic character of the religion. Only at a later point were these three indi
vidual cults woven into an artificial worship of “the god of the fathers” (cf. Exod
3:13, 15–16; 4:5)—that is, “the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob” (cf. Exod 3:6,
15–16; 4:5). For support, Alt drew upon late Nabatean, Palmyrene, and Greek
inscriptions that attested nomadic peoples who worshipped deities named after
individuals.
It is ironic that the very year that Alt’s treatment appeared was the same year
that the Ugaritic tablets were first discovered, with their rich documentation of El
worship. This material, as well as the proliferation of discoveries from the ancient
Near East such as texts documenting Mesopotamian personal gods, has led to a
major reassessment of Alt’s work. Critics have faulted Alt on many grounds, es
pecially his overall notion of a nomadic ideal and his reliance on late comparative
material (Cross 1973: 3–12; Mettinger 1988: 53–74; Albertz 1994: 28, 250 n. 19).
In contrast to Alt’s schema, personal gods and clan deities from Mesopotamia
were not restricted to nomadic groups, nor were they nameless (indeed, they
could even be high gods) or siteless. The weakest part of Alt’s construction was
his demotion of the deity El to a numen whose only purpose was to legitimize
a local shrine. Rather, Alt’s so-called Elim actually bore the proper name of El,
and all of them (with the lone exception being El Shadday) were associated with
a particular site. What remains of Alt’s insights is the personal character of these
deities, which has been underscored by more recent studies on the familial and
kinship ties of the patriarchal deities.
Who, then, are these biblical El deities, and how should we characterize El
worship in ancient Israel? According to biblical tradition, El deities are asso
ciated with specific locales. The deity associated with the eponymous ancestor
Israel (= Jacob) is localized at Shechem. El Elyon is associated with Salem (Gen
14:18–22), El Roi with Beer-Lahai-Roi (Gen 16:13), El Olam with Beer-Sheba
(Gen 21:33), and El Bethel with Bethel (Gen 31:13; 35:7). El Shadday is the only
El deity without locale, the relevance of which will be addressed later in this
chapter.
Shechemite El/El Berith
The clearest evidence of the worship of an El deity from Israelite tradition is

Genesis 33:20, which mentions the worship of the Shechemite deity called ʾēl
ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl. This name refers to “El, the god of (the patriarch) Israel” rather
than a redundant generic expression: “god, the god of Israel.” Pope (1955: 15)
comments that “mere comparison of the unique formula ʾēl ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl with
the common one YHWH ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl should convince one that ʾēl in this case
is as much a proper name as is YHWH.” Similarly, “I am El, the god of your
father” in Genesis 46:3 is preferable to a redundant alternative. This is corrob

orated by other references to Shechemite religion mentioning the worship of
El Berith in his temple (bêt ʾēl bĕrît; Judg 9:46; cf. 8:33, 9:4). I have argued else
where that the expression baʿal bĕrît in Judges 8:33; 9:4 most likely refers to El’s
epithet as “the lord of the covenant,” who was viewed as the patron of the city
(Lewis 1996a).60 Thus one may plausibly suggest, following Cross (1973: 49),
that there once existed the full epithet “El, the lord of the covenant” (ʾēl baʿal
bĕrît), similar to “El, the god of Israel” (ʾēl ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl) at Shechem. Possible
iconographic representations of Shechemite El include two Late Bronze Age
figurines, yet their identity is far from certain. One is a benign standing bronze
from Tell Balâṭah (see Fig. 7.4), the other an enthroned (but beardless) figurine
with a cup in his right hand that is without provenance yet was said to have
come from Nablus (see Fig. 5.42; Lewis 1996a: 416–422). See too the presence
of standing stones (masseboth) within the (Iron I?) Temple 1 at Shechem that
may also be symbolic of El worship. (See Chapter Five, pp. 172–174, and Stager
1999, 2003.)
El Elyon
The composite title of the deity known as El Elyon (an alternative translation
being “God the Most High”) is used only in Genesis 14:18–22 and Psalm 78:35.
In the former we read of Melchisedek, king of Salem, who was also “priest of El
Elyon.” Melchisedek blesses Abram with the following blessing:
Blessed be Abram to El Elyon [lĕʾēl ʿelyôn]61

Creator of heaven and earth [qōnēh šāmayim wāʾāreṣ],
Blessed be El Elyon [ʾēl ʿelyôn],
Who has delivered [miggēn] your enemies into your hand.
The supremacy of El Elyon is emphasized by attributing to him the title

“the creator of heaven and earth” (qōnēh šāmayim wāʾāreṣ), a variant of which
(ʾl qn ʾrṣ) was well known in the West Semitic environs of the Late Bronze and
Iron Ages (see the earlier discussion of the Elkunirsha myth). Psalm 78:34–35
recounts past divine deeds in the following way (according to the MT):
When he slew them, they sought him;

They repented and sought El [ʾēl] earnestly.
They remembered that God [ʾĕlōhîm] was their rock,

El Elyon [ʾēl ʿelyôn] their redeemer.
El Worship 87
El and Elyon: Two Distinct Deities or One and the Same?
Scholars debate whether El and Elyon are distinct deities or one and the same
with ʿelyôn (“the Most High”) functioning as an epithet of El. And if these
problems were not enough, we also have to wrestle with the identification of
Elyon with Yahweh.
To help sort through these questions, scholars have used extra- biblical
occurrences of the name Elyon to reconstruct the history of El Elyon in the Bible.
Regrettably, this has been done in an uneven fashion without much concern
for epigraphy and comparative methodology. For example, Johannes de Moor
suggests that if his reading of KTU 111.17–18 is correct (he reads ʿly[n]‌ ʾil mlk,
“Elyon, El the King”), “this would be the first confirmation that in Ugarit too El
and Elyon were one and the same divine being” (1979: 652–653; 1980: 185 n. 73a).
Yet this reading is not confirmed by KTU3, which reads .l. il mlk. Nowhere else
at Ugarit do we have reference to the deity El Elyon. In contrast, it is Baʿlu who is
twice called “the Most High” (ʿly), as he provides rain (KTU 1.16.3.4–8).
G. Levi Della Vida (1944), followed in part by Rolf Rendtorff (1967), argues
that El Elyon is not an original title and “corresponds to no actual deity in the
Canaanite pantheon.” Rather, the term is an artificial combination resulting from
“theological speculation.” To prove the independent status of Elyon, they rely
on two extra-biblical sources, Philo of Byblos and one of the Sefire inscriptions,
each of which is problematic upon closer examination. Other scholars have
followed suit, with Philo of Byblos serving as the point of departure. Thus Claus
Westermann (1985: 204) writes that Philo of Byblos is “the closest parallel” to
biblical El Elyon with its mention of “Elioun, called Most High.”
A detailed discussion of Philo of Byblos (ca. 70–160 CE) can be found in
Chapter Six (pp. 255–256). We agree with those scholars who call into question
the degree to which this material can be used to recover accurate Canaanite lore
of the Late Bronze and Iron Ages. Thus Eric Elnes and Patrick Miller (1999: 294)
are correct when they assert that “closer inspection of Philo’s account betrays a
conflation of traditions that may not be true to their earlier forms. . . . His under
standing of Elioun as an independent deity may reflect first century influences.”
The Sefire material (Old Aramaic inscriptions coming from the mid-eighth
century BCE) is far more relevant, yet it has been overinterpreted by those using
it to prove an independent status of Elyon. Della Villa (1944) and Rendtorff
(1967) state that El and Elyon are mentioned as two distinct deities in Sefire I A
(KAI 222) line 11 based on numerous pairs of deities mentioned in the preceding
and following lines. Thus for Rendtorff ʾl wʿlyn is a pair of deities, not the double
name of a single deity, as we have elsewhere. Yet the context is far more compli
cated. As pointed out by Cross (1973: 51), Choon-Leong Seow (1989: 52 n. 146),
and Elnes and Miller (1999: 294–295), the pairing is not uniform. Most of the
pairs are natural pairs (binary opposites such as Heaven and Earth, Abyss and
Springs, Day and Night) or god and consort (e.g., Marduk and Zarpanit, Nergal
and Las). Clearly, El and Elyon are neither binary opposites nor husband and
wife. In addition, El and Elyon occur after a structural break mentioning a single
deity (Hadad of Aleppo) and the sbt (Sibitti, a group of seven gods known from
Mesopotamian texts). Thus while ʾl wʿlyn could refer to two distinct (but closely
associated deities), the term could also be the double name of a sole deity (cf.
such frequent use at Ugarit, perhaps for the option of writing synonymously par
allel bicola; cf. KTU 1.17.5.10–11). Compare what may be a similar double name,
Shamash-and-Nur, in Sefire I A (KAI 222) line 9.62 In short, both Sefire and Philo
of Byblos provide inconclusive data for the independent status of Elyon.
When we then come to the Bible, we see that there is minimal evidence here too
for Elyon standing alone. Rendtorff (1967: 168) states that “in the Old Testament
we find a number of passages mentioning ʿlywn as an independent divine name,”
yet he gives no citations. Pope (1955: 55) cites Psalm 9:3 and Isaiah 14:14. The
former is explicitly linked with Yahweh in Psalm 9:2 (see the text listed later). In
Isaiah 14:14 Elyon does stand alone, yet the expression “the stars of El” (kôkĕbê
ʾel) is in close proximity in the previous verse, making one lean toward El associ
ations.63 The same may be true for the independent use of Elyon in Deuteronomy
32:8 (discussed later). Likewise, in Psalm 78 we have reference to rebelling against
Elyon, yet the double name El Elyon soon follows (Ps 78:17, 34–35). In light of
Elyon frequently being attached to both El and Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible (cf. too
bêt ḥôrôn ʿelyôn in Josh 16:5) and the use of ʿly for Baal in KTU 1.16.3.4–8, it seems
reasonable to conclude, along with Elnes and Miller (1999: 295), that Elyon “was a
common epithet in the West Semitic region, applied at different times and in dif
ferent cultures to any god thought to be supreme.”64
Elyon Traditions Associated with El
The associations of Elyon with El traditions are many. We have already listed the
two occurrences of the joint name “El Elyon” (Gen 14:19–20 and Ps 78:34–35)
and the collocation of Elyon with the “stars of El” in Isaiah 14:13–14.
Excursus: Elyon Traditions in The Elohistic Psalter
It should be noted that Psalm 78 is a part of the so-called Elohistic Psalter,

a scholarly designation referring to Psalms 42–83 that may have undergone
an editorial process that systematically replaced the name of Yahweh with
that of ʾĕlōhîm.65 Some scholars (see, for example, Kraus’s commentaries
[1988, 1989]) try to reflect a more original text by translating Yahweh wher
ever ʾĕlōhîm occurs in the MT of Psalms 42–83.
El Worship 89
Thus the Elyon tradition in Psalm 78:34–35 may refer to Yahweh rather
than ʾĕlōhîm. Nonetheless, the double name El Elyon in Psalm 78:35 clearly
exhibits an (earlier?) association of the Elyon epithet with El. The same could
be concluded about Psalm 57:3, where presumably Yahweh Elyon parallels El
(MT reads ʾĕlōhîm ʿelyôn//ʾēl; discussed later).66
If the Elohistic Psalter substitution hypothesis is correct, we also have a
psalmist crying out to Yahweh (MT ʾĕlōhîm) as he reflects back on “the days of
old, the years long past” (yāmîm miqqedem šĕnôt ʿôlāmîm; Ps 77:6 [Eng 77:5]).
In this prayer of affliction he continues:
Has El [ʾēl] forgotten to be gracious?

Has he in anger shut up his compassion?
I say: “It is my sickness67
That the right hand of Elyon has changed.” (Ps 77:10–11 [Eng 77:9–10])
Even if the word ʾĕlōhîm in Psalm 77:2, 4, 14 (Eng 77:1, 3, 13) originally read
Yahweh, El traditions seem to be clear, to judge from the Ugaritic texts where
the god El is known for his compassion and healing. Compare also the echo
of El and Yahweh in Psalm 77:14 (Eng 77:13), which asks, “Who is a great god
[ʾēl] like Yahweh [MT mî ʾēl gādôl kēʾlōhîm]?”
A fourth text coming from the Elohistic Psalter is Psalm 82:1, which
contains El and Elyon in descriptions of the divine council. In this fas
cinating text (which is treated in detail in Chapter Nine), Yahweh (MT
ʾĕlōhîm) takes his place among the gods (ʾĕlōhîm) who are assembled in
“the council of El” (ʿădat ʾēl; Ps 82:1). Several verses later these same gods
(ʾĕlōhîm) are addressed as “the sons of Elyon” (bĕnê ʿelyôn). Thus, even
if this psalm comes from a Yahweh tradition, the association of Elyon
with an El tradition is clear to see. David Frankel (2010) goes so far as to
argue that El is the speaker of Psalm 82:6–8, playing the role of the high
judge, in which he condemns the gods and appoints Yahweh to rule in
their place.
The oldest El Elyon tradition in the Bible seems to be the synonymously paired
terms in one of the Balaam oracles:
The oracle of him who hears the words of El [ʾimrê ʾēl],

who knows the knowledge [daʿat] of Elyon [ʿelyôn],
who sees [yeḥĕzeh] the vision [maḥăzēh] of Shadday [šadday].
(Num 24:16; cf. 24:4)68
This remarkable triplet, which has “the earmarks of early Hebrew poetry”
(Levine 1993: 74; cf. Milgrom 1990: 476), has been dated as early as the eleventh/
tenth century BCE by some (Albright 1944; Freedman 1976: 66–67; 1980: 88–
90; Seow 1989: 48 n. 132; cf. Toews 1993: 45) and to the ninth/eighth century
by others (Coogan 1987a: 116–118). The triplet contains three of the patriarchal
designations for the deity (El, Elyon, Shadday). Though the prose narrative into
which this pericope is placed is a Yahweh tradition, the poetry reflects clear El
traditions (cf. El Shadday and the identical ʾimrê ʾēl in Psalm 107:11; see too the
archaic expression ʾēl dēʿôt in the Song of Hannah [1 Sam 2:3]). A similar couplet
is found in Psalm 73:11, where a negative protagonist is heard to say:
“How can El know [yādaʿ ʾēl]?

Is there knowledge [dēʿâ] with Elyon [ʿelyôn]?” (Ps 73:11)
Baruch Levine has argued that the poetry of the Balaam pericope in Numbers
22–24 actually stems from an “El repertoire” relating the experience of Israelites
in Transjordan.69 This is further underscored by the possibility of El worship
found in the extra-biblical Balaam story from Deir ʿAlla (eighth century BCE).70
In the Deir ʿAlla texts, which seem to contain parallel vocabulary, we read of
a seer named Balaam who “saw a vision like an oracle of El” (wyḥz mḥzh kmśʾ
ʾl; Combination I.1–2).71 Later in the text we find reference to the Shaddayyin,
which have been plausibly connected to the god Shadday (discussed later).
A common motif found in several El traditions is an association with visions
and dreams. In addition to the references just mentioned in the Balaam oracles
and the Deir ʿAlla texts, we are reminded of El’s dream revelation to Kirta at
Ugarit (discussed earlier). Cross (1973: 177–186), followed by Tryggve Mettinger
(1982a: 130–131) and Seow (1984; 1989: 30–31), has noted how dreams and
visions (often in conjunction with the language of the divine council) charac
terize El’s mode of self-revelation, as opposed to that of Baal, which is found in
the storm theophany.
Elyon Traditions Associated with Yahweh: A Later Tradition?
Elyon traditions are also frequently found in association with Yahweh.

Theoretically, the El Elyon traditions and the Yahweh Elyon traditions could
date to the same time. Some have even argued for Yahweh being an epithet of El
(Cross 1973: 71). It seems more likely that Yahweh’s origin is to be found in the
south (south/southeast of the Dead Sea; see Chapter Six) and that Yahweh wor
ship was aligned in its earliest phases with the religion of storm gods. Although
one cannot be certain, it seems that only at a later time did Yahweh worship coa
lesce with that of El Elyon. The notion that El worship predates that of Yahweh is
reflected in El anthroponyms and toponyms (van der Toorn 1996b: 240–241) as
El Worship 91
well as Exodus 6:3, which, even though it comes from the late P source, seems to
be an accurate reflection of ancient lore: “I am Yahweh. I appeared to Abraham,
to Isaac, and to Jacob as El Shadday, but by my name Yahweh I did not make my
self known to them.”
This is supported by the Song of Moses in Deuteronomy 32:6b–9, which in its
original form described a stage of tradition where Yahweh was seen as subordi
nate to El Elyon.72 As it now stands in the MT, the El Elyon traditions have been
fused onto Yahweh. Readers have already been prepared in Deuteronomy 4:19 to
view Yahweh as the one who allots deities to all the nations (McClellan 2011: 70).
As many scholars have recognized, the older El Elyon tradition imbedded here
refers to the deity as both father (ʾāb) and creator (qn), both of which are El
epithets (cf. the ʾl qn ʾrṣ discussion earlier).
Is not he [Yahweh] your father, who created you [ʾābîkā qānekā].

Who made you and brought you into existence [yĕkōnĕnekā]?73
Remember the days of old,

Consider the years of many generations;
Ask your father, and he will tell you;

Your elders, and they will inform you.
When Elyon [ʿelyôn] allotted the nations,

When he divided the human race,
He fixed the boundaries of peoples,

Equal to the number of divine beings [bĕnê ʾĕlōhîm].74
Lo, his [Elyon’s] people became Yahweh’s portion,75

Jacob his allotted heritage . . .
According to the reconstruction, which restores Deuteronomy 32:8 based on the

Qumran readings from 4QDeutj and the Septuagint, (El) Elyon as god most high
demonstrated his supremacy by establishing national boundaries and assigning
land and people to various divine beings.76 Where nations lived and the deities
they worshipped did not come about by chance but were ordered by the sover
eignty of the Most High (El Elyon).77 The poem celebrates how Israel is especially
fortunate because not only were they (El) Elyon’s own special people, but they
were assigned to Yahweh, who is presented as the divine heir apparent. Yahweh
starts out in the telling of this story as one of the divine sons (bĕnê ʾĕlōhîm), and
yet he ends up preeminent, ruling over Elyon’s people and bearing the creator’s
epithets (ʾāb, qn). A similar story of “monolatry-in-process” is found in Psalm

82, which describes Yahweh condemning the unjust rulings of the gods (ʾĕlōhîm)
seated at the divine council (ʿădat ʾēl).78 These “sons of Elyon” (bĕnê ʿelyôn) are
then stripped of their immortality, as Yahweh (see the earlier discussion of the
Elohistic Psalter) becomes sovereign over all the nations (Ps 82:7–8).79 It is little
wonder that we see widespread use of the epithet Elyon (which seems to be orig
inal with El) applied to Yahweh by adherents wishing to underscore his claim to
supremacy.
Using Yahweh Elyon Traditions to Uncover El Elyon Motifs
When Yahweh came to be viewed as the preeminent deity, he was naturally

assigned the epithet Elyon (“the Most High”). Hans-Joachim Kraus refers to the
“archaic-hymnic quality” of this honorific appellation (1988: 175), and it is note
worthy that we find it concentrated in the psalter. It is instructive to assemble
some of the Yahweh Elyon traditions in order to see if they can tell us anything
about the character of El Elyon worship.80 As with most biblical material, we are
faced with the dilemma of uncovering earlier traditions through a later overlay.
The precariousness of our enterprise must be underscored. Nonetheless, there
are a few motifs in the Yahweh Elyon traditions that resonate with independent
El Elyon traditions as well as with extra-biblical El worship.
Excursus: Psalmody Celebrating Yahweh as Elyon
(The Elohistic Psalter material [Psalms 42–83] is listed between the two sets
of ***.)
I will praise Yahweh according to his righteousness,

I will sing the name of Yahweh Elyon.81 (Ps 7:18 [Eng 7:17])
I will praise Yahweh with all my heart,

I will tell of all your wonders,
I will rejoice and exult in you,
I will sing of your name, Elyon. (Ps 9:2–3 [Eng 9:1–2])
Yahweh thundered in the heavens,

Elyon uttered his voice. (Ps 18:14 [Eng 18:13] = 2 Sam 22:14)82
The king trusts in Yahweh,

By the loyalty of Elyon he will not be moved. (Ps 21:8)
El Worship 93
***
There is a river whose streams gladded the city of Yahweh [MT ʾĕlōhîm)],
the holy dwellings of Elyon. (Ps 46:5 [Eng 46:4])
Indeed, Yahweh is the awesome Elyon,

The great king over all the earth. (Ps 47:3 [Eng 47:2])
Offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to Yahweh [MT ʾĕlōhîm],

Pay your vows to Elyon. (Ps 50:14)
I cry to Yahweh Elyon [MT ʾĕlōhîm ʿelyôn],

To El, who avenges me. (Ps 57:3)
How good is Yahweh [MT ʾĕlōhîm] . . . ,

Yet they say, “How can El know?
Is there knowledge with Elyon?” (Ps 73:1, 11)
. . . the right hand of Elyon . . .

I will recall the deeds of Yah[weh] . . .
O Yahweh [MT ʾĕlōhîm], your ways are holy,
Who is a great god [ʾēl] like Yahweh [MT kēʾlōhîm]? (Ps 77:11–14 [Eng 77:10–13])
. . . rebelling against Elyon in the desert,

They tested El in their heart . . .
They spoke against Yahweh . . .
When he slew them, they sought him;
They repented and sought El [ʾēl] earnestly.
They remembered that Yahweh [MT ʾĕlōhîm] was their rock,
El Elyon [ʾēl ʿelyôn] their redeemer . . .
Yet they tested and rebelled against Yahweh Elyon [MT ʾĕlōhîm ʿelyôn]. (Ps
78:17–18, 34–35, 56)
And may they know that you83 alone Yahweh,

Are Elyon over all the earth. (Ps 83:19 [Eng 83:18])
***
Of Zion it will be said:

“This one and that one were born in her.”
For Elyon himself will establish her;
Yahweh records as he registers the peoples,

This one was born there. (Ps 87:5–6)
For you, Yahweh, are my refuge.

You have made Elyon your haven. (Ps 91:9)84
It is good to praise Yahweh,

To sing praises to your name, Elyon. (Ps 92:2 [Eng 92:1])
Indeed you, Yahweh,85 are Elyon over all the earth

You are greatly elevated above all the gods. (Ps 97:9)
Give thanks to Yahweh . . .

They cried to Yahweh in their trouble . . .
Let them thank Yahweh . . .
. . . for they had rebelled against the words of El [ʾimrê ʾēl],
Spurned the counsel of Elyon [ʿăṣat ʿelyôn].
. . . they cried to Yahweh in their trouble . . . (Ps 107:1, 11)
A review of this psalmody shows that the application of the title Elyon to Yahweh
was ubiquitous. Many of the actions and features associated with Elyon are so ge
neric that they could be applied to any deity (e.g., praises, sacrifices, vows, great
ness, holiness). The wedding of older El traditions with Yahweh worship is so
thorough that it is almost impossible to separate El Elyon attributes from Yahweh
Elyon attributes. Nonetheless, there are a few motifs that were known to be used
particularly of El. For example, Psalm 107:11 contains what looks like an inde
pendent couplet celebrating El Elyon, whose counsel is unwisely forsaken:
They rebelled against the words of El [ʾimrê ʾēl],

They spurned the counsel of Elyon [ʿăṣat ʿelyôn].
As presented in the full text, it is clear that Yahweh is the intended referent
throughout Psalm 107 (so already Elnes and Miller 1999: 296). Yet the similar
couplet (ʾimrê ʾēl//daʿat ʿelyôn) coming from the Balaam oracles (Num 24:16)
argues for a more archaic El Elyon tradition that has been taken over and ap
plied to Yahweh. We are reminded of stories from Ugarit celebrating El’s decrees,
wisdom, and counsel.
Seow has pointed out how Hebraic psalmody regularly uses Elyon to des
ignate Yahweh “as the supreme deity in the divine council, with YHWH func
tioning like ʾEl” (Seow 1989: 50–52, referring to Ps 97:9; 47:3; 83:19). The three
occurrences of Elyon’s rule “over all the earth” (ʿal kol hāʾāreṣ) are fitting for El,
El Worship 95
the Creator of the Earth (ʾl qn ʾrṣ). That this title, known to be used exclusively
for El elsewhere (cf. the earlier description of its attestation in the Elkunirsha
myth and the Karatepe inscription), is applied secondarily (in its fuller form)
to Yahweh is clear from Genesis 14:18–22. In Genesis 14:19, we read of an older
poetic blessing mentioning “El Elyon, Creator of Heaven and Earth” (ʾēl ʿelyôn
qōnēh šāmayim wāʾāreṣ). The later prose account that follows in 14:22 praises
“Yahweh El Elyon, Creator of Heaven and Earth” (yhwh ʾēl ʿelyôn qōnēh šāmayim
wāʾāreṣ). The secondary nature of the divine title—we would expect Yahweh
Elyon—is clear to see (cf. LXX, Syr).
Even some Elyon associations listed earlier that are closely related to Yahweh
need not be restricted to him. Thus the title of “king” (Ps 21:8; 47:3) is also at
home in El traditions (cf. again Ugarit, where the title “king” [mlk, mlk ab šnm,
mlk dyknnh] is regularly applied to El, who has a special regard for the earthly
king Kirta, who was portrayed as his son). The mention of birth in the royal city
(Ps 87:5–6) reminds us of El’s involvement in granting children, especially to the
royal line, at Ugarit. Even the notion of Elyon being one’s redeemer and warrior
(Ps 78:35; 57:3) is not out of the question for an El figure, although this may stem
from Yahweh tradition, where it is far better attested.
El Roi
The El deity known as El Roi (ʾēl rŏʾî), commonly translated “God of seeing,”
needs only brief comment due to its single occurrence in Genesis 16:13.86 There
is no attestation of this divine name in any cognate culture, although the notion
of deities “seeing” the predicaments of their worshippers and then providing for
their needs is common. Due to the lack of ancient Near Eastern background,
scholars concentrate their efforts on the redactional character of this material
and on the exact meaning of the name, with attention being paid to who saw
whom. Did El see Hagar or did Hagar see El?87
The context is one of a surrogate wife’s childbirth, specifically the promised
birth of Ishmael to Hagar.88 The promise is delivered through a divine messenger
who speaks to Hagar, yet her response assumes that the messenger and the deity
are one and the same (on the malʾak yhwh, see Chapter Seven). The narrative in
its present form stems from a Yahweh tradition, but scholars have long recog
nized that an El tradition lies behind the pericope both because of the name El
Roi and because the expression “you shall call his name yišmāʿ-ʾēl [‘may El hear’]”
requires that El (and not Yahweh) be the deity who heard (šāmaʿ) Hagar’s dis
tress in 16:11.89 Some scholars even reconstruct El’s name in place of Yahweh’s
in 16:11, although without textual warrant.90 Mitchell Dahood (1968b) ingen
iously translates it as “For Yahweh has heard you//El has answered you,” yet his
repointing of the text (and reliance on a resumptive double-duty suffix) adds up

to an unlikely scenario. It seems far easier to assume that, like the Yahweh Elyon
material, this is an El tradition that has been fused with Yahweh tradition.91 When
such a blending took place is hard to say. Albert de Pury (1999: 292), following
John Van Seters (1975: 193, 288), argues that Genesis 16:13–14 is secondary and
“could therefore be nothing more than the invention of the redactor” who created
El Roi as “a pseudo-archaic divine name in the style of El Olam and El Shadday
whom he probably knew from written or oral traditions about the Patriarchs.”
Yet the etiological character of 16:11–14 could reflect an older Ishmaelite tradi
tion where a child (Ishmael) was named by his mother after a “god of seeing” (El
Roi) who was worshipped at a sacred spring (ʿayin) named Beer-Lahai-Roi.92 The
connection between El Roi as “a god who sees” and El’s connections with visions
elsewhere (cf. Num 24:16 and the Deir ʿAlla text, both mentioned earlier) could
suggest that this is genuinely archaic and perhaps part of an ancient “El reper
toire,” as envisioned by Levine. Compare too the etymology of the name of the
well (bĕʾēr laḥay rōʾî = “the well [dedicated] to the living one who sees me”), which
could designate an authentic toponym where an El figure was worshipped. The
toponym seems to reflect a mixture of the name El Roi and the divine title ʾel ḥay
known elsewhere (cf. Josh 3:10; Hos 2:1 [Eng 1:10]; Ps 84:3 [Eng 84:2]; etc.).93
As for who saw whom, most scholars assert that El Roi designates El “seeing”
Hagar in the sense of seeing one’s needs and rescuing one from a predicament.
Many interpreters have deferred to Klaus Koenen (1988: 472), who concludes
his analysis by translating the original text of Genesis 16:13 as follows: “You are
‘the God who has seen/delivered me.’ . . . Truly here have I seen [in the sense of
met] the one who sees/delivers me.” This analysis is in accord with traditional
commentators, dating back at least as early as the medievals, who have rational
ized that there is little difference between the rŏʾî that occurs in the middle of the
verse and the rōʾî that is at the end of the verse.
Yet there is the possibility that rŏʾî could have referred to an older tradition
wherein Hagar saw the deity (Hagar is clearly the subject of rāʾîtî). This is the
understanding behind the RSV’s rather free translation “Have I really seen God
and remained alive after seeing him?” (See too NRSV, NEB.) Such translations
show the lasting impact of Wellhausen on the field. It was Wellhausen (1957: 326
n. 1) who without textual warrant read ʾĕlōhîm for hălōm and inserted wāʾeḥî,
“and I lived,” prior to ʾaḥărê (see the BHS apparatus). Suffice it to say that the cor
rupt state of the text will prevent us from resolving this passage.94 That seeing the
deity can be lethal is a motif well attested in biblical lore (cf. kî lōʾ yirʾanî hāʾādām
wāḥāy, “a person cannot see me and live,” in Exod 33:20; see Hendel 1997: 220–
224 and Chapter Seven). At the same time, in special instances a favored person
is allowed to see the divine without dying (see the discussion later in this chapter
regarding Jacob seeing El at Peniel). In our passage, we clearly have God seeing
El Worship 97
(favoring) Hagar and Hagar seeing God in some sense of the word, whether it
be physical sight (a non-lethal God sighting) or an experience of God’s protec
tion (see Koenen 1988). Nahum Sarna (1989: 121) argues that the vocalization
El-rŏʾî demonstrates “a marvelous ambiguity” where “the several meanings are
intended to be apprehended simultaneously.”
El Olam
El Olam, which can be translated “the god of eternity,” “the ancient god,” or “El,
the Eternal One,” occurs only in Genesis 21:33.95 Like most of our El traditions,
it comes to us imbedded in a Yahweh tradition. Thus, as Yahweh–El Elyon (Gen
14:22) is secondary to El Elyon (Gen 14:19), so in Genesis 21:33 Yahweh–El
Olam is secondary to an original El Olam, although the latter is not attested inde
pendently. The narrative itself—whose source-critical discussion has been called
a “scholarly merry-go-round” by Westermann (1985: 346)—describes a treaty
made between Abraham and Abimelech at a well at Beersheba and Abraham’s
planting of a sacred tree (ʾešel).
Cross has stated that “the evidence . . . is overwhelming to identify the epithet
[El Olam] as an epithet of [Canaanite] ʾEl” (1973: 50). His argument (see Cross
1962a: 236–241; 1973: 18–20) was based in part on cognate evidence from Serabit
el-Khadim, Ugarit, and Arslan Tash, all of which is now disputed. As mentioned
previously, the reading of “El, the Ancient One” (ʾl dʿlm = ʾil dū ʿōlami) in the
proto-Sinaitic inscriptions is questionable.96 Soon after the Ugaritic text KTU
1.108 was published, Cross suggested that rpu mlk ʿlm (KTU 108.1) referred
to El as “the Hale One, the eternal King” (1973: 16–17; 1974a: 245–246; so too
L’Heureux 1979: 169–172). In contrast, today most scholars argue that the epi
thet refers to a deity other than El, with suggested candidates being Baal, Rapiu,
Reshep, or Milku.97 Finally, the phrase krt ln ʾlt ʿlm (KAI 27.8–10), which Cross
and Saley (1970: 44–45; Cross 1973: 17) read as “The Eternal One [El] has made a
covenant with us,” is more regularly translated with the adjective “eternal” mod
ifying the covenant and not the deity, as in Ziony Zevit’s (1977: 11–12) transla
tion: “Assur has established an eternal covenant with us.”98
Nonetheless, there is good documentation that El was thought to be an an
cient (“eternal”) deity in the Late Bronze Age, a notion that then became a part
of Iron Age Israelite lore. Late Bronze Syrian traditions include the description of
ʾIlu at Ugarit as “the father of years.” His elder status is also portrayed in both text
and iconography with depictions of his gray hair and beard. We read twice that
ʾIlu’s wisdom is everlasting (ḥkmk ʿm ʿlm; KTU 1.3.5.30–31, 1.4.4.41–42). H. L.
Ginsberg (1938a: 9; so too Pope 1955: 51; Cross 1962a: 240) also restored ʿlm in
KTU 1.10.3.5–7, so the text reads: “that our creator [ʾIlu] is eternal . . . unto all
generations, is he who fashioned us” (kqnyn ʿl[m]‌kdrd<r> dyknn). Even though

ʾIlu’s seniority and eternity fit well with his supremacy over the pantheon, other
deities were also thought of as ancient or eternal—albeit for other reasons. Though
Baʿlu doesn’t bear the title ʿlm, in KTU 1.2.4.10 it is he who assumes “eternal king
ship” (tqḥ mlk ʿlmk).99 Two deities who do bear the title ʿlm are rpu and Shapshu.
While the exact identification of rpu eludes us, the deity’s association with death
makes the title “King of Eternity” (rpu mlk ʿlm) a fitting one (KTU 1.108.1).100
Similarly, the notion of the sun being eternal occasions the use of ʿlm as an epi
thet for the goddess Shapshu (špš ʿlm, KTU 2.42).101 From the Iron Age, compare
the attestation of the deity “the Eternal Sun” (špš ʿlm) in the Phoenician Karatepe
inscription alongside two other senior deities, Baalshamem and El–Creator of
Earth (KAI 26.A III.19; cf. A IV.2–3; on ʾl qn ʾrṣ, see earlier discussion).102
In addition to the El Olam reference in Genesis 21:33, some scholars have suggested
that Olam, as a substantivized adjective, occurs as an independent deity (“the Eternal
One”) in the Bible (Dahood 1968a: 215–216; Van den Branden 1990: 36).103 In
most of the cases suggested (especially those Dahood purported to have found in
the Psalms), it is more likely that we have ʿlm referring to “eternity” rather than “the
Eternal One.”104 And even though Dahood’s overenthusiasm for advocating ʿlm
referring to the deity has not met with acceptance, two of his suggestions retain some
plausibility.105 The syntax of the MT of Psalm 75:10 (Eng 75:9) (ʾaggîd lĕʿōlām, “I
will tell to eternity”) has often been regarded as problematic.106 Thus many scholars
change the text to ʾāgîl lĕʿōlām, “I will rejoice forever” (cf. LXX), and assume that a
textual error led to a confusion between ʾāgîl and ʾaggîd. In 1964, Dahood suggested
that the tradition of the MT suffered not from a textual error (mistaking d for l) but
merely from a misdivision of the consonants. Thus he reconstructed the original text
as ʾagaddēl ʿōlām by redividing the consonants. If Dahood is correct, we have an ab
breviated title of El Olam parallel to the God of Jacob.
I will extol [ʾagaddēl]107 the Eternal One [ʿōlām],

I will praise the God of Jacob [ʾĕlōhê yaʿăqōb]. (Ps 75:10; cf. Ps 89:2)
Similarly, Psalm 73 contains the parallel El//Elyon in verse 11 followed by ʿōlām

in the next verse. But it is very unclear whether the phrase šalwê ʿōlām, a hapax
legomenon, refers to the actions of the wicked (“eternally carefree”) or to their
negligence of the deity (“the Eternal One”).108
Many scholars have seen a reflex of the deity El Olam in Deuteronomy 33:26–
27.109 That text reads:
There is none like El, O Jeshurun,110

Riding through the heavens to help you,111
Through the skies in his majesty.
El Worship 99
The God of Old [ʾĕlōhê qedem] is a refuge,

Under [him?]112 are the arms of the Ancient One [zĕrōʿōt ʿōlām].
In particular, scholars note how the description of El here as an ancient deity

(ʾĕlōhê qedem) accords well with his nature elsewhere. El is he who existed “from
everlasting to everlasting” before the mountains were born (Ps 90:2, mēʿōlām ʿad
ʿōlām ʾattâ ʾēl). The El Elyon tradition in Psalm 77:10–11 (Eng 77:9–10) is set back
in “the days of old, the years long past” (yāmîm miqqedem šĕnôt ʿôlāmîm, Ps 77:6;
Eng 77:5). While the translation “everlasting arms” is possible for Deuteronomy
33:27, a divine name forms a better parallel with “the God of Old.”113 Other
reflexes of El’s age may lie behind Isaiah 9:5 (Eng 9:6), which describes the illus
trious king as “El, the Warrior, Eternal Father” (ʾēl gibbôr ʾăbîʿad).
As has already been pointed out, it seems clear from the name Yahweh-El-
Olam in Genesis 21:33 that the name El Olam was appropriated by Yahweh
worshippers. It is easy to see Yahweh as the “Rider of the Clouds” being re
ferred to in Deuteronomy 33:26.114 In this light, compare too the expression
“Yahweh is an Eternal God” (ʾĕlōhê ʿôlām yhwh) in Isaiah 40:28 (cf. Ps 90:1–
2) and “Yahweh . . . is an Eternal King” in Jeremiah 40:10 (yhwh . . . melek
ʿôlām). Though not using the word ʿôlām, Psalm 102:25b–28 (Eng 102:24b–27)
expresses the notion that Yahweh’s years endure through all generations (bĕdôr
dôrîm šĕnôtêkā) and thus have no end (šĕnôtêkā lōʾ yittāmmû). At an even later
time, apocalyptic literature would pick up on the archaic El titles “The Most
High who lives forever . . . whose dominion is eternal” (ʿillāyāʾ . . . ḥay ʿālmāʾ
. . . šālṭānēh šālṭān ʿālam/ḥê hāʿôlām; Dan 4:31 [Eng 4:34]; 12:7) and “the
Ancient of Days” (ʿattîq yômayyāʾ; Dan 7:13) to evoke memories of a distant
past (Collins 1993: 231).
El Bethel
The biblical traditions about El worship and Bethel are concentrated in the
Jacob narratives in Genesis 28:10–22; 31:1–17; and 35:1–16. Traditional source
critics see these texts (apart from the P material in 35:9–15) to be mostly a mix
ture of J and E material, as evidenced by the varying names for the deity, Yahweh
and Elohim.115 The composite text in its fused state functions to underscore the
cult of Yahweh. Nonetheless, vestiges of earlier El tradition remain in the text.
These are visible not only in the name Bethel but also in P’s storyline, which
culminates in Genesis 35:10 with the renaming of Jacob as Israel (cf. J’s name
change at Peniel [“the face of El”] in Gen 32:31). In Genesis 35:11, P goes on to
identify the God (ʾĕlōhîm) of these passages with another El figure, El Shadday
(discussed later). In other biblical texts, Bethel is one of the locales of Jeroboam’s
bull shrines (1 Kgs 12:28–33), which have been connected to El worship (Cross
1973: 198–199; Toews 1993; see iconography discussion in Chapters Five and
Seven).
The meaning of the name Bethel (bêt-ʾēl) is ambiguous, able to refer to “the
house/temple of a god” or to “the house/temple of El,” but in light of similar place
names such as Beth Anat, Beth Horon, Beth Dagan, Beth Shemesh, Beth Baal-
Meon, and so on, it seems more likely that Bethel (at least originally) contained
a reference to the deity El (Sarna 1989: 399).116 Similarly, the expression ʾēl bêt-
ʾēl in Genesis 35:7, referring to the naming of an altar site, more likely refers to
“El of Bethel” than to a generic alternative, “the god of the house of a god” (see
Gen 33:20 and the naming of another altar site ʾēl ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl, “El, the god of
Israel”). Having argued here for El’s presence, which is in accord with other bib
lical El traditions, we should note that there was a tendency in the later Masoretic
tradition to tone down the appearance of El.117 Thus in Genesis 31:13 we read
of “the god of Bethel” (haʾēl bêt-ʾēl). Similarly, Genesis 35:3, which most likely
originally read “Let us rise and go up to Bethel [bêt-ʾēl] so that I can build there
an altar to El [mizbēaḥ lĕʾēl] who answered me,” is presented in the Masoretic
pointing as “so that I can build there an altar to the god [laʾēl] who answered me”
(cf. 35:1).
If the El material in these three narratives was not overcoated with later
Yahweh tradition, we would be able to point out a number of ways in which El
was seen to function. Due to the nature of the data at hand, the most we can do is
suggest motifs that seem to be consistent with other El traditions and less so with
later Yahweh traditions. Yet such a method can quickly become circular, and thus
the tentativeness of such an endeavor needs to be stressed.
The deity portrayed in these Bethel traditions is associated with sacred space
on a smaller scale (stones [Gen 28:11, 18, 22; 35:14],118 masseboth [28:18–19, 22;
31:13; 35:14],119 altars [35:1, 3, 7; cf. 12:8], terebinths [35:4], oaks [35:8]). He is
portrayed as intimately involved in Jacob’s life and his sustenance. He travels with
Jacob wherever he goes (Gen 35:3), protects him on the way (Gen 28:15, 20),
and keeps him from harm (Gen 31:7; 35:5). He provides him with children (Gen
28:14), flocks (Gen 31, passim), land (Gen 28:13, 15; 31:13), food, and clothing
(Gen 28:20). This is in accord with one of the oldest passages in the Hebrew Bible,
which describes El as “the Mighty One of Jacob” and “Shepherd” whose blessings
are abundant (Gen 49:25; discussed later). Genesis 48:15 (traditionally E) also
portrays Jacob describing his god as the one who has been his shepherd from the
very day of his birth (hārōʿeh ʾōtî mēʿôdî). Jacob/Israel also refers to seeing (rʾh)
his deity (identified as El in the place name Peniel) face-to-face in Genesis 32:31.
This reminds us of Hagar’s encounter with El Roi (previously mentioned).
The association of two additional motifs from the Bethel narratives, dreams
and divine presence, with El are harder to isolate. The divine manifestations in
El Worship 101
these passages frequently accompany dreams (Gen 28:12; 31:10–11).120 Even

though Yahweh is frequently associated with dream revelation elsewhere in the
Hebrew Bible, we shouldn’t forget El’s connection to such revelation. As noted,
the characteristic association of dreams and visions with El occurs in the Ugaritic
texts, the Balaam oracles, and the Deir ʿAlla texts. Granted, visions are not men
tioned here in the Bethel narratives, but the collocation of dreams and visions
elsewhere (cf. Isa 29:7; Dan 1:17) suggests that they are variant terms. Similarly,
the promise of the presence of the deity (“I am/will be with you”) that dominates
Yahweh worship (e.g., Exod 4:12), and which has even been linked etymologi
cally with the name Yahweh, occurs in our Bethel narratives to underscore the
protection of the shepherding deity (Gen 28:15, 20; 31:3). Although it cannot
be proved, who is to say that such a notion could not have originated with an El
figure prior to it being absorbed for Yahweh?
El Shadday
Of all the El figures, El Shadday has received by far the most attention from
scholars because of an ample supply of puzzling questions. What is the ancient
etymology of Shadday and how does this square with the translations of the
Septuagint (pantokratōr, “all-powerful”) and Vulgate (omnipotens, “omnipo
tent”), which elevate the deity to preeminent status? Why does the literary strand
known as the Priestly Source (P) use this title in Exodus 6:3 to sum up the wor
ship of the patriarchs prior to the revelation of the name Yahweh in Moses’ time?
Is P’s account a late fiction or does it preserve ancient memories? Does the fact
that Shadday occurs most frequently in the book of Job, widely acknowledged to
be a late book, argue against the antiquity of the name? If so, then how can some
scholars assert that El Shadday is the oldest deity in the Bible? Finally, why is
this El deity not associated with a particular locale, a characteristic feature of the
other El figures?
Even though most scholars recognize the pitfalls of reconstructing religion
out of etymological speculation, this has not deterred them when it comes to the
nature of El Shadday. A glance at standard treatments reveals that far more atten
tion has been given to the etymology of the name El Shadday than to the deity
himself. Modern translations, which almost universally translate El Shadday as
“God Almighty,” reveal that the Septuagint’s understanding has won the day—at
least in practical use—despite its near total rejection by historians of religion.
These philologians assume that the Septuagint translators’ understanding of God
as pantokratōr arose far later than the biblical period. L. F. Hartman (1971: 677;
cf. BDB; Mettinger 1988: 70) suggests that this rendering is “based on ancient
rabbinic interpretation” that divided Shadday into two parts (še, “who” + day,
“enough”), resulting in “He who is self-sufficient.” Yet there is no evidence of the

antiquity of this etymology. Even the Talmudic tractate to which Hartman refers
(Ḥagigah 12a) does not contain the use of day as a statement by the divine about
his own self-sufficiency, but rather treats it as a rebuke (“Enough!”) limiting the
expansion of the world at the time of creation.121
What then does the name El Shadday mean, and are our translations based
on the Septuagint anachronistic? The numerous and lengthy etymological
discussions (which include debates about the inconsistent use of sibilants in
the various cognate languages) cannot detain us here; readers are directed to
the many treatments of the topic.122 Three possible etymologies are worthy of
consideration.
El Shadday as “the God of the Mountain”
The etymology that has been most widely adopted views El Shadday as “the
God of the Mountain,” linking Shadday with Akkadian šadû, “mountain,” and
šaddûʾa/šaddāʾu “mountain dweller, highlander” (cf. CAD). Though first pro
posed by Franz Delitzsch in 1896, this etymology gained popularity through
the work of Albright (1935), Cross (1962: 244–250; 1973: 52–60), and the var
ious lexica of their time (BDB, KB). Lest one object to a Mesopotamian origin
of the lexeme, adherents of this view promptly add that the underlying root is
tdy, “breast,” which is common in Hebrew and related metaphorically to moun
tains (cf. Cross 1973: 55 n. 44). El is associated with mountains in the lore of
both ancient Syria and Israel, but this is hardly unique in the ancient Near East,
where “we are embarrassed with the plenitude of deities associated with moun
tains” (Cross 1973: 57).123 Shadday is used alongside divine mountains (partic
ularly “[Mt.] Salmon” and “Mt. Bashan”) in Psalm 68:15–17 (Eng 68:14–16) and
is combined with a similar motif in the proper name ṣûrî-šadday, “Shadday is my
Rock.”124
While proponents of this etymology point out the way in which El functions on
mountains (as head of the divine council, making decrees, etc.), others note that
El Shadday in the biblical tradition is more involved in providing the blessings of
offspring and fertility (Gen 17:1–2; 28:3–4; 35:11; 49:25; see Mettinger 1988: 72;
Albertz 1994: 33–34). For example, Genesis 28:3 tells of Isaac blessing Jacob with
the following words: “May El Shadday bless you, make you fruitful, and mul
tiply you that you become a congregation of peoples.” To these scholars, it is far
more fitting to think of a more literal etymology where tdy refers to “breast” and
not, by extension, to “mountain.” Thus El Shadday should be viewed in accord
with Genesis 49:25 as the one who brings “the blessings of breasts [šādayîm] and
womb” (discussed later).
El Worship 103
El Shadday as “the God of the Steppe Lands”
Other scholars, some unnecessarily having a problem associating a male deity

with breasts (e.g., Albertz 1994: 31), argue that El Shadday refers to “El of the
Wilderness/Steppe” and should be equated with Hebrew śādeh, “field” (e.g.,
Weippert 1961a; de Vaux 1978: 276–278; Wifall 1980; Knauf 1999; Albertz
1994: 31). These scholars overcome the objection that the initial sibilants of
šadday and śādeh are not identical by arguing that Shadday preserved a pro
nunciation that predated Hebrew. For support they note that the Ugaritic texts
refer to the deities ʾil šd(y), “El of the Steppe,” and ʿttrt šd, “Athtartu/Astarte of
the Steppe.”125 In addition, one of the Amarna letters from Jerusalem contains
the Canaanite gloss ša-de4-e on the Akkadian word for field, ugāru (EA 287: 56;
Rainey in Cross 1973: 54 n. 41; de Vaux 1978: 277).
The Ugaritic text KTU 1.108 has been used to provide a possible origin for
the name El Shadday that connects the deity to the steppe lands (see Loretz
1980; Knauf 1999). The line in question is written without a word divider fol
lowing the term suggested for Shadday. Thus one can read either ʾil šd yṣd mlk
or ʾil šdy ṣd mlk. Dennis Pardee (1988a: 110) is inclined toward the latter on sty
listic grounds. Some scholars truncate the phrase when they translate “El Shadī
is hunting” or “El, in the wilderness he is hunting” (Knauf 1999: 750). The text is
incomplete, and thus we should not build grand theories based on a single occur
rence lacking adequate context. Nonetheless, the previous line seems to refer to
“the god Ǵanatu, the calf of El” (ʾil ǵnt ʿgl ʾil), and thus structurally we would ex
pect “the god Shadday, the hunter of Milku.” That we have a deity Shadday seems
clear, but his association with Milku (cf. too the god “Rapiu, the eternal king”
in this text) makes one wonder if there are chthonic (and not animal) notions
behind Shadday’s hunting in this text (cf. šēdu and the PN Šadrapha; see Pardee
1988: 110).
A much better Ugaritic text for underscoring the connection between ʾIlu and
fields or steppe lands is KTU 1.23 (see Lewis forthcoming a). In this text, the
multivalent word šd can designate both fertile fields (KTU 1.23.13, 28) as well as
steppe lands (parallel to pʾat mdbr in KTU 1.23.68). Steppe lands, though lacking
in rainfall, provided seasonal “shrub steppe” and “dry” vegetation that led to
the predominance of sheep and goat pastoralism, supplemented by hunting ac
tivity. Such a scenario is depicted in KTU 1.23.67b–68, which has the ravenous
“gracious gods” roaming the steppe lands and desert fringes in their hunting ac
tivity only to find hunting insufficient when compared to sustainable agricul
tural production. Coming to the rescue is ʾIlu as the guardian of the sown land
(nǵr mdrʿ), who provides bounty to his children. KTU 1.23 is an ʾIlu-centric text
that celebrates how ʾIlu is the provider of cultivated agriculture, even viticulture.
Arable fields are divine fields (cf. šd ʾilm in KTU 1.23.13).126 Analogously, one
could call to mind the Deuteronomic tradition—noted for its father/mother

birthing language (see pp. 110–111)—whose vocabulary echoes that of KTU
1.23, with El protecting (nṣr) his child in the wilderness (midbār) as he nurses
(ynq) him with honey and feeds him with the produce of the field (śādāy), where
he drinks fine wine (tišteh ḥāmer) made of grapes (ʿēnāb) (Deut 32:6, 10, 13–14).
El Shadday as “the Destroyer”
A third etymology for Shadday is the most securely based in the Hebrew lan
guage, yet its greatest support stems more from folk etymology rather than
from historical development. The Hebrew šādad, “to destroy,” is common and
even refers to divine destruction, but as a finite verb it is not used with the name
Shadday. Yet two identical prophetic passages describe Yahweh’s impending day
of judgment as kešōd miššadday, “like destruction from Shadday” (Isa 13:6; Joel
1:15; cf. Job 5:17, 21). Folk etymologies, while not correct historically on lin
guistic grounds, are nonetheless reflective of popular understanding. On some
popular level the god Shadday could be seen as a warrior deity. (The verbatim
vocabulary in these two passages [cf. too Ezek 30:2–3], whether the result of lit
erary borrowing or stemming from colloquial discourse, shows the popularity
of the alliterative saying.) Jeremiah frequently uses the expression šōdēd yhwh to
refer to Yahweh destroying his enemies (Jer 25:6; 47:4; 51:55; cf. Jer 12:12; 48:1, 8;
51:56; cf. Hos 10:2; Isa 33:1). Ezekiel’s use of Shadday (1:24; El Shadday in 10:5)
pictures a storm god’s military theophany (qôl = thunder; maḥăneh = army), as
pointed out by Cross.127
Some of those who object to this etymology do so apologetically. To their ear it
seems harsh to worship a god whose etymology refers to him as “the destroyer.” Yet
such sensitivities were not felt by the ancients, who took great pride in celebrating
God as the Divine Warrior who vanquished one’s enemies. (See Chapter Eight.)
Others object to this etymology for El Shadday because he is portrayed as a deity
of blessing, especially granting progeny. Yet compare ʾIlu at Ugarit, who granted
children and yet may have had warrior traits, though they were not central to his
functions.128 A closer look at the distribution of El Shadday in biblical texts shows
that relatively few have to do with progeny, though those that do are concentrated
in the patriarchal narratives and thus have been privileged in scholarly discourse.
The book of Job, where the name Shadday occurs the most often, speaks of the
“chastening,” the “arrows,” and the “wrath” of Shadday (Job 5:17; 6:4; 21:20). It is
Shadday who brings terror (Job 23:16) and is even called Job’s adversary (31:35).
Granted, the subject of the book of Job is suffering, but the author did not shy away
El Worship 105
from associating the divine with such vocabulary. It is little wonder that the Greek
rendering of El Shadday as pantokratōr occurs sixteen times in the book of Job.
El Shadday: Early or Late?
What then can be concluded about the etymology of El Shadday? Each of the
three suggestions is plausible, and no preference will be listed here, allowing the
reader to decide. As for dating, the name El Shadday is concentrated in the late
material (P and Job) and so has been described as a late artificial construct. Yet
because of its association with the patriarchal narratives, scholars working out of
various confessional heritages have frequently wished the divine title into antiq
uity. Thus dates for El Shadday range from the very early to the very late. How do
we evaluate whether P and Job are being creative or nostalgic? How do we distin
guish between archaic and archaizing?
Extra-biblical evidence attests that a deity Shadday was known in Late
Bronze Age Syria (see KTU 1.108, described earlier). Cross (1973: 53–54)
and Ernst Knauf (1999: 750) argue that the name is also attested in the Late
Bronze Age Egyptian name ś3–d-ï-ʿ-m-y, “Shadday is my paternal relative” (cf.
ʿammišadday in Num 1:12; 2:25). Even closer in proximity and chronology are
the Transjordanian Deir ʿAlla texts, which date to the eighth century BCE. These
texts, discovered in 1967 and remarkable in their own right, are fascinating for
the study of Israelite religion because they refer to a host of characters that have
biblical counterparts. In addition to finding the presence of a seer called Balaam,
we run across what seems to be an attestation of El (see p. 90) and the divine
tandem Sheger and Ashtar (cf. the demythologized šeger and ʿaštĕrôt in Deut
7:13; 28:4, 38, 51). A group of generic gods (ʾlhn) are also mentioned along with
deities called the Shaddayyin (šdyn). These Shadday deities meet together in the
divine council (mwʿd), presumably under the headship of El. Jo Ann Hackett
(1980: 87) extrapolates from this to describe the function of El Shadday: “If the
gods in the council were known . . . as Šaddayyīn, there is good reason to suspect
that Šadday is applied as an epithet of El in his position as chief of the council.”129
To these extra-biblical attestations we could add three biblical passages that
seem archaic in nature and thus able to anchor Shadday in the early Iron Age.
A. By the hands of the Mighty One of Jacob,

By the . . . Shepherd, the Rock of Israel,130
By El, your Father,* who helps you, [*or “the God of your father”]
By Shadday,131 who blesses you
With blessings of heaven above,

Blessings of the deep that couches below,
Blessing of breasts and womb.132
The blessings of your father . . .

The blessings of the ancient mountains,
The bounty of the eternal hills. (Gen 49:24–25)
B. The oracle of him who hears the words of El,

Who knows the knowledge of Elyon,
Who sees the vision of Shadday. (Num 24:16; cf. 24:4)
C. ʾElî-ṣûr [“The Rock is my god”/“El is a Rock”]

Šĕdê-ʾûr [“Shadday is/gives light”]
Šĕlumî-ʾēl [“El is my friend/ally”]
Ṣûrî-šaddāy [“Shadday is my Rock”]
ʿAmmî-nādāb [“My (divine) kinsman has been generous”]
Nĕtan-ʾēl [“El has given”]
ʾElî-ʾāb [El is the (divine) father”/“the (divine) father is my god”] (cf.
Ugr. Ilib)
ʾElî-šāmaʿ [“My god/El has heard”]
ʿAmmî-hûd [“My (divine) kinsman is the majestic one”]
Gamlî-ʾēl [“El has been gracious to me”]
Pĕdāh-ṣûr [“The Rock has redeemed me”]
ʾAbî-dān [“My (divine) father judges/is strong”]
ʾAḥî-ʿezer [“My (divine) brother is a help”]
ʿAmmî-šaddāy [“Shadday is my (divine) kinsman”]
Pagʿî-ʾēl [“My entreaty? (= the child I asked?) of El”]
ʾEl-yāsāp [“El has added”]
Rĕʿû-ʾēl [“the companion of El” ] (cf. 2:14/MT: Dĕʿû-ʾēl [“Know O El”])
(Num 1:5–15; cf. 2:3–29)133
It is interesting to note that in the texts just mentioned Shadday occurs as

an independent element. This can be analyzed as documenting the deity
Shadday in his own right (as in the cognate material), but it is more likely
that here Shadday functions already as an epithet of El. In other words, the
MT of Genesis 49:25 suggests that the full name El Shadday was divided into
its two constituent parts in order to achieve a poetic parallelism. The same
notion is suggested by Numbers 24:16, where both Elyon and Shadday would
be epithets describing El. In addition to an early wedding of El and Shadday
traditions in ancient Israelite religion, Genesis 49:25 also attests to an early
El Worship 107
union of El Shadday and the “god of the father” (originally “El, the father”)
traditions.134
The first two passages, from the Testament/Blessing of Jacob and the Oracles
of Balaam, have often been dated among the earliest poems in the Hebrew Bible.
Freedman (1987: 315), for example, includes both of these in the five poems
he considers to be the oldest literature in the Hebrew Bible “and hence the best
available source for recovering a valid contemporary account of the religion of
Israel in its earliest phases.”135
The third selection contains an abbreviated list of personal names from
Numbers 1:5–15 (cf. 2:3–29). Three of the names bear the theophoric element
Shadday (Šĕdê-ʾûr, Ṣûrî-šaddāy, ʿAmmî-šaddāy). Although they are imbedded
in a P narrative, some scholars view the list as genuinely archaic. Jacob Milgrom
(1990: 6) remarks that it “betrays evidence of great antiquity” (see Ringgren
1966: 22; Mettinger 1988: 69; Wenham 1997: 86). Other scholars are more
circumspect. Albertz says that it was “meant deliberately to depict archaic
traditions.”136 Levine (1993: 138) asserts that “it would be reasonable to conclude
that the list is more traditional than historical as regards biblical Israel.” Cross
(1973: 54) notes that “whatever their history,” these lists (Num 1:5–15; 2:3–29)
“actually reflect characteristic formations of the onomasticon of the second
millennium.” Of special note is the wealth of El and Shadday names, together
with kinship terms, and the complete lack of Yahweh and Baal names. All of this
makes one lean toward viewing this list as genuinely archaic. The other option
would be to stand in admiration of P’s archaizing artistry.137
In conclusion, the extra-biblical attestations of Shadday together with these
three biblical passages make it unwise to view P’s and Job’s use of Shadday as fic
titious creations from a late (exilic/post-exilic) period. Likewise, Genesis 49:25,
which parallels Shadday and the god of the fathers, underscores the veracity of
P’s famous statement about associating El Shadday with patriarchal tradition: “I
am Yahweh. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob as El Shadday, but by
my name Yahweh I did not make myself known to them.” (Exod 6:3)
Albertz (1994: 31) is correct when he states that P “is hardly sheer invention.”
P has a motive to structure his religious history so that the revelation of divine
names in the Pentateuch (Elohim → El Shadday → Yahweh) culminates with
Mosaic Yahwism and Sabbath observance as the sign of the eternal covenant.138
(See Chapter Six.) Nonetheless, he appears to be quite accurate in describing
the worship of El Shadday as archaic. Here, Cross’s (1998: 21) words, lifted
from another context on kinship and covenant, are quite apt: “The Pentateuchal
tradents . . . were more successful in their reconstructions of . . . early Israel than
we critical historians have supposed, and . . . their traditionalist approaches are
often less doctrinaire and closer to historical reality than the unilinear historical
schemes imposed by scholars of yesteryear.”
Finally, why isn’t El Shadday associated with a particular place and sanctuary,
as are other El deities? Some scholars suggest a historical occasion. Roland de
Vaux (1978: 277) says that El Shadday, as the god of the steppe, was “brought by
the ancestors of the people of Israel from Upper Mesopotamia,” and that “this
would . . . explain why, unlike El Roi or El Olam, El Shadday was not linked
to a special sanctuary.” Similarly, Mettinger links El Shadday to the Amorites
(Amurru or “westerners” living in mostly northern Mesopotamia)139 who wor
shipped a deity bēl šadê, “the lord of the mountain.140 If El Shadday was “already
used by patriarchal groups prior to settlement in Canaan,” then it “would be one
of the oldest names in the Bible” (Mettinger 1988: 71). Other scholars look to an
editorial solution and suggest that El Shadday is P’s term to summarize all of the
patriarchal El deities (Exod 6:3). P’s El Shadday can better function inclusively if
he is not restricted to a specific site.
Of these two suggestions, the former, which suggests a foreign origin, seems
more likely (especially if we are correct in concluding that P’s El Shadday is
more a reflection of ancient lore than a literary creation). At the same time, in
light of the last decades of work on the patriarchal narratives, it is impossible
to revive the specificity associated with the detailed “Amorite hypothesis” of
old.141 Nonetheless, if this mountain god were native to Canaan, we might ex
pect the El Shadday traditions to be linked with any number of mountains in
Palestine, given “the Israelite predeliction for locating ‘sacred space’ on moun
tains” (Talmon 1978: 442). There is, however, one text that does locate biblical
El’s cosmic mountain in the north, although there is no mention of Shadday in
the passage. Isaiah 14:13 reads:
I will ascend to heaven,

Above the stars of El [kôkĕbê ʾēl]
I will set my throne on high;
I will dwell on the mount of the [divine] council [har môʿēd],
On the recesses of Saphon [yarkĕtê ṣāpôn];
I will ascend above the heights of the clouds,
I will make myself like Elyon [ʿelyôn].
This passage associates El with the divine council, which takes place on a moun
tain in the far north.142 It is tempting to hear the echo of Ugaritic myth and its
majestic Mt. Saphon. Ugaritic ʾIlu has a mountainous divine council of similar
name (puḫru môʿidi), although it is Baal who is most intimately associated with
Mt. Saphon.143 Such grand lore might appeal to those worshippers in Palestine
whose geography, while mountainous, lacked the commanding presence of
Jebel al-Aqra. In the final analysis, all that remains is speculation. Any archaic
El/Shadday mountain traditions were absorbed by Yahweh, whose theophanies
El Worship 109
were localized on a southern mountain (Mt. Sinai/Horeb). This deity eventu

ally came to dominate Mt. Saphon as his holy mountain, renamed Mt. Zion (har
qodšô . . . har ṣiyyôn yarkĕtê ṣāpôn; Ps 48:2–3 [Eng 48:1–2]).
The Functions of El Deities and the Wedding of El Traditions
Having documented that there was El worship in Iron Age Israel, it is natural
to ask how the various El deities were seen to function. Occasionally we can
get a glimpse of El functioning in a particular way at a specific locale, such as
his involvement in the cult at Shiloh (Seow 1989: 11–54). But for the most part,
uncovering the function of a particular El deity is near impossible because bib
lical tradition has fused all of the El deities into one. Thus, even in an ancient text
such as Numbers 24:16, we have El, Shadday, and Elyon as parallel equivalents.
Israelite worshippers did not have two deities in mind when they sought refuge
“in the shelter of Elyon . . . in the shadow of Shadday” (Ps 91:1). The biblical
texts, written and edited in retrospect, present patriarchal religion as monola
trous El worship, but we have few clues as to how this came to be so.144 Was the
historical reality underlying the literary presentation a rapid process or one of
gradual accretion? What we see is only the end of the affair, where all El titles are
represented as manifestations of a lone deity.
Now that we have acknowledged such limitations in the nature of our data,
it would be a mistake to stop here. Little attention has been paid to the wed
ding of El traditions even though it is a common textual reality. Most treatments
of El worship are isolationist and atomistic—an El Elyon here, an El Olam
there —perhaps because we are unnecessarily fixated on origins as the key to
understanding the nature of a deity. Yet for theists ancient and modern, the un
derstanding of one’s deity grows over time. Later conceptions of El worship, even
if they are composite in nature and wed traits that were originally distinct, are
equally (perhaps more) important for understanding ancient Israel’s religious
devotion.
A brief composite sketch of El worship shows that El was seen to be eternal
(ʿōlām) both in the sense of being an ancient individual and in the sense of being
one who lives forever. Thus El was viewed as existing “from everlasting to ever
lasting” (Ps 90:2; mēʿōlām ʿad ʿōlām ʾattâ ʾēl). His eternal status was a sign of his
preeminence (there is no hint of a deus otiosus in biblical tradition), and thus the
join with those traditions that celebrated the deity as “Most High” (ʿelyôn) was
a natural one. The supremacy of El was also underscored by absorbing for him
the title “the creator of heaven and earth” (qōnēh šāmayim wāʾāreṣ), a variant of
which (ʾl qn ʾrṣ) was well known in the West Semitic environs of the Late Bronze
and Iron Ages. Where there is creation, there is sovereignty. He who created the
world was seen as exercising his authority over the affairs of nations. In partic
ular, (El) Elyon, who, according to the psalmist’s praise, rules “over all the earth,”
gave countries their respective divine patrons (Deut 32:6b–9). All four of these
themes (eternity, supremacy, creativity, and sovereignty) are central to the bib
lical El traditions. Their latest articulation in the Hebrew Bible, coming from an
apocalyptic voice, celebrates the “Ancient of Days” (ʿattîq yômayyāʾ; Dan 7:13),
who lives forever, exercising his eternal dominion over the cosmos (ʿillāyāʾ . . . ḥay
ʿālmāʾ . . . šālṭānēh šālṭān ʿālam/ḥê hāʿôlām; Dan 4:31 [Eng 4:34]; 12:7).
El as Father
There is no reflex of Israelite El’s creative powers being celebrated with the lan
guage of human intercourse (contrast Ugaritic ʾIlu in KTU 1.23, discussed ear
lier) or employed in a theogonic context (see Kaufmann 1972: 60–61). Nor is the
attribute of El as creator ever developed into a fully articulated cosmic creator.145
Granted, we have reflexes of this role, especially the reference to the “stars of El”
(kôkĕbê ʾel) in Isaiah 14:14. The role that functioned more prominently for the cult
of El was that of the creator as father. Just as Ugaritic tradition pays more attention
to ʾIlu’s role as father (ʾab) than as cosmic creator, so too our extant biblical texts,
which, while affirming El’s role of “creator of heaven and earth,” exert more energy
discussing El as a father figure.146 Note again Deuteronomy 32:6b, 18:
Is not he your father, who created you [ʾābîkā qānekā].

Who made you and brought you into existence?
...
You neglected the Rock [ṣûr] who bore you,
You forgot El [ʾēl] who gave you birth.
In this remarkable passage celebrating El’s creative powers, the cosmos takes a
backseat to children. The masculine gender of El necessitates the description of
his parentage as that of a father (ʾāb), and yet the language of god as a mother
giving birth is unmistakable.147 This accords well with other El traditions that
identified with the lives of women. El Shadday is he who provides “the blessings
of breasts and womb” (Gen 49:25). As Ugaritic ʾIlu was looked to for progeny, so
too women and men sought Israelite El for the blessings of offspring and their
nurturing.148 He was the deity who brought fecundity (Gen 17:1–2; 28:3–4;
35:11; 49:25). When Hagar encounters El Roi and receives his blessing, it is in the
context of childbirth (Gen 16:11–14). Feminist scholars have argued that the reli
gion of the pre-state period may have been where women’s roles were the greatest
and most unrestricted (contrary to the state periods with their centralized cultus
El Worship 111
under royal control; see Bird 1987). On the social level, Carol Meyers argues that
“the house of the mother” (bêt ʾēm) may have functioned as a counterpart to “the
house of the father” (bêt ʾāb) as the basic unit of society (1991; cf. Stager 1985a;
Chapman 2016), but here our texts are not as forthcoming as we would like.
The metaphor of “father” used to describe religious devotion came full circle,
from the womb to the tomb. Van der Toorn argues that early Israelite religion
“consisted of a variety of local forms of family religion,” including cults of de
ceased ancestors.149 At birth, both the divine father and one’s human father gave
one life—yet with women doing the actual labor! Upon death a person did not
simply return to his divine father alone but was “gathered to his deceased kin”
and “slept with his fathers.”150
El as Divine Kinsman
All of this is consistent with studies emphasizing that Israelite religion in the
pre-state period is family oriented (e.g., Albertz 1994: 25–39; van der Toorn
1996b: 236–265; Albertz and Schmitt 2012). Albertz (1994: 30) argues that “the
idea of God” is grounded in the metaphor of god as father or forefather and that the
family cult is led by a father figure rather than an institutionalized priesthood. The
divine father is also the kinsman par excellence. A direct line of kinship with one’s
deity was reinforced each time El as the divine father was referred to as “the god of
the [human] father” (Gen 33:20, ʾēl ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl; Gen 46:3, ʾēl ʾĕlōhê ʾābîkā).
El’s connection with kinship metaphors is also reflected in the concept of “cov
enant” or “treaty.” At Shechem we come across the deity El Berith, who played
the role of a treaty partner and was thus likely understood to be “El, the lord of
the covenant” (Lewis 1996a). Cross (1998: 3–21) has underscored the function
of the patron deity within the sociological framework of tribal relationships. He
concludes that the role of divine covenant partner is an extension of the role of a
deity as divine kinsman. This is particularly true of the West Semitic tribal organ
izations, asserts Cross, in which the clan was seen as kin of the deity. This is “es
pecially vivid in the West Semitic onomasticon,” which reflects a great number
of divine kinsman names (e.g., Ammi-Shadday; cf. Cross 1973: 6, 14). Cross
concludes that such tribal organizations are typologically patriarchal, with the
proper divine kinsman being an El figure.
El as Benevolent Protector
El as the dominant family member and head of the clan was seen to be the be
nevolent provider not just of fertility but of all sustenance and protection (cf. the
Bethel narratives). Most scholars understand the fuller name Jacob-El (yaʿqub-
ilu) to mean “May El protect” (e.g., Hamilton 1995: 178–179).151 In the Hebrew
Bible there is no formal epithet attesting to El’s benevolence such as Ugaritic
ʾIlu’s lṭpn ʾil d pʾid, “the Gracious One, the Benevolent God.” One could spec
ulate that Yahweh’s attribute ʾēl rahûm, “a compassionate god,” was once El’s,
but there is no explicit evidence of such other than El’s associations with womb
imagery (raḥam) and compassion (raḥămîm) elsewhere.152 Nonetheless, El
is portrayed as compassionate in early as well as late texts. Genesis 49, which
contains womb imagery in verse 25, pictures El as a shepherd (49:24) and “rock”
guiding and protecting his flock. The deity Jacob encounters at Bethel is explic
itly described as a benevolent shepherd (Gen 48:15) providing subsistence and
safety. Onomastica referring to El as the “rock” (ʾElî-ṣûr, Ṣûrî-ʾēl, Ṣûrî-šaddāy)
also evoke notions of stability and protection (see Ps 78:34–35). Such notions of
security led the author of Deuteronomy 33:27 to seek his den of refuge (mĕʿōnâ)
in the arms of (El) Olam. Similarly, the language of shelter and protection was
used of Elyon//Shadday by the psalmist (Ps 91:1).
Benevolence brings us back once more to Hagar’s encounter with El Roi. The
birth of a child is central to the narrative, yet Hagar’s desperation in the desert and
her affliction (ʿŏnî) cry out from each line. El is portrayed as the one who restores
her life. In turn, she dedicates the well at which the theophany occurred to “the
living one who sees me.” Her divine benefactor is “living,” actively engaged in her
predicament. He is anything but a passive or disinterested deity. El’s concern for
the afflicted becomes such a well-fixed concept that we read of a psalmist who
(though his misery tempts him to think otherwise) affirms that it is inconceivable
that El could have forgotten his compassion (hăšākaḥ ḥannôt ʾēl//raḥămāyw) in
his anger (Ps 77:10 [Eng 77:9]). Who is such a great god (mî ʾēl gadôl)?153
A father’s benevolence must entail physical protection of his family and clan,
and thus we should not be surprised to see references to El’s ability as a war
rior. The notion of El fighting for his people may stand behind the etymology of
“Israel,” and, as I have argued, at least in a folk understanding, Shadday was un
derstood to bring destruction.154 Granted, this is not the predominant focus of
El’s nature, yet it would be rare in an ancient Near Eastern context for people to
look for protection from a deity who did not have some military prowess. Thus
Albertz (1994: 36, 253 n. 49) overstates the situation when he insists that the god
of family religion is “completely unwarlike” and the religion itself pacifist in na
ture. Similarly, Westermann (1985: 110) exaggerates when he writes that the god
of the fathers “has no connection with the waging of war. He is not a God of war
and does not assist in battle.” In general terms these scholars are correct. El is not
a national deity who engages in wars of imperial conquest nor a storm deity who
thunders and has the power of lightning. El’s protective nature is not the same as
Yahweh’s combative persona.
El Worship 113
On the other hand, El, according to Genesis 14, is not only the most high god
who creates the universe but also “he who has delivered [miggēn] your enemies
into your hand” (Gen 14:20). Abram’s deity can only be his “shield” (māgēn;
Gen 15:1) if he has the ability to defend (miggēn) him in armed conflict. Jacob’s
deity at Bethel protects him on the way and keeps him from harm, even casting
“terror” (ḥittat) on any potential pursuers (Gen 35:5). Similarly, El Elyon’s func
tion as “redeemer” (gōʾēl; Ps 78:35) does not function only on a spiritual level.
Some scholars argue that some reflex of El’s warrior side can be reconstructed
from personal names (e.g., ʾēl gibbôr), bull imagery (ʾăbîr yaʿăqōb), extra-biblical
inscriptions (e.g., El at Kuntillet ʿAjrud), and cognate cultures.155 Traditions that
seem to describe El riding through the heavens156 or even bringing Israel out of
Egypt as a horned ox (ʾēl môṣîʾām mimmiṣrāyîm)157 are more complex because
such language may very well be reflecting the storm language of Yahweh and/
or Baal.
El and the Divine Council
El’s role in the “the council of El,” as reflected in texts such as Psalm 82:1 (ʿădat
ʾēl) and Isaiah 14:13 (har môʿēd), has already been mentioned. The Israelite tra
dition of having El at the head of this governing body made up of his “sons” is
remarkably similar to that seen in Ugaritic religion, where ʾIlu plays a like role in
a comparably named and constituted institution. So consistent is this motif that
it has become paradigmatic for describing ʾIlu’s mode of revelation (in contrast
to that of Baʿlu, who appears in storm theophanies) (Cross 1973: 177–186). Cross
goes so far as to say that “the functions of Canaanite ʾEl [= Ugaritic ʾIlu] and his
modes of manifestation are virtually the same as those of the god of the Israelite
patriarchs” (1973: 183; see Mullen 1980).
Particularly notable in both Ugaritic and Israelite lore is the wisdom ascribed
to ʾIlu/El and the sagacity of his decrees. At Ugarit, the bard celebrates: “Your de
cree is wise, O ʾIlu, your wisdom is eternal; a fortunate life is your decree” (KTU
1.4.4.41–43; 1.4.5.3–4; see p. 78). Similarly, in one of the oldest biblical passages,
a poet praises the one who receives “the words of El, the knowledge of Elyon, and
the vision of Shadday” (Num 24:16; 24:4). Similar texts elsewhere (including the
Deir ʿAlla texts from Transjordan and Ps 73:11; 107:11) show that the respect for
El’s decrees was affirmed widely. That the council members are called “shaddays”
at Deir ʿAlla underscores the connection between the divine council and the
deity El Shadday. (El) Elyon’s “elevation over all the gods” (Ps 97:9) is another in
dicator of El’s headship over the divine council. It is thus easy to see how several
El titles could be wed with little difficulty (cf. again Num 24:16, which contains
the three names El, Elyon, and Shadday as parallel terms).
Summary: Who El Was Not
Having painted a composite picture of Israelite El gleaned from the wedding of

various traditions, we need to conclude by balancing this portrait with an ac
knowledgment of our inability to articulate the full reality of ancient Israel’s reli
gious devotion to El. As mentioned in Chapter Three, societies are complex and
often more pluralistic than our texts lead us to believe. Thus it is impossible to be
able to assign a percentage to the number of people in ancient Israel who were El
worshippers or who embraced the composite picture of El we have drawn. With
our data, which are unlike those culled from a modern poll, we cannot track how
El was perceived throughout the Iron Age from one locale to the next or whether
one of his traits received more emphasis than another due to any number of
reasons (economic, political, cultural, theological, etc.). On the individual level,
we can no more find out if an ancient Israelite held a view of El that unified all
of these characteristics than we can tell if a modern theist is consistently holding
at once all of the classical attributes of God. In short, we need to avoid homo
genizing ancient Israelite society into a monolithic entity that never existed. To
the degree that El worship is particularly characteristic of the pre-state period,
we need to affirm Westermann’s (1985: 107–108) recognition of “layers and
distinctions within . . . patriarchal religion” and our naiveté if we “accept uncriti
cally every religious trait as characteristic of patriarchal religion as a whole.”
Nonetheless, such reservations should not keep us from sketching who El was
not, for in so doing we can demarcate manifestations of El from those of Yahweh.
I have freely admitted the problem of deriving older El traditions from a corpus
that has been passed down through later hands. It is all too likely that we have
later Yahweh features retrojected into earlier El narratives. It is less precarious
to point out who El was not. Yet methodologically it should be noted that we
still run the risk that our sources may have stripped El of certain features in an
effort to restrict them to Yahweh. The fact that Yahweh was fully wedded with
El traditions lessened any sense of impropriety by transmitters who may have
done so.
Israelite El is not portrayed as a national deity whose worship is entwined with
the support of a royal hierarchy.158 Contrast Ugaritic ʾIlu’s multiple wives in KTU
1.23 (paralleling those of the king) with Israelite El having no royal spouse.159
Contrast Ugaritic ʾIlu’s parentage of King Kirta and Yahweh’s (not El’s) role as
father to the Davidic line (2 Sam 7:11–16). The El names and their association
with particular people and places seem to point to a deity with a regional char
acter, rather than one involved in a centralized city-state system of governance.
Metaphors associated with El point to the locus of family and clan, not monarch
and court (but cf. Melchisedek, a kingly priest of El Elyon and the language of the
divine council).160 Similarly, the sacred space associated with El worship (altars,
El Worship 115
wells, springs, standing stones, trees, etc.) is presented on a smaller scale (hu
manly speaking; mythically, a cosmic mountain can be ever so majestic), not the
grand scale of a temple with its attendant priesthood.
El is not a combat deity who slays cosmic creatures the likes of Leviathan and
Yam, nor a vegetative deity who battles the forces of Death (Mot). Nor is he a
storm deity who uses the voice of lightning to manifest his nature (but cf. Deut
33:27). Israelite El is not associated with human sacrifice.161 His origin is never
said to have been from the lands south/southeast of the Dead Sea (Seir, Teman,
Paran, Midian), although some traditions localize him in the vicinity (e.g., El Roi
at Beer-Lahai-Roi “between Qadesh and Bered,” El at Kuntillet ʿAjrud).162
El narratives do not exhibit the intolerance that comes to characterize later
Yahwism (note the ease with which El and Shadday traditions are wed, and see
Albertz 1994: 32). We do have a patriarchal text (Gen 35:2) that articulates an ex
clusivism, but the hand of a late editor seems apparent (Westermann 1985: 551).
Here we could compare Yahweh’s epithet ʾēl qannāʾ, “a jealous god.”163 At the
same time, when we compare the regional pantheon reconstructed from Iron
Age inscriptions of the Levant, we are struck by the monolatrous El worship
presented in patriarchal tradition.164 In this tradition, there is a striking absence
of some manifestation of Hadad/Baal as well as female deities (e.g., Asherah,
Ashtart) functioning on their own or as El’s consort.165
Conclusion: El as the Original God of Israel
The conclusion to be drawn from this chapter is that there is ample evidence that
El was the original god worshipped by the ancient Israelites. El was well known
in the Levant in both the Late Bronze and Iron Ages, and thus it is not sur
prising to find his name (and not Yahweh’s) in the name Israel. The date and or
igin of Yahweh worship will be treated in Chapter Six. The way in which Yahweh
becomes a national deity will also be explored. The biblical tradition ascribes
much of Yahweh’s rise to fame to his ability as a warrior, with emphasis on his lib
eration of the Hebrew slaves from the land of Egypt. Yet, prior to exploring this
material, we need to examine the thesis put forth by several scholars that El may
have been the original god of the exodus tradition.
El as the God of the Exodus?
At several points in this analysis I have commented on hints in both Ugaritic

and biblical texts that El was associated with warrior traditions.166 As noted, this
should not be surprising in light of the obvious desire in the ancient Near East
to worship a deity powerful enough to be able to provide protection (even if that

deity functions sociologically on the level of the clan rather than the state). The
ability of a deity to provide protection does not necessarily make him a warrior
or national deity. Nevertheless, some scholars have pieced together some of these
traditions to argue that El was a warrior deity.167
As for the exodus tradition, we have to wrestle with the intriguing expressions
of “El bringing Israel out of Egypt like the horns of a wild ox” (ʾēl môṣîʾām/môṣîʾô
mimmiṣrāyîm kĕtôʿăpōt rĕʾēm lô) in Numbers 23:22 and 24:8 (cf. 23:8). As noted
by Hans-Peter Müller (2004: 246), the use of the bull imagery (rĕʾēm) here (as in
Deut 33:17, where rĕʾēm//šôr) portrays invincibility and superiority in battle. In
the past, Mettinger pointed out the possible association of El with the exodus tra
dition and translated the relevant passages as follows:
How can I curse whom El has not cursed?

How can I denounce whom JHWH has not denounced?
JHWH, his God, is with him . . .

El brought him out of Egypt,
he is like the wild ox’s horns to him. (Mettinger 1979: 19)168
In Mettinger’s (1979: 17) framework, these passages, while associating El with

the exodus from Egypt, are a reflection of “an early assimilation between JHWH
and El, who had the bull as his symbol.” Similarly, Toews (1993: 46) described the
bull symbolism of El at length and concluded that “at least some components of
earliest Israel could confess that it was El who had brought Israel out of Egypt.” As
for assimilation, Toews (1993: 65) underscored the cultic activities of Jeroboam
I, who “intended the calf-iconography to re-present El = Yahweh’s strength as
displayed in the battle against the Egyptians.”169 (See Chapters Five and Seven on
bull representation of El and Yahweh, respectively.)
In 1985, motivated by the fascinating texts from Deir ʿAlla, Levine argued that
these inscriptions, when combined with El literature in the Bible, are evidence
of an “El repertoire, a body of literary creativity originally composed at various
centers of El worship on both sides of the Jordan; in biblical Israel, as well as in
Gilead of Transjordan” (Levine 1985: 337; 1991: 58). This repertoire included the
references to El as the god of the exodus in Numbers 23:22 and 24:8. Several years
later, Nick Wyatt wrote a more detailed treatment of El and the exodus tradition
(1992; 1996: 170, 245; 1999a). In addition to translating Numbers 23:22 and 24:8
similarly to Mettinger and Levine, with ʾēl designating a proper name (“El brought
him out of Egypt”), Wyatt argued for the relevance of Exodus 32:4, 8 and Psalm
106:19–22, which concern the golden calf incident. Yet each of these passages is
inconclusive. Wyatt’s (1992: 79) interpretation is based on changing Exodus 32:4, 8
El Worship 117
to read “El [ʾēl] is your god, Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt,” as
opposed to the MT’s “These [ʾēlleh] are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out
of the land of Egypt.” In Psalm 106:21 Wyatt translates ʾēl as a proper name rather
than a generic noun: “They forgot El [ʾēl] who had saved them” (cf. JPS’s “God who
saved them”). While such a translation is possible (Wyatt appeals to the “kerygma”
of El association), especially in light of the word “bull” (šôr) in verse 20 (cf. Ugaritic
tr ʾil), one must retain reservations due to the completely Yahwistic context of the
psalm (the name Yahweh/Yah occurs eleven times in Psalm 106). Another scholar
arguing for the possible association of El with exodus tradition, but from another
avenue, is Smith (1994a: 207–208; 2001b: 146–148). Smith builds on the work of
Seow (1989), who argues for an El cult at Shiloh, by noting that personal names of
the Shilonite priesthood are Egyptian in origin. He concludes that it would stand
to reason “that El was the original god of the Israelites who came out of the land of
Egypt and not Yahweh” (1994a: 208).
One last bit of evidence is found in Habakkuk 3:3, which mentions “Eloah
marching forth from Teman” (ʾĕlôah mittēmān yābôʾ) in a passage referring to
the exodus that is markedly militaristic and fully celebrating the god Yahweh as
the driver of his war chariot (3:8) with Deber and Reshep at his side (3:5).170
According to Francis Andersen (2001: 289), “the ancient names for God used
in [Hab 3:3; i.e., Eloah and Qadosh] point to a stage before the widespread or at
least dominant use of Yahweh.”171
What should we make of such tantalizing evidence? Its fragmentary character
recommends caution. The fusion of earlier El traditions with those of Yahweh
makes it likely that El’s divine warrior motifs are, if one may use a linguistic term,
back-formations. If El had such strong divine warrior traditions (not just those
of a family deity protecting his clan), one wonders, why did he not become the
national deity? Why were cosmic combat myths (e.g., the fighting of Leviathan
and Yam) assigned to Yahweh rather than to El?172 It seems that the portrayals
of El and Yahweh are the result of underlying social realities for which we have
only partial evidence. The majority of the biblical traditions at our disposal point
to El as more of a regional and familial deity than Yahweh, who functioned as
the national deity and the patron deity of the monarch, and whose worship was
supported by a hierarchical priesthood. Thus it would have been necessary to
portray Yahweh not just as a deity able to provide protection for one’s clan but
also as the warrior par excellence who founded the nation by delivering his
people from a primordial enemy (historicized as Egypt).
If, for the sake of argument, one assumes that El was the original god of the ex
odus, one then wonders how Yahweh was welcomed into the fold. What function
would Yahweh have provided if worshippers looked to El to fight their battles?
Maybe two gods were thought to be better than one (although biblical tradi
tion says that El and Yahweh are one and the same, not two separate deities).
Or perhaps El’s strength was waning (although there is no evidence of such)

and a successor to the divine throne was needed. Perhaps Ugaritic ʾIlu provides
an analogy. As we have seen, ʾIlu is described at the end of the Baʿlu Cycle by
the goddess Shapshu as being able to “overturn the seat of Mot’s kingship” by
“breaking the scepter of his rule” (KTU 1.6.6.27–29). At the same time, any fur
ther development of ʾIlu’s capacity as a warrior is minimized in Ugaritic tradition
due to the military prowess of Baʿlu and ʿAnatu. This is clear both from the myths
celebrating their battles as well as from ritual texts in which Ugaritians turned
to Baʿlu for military help when their city was under siege (KTU 1.119). Perhaps
just as Baʿlu comes to the fore and ʾIlu recedes when it comes to a dynastic deity
who fights for the nation, so the traditions of Yahweh as divine warrior come to
the fore over those of El as the needs of the society changed from those of a small
family group to those of a nation (cf. Albertz 1994: 23–138). Perhaps popular
sayings that mentioned Yahweh as divine warrior were spoken with a voice in
flection: “It is Yahweh [implying “and not El”] who delivered you from Egypt.”
5
The Iconography of Divinity: El
Ancient Israel’s aniconic tradition has a long history. The notion of not portraying
the divine in concrete/physical reality appears as early as the Decalogue (if not
earlier) and has been reinforced in subsequent Jewish and Christian traditions
up to and including the present.1 Yet prior to exploring this fascinating and
enduring tradition (and its underlying abstract theology), it is best first to sit-
uate ancient Israel firmly in its ancient Near Eastern context. Moreover, plural-
istic expressions of worship demand that we explore how some parts of ancient
Israelite society conceptualized divinity within a firmly held and time-honored
iconic tradition. Indeed, Christoph Uehlinger (1993: 281; 2006: 84) boldly
states: “On the whole, the notion of ‘Ancient Israel’ as an ‘aniconic nation’ is
erroneous,” for “had ‘Israel’ not known images, no veto would ever have been
conceived.” And he adds, “The prohibition [of cultic images] presupposes the
knowledge and practice of iconolatry in at least some circles of Judahite society.”
Historians of religion have ignored iconography at their own peril. I will
briefly sketch in Section I the pitfalls inherent in using iconography, followed in
Section II by a general description of how divine images were viewed in the an-
cient Near East. Sections III and IV will narrow the analysis to the iconography
of Ugaritic ʾIlu and Israelite El. I will restrict my remarks to the iconography of
divine images. Therefore, the survey of the Israelite material in this chapter does
not treat cultic images in general, such as golden mice (1 Sam 6:4, 11), a bronze
sea (1 Kgs 6:23), Jachin and Boaz (1 Kgs 7:21), kernoi and zoomorphic vessels, or
even pomegranate scepters from Jerusalem.2
Section I: Methodology and Iconography
A brief introduction to the Fribourg school of iconography (led by Othmar Keel

and Christoph Uehlinger) is found in Chapter Two, pp. 37–38. Prior to the 1970s
systematic treatments of Syro-Palestinian iconography were rare. Ever since that
time, iconographic studies have been one of the most productive subfields of
ancient Near Eastern scholarship. Yet the considerable advances that have been
achieved have not been without their pitfalls.3
Pitfalls
Lack of Use of Material Culture

The primary hazard continues to be textual scholars who do not take iconog-
raphy seriously. With regard to cultic images, Keel and Uehlinger’s quote is
apt: “Anyone who prefers to work exclusively with texts . . . ought to get little
or no hearing.”4 Current analysis of Syro-Palestinian deities is uneven, and
without accompanying inscriptions, identifications will remain uncertain.
Thanks to renewed interest in the goddess Asherah, many female figurines are
now attributed to her, including her alleged presence on the Taanach cult stand,
on the Lachish ewer, and at Kuntillet ʿAjrud.5 Thankfully, more attention has re-
cently been given to other Canaanite goddesses such as Anat, Ashtart/Astarte,
and Qudshu/Qedeshet. Of special note is Izak Cornelius’ The Many Faces of the
Goddess (2004), Keiko Tazawa’s Syro-Palestinian Deities in New Kingdom Egypt
(2009), Silvia Schroer’s Die Ikonographie Palästinas/Israels und der Alte Orient
(2005–2018), and the forthcoming reference work Iconography of Deities and
Demons in the Ancient Near East.6 The iconography of other Syro-Palestinian
deities gets far less attention. We study the role of (pre-)Israelite El in text, yet
pay little attention to possible reflexes in archaeology such as the enthroned male
figurines in benedictory pose coming from sites such as Beth Shemesh, Megiddo,
Beth Shean, Tel Kinneret, and Tell Balatah. The rich documentation of Ugaritic
ʾIlu can serve as a proper backdrop for both anthropomorphic and theriomor-
phic speculation, as we will see.
When textual scholars do attempt to study iconography, often they cannot
extract themselves from a textual myopia.7 Suffering from textual fixation, we
ignore some deities due to their absence in written sources, yet we know that
they are present in material culture. Bes figurines are ubiquitous and had a sig-
nificant impact upon domestic religion (see Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330), yet
they are understudied because we are so text-centered. Similarly, Reshep appears
rarely in the Ugaritic mythological texts or the Hebrew Bible. Yet his presence
is well attested in the ritual texts (see Pardee 2000, 2002a), and, as Cornelius
(1994) has shown, there were many private stelae devoted to him, not to men-
tion the inscribed lion-headed mug offered to Rashap-Guni.8 The Canaanite
god Mekal appears on an inscribed stela from Beth Shean (Mazar 1990: 289) but
not in our mythic repertoire. The Bethsaida stela (as shown in Bernett and Keel
1998) reveals a greater presence for the moon god (note too that not all bulls are
El, Hadad, or Baal).
Limitations of What We Possess

Yet using iconography has its own pitfalls, such as the limitations inherent to
the nature of material culture. Archaeology does not document everything.
The Iconography of Divinity: El 121
Biblical writers speak of dragons yet to be found in the drawings of Iron Age
Israel.9 To what degree can iconography represent actual cult? Can iconography
adequately reflect ritual activity? Note Cornelius’ (1994: 264) claim that icono-
graphic depictions “can fulfill a role comparable to the texts from Ugarit.” Victor
Hurowitz (1997: 69) rightly challenges this by noting that whereas “purely icon-
ographic analysis” shows that a raised hand is a symbol of power, “only the texts
describing Reshef as a god who listens to prayers and who heals inform us that
Reshef ’s power is an apotropaic power—an ability to ward off disease.”
Iconography complements texts; it cannot replace them. The portrait of tran-
scendent Baal (to use the wording of Wyatt [1998: 388]) in KTU 1.101 cannot
be crafted in stone or metal. Yet neither is iconography “impotent” (Hurowitz
1997: 69). See Chapter Seven for the transcendence achieved by the artists at the
Iron Age temple at Ayn Dara, Syria.
Misuse of Material Culture

The misuse of material culture is legendary. Why must every item coming
out of the ground be cultic rather than domestic in nature? One need only re-
member failed past attempts at turning house pillars and stone tables into cultic
masseboth. Tryggve Mettinger’s No Graven Image? (1995) and the work of
Elizabeth Bloch-Smith (2005, 2006, 2015) are splendid corrections. And yet, ac-
cording to Mettinger, masseboth are cultic in nature, representing divine images
(cf. the many articles by Uzi Avner). While some standing stones may indeed
represent divine images, such as one at Arad (Figure 5.1), most were probably
commemorative or even functional in nature—for example, an olive press in-
stallation at Tirzah (Figure 5.2; see Stager and Wolff 1981: 99–100). Nowhere
in Mettinger’s treatment does one come across masseboth functioning as
tombstones (for Rachel; Gen 35:19–20), as boundary markers (between Jacob
and Laban; Gen 31:44–49), as markers for twelve tribes (Exod 24:3–8); and as
surrogates for a male heir (2 Sam 18:18).10 Every group of standing stones does
not necessarily document a pantheon. (A full discussion of masseboth that may
have been used to represent the deity El can be found on pp. 169–196. For the as-
sociation of Yahweh and masseboth, see Chapter Seven, pp. 333–336.)
Misidentifications
Methodologically, one must ask whether anthropomorphic figures are deities or
humans. As P. R. S. Moorey and Stuart Fleming (1984: 79) point out, without
accompanying inscriptional evidence there is no way of knowing for certain, and
the safest methodology would argue that “no metal statuette may be taken to rep-
resent a divinity until arguments for a mortal have been discounted.” Sometimes
headdresses (especially those with horns), standards, gold or silver sheathing,
fine workmanship, and cultic context can tip the scales in favor of the divine.
Figure 5.1 A standing stone and incense altars in the temple at Arad, stratum IX, as
reconstructed.
Courtesy of Ze’ev Herzog, Tel Aviv University.
(A fuller discussion of criteria for determining divine images may be found on

p. 142.)
In contrast to inscribed Egyptian material (such as the Anat, Astarte, and
Qedeshet material touched on earlier and the Winchester plaque mentioning
Qudshu-Astarte-Anat [Figure 5.3]), rarely do inscriptions accompany Syro-
Palestinian figures. That the Judean pillar figurines were consistently labeled
“Astarte” figurines in the past should give us pause when today people regularly
call them “Asherah” figurines.11 Despite Carol Meyers’ work to the contrary,
scholars persist in labeling the so-called tambourine figurines as Asherah.12 The
desire is strong to interpret every object coming out of the ground as cultic. The
ancients had domestic lives too.
Misidentification is a problem even when we are relatively certain that we
are dealing with cultic items. Note, for example, the drinking mug (Figure
5.4) from the southern acropolis at Ugarit portraying an enthroned bearded
figure (arguably the deity ʾIlu). The offering scene depicts an attendant holding
Figure 5.2 Many so-called standing stones, such as this large one from Tell el-Farʿah
North (biblical Tirzah), functioned in ways other than that of a divine symbol.
Photo and line drawing from A. Chambon, Tell El-Farʿah I: L’âge du fer (Paris: ERC, 1984), pl. 8, 27.
Courtesy École biblique et archéologique française de Jérusalem.
a libation jug. Due to the ritual nature of the scene, it is not surprising that C. F.
A. Schaeffer, Marvin Pope, and others equated the scene with ʾIlu’s marzēaḥ.
Yet Pope (1994: 21–23) did not stop there. He argued (prior to the line drawing
restoration) that the personage to the left was the goddess ʾAthiratu. The horse,
fish, and fowl represented the donkey of ʾAthiratu, the watery domain of ʾIlu,
and the bird-like character of ʿAnatu. It makes more sense to follow Marguerite
Yon in seeing the personage to the left to be a human male (perhaps the king).13
The horse, fish, and fowl more likely represent land, sea, and air, according
to Yon.14
Figure 5.3 The Winchester limestone plaque mentioning Qudshu-Astarte-Anat,
presumably from Deir el-Medina.
From I. E. S. Edwards, “A Relief of Qudshu-Astarte-Anat in the Winchester College Collection,”
Journal of Near Eastern Studies 14 (1955): 49–51, Pl. III. Courtesy of the Journal of Near Eastern
Studies.
Figure 5.4 A drinking mug from Late Bronze Age Ugarit found in the so-called
House of the Magician-Priest in the south acropolis.
Reproduced by permission of Mission archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
Some scholars would include the female seated lyre player on Kuntillet ʿAjrud
pithos A (mid-ninth to mid-eighth century BCE) as representing the goddess
Asherah (Figure 5.5).15 This seems inadvisable. There is no association of Asherah
with music, nor would one expect to find the great mother goddess off center,
facing away from the central figures. Those who reason that we have Asherah on
the throne do so because of the inscription, which mentions “Yahweh of Samaria
and his asherah.” (For discussion, see Chapter Six, pp. 236–240; Chapter Seven,
pp. 325–330.) Yet there is no need to equate the drawings with the inscription,
especially if they come from two separate times, as seems likely.16 If the drawings
and the inscription are contemporaneous and thus represent the same subject
matter, how would those who place Asherah on the throne account for the pres-
ence of three figures?
Figure 5.5 A depiction of two standing Bes-like figures and a seated lyre player that
some scholars (questionably) see as the goddess Asherah. From the Iron Age II site
of Kuntillet ʿAjrud.
Courtesy of the Israel Exploration Society, Jerusalem.
Misdating
Other pitfalls involve misdating. Gösta Ahlström (1970–1971; 1975) made much
of the Hazor figurine (Figure 5.6) from Area B, calling it “an Israelite god fig-
urine” (my italics) that represented “Yahweh or Yahweh-El.” As noted by several
scholars, a closer look at the archaeological picture shows that this figurine was
a part of a hoard of Late Bronze Age (i.e., thirteenth century BCE) implements.
Thus they represent earlier, pre-Israelite material culture.17
Almost every other treatment of Israelite divine images shows the stick
figure on a miniature limestone altar from Gezer (Figures 5.7, 5.8) and notes
its tenth-century BCE date. Its fame comes from William Dever’s (1983: 574)
often-used quote that “no representations of a male deity in terra cotta, metal,
or stone have ever been found in clear Iron Age contexts” except for this stick
figurine. (To his credit, Dever added that it is unclear whether it represents
a human or a deity.) Yet a glance at Gezer Plan VIII raises questions about
whether it should indeed be dated to the tenth century BCE. It is found in
Figure 5.6 Late Bronze Age figurine from Hazor (Area B, stratum XI) that some
scholars have misidentified as Yahweh.
Courtesy of the Selz Foundation Hazor Excavations in Memory of Yigael Yadin.
Figure 5.7 A line drawing of a miniature limestone altar from Gezer thought to date
to the tenth century BCE.
Courtesy of the Nelson Glueck School of Biblical Archaeology.
destruction debris that includes later intrusive material from trenches 3044
and 3113. Each of these trenches contains late (even Persian) material.18 Thus
the central role that this figurine has played in scholarly reconstructions needs
to be nuanced.
Misinterpretations from the Drawing Process

Misinterpretations can also be “read into” iconography in the drawing process.
The first lesson one learns as an epigraphist is never to trust anyone else’s script
chart. Yet such care (and appropriate skepticism) has not been a part of line
drawings and the study of iconography.
For example, compare the bearded statuette from Ugarit (Figure 5.9) (often
thought to be ʾIlu) with Schaeffer’s often-used drawing (Figure 5.10). The line
drawing (perhaps unduly influenced by the mistaken view that ʾIlu was a deus
otiose) adds many wrinkles.19 ʾIlu, no more than we in our vanity, certainly did
not appreciate our adding in wrinkles he didn’t have. Or compare the creature in
Figure 5.8 A miniature limestone altar from Gezer thought to date to the tenth
century BCE.
the attendant’s hand on the serpentine stela from Ugarit (Figure 5.11) with a line
drawing (Figure 5.12). Is it really a happy snake?
Section II: Ancient Near Eastern Iconography

and Divine Images
Promises and New Directions
Enough about pitfalls. What promising new directions lie ahead? The impact of
the Fribourg school is remarkable, especially with its influential Orbis Biblicus
et Orientalis series. The future will continue to produce more valid syntheses
than the past. Most importantly, our expectations are higher. No longer will
scholars of ancient religion be allowed to get away with a narrow text-centered
approach with a few token illustrations of a god here or a goddess there. Now
Figure 5.9 A bearded statuette from Ugarit often thought to be ʾIlu.

that we have seen the fruits of full-length iconographic treatments, the bar has
been raised.
Comparative Insights from the Ancient Near East
Any advance in understanding Syro-Palestinian images will directly benefit

from the study of cultic images in cognate cultures.20 As recently as 1964, A. Leo
Oppenheim lamented that “the role and the function of the divine image in
[Mesopotamian] civilization have never been considered important enough to
merit a systematic scholarly investigation”; “they have received a modicum of
the attention they deserve.”21 The same could have been said of the iconography
of ancient Egypt, Anatolia, Syria, and Israel in the mid-1960s. Yet not anymore.
Today, thanks to recent studies of cultic images in Mesopotamia, Egypt, and
Anatolia, we have a new set of questions to ask of the Syro-Palestinian world: (1)
What materials were used to craft a deity? (2) What was the role of the artisan?
Figure 5.10 A line drawing of the Ugaritic deity ʾIlu (published by Shaeffer) to be
compared with the photograph in Figure 5.9.
Drawing from C. F. A. Schaeffer, “Nouveaux témoignages du culte de El et de Baal à Ras Shamra–
Ugarit et ailleurs en Syrie-Palestine,” Syria 43 (1966): 7, fig. 3. Reproduced by permission of Institut
français du Proche-Orient and Mission archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
(3) How was the image actually made? (4) How was it quickened and consecrated
for use? (5) Finally, and perhaps most importantly, how was the image used in
ritual performance and in theology? In the space remaining in this brief intro-
duction, I will explore some of the answers that can be found in Syro-Palestinian
sources (textual, archaeological, and iconographic).
Materials Used
Mesopotamian and Egyptian texts (in genres of myth and ritual) reveal the
materials used to make statues (e.g., gold, silver, bronze, copper, precious stones,
worked stone, and wood).22 Archaeology is less helpful due to the reuse of costly
goods in antiquity and their inability to withstand the ravages of time.
A New Kingdom text describes Re: “his bones being silver, his flesh gold, his
hair from true lapis lazuli.” Inanna’s statue is described in cuneiform literature
Figure 5.11 From C. F. A. Schaeffer, “Les fouilles de Ras Shamra–Ugarit huitième

campagne (printemps 1936): rapport sommaire,” Syria 18, no. 2 (1937): pl. 17.
Reproduced by permission of Institut français du Proche-Orient and Mission
archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
as made of metal, lapis lazuli, and boxwood. Of special note is the Erra Epic’s
mention of mēsu wood, the preferred material for statues, for it is “the flesh of
the gods.”23 Images were then dressed with various accessories such as crowns,
standards, clothing, insignia, and decorative jewelry. Occasionally we have tex-
tual references to less costly goods such as clay, wood, and wax.24
In contrast, we have few textual references of the materials used by artisans
in ancient Syria to form a cult statue (although we do read of “Nergal of Stone”
at Emar).25 Here we must rely on material culture to stock the inventory of the
workman’s shop. As one would suspect, similar materials were used, including
gold, bronze with gold overlay, silver, finely worked limestone, ivory, and
terra-cotta.26
Similarly, we have artisans working in gold and bronze at places such as MB
Gezer, LB Lachish, LB Hazor, Megiddo, and Shechem/Tel Balatah; silver at Iron
Age Tel Miqne; stone at Iron Age Arad, Hazor, and Dan; terra-cotta at Taanach
Figure 5.12 An artist’s drawing of Figure 5.11. Note, by comparing the line drawing
to the photograph (esp. the creature in the attendant’s hand), how interpretation
(and the possibility of misrepresentation) is involved in the drawing process.
Image from T. N. D. Mettinger, In Search of God, © Fortress Press. Reproduced by permission.
and Qitmit; and ivory at LB Megiddo.27 Whether the Judean pillar figurines
designate goddesses or “prayers in clay” to a deity remains unsettled (see
Darby 2014).
Though we have no inventory lists of materials used, we do have occasional
mention in our written sources.28 In EA 55, Akizzi, the mayor of Qatna, tells
his lord (Namhurya; prenomen of Amenophis IV) that to refashion the statue
of Shimigi (= Hurrian sun god), the god of his father (which was taken away
by the king of Hatti), he will require “a sack of gold, just as much as is needed.”
Tushratta’s lust for solid gold images—in contrast to wooden images with gold
overlay—is well documented (EA 27:33; 26:41).
Biblical tradition mentions Aaron’s golden bull (Exod 32:4), Moses’ bronze
serpent (Num 21:8–9), Micah’s mother’s silver image (Judg 17:1–5), the iron
image of Deutero-Isaiah’s foes (Isa 44:12), and stone masseboth of Baal (2 Kgs
3:2; 10:26–27), not to mention wooden images (Isa 40:20; 44:13–17) and wooden
’ăšērîm (e.g., Judg 6:26). Ezekiel notes the fine jewelry used for divine images
(Ezek 7:20; 16:17). The so-called image ban texts are replete with mentions of
gold, silver, and wood (Jer 10:3–4; Isa 40:19–20; 41:7; 46:6; Hos 8:4; 13:2; Hab
2:19; Ps 115:4; 135:15; Exod 20:23). As for the choice of materials, the most sur-
prising reference is Jeremiah 44:19, which implies the making of cakes bearing
the image of the Queen of Heaven.
As noted by Hurowitz (2006: 21, 23; cf. Dick 1999a: 41–43), “the narrators
indicate that illegitimate cult images are made of tainted materials.” Curiously,
especially in light of the Judean pillar figurines, the Bible includes no polemic
against the making and worshipping of clay images.29 Was clay thought to
be used for subordinate beings, such as humans (Gen 2:7; Jer 18:6; Job 10:9;
33:6)?30
Artisans’ Role
Our fullest description of the role of artisans in crafting a divine image comes
from Mesopotamia, especially the mīs pî rituals published by C. B. F. Walker and
Michael Dick (2001). These rituals were elaborate affairs involving extensive div-
ination to locate a time for the task, to select the many different artisans, and to
determine the place of refurbishing (the bīt mummi). Various craftsmen are listed
in detail, as are the costly materials (e.g., red gold, precious stones) used to make
the statue, together with its crown and decorative jewelry, so that the gods could
be ceremoniously “born.”31 The cult image was the joint product of human and
divine artisans.32 Human artisans were acting on behalf of the gods in fashioning
the statues, and any skill displayed was ultimately that of specific craft deities. It
is clear that the statues could not “become divine” through mere human activity.
The “opening of the mouth” was a magical act enabling the statue to serve as a
vessel for the deity. We end up with human artisans even disavowing that they
have crafted the deity, for, in Esarhaddon’s words, “the making of (images of) the
gods and goddesses is your [i.e., Aššur’s and Marduk’s] right, it is in your hands”
(Walker and Dick 1999: 65).
In contrast, the Levant gives only hints of the artisans, their role, and their
techniques. We do have documented (at least for Ugarit) mention of special-
ized craftsmen, including metalworkers (nsk), goldsmiths, silversmiths (nsk
ksp), coppersmiths (nsk tlt), sculptors and carvers (psl, zadimmu), engravers and
polishers (mly), borers (sḫl), specialists in lapis lazuli (qnuym), and so on.33
The actual crafting of the divine image goes unmentioned. As noted earlier,
Akizzi, the mayor of Qatna, reminds Amenophis IV that he “knows what the
fashioning of divine statues is like.” Perhaps it was such common knowledge that
it went without saying. Yet when Akizzi says that he will require “a sack of gold,
just as much as is needed,” to refashion the statue of his father’s god, one wonders
how honest he was with any leftovers.
The ʾAqhatu story at Ugarit implies that in certain circumstances one need
not go to a specialist. It describes a son setting up a stela for his divine ancestor.
Yet we have no image-making texts preserved from ancient Syria compa-
rable to the mīs pî texts from Mesopotamia. Here we must look to the mate-
rial culture, which speaks loudly of the craft of metalworkers and stonecutters.
Perhaps these artisans gave credit for their ability to Kothar-wa-Hasis (as did
Mesopotamian artisans to their craft deities: Ea, Ninildu, Kusibanda, Ninkurra,
and Ninzadim).34
Ironically, in biblical tradition it is the polemical image ban texts that give our
best insight into the various artisans. We read of metalworkers (goldsmiths and
silversmiths) and carpenters. Despite the polemical tone, we still read of their
technique and skill. Deutero-Isaiah mentions ironsmiths working over coals and
carpenters working with hammers, lines, pencils, compasses, and planes. Others
speak of the technique of gold and silver overlay (Isa 40:19; Jer 10:3–4; Hab 2:19).
Hosea speaks of “idols skillfully made of silver” (13:2; cf. the “skilled craftsman”
in Isa 40:20). Nonetheless, emphasis is placed not on the skills of the human
artisans but on how human hands taint the final product (e.g., Ps 115:4).
In contrast to these unnamed artisans, Moses, Aaron, and Gideon are
portrayed as craftsmen (Moses and the bronze serpent; Aaron and the golden
bull; Gideon and the ephod), yet one wonders to what degree they would have
relied on the expertise of fellow craftsman.35 In the situation with Micah’s mother,
we can see that she was the patron who employed the silversmith (Judg 17:4).
Of special note is the association of royalty with divine images. Carl Evans
(1995: 192), following Ahlström, has astutely pointed out how “kings set up or
removed cult images whenever they engaged in cultic organization or reorgani-
zation.” He is certainly correct that “religious iconography was . . . an important
aspect of the national cult which the king administered.” Yet our texts are often
silent. In 1 Kings 11:5–8 Solomon makes shrines for Chemosh, Molech, Ashtart,
Milcom, and others. One could posit that he had divine images crafted for each,
yet the text is silent. Elsewhere the text is more forthcoming. In 1 Kings 12:28
there is the famous story of Jeroboam making two bulls of gold (El images?) in
his attempt to “out-archaize” David (see pp. 198–200). Several kings (Ahab in 1
Kgs 16:33; Manasseh in 2 Kgs 21:3, 7; cf. 2 Chr 33:3, 7) and one queen (Maacah in
1 Kgs 15:13) made ’ăšērāh images. Ahab’s making of a massebah of Baal seems to
be referring to a divine image (2 Kgs 3:2).
Finally, in late apocalyptic literature we have the account of King
Nebuchadrezzar making a colossal golden image (ṣĕlēm dî dĕhab) for cultic
purposes (Dan 3:1).36 This golden image contrasts with Nebuchadrezzar’s “large
image” (śaggî’) in Daniel 2:31–32, which, though exhibiting an awesome bright-
ness (zîwēh yattîr) (similar to melammu?), had literal “feet of clay.” That the
image in Daniel 3 is that of a deity seems almost certain (cf. 3:12, 14, 18, “they
do not serve your gods or worship the golden image which you have set up”).37
Similarly, compare Nabonidus’ erection of a statue for the moon god Sin.38
Rituals of Quickening and Consecration (and Purification?)

Texts are often better than archaeology when it comes to articulating ritual
performance. Elaborate rituals of the quickening and the consecration of cult
statues, of their “(re)vivification” and “mouth opening,” are well attested in
Mesopotamia and Egypt. In Anatolia we even read of a newly constructed golden
cult image being smeared with blood in a purification rite.39
In the Hebrew Bible there are no texts mentioning a quickening ritual for a
divine image, and as far as I know there are only three brief mentions of any con-
secration ritual.40 In Judges 17:3, Micah’s mother “wholly consecrated” (haqdēš
hiqdaštî) silver “to Yahweh” prior to giving it to the silversmith. In Daniel 3:1–7,
we read of the royal making of the golden image and its erection (3:1). An elabo-
rate dedication ritual follows (ḥănukkat ṣalmā’), attended by royal, judicial, and
administrative officials (3:2–3). We then hear of proclamations and commands
to worship the image along with a large variety of musical accompaniment
(3:4–7).41
We may have a third example in the Bethel narratives where Jacob pours oil
on a massebah (wayyiṣōq šemen, Gen 28:18; 35:14) that “shall be God’s house”
(bêt ’ĕlōhîm, Gen 28:22). Does this imply a ritual whereby the deity takes up resi-
dence in stone, or is the massebah a marker of sacred space?42 In either case, it is
apparent that while the anointing with oils and pouring of libations denote sacral
effectiveness, they fall far short of the elaborate “(re)vivification” and “mouth
opening” rituals accorded Mesopotamian and Egyptian cult statues.
Once Made/Consecrated/Purified
In the ancient Near East (especially in Mesopotamia), once images are fashioned,
vivified, and consecrated they become the focus of attention.43 Our extant evi-
dence for the Levantine world preserves nothing so elaborate, yet our data are
ever increasing. Common sense tells us that those who fashioned divine statues
then erected them in their temples and sanctuaries, yet we have no explicit ritual
in our extant texts. It has been commonly asserted that “Azatiwada placed the
statue of the god Krntryš in the midst of his city,”44 yet K. Lawson Younger has
convincingly shown that this is not supported by the Hieroglyphic Luwian of this
bilingual text.45
Two economic texts from Ugarit (KTU 4.168, 4.182) mention clothes for di-
vine statues.46 The large number of garments mentioned in the ritual texts is also
telling. Dennis Pardee concludes: “The fact that so many textile products were
presented to the deities in the Ugaritic cult would seem to indicate either that the
cult statues were clothed and that these garments were changed fairly often or
that the clothing of their priestly representatives was provided by this divine fic-
tion.”47 Note especially the mention of garments (and possible clothing ritual?)
in one of the so-called entry rituals (KTU 1.43.4, 22; see the next section).48
Even the biblical tradition preserves the dressing of an image. We read that
“women wove hangings for the Asherah” (2 Kgs 23:7) and that the divine image
of the Ammonite god Milcom wore a crown with a precious stone.49 We also have
allusions to clothes associated with Yahweh. Herbert Niehr (1997: 89) writes:
Some passages in the Old Testament say that YHWH is clothed. Isa 6:1 mentions
the fringes of YHWH’s garments; Ezek 16:8 the clothing of YHWH; Dan 7:9
the garment of the Olden One; and Isa 63:1–3 the blood-stained garments of
YHWH. Ps 60:10 and 108:10 list YHWH’s sandals. Allusions to jewels adorning
YHWH’s cult statue and his throne are made in Exod 24:10 and Ezek 1:22, 26.
Yet, in contrast to Niehr’s assertion, there is no explicit mention of a cult statue of

Yahweh (on which see Chapter Seven) or an explicit clothing ritual. Niehr adds
that “clouds, justice, strength and light as YHWH’s clothes” are used as meta-
phorical expressions. Such could also be the case with the passages just cited if
there was indeed no image of Yahweh used in the Jerusalem Temple.
Reverence for images is evident in Hosea’s mention that “men kiss bull
image[s]‌” (13:2; cf. 1 Kgs 19:18).50 When Ahaz sacrifices to “the gods of
Damascus who had defeated him” (2 Chr 28:23), one could posit that he did so
in front of their cult images (although the text is silent). When the Judean king
Amaziah brings divine images from Edom, he “installs them as his gods, bows
down to them, and offers incense to them” (2 Chr 25:14–16). The “Queen of
Heaven” text in Jeremiah 44 mentions cakes made in the goddess’ image in con-
junction with burning incense and pouring libations (Jer 44:17–19).
Rituals of Procession and Travel

The ritual procession and traveling of divine images is well documented in the
texts and iconography of the ancient Near East (Figure 5.13). The reasons for
their travel vary: pilgrimage, installation, ritual banquets, marriage rites, and
ritual warfare.51 In Enuma Elish we read that when the gods travel their cult
images stay at the hotel Babylon (a terrestrial counterpart created by Marduk to
parallel the Esharra, the abode of the gods in heaven).52 Kuntillet ʿAjrud comes
to mind as well as a way station for travelers (and their gods?).
As noted by Jean-Michel de Tarragon, Paolo Xella, Gregorio del Olmo Lete,
Dennis Pardee, and others, several ritual texts from Ugarit seem to indicate ritual
processions of divine images.53 KTU 1.43 mentions (the cult statues of) ʿAthtartu
and the Gatharuma “entering” the royal palace, followed by offerings and a
Figure 5.13 A procession of deities wearing horned headdresses and mounted

on various animals coming before an Assyrian king. From Maltai, located
approximately 43 mi. (70 km) north of Mosul. Illustration from V. Place, Ninive et
l’Assyrie vol 3 (Paris, Imprimierie impériale, 1867) pl 45.
banquet.54 The king has a prominent role in the procession, welcoming the gods
and walking in procession seven times after their statues.55 KTU 1.91 mentions
ʿAthtartu of the Steppe Land and (two?) Rashap (statues) entering the royal
palace in conjunction with royal sacrifices.56 In KTU 1.148.18–22, after ʿAthtartu
of the Steppe Land enters the royal palace, numerous offerings are presented.57
KTU 1.112.6–8 mentions the king’s sons and daughters going up seven times to
the “ḫmn sanctuary,” followed by the divine statues doing likewise.58
In EA 164 Aziru has his divine images travel with his messenger in order to
properly secure an oath.59 In biblical tradition the Philistines send messengers
throughout the land “to proclaim the good news [of Saul’s defeat] to their images”
(LXX 1 Sam 31:9).
Biblical writers also acknowledge that gods travel (’ĕlōhîm ’ăšer yēlĕkû lĕpānênû,
Exod 32:1; cf. Deut 1:30; 20:4; 31:6) and occasionally speak of the processions of
deities. That Rachel hid the tĕrāpîm images (also referred to as ʾĕlōhîm) in the
saddlebag of her camel (Gen 31:34) implies their portability (as does the small
size of many extant figurines). Other divine images (such as Jeroboam’s bulls) are
sites of pilgrimage to which humans do the traveling.
Pilgrimage passages are presented both positively and negatively based on
Yahwistic criteria. The processions that the biblical editors favored were those
of “the Ark of Yahweh’s covenant” (on which see Chapter Seven, pp. 364–366,
388–390, 395–397, 408; Chapter Ten, pp. 595–599). In contrast, Amos takes the
positive notion of a solemn ritual procession of divine images and reverses it
by noting that people will have to carry the images they made into exile (Amos
5:26). The procession of Babylonian deities is referred to in Isaiah 46:1–7 in a pe-
jorative context:60
Bel is bowed, Nebo is cowering,

Their images are a burden for beasts and cattle;
The things you would carry [in procession]
Are now piled as a burden
On tired [beasts]. (Isa 46:1; JPS)
Similarly, the polemic in Jeremiah 10:5 mocks how (illegitimate) images “have to
be carried, for they cannot walk.”
Use in Magic Rituals (Nurturing, Healing, Protecting)

From texts we know that gods and demons were thought to heal illnesses or in-
flict diseases. Similarly, cultic images were used for each of these purposes.61
Occasionally the lines between apotropaic images and divinity become blurred.
For example, the dozens of Bes amulets reflect a “personal piety” not often found
in textual pantheons.62
At Ugarit we read of gods and royalty being suckled by ʾAthiratu.63 Such nur-
turing is reflected in iconography as well, as depicted in Figure 5.14.64 Elsewhere
we read of an apotropaic figure/exorcist named Shaʿtiqatu, who is fashioned by
ʾIlu acting as a craftsman:
ʾIlu fills his hands [with clay],

With the very best clay fills his [right hand].
He pinches off some clay. (KTU 1.16.5.25–30)
Such language is very suggestive of a clay figurine.65 Perhaps potters at Ugarit

(imitating ʾIlu) crafted figurines of Shaʿtiqatu to be used in healing rituals.
Similarly, at Ugarit we read of snake incantations mentioning gifts of snakes
(KTU 1.100.73–76).66 Were these apotropaic figurines such as those men-
tioned in Mesopotamian namburbi rituals or those attested in the archaeological
record?67
Hector Avalos (1995a: 339–343) has documented the many metallic snakes
found at various archaeological sites in Israel and its environs, such as the one
from Timna. As for biblical texts, one need look no further than the Nehushtan
crafted by Moses as a therapeutic ritual to cure snake bites (Num 21:8). That such
an image was a threat to the Hezekian reform (2 Kgs 18:4) shows that apotropaic
figurines could be viewed by some as objects of worship.68 The suggestion that
the Nehushtan was a divine image of the goddess Asherah (see Olyan 1988: 71)
is speculative.
Three other biblical examples may denote cultic/divine images being viewed
magically. In 1 Samuel 5, the Ark is portrayed as afflicting humans (Philistines)
and deities (Dagon) alike with evil. In turn, those afflicted make even more cultic
Figure 5.14 An ivory panel from LB Ugarit showing a winged goddess with bull’s
horns and a Hathor-style headdress surmounted by a disk. She is suckling two
(royal?) individuals.
Photo from J. Gachet-Bizollon, “Le panneau de lit en ivoire de la cour III du palais royal d’Ougarit,”
Syria 78 (2001): 29, fig. 7, pl. 2/H. Reproduced by permission of Institut français du Proche-Orient
and Mission archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
images (five golden mice and five golden tumors in 1 Sam 6:4–15) to ward off the
ill effects. In Jeremiah 44:15–19, the Queen of Heaven brings prosperity (e.g.,
plenty of food) when proper cult such as incense and libations is presented, pre-
sumably to her statue, and tragedy (sword and famine) when left unattended.
In Malachi 3:20 (Eng 4:2), the “sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its
wings” (cf. the winged sun disks on the seals mentioned earlier).
In short, the fact that Jeremiah 10:5 urges people to
be not afraid of [illegitimate images],

for they cannot do evil
neither is it in them to do good
suggests that some people thought they could do both.

Images Taken in Battle: The Exile of Statues

Capturing divine images in battle and exiling them is well attested in text and ar-
chaeology. Year after year the Old Hittite king Ḫattušili I bragged about carrying
off the deities of the lands he conquered.69 Consider too an inscription from
Sargon II’s palace in Dūr-Šarrukīn (= modern Khorsabad) noting that after he
besieged and conquered the cities of Ashdod, Gi[mtu] (= Gath), and [Ashdod-
Yam], he declared the divine images to be booty.70 For iconography, consider the
famous depiction from Nimrud of Tiglath-Pileser III’s soldiers carrying away the
statues of the gods of the conquered city (Figure 5.15).71
The Levant has not preserved any such reliefs and very few texts. Nonetheless,
the texts we do have show that the practice was well known. In EA 134 we
read: “From time im[memorial] the g[ods] have not gone aw[ay] from Gubla.
[N]‌ow Aziru has sent troops t[o sei]ze it [Gubla] so that we must give up our gods
a[nd they have gone for]th.” In EA 252 we read Lab’ayu speaking: “The city, along
with my god, was seized. . . . I will guard the men that seized the city [and] my
god. They are the despoilers of my father, but I will guard them.” William Moran
(1992: 215, 305–306) notes that “by taking the statue or image of the family god,
Lab’ayu’s enemies had violated his family.”
In Judges 18:24, the Danites steal Micah’s cult images, prompting him to la-
ment, “You have taken away my gods.” Jeremiah 48:7 notes how the Moabite
deity Chemosh (i.e., his statue) will go forth into exile. In the only explicit occur-
rence of its kind in the Bible, we read of the Judean king Amaziah, after defeating
Figure 5.15 Tiglath-Pileser III’s soldiers carrying away captured statues of gods of a
conquered city.
Kim Walton, taken at the British Museum.
the Edomites, transporting their divine images back to Judah: “He installs them
as his gods, bows down to them, and offers incense to them” (2 Chr 25:14–16).72
The Destruction or Ritual Mutilation of Statues

At other times, the divine statue was destroyed rather than exiled. The spolia-
tion and mutilation of statues is well known in the ancient Near East, especially
in Assyrian texts, as shown by Morton Cogan.73 And yet, as shown by Amnon
Ben-Tor (2006: 11), “the intentional destruction of statues goes back to the third
millennium b.c.e.” Israel preserved its own paradigmatic event in the story of
Moses’ destruction of the so-called golden calf (specifically referred to as ʾĕlōhîm)
in Exodus 32:20 (on which see pp. 198–200).74
Taking his clue from Deuteronomy 7:25 (“The graven images of their gods you
shall burn with fire”),75 the Deuteronomist chronicles the destruction of cultic
images by numerous kings.76 David carries off and burns the images of retreating
Philistines (2 Sam 5:21; cf. 1 Chr 14:12).77 In 2 Samuel 12:30, David takes the
crown off the image of Milcom, the Ammonite god.78 Asa removes the “images
that his fathers had made,” cuts down an Asherah image (mipleṣet lā’ăšērāh), and
burns it at the brook of Kidron (1 Kgs 15:12–13). Similarly, Hezekiah and Josiah
break masseboth and cut down the asherah (hā’ăšērāh, 2 Kgs 18:4; 23:6, 14–15).
Hezekiah also breaks the Nehushtan into pieces (2 Kgs 18:4). Baal images are
destroyed by the kings Joram (2 Kgs 3:2) and Jehu (2 Kgs 10:26–27), as well as the
priest Jehoiada (2 Kgs 11:18).
Yet the Deuteronomist’s greatest delight is in relating a story that needs no king
to smash the enemy’s deity (1 Sam 5:1–5). Rather, it is a battle of divine images
punching it out, so to speak: in one corner is “the Ark of God,” in the other the
image of Dagon. Ben-Tor (2006: 14) has noted how “in all the cases of mutila-
tion” of statues at Hazor, “the heads and hands of the statues were the primary
targets.” He notes how the literary image of Dagon suffers the same fate: “Dagon’s
head and both his hands were lying broken off upon the threshold; only his trunk
was left intact” (1 Sam 5:4).
The Burial of Statues

The burial of statues (and other cult objects) is well attested in the archaeolog-
ical record but rarely attested in texts. For archaeology one thinks of favissae,
with examples ranging from the Ain Ghazal statues to the bronze hoard at Hazor
(see Figures 5.54 and 5.55). The rationale of such burials still needs further
unpacking. Are cultic images buried out of respect because they are sacral, or out
of disdain because they have lost some efficacy?79 Are the Hazor items heirlooms
or scrap metal? Our best textual reference is Genesis 35:4: “So they gave to Jacob
all the foreign gods that they had, and the rings that were in their ears; and Jacob
hid them under the oak which was near Shechem” (cf. Keel 1973).
Section III: The Iconography of Ugaritic ʾIlu
Having rehearsed how divine images were perceived in the ancient Near East in
general, one can now look closer at the iconography associated with Ugaritic ʾIlu
and then with Israelite El and Yahweh. It is helpful to summarize at the outset the
criteria for determining whether a specific object can be categorized as divine.
Criteria for Determining Divine Images
Ideally, one would hope to have an object that had a sufficient number of divine
markers to remove all doubt about its divine status. Preferably, to identify a di-
vine image one would like to see the use of precious metals and fine workman-
ship (investment of resources can correlate with prestige),80 headdresses with
divine markers (e.g., horns,81 “Hathor” hairdo), a body posture combined with
standards and/or other objects that in turn correlate with known functions (e.g.,
striding warrior gods wielding maces), and the use of attendant animals (e.g.,
bulls, lions, horses) or other motifs (e.g., sacred trees, snakes, caprids) associ-
ated with the divine in neighboring cultures. When we find such an object in
a cultic assemblage, in a location designated to be cultic by some other means
(see Zevit 2001: 81–266), or in a locus that indicates that the object was the clear
focus of cult, we rest even more certain about assigning a divine label. Yet even
here one must still search for nuances in order to determine whether the object
functioned as an attribute symbol directly representing the deity or as an object
associated with the paraphernalia surrounding the deity’s cult. Finally, most of
our doubts could be removed if only a figure could be accompanied by a clear
identifying inscription such as we have for deities in Egypt.82 Of course, meeting
the ideal criteria is nearly impossible for Levantine figurines. At every turn there
are a number of considerations, and scholars have been known both to rush to
judgment and to be overly circumspect.
Bronze Statuary of Ugaritic ʾIlu?
Iconography from Ugarit helps us understand how artisans visualized ʾIlu

using a mixture of mediums (bronze metallurgy and stone sculpture) and styles
(Syrian, Egyptian, and Anatolian).83 At the outset of studying such figurines, we
need to acknowledge once again that they could represent humans or deities
(most scholars see them as divine). Moreover, identifying a figurine with a spe-
cific deity is precarious when there is no accompanying inscription, a dilemma
for studying most anthropomorphic metal statuary (Moorey and Fleming 1984).
Nonetheless, in general, we can distinguish typologically at least two distinct

categories. The first category represents male deities usually striding and in a
smiting position. It is the better-attested of the two and often thought to repre-
sent a warrior or storm deity (= Negbi’s Type III).84 The second category deals
with “enthroned-benedictory” deities, represented as seated figures that “do not
carry weapons, but hold scepters, standards, cups, bowls and goblets . . . [They]
are usually depicted with their right hand raised in a gesture of benediction”
(Negbi 1976: 46). The latter group is attested at Ugarit in the four well-known
examples seen in Figures 5.16, 5.18, 5.19, and 5.20.85
For all its majesty, Figure 5.16 comes not from where one might expect (from
the area of the two acropolis temples or from the House of the Magician-Priest),
but rather from the South City Trench at Ugarit, a densely populated residen-
tial area. This once again underscores the need to appreciate family and com-
munity religion.86 The figurine was once horned, to judge from the drill holes
Figure 5.16 Bronze statuette with gold foil from Ugarit likely depicting the
enthroned god ʾIlu. Drill holes appear above the ears, giving evidence that the figure
originally had horns, a common symbol of divinity in the ancient Near East.
Figure 5.17 A divine image from Late Bronze Age Hama.

Courtesy Dick Osseman.
located above the ears.87 Its right hand is raised in a benedictory pose, while its
left hand once held an object that is now missing. It was found along with an ex-
quisite bronze figurine of the god Baʿlu. A similar figurine can be found in the
enthroned male from Late Bronze Age Hama (Figure 5.17).
Other Anthropomorphic Representations of Ugaritic ʾIlu?
A serpentine stela (Figure 5.18) depicts a cultic scene with an attendant engaged
in a ritual act (holding a libation jug in his left hand and a staff of some kind in his
right). He is standing before an enthroned bearded figure with a horned crown
and elaborate garment, his feet resting on a footstool. This stela also comes from
a crowded residential quarter, this one to the south of the acropolis temples.88
A similar scene can be found on the drinking mug (Figure 5.19) already men-
tioned (see pp. 122–124). Because this mug was found in the so-called House
of the Magician-Priest, Yon (2006: 147) argues that “the religious and magical
Figure 5.18 Serpentine stela from Ugarit likely depicting the god ʾIlu.
Drawing from C. F. A. Schaeffer, “Les fouilles de Ras Shamra–Ugarit huitième campagne (printemps
1936): rapport sommaire,” Syria 18, no. 2 (1937): pl. 17. Reproduced by permission of Institut
français du Proche-Orient and Mission archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
Figure 5.19 A drinking mug from Late Bronze Age Ugarit found in the so-called
House of the Magician-Priest in the south acropolis.
context in which the vase was discovered confirms that this is a cultic scene with
symbolic elements.”89 Here too an officiant (bearded) is standing before an of-
fering table that is in front of an enthroned bearded male. In his right hand he
holds a libation (rhyton?) vessel. Breakage keeps us from knowing what was in
his left hand. Yon’s identification of the officiant as the king makes good sense
here (and would equally apply to our Figure 5.18, from what we know of the
royal cult, especially through the ritual texts).90 Alternatively, the officiant could
be a priestly figure. The names of elite male cultic personnel that we happen to
know include ʾAttānu-purulini (diviner?);91 the chief priest (rb khnm), who was
also the chief of the cultic herdsmen (rb nqdm; KTU 1.6.6.55–56); Ḫurāṣānu, the
chief priest (ḫrṣn rb khnm; KTU 6.10);92 and ʾAgapṯarri, a diviner mentioned in
liver models used for divination (KTU 1.141; RS 24.325).93
Figure 5.20 comes from the so-called Rhyton Sanctuary, one of the best
examples in the ancient Near East of a local sanctuary positioned in the heart of
the domestic sections of the city (the Center City at Ras Shamra).94 The religious
Figure 5.20 A limestone statuette depicting an enthroned male (ʾIlu?) from the so-
called Rhyton Sanctuary at Ugarit, located in a residential district.
activities practiced within this residential cult complex (which included an oil
press) were thriving at the same time as those taking place within the two acrop-
olis temples, the palace, and the royal sacred space known as the Hurrian temple.
Yet, as Yon (1996: 416) underscores, the rhyton “temple did not have the status
of those of the acropolis: this can be observed both in the mediocre quality of the
architecture and the common quality of the offerings and furnishings found as-
sociated with it. There are no royal aspects.”
The handsome statuette is carved from limestone. The enthroned male once
looked even more regal with arms and inlaid eyes (now lost through the ravages
of time).95 We cannot be certain whether this individual is a human being of high
rank or a deity. Most if not all scholars argue for the latter, especially because of
the exquisite workmanship, yet the absence of horns (a common symbol of di-
vinity) gives us slight pause.
Figures 5.16, 5.18, 5.19, and 5.20, while not uniform in all respects (note, for
example, the unusual raised left hand in Figure 5.18 and the absence of horns in
Figure 5.20), seem to represent the deity ʾIlu (a consensus among scholars) be-
cause their physical representations coincide with the description of ʾIlu we find
in Ugaritic literature (bearded, aged, bull [= horned], benevolent, enthroned with
footstool, etc.). One would be hard pressed to find another Ugaritic deity whose tex-
tual description comes anywhere close to combining all of the features that we see
depicted graphically in these figurines. Baʿlu, for example, has horns (Curtis 1990),
and there is also mention of his footstool (KTU 1.6.1.59–60), but nowhere at Ugarit
is he depicted as an aged deity wearing a beard. Thus ʾIlu is the obvious choice for the
deity in these representations. One is tempted to compare the bare feet (though with
exquisite sandals in Figure 5.16) in the iconography with KTU 1.4.4.29–30, where
ʾIlu seems to be tapping his toes with delight at the approach of ʾAthiratu!96
Excursus on a Seal from Mari
For practical purposes we have restricted our study of the Late Bronze Age
backdrop of Israelite divinity (especially El worship) to Ugarit, with its rich
documentation in text and object. Yet in the present case, one other exem-
plar needs to be mentioned because of the extensive argument made by one
of the world’s leading specialists in Near Eastern iconography, Othmar Keel
(1997: 47–49; 1986: 309), who in turn was building on the work of Pierre
Amiet (1960).97 A well-known cylinder seal from Mari (Figure 5.21) depicts a
deity enthroned on a mountain from which flow rivers (out of serpents’ heads)
that blend with two flanking goddesses who in turn produce tree branches.
Though the image presents obvious connections to Ea and Anu, Keel suggests
that because of Mari’s geographic location “the god on the mountain could
Figure 5.21 A cylinder seal from Mari depicting a deity enthroned on a mountain
from which flow rivers (out of serpents’ heads) that blend with two flanking
goddesses who in turn produce tree branches.
From Helene J. Kantor, “Landscape in Akkadian Art,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 25.3 (1966)
Plate XV, Fig. 4. Courtesy of the Journal of Near Eastern Studies. Drawing by Helene J. Kantor.
therefore be taken as the Canaanite El or some related figure.” Using the

Ugaritic reference to ʾIlu’s mountain abode being located “in the midst of the
sources of the two oceans” (see Chapter Four, p. 76), Keel concludes that “El,
like the god of the mountain [in this figure], unites in himself aspects both of
Anu and Ea.”
As tempting as this interpretation is, it should be noted that the seal in
question comes from circa 2350–2150 BCE.98 While religious motifs can be
long-lasting, such a large gap in time between the date of this seal and the Late
Bronze Age should prompt caution.
Theriomorphic Representations of Ugaritic ʾIlu?
In agrarian societies it is not surprising that gods were associated with animals,
as we can clearly see in the well-attested iconographic motifs of “the lord of the
animals” and “the mistress of animals.”99 Deities were also commonly associated
with majestic animals in the ancient Near East, thereby absorbing metaphori-
cally the beast’s strength, virility, and power. Evidence can be found in the animal
epithets used of deities in literary texts and onomastica.100 In material culture
we find both divine images of the deity in theriomorphic form and small votive
statuettes of a particular animal that were given as a fitting offering to a deity.
Though fluctuations could occur, including what Tallay Ornan (2001, 2006: 303)
Figure 5.22 A Hittite king worshipping before a bull image of the storm god from
the city gate at Alaca Höyük.
Photograph courtesy of Billie Jean Collins.
terms “visual syncretism,” many deities had one particular animal with which
they were associated, such as Ishtar’s lion, Marduk’s mušḫuššu dragon, Hathor’s
cow, Anubis’ jackal, Bastet and Sekhmet’s lion, Khnum’s ram, Hadad’s bull,
Astarte’s horse, and so on. Such animals were attribute animals that represented
the deity in a tangible way. Compare, for example, the bull image (Figure 5.22) on
the orthostat relief from the city gate at Alaca Höyük, which clearly represented
the Hittite storm god receiving worship from the king.101
One of the most common artistic motifs was to depict deities mounted on
the backs of such animals.102 Examples abound, such as the procession of the
gods pictured in Figure 5.13. In this relief from Maltai, we see various gods
standing on dragons, bulls, lions, and horses. Artisans commonly pictured
warrior deities and storm deities riding on the backs of bulls (and occasionally
lions; cf. ANEP §486). The widespread nature of this motif can be seen through
the examples coming from Jekke (Figure 5.23), Arslan Tash (Figure 5.24), Tell
Ahmar (Figure 5.25), Ahmar/Qubbah (Figure 5.26), Hazor (Figure 5.27), and
Byblos (Figure 5.28). A variant theme has a bull pulling the storm god’s chariot
(Figure 5.29).103
Of special note are deities mounted on the hybrid or composite animals
sometimes referred to as Mischwesen (see Figure 5.30).104 Mischwesen show up
in biblical tradition in a variety of dragon creatures (cf. Lewis 1996b) as well
Figure 5.23 A mid-eighth-century BCE stela from Jekke, Syria, depicting the storm
god standing on the back of a bull.
Courtesy Theodore J. Lewis.
as in the cherubim, beings that mix together, at least according to the prophet
Ezekiel, features of humans, lions, birds, and bulls. The appearance of such fan-
tastic beasts complemented mythological texts that described otherworldly
creatures. In one particular genre (the so-called Chaoskampf traditions), we
read of divine battles that were elevated to a cosmic scale because of the na-
ture of such foes. Warrior gods (e.g., Marduk in Enuma Elish or Baʿlu in the
Baʿlu Cycle) demonstrated their sovereign majesty by defeating overwhelming
powers (often labeled “chaos monsters”) that made even other gods shudder in
fear. (See the detailed discussion of Chaoskampf traditions in Chapter Eight,
pp. 430–461.)
In light of this, it is easily within the realm of consideration to interpret an-
imal images as describing the deity ʾIlu at Ugarit, and especially to nominate
bull figurines because of the divine epithet “the Bull,” which ʾIlu alone bears.
However, even though bronze bulls have been found in Ugarit’s archaeological
record, it is difficult to determine whether they were used as divine symbols. One
Figure 5.24 A stela from Arslan Tash (eighth century BCE) depicting a striding god
wielding two double tridents (lightning?) and standing on a bull.
Kim Walton, taken at the Louvre.
cannot judge merely by craftsmanship. For example, one splendidly fashioned

recumbent bronze bull found at Ugarit (see Yon 2006: 171 §65) has the figure
“20” carved into its side, representing twenty units of measurement, and thus it is
surely a weight. Even if a cultic context can be demonstrated, such items may be
votive offerings to a deity rather than representations of a deity in theriomorphic
form. Indeed, an exquisitely fashioned bull from third-millennium Iran (Figure
5.31) shocks our culturally based assumptions when we realize that the ancients
could even depict bulls in human posture and clothes lifting up hooves in an act
of supplication. With these cautions in mind, we can suggest Figure 5.32 as the
best candidate for representing “Bull ʾIlu” at Ugarit.
Olivier Callot (1994: 187, 224) has documented how this figurine was found
together with two very well-known divine images, one of ʾIlu (Figure 5.16),
the other of Baal.105 This context, together with the bronze’s superb crafts-
manship and features (“a powerful bull with strongly emphasized sexual
organs”), may suggest ʾIlu (so too Schaeffer [1966: 4–5], who equated it with
Figure 5.25 A basalt stela from Tell Ahmar depicting a smiting storm god with axe,
trident, and sword standing on the back of a bull.
our Figure 5.16).106 Compare again “Bull ʾIlu,” who brags about his sexual na-
ture in KTU 1.4.4.38–39 (cf. KTU 1.23). A. H. W. Curtis (1990: 31) argues that
“Bull” is a fitting epithet for ʾIlu even if he is not strongly connected to fertility at
Ugarit because the term can equally refer to the qualities of strength and dignity.
Less likely, the bronze figurine here could refer to Baʿlu, who is also associated
with bulls (although he does not bear the epithet tr, “bull”)107 and fertility, yet
his iconography (a striding storm/warrior figurine sometimes portrayed with
horns) is strikingly different.108 It would seem prudent to distinguish between
freestanding bull figurines and the common representation of the storm deity
riding on top of a bull (see Figures 5.23–5.28). Cornelius (1994: 165, 228) goes
so far as to say that “the title ‘bull’ is the prerogative of ʾIlu.” He concludes that
“Baʿal is never represented as a bull” and that “Baʿal is never depicted as a bull in
(old) Canaanite iconography . . . although he has bull horns [with an anthropo-
morphic body].” 109
Figure 5.26 A stela from northern Syria depicting a smiting storm god with axe,
trident, and sword standing on the back of a bull. It was found in 1999 between the
modern village of Qubbah and the site of Tell Ahmar.
Photo from G. Bunnens, A New Luwian Stele and the Cult of the Storm God at Til Barsip (Peeters,
2006), 140, fig. 7. Courtesy Peeters Publishers.
Though our focus has been on Ugaritic ʾIlu, it should be noted that Levantine
bull images within cultic contexts appear elsewhere and they too should be
examined when considering theriomorphic images of Canaanite ʾIlu/El. Three
freestanding bulls are of particular note.110 A bronze statuette of a mature zebu
bull acquired by the Ashmolean museum in 1889 is of particularly fine work-
manship. Moorey (1971) dates it to the eighth century BCE and notes North
Syrian and Urartian stylistic influences. Regrettably, the statuette (which Moorey
considers “a miniature version of a monumental votive statue of a bull”) is
unprovenanced, and thus any attempt to relate it to a deity would be speculative.
A small bronze bull statuette (Figure 5.33) once coated with silver was found at
Middle Bronze Age II Ashkelon (ca. 1600 BCE). This superbly fashioned statuette
(4 in. [10 cm] high, 4 in. [10 cm] long) was found together with a pottery model
Figure 5.27 A statue of a storm god adorned with a crescent-and-disc emblem

and sword standing on a bull from Hazor Temple H, stratum 1B (fourteenth
century BCE).
Courtesy of the Selz Foundation Hazor Excavations in Memory of Yigael Yadin. Photo by Kim
Walton, taken at the Israel Museum.
shrine complete with miniature doorway (Stager 2008: 577–580). Consider too
the bronze bull statuette (Figure 5.34) from the Phoenician temple of “the Lady
of Byblos” (nineteenth/eighteenth century BCE). Yet a simple, astute observa-
tion by Daniel Fleming gives us pause: these two images are of slender young
bull calves, not muscular, fully grown bulls.111 Fleming (1999a: 23*) argues that
“El’s identity as bull, not calf, is inseparable from his position as head of the gods.
He stands in the generation of the divine parents and cannot equally be treated
as a calf.” In order to support this thesis, Fleming notes how the description of
the young bull calf is not used of senior members of pantheons in the ancient
Near East such as Anu, Enlil, Taru, Teššub, and ʾIlu. A term such as “calf,” desig-
nating offspring, would naturally be inappropriate for heads of the pantheons.
Thus we agree with Fleming (1999a: 25*) when he concludes: “Surely, then, the
calves from Middle Bronze Ashkelon and Byblos do not represent El or a god of
Figure 5.28 A male figure astride a bull from Byblos.

© Philippe Maillard/akg-images.
equivalent status.” The best alternative is to see the god Baʿlu/Haddu represented
by such young bull calves.112
Section IV: The Iconography of Israelite El
Iconography: What Did Israelite El Look Like?
One might think that it would be easy to find pictures of the divine in ancient
Israel’s material culture. A glance at the wall paintings and statuary of ancient
Egypt or the kudurru stones, clay figurines, and glyptic art from Mesopotamia
(not to mention the Ugaritic material previously rehearsed) shows a celebra-
tion of divinity in all types of artistic media. Divine symbols in all shapes and
sizes (anthropomorphic, theriomorphic, astral, vegetative, emblems, standards,
etc.) were woven into the fabric of ancient Near Eastern societies. In contrast,
Iron Age Israel, with its lack of physical representations of male divinity, is
Figure 5.29 A bull pulling the storm god’s chariot from the temple on the Aleppo
Citadel.
Mission Archéologique d’Alep/Kay Kohlmeyer.
exceptional. (The rationale for the aniconic tradition in ancient Israel is taken
up on pp. 333–426.) In contrast to the absence of concrete representations, lit-
erary texts freely employ anthropomorphic language for El and Yahweh. There
are, however, certain depictions for which we have no evidence even here. For
example, in contrast to Ugaritic ʾIlu, Israelite El is never portrayed imbibing to
the point of inebriation (cf. KTU 1.114) or engaging in sexual intercourse (cf.
KTU 1.23).
Bronze Statuary of Pre-Israelite/Israelite El?

This is not the place to interact with the numerous studies on Syro-Palestinian
bronze statuary.113 As with the figures from ancient Syria, we can distinguish
typologically two distinct categories in ancient Israel: (1) male storm/warrior
deities, usually striding and in a smiting position, and (2) enthroned benedictory
deities, who do not brandish a weapon but rather hold a variety of objects, often
those involved with banqueting. The second category is relevant for Israelite El,
who was seen to be a sovereign yet benevolent father. A gesture of benediction
from an enthroned patriarch would fit what we know of his character from tex-
tual sources. Though Israelite El was able to fight to protect his kinsmen, the lack
Figure 5.30 A Neo-Assyrian depiction of Aššur riding on the back of a Mischwesen

creature.
Kim Walton, taken at the Vorderasiatisches Museum, Berlin.
of textual descriptions of him as a striding storm/warrior deity makes the first

category unlikely.
In the second category (enthroned males in benedictory pose) there are sev-
eral candidates to consider for unpacking the possibility of El worship. Most of
the male figurines to be discussed here come from the Late Bronze Age, and those
that have been found in later Iron Age contexts have been seen to be heirlooms of
the Late Bronze period by most scholars.
A bronze figurine from Hazor (Figure 5.35; from Area B, stratum XI, found
in a jar under the floor of locus 3283) is a case in point. As we have seen, Dever
wrote in 1983 that “no representations of a male deity in terra cotta, metal, or
stone, have ever been found in clear Iron Age contexts, except possibly for an El
statuette in bronze from 12th-century Hazor.”114 Dever wisely questioned whether
the context was “necessarily Israelite.”115 In contrast, much was made of the fig-
urine by Ahlström, who called it “an Israelite god figurine” (my italics); rather
Figure 5.31 A silver bull in human posture and dress holding a Proto-Elamite
spouted vase, ca. 2900 BCE.
Courtesy The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
than seeing a reference to El, Ahlström suggested that here we have “Yahweh or
Yahweh-El.”116
A closer look at the archaeological picture shows that Ahlström was mis-
taken, as Keel and William Hallo surmised early on.117 According to Dever,
much of this interpretation can be traced back to Yigael Yadin’s interest in
showing an Israelite presence at Hazor. But what Yadin and Ahlström call a
“foundation deposit” is in reality a hoard of Late Bronze Age (thirteenth cen-
tury BCE) implements (cf. the hoard of such material at Byblos). Today most
if not all scholars identify this bronze and the other objects found alongside as
remnants of earlier, pre-Israelite material culture.118 (See pp. 180–184 on the
cultic space in which this bronze figurine was found.) Thus Ahlström’s iden-
tification with Yahweh is impossible. As a seated figurine in benedictory pose
(cf. Negbi 1976: 46), the figure would be analogous to the four Ugaritic ʾIlu fig-
ures mentioned earlier, but note the lack of a beard.119 The lack of horns makes
Ronald Hendel wonder whether it might be human rather than divine (Hendel
Figure 5.32 A bronze figurine of a muscular bull (ʾIlu?) standing on a plinth found
in the south city of Ugarit together with several statuettes of deities, including
Figure 5.16.
From C. F. A. Schaeffer, “Nouveaux témoignages du culte de El et de Baal à Ras Shamra–Ugarit et
ailleurs en Syrie-Palestine,” Syria 43 (1966): pl. I. Reproduced by permission of Institut français du
Proche-Orient and Mission archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
1997: 212; Negbi 1989: 358–359; cf. Moorey and Fleming 1984; see Figures 5.20
and 5.36, 5.38–5.43, all without horns).
A 13.75-in. (35 cm) bronze figurine once coated with precious metal (Figure
5.36) was found in the 1996 excavations at Hazor directed by Ben-Tor.120 Ornan
(2011: 255) observes that we have here “the largest seated statue known so far
from the preclassical Levant.” This meticulously made figurine was found
in a Late Bronze context, deliberately buried (“to protect from desecration by
marauders,” suggest Ben-Tor and Rubiato [1999: 36]) in one of the side rooms
next to the throne room of Area A of the acropolis in the heart of the upper city.
Presumed to be a deity because of his elaborate dress and crown, this figure is
seated in a benedictory pose and thus is similar to enthroned figures thought to
designate the deity El. At the same time, the raised right hand of this figurine is
turned to the side and parallel to the chest, and the figure is beardless.121
Figure 5.33 A bronze bull calf statuette with silver overlay from Ashkelon and its
model shrine (Middle Bronze Age IIC, ca. 1600 BCE).
Kim Walton, taken at the Israel Museum.
Ornan sees this figurine as representing Baal because of the depiction of

the “tree and horned animals” motif that appears on the statue’s crown (Figure
5.37). This motif is well known, especially in the Levant, to illustrate the connec-
tion of female divinity with the abundance of flora and fauna (Ornan 2011: 267–
269).122 Ornan (2011: 268, 271) argues that the motif of the abundance of nature
is significant for identifying the deity in question and concludes (based espe-
cially on Ugaritic parallels) “that the Hazor statue can be identified as Baʿal, who
was strongly associated with the fertility of the land by virtue of his patronage
of rains and storms.” Ornan is certainly correct to point to other iconography
that associated Baal with plant life, such as the vegetation growing out of his
lance on the famous Ugaritic Baal au foudre stela or the god with a plant-like
(or feather-like?) crown on a stela found west of the temple of Baʿlu.123 And
yet for another male deity who is better situated as the patron of abundance of
flora and fauna, one must consider the deity El. This is especially underscored
Figure 5.34 A bronze bull statuette from the Phoenician temple of the “Lady of
Byblos” (nineteenth–eighteenth century BCE).
Wikimedia Commons. Photo courtesy of Tangopaso.
in the Ugaritic text KTU 1.23, where ʾIlu is “the Guardian of the sown land” (nǵr
mdrʿ), who provides bounty with respect to both fertile fields and steppe lands,
where sheep and goat pastoralism was supplemented by hunting activity.124 The
synergy between god (ʾIlu) and king as being responsible for agricultural suste-
nance in KTU 1.23 would parallel the divine/royal profile of Hazor Area A. In
short, Baal does not have a corner on fertility and other agrarian concerns, nor
on royal cult.
Rather than positing a new style type for this Hazor bronze (Ornan’s
[2011: 279] “the Reigning Baʿal”), one could argue that if El is designated in
Figure 5.36, it would be a good fit for the general typology, where more often
than not Baal figures are striding with arm raised whereas El-type figures are
seated in benedictory pose. The striding male figurine (Baal?) in smiting pose
(Figure 5.38) found in the palace courtyard could suggest that the artisans at
Hazor held to this general typology. On the other hand, Ornan (2011: 276–277)
makes the astute observation that at Ugarit Baal certainly sits enthroned, and this
is tied to his royal nature. Yet as we have seen in Chapter Four, ʾIlu too is king, and
he too exercises his royal (and lifegiving) sovereignty over Motu, whose rule was
Figure 5.35 A bronze figurine from Hazor from Area B, stratum XI, found in a jar
under the floor of Locus 3283.
characterized by drought and death (KTU 1.6.6.27–29; KTU 1.23.8–9; see Lewis
forthcoming a).
Firmer conclusions will be possible only with the final excavation reports,
when these figurines are understood within their broader cultic context, which
also included an enthroned ruler and three small bronze bull figurines (Ben-Tor
and Rubiato 1999: 35–36; Ben-Tor 2016: 105–106, 109–110; cf. Ornan 2011: 253–
254).125 Hazor’s well-developed cults that centered around standing stones must
also be factored into our considerations (see pp. 176–183).
Hazor’s expansive economic base and relations with countries far and wide—
consider the mention of Hazor in Egyptian and Mari texts (cf. Ben-Tor 1997) as
well as the fifteen cuneiform inscriptions found at Hazor (including two texts
from the Amarna period),126 not to mention an ivory box with Hathor images
(Ben-Tor and Rubiato 1999: 35)—warn against looking only at Northwest
Semitic deities for the identity of these bronze figurines. On the other hand,
whereas Mari personal names contain both eastern and western theophoric
Figure 5.36 A large seated bronze figurine from Hazor (Area A) with elaborate
dress and crown (Late Bronze Age).
names, to date the Hazor cuneiform archive yields no clear example of an eastern
deity. Those names that we do possess argue, once again, for El and Adad, with
Ruhama Bonfil (1997: 101, followed by Hesse 2008: 163) privileging El as the pri-
mary deity worshipped in Hazor Area A.127
There are other examples of enthroned male figurines. See Ora Negbi’s con-
venient compilation, which includes bronzes from Beth-Shemesh (Figure 5.39;
loc. 135, str. III; Negbi #1450), Megiddo (Figure 5.40; loc. 2048; str. VII–VI;
Negbi fig. 59, #1453),128 Beth-Shean (Figure 5.41; level V southern temple; Negbi
#1448), and Tel Kinneret (Figure 5.42), as well as an unprovenanced bronze
housed in the Harvard Semitic Museum that is said to have come from Nablus
(Figure 5.43; Negbi #1449).129
All of these figurines seem to be representative of the Late Bronze Age. The
Beth-Shemesh bronze (Figure 5.39) was labeled Iron I by Negbi, following
Donald Hansen.130 G. E. Wright had noted that this bronze was out of context
and probably belongs to stratum IV (= LB).131 Dever has noted that this too is
Figure 5.37 A “tree and horned animals” motif that appears on the crown of the
male figure from Hazor depicted in Figure 5.36.
From Tallay Ornan, “ ‘Let Baʿal Be Enthroned’: The Date, Identification, and Function of a Bronze
Statue from Hazor,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 70, no. 2: 253–280. Courtesy of the Journal of
Near Eastern Studies. Drawing by Helena Bitan.
an LB heirloom.132 Similarly, even though the Tel Kinneret (Tell el-ʿOreimeh)

figurine (Figure 5.42) was found in an Iron Age (eighth-century BCE) context,
Volkmar Fritz (1993: 300), who identifies it with El, states that “according to its
style it was manufactured in the Late Bronze Age.” The Iron Age dating suggested
for the Harvard Semitic Museum bronze (Figure 5.43) said to have come from
Nablus has no foundation. Hansen (1957: 15) prefers the fourteenth century for
this figurine, dating it “with the Palestinian group of the Late Bronze and Iron I
Ages” (my emphasis). Without a provenance, any assignment to the Iron Age
is baseless (Lewis 1996a: 418–422). Thus it seems best to conclude, along with
Hendel (1997: 216–217), that these bronzes
are Late Bronze Age types that represent what P. R. S. Moorey and S. Fleming
(1984: 73) define as “the end of the Canaanite tradition in the region to be oc-
cupied by the kingdoms of Judah and Israel.” These types were no longer pro-
duced after the eleventh and tenth centuries BCE. . . . Some of these figurines
may have been objects of cult, while others may have been kept as heirlooms or
antiquities.
As with the Hazor bronzes, we cannot be sure of the identity of these figurines.
Given the relatively large size (approx. 9.8 in. [25 cm]) of the Megiddo bronze,
its gold-leaf covering, its headdress, its pose, and its find spot (Temple 2048),
Figure 5.38 A striding male figurine (Baal?) in smiting pose found at Hazor in the
palace courtyard.
scholars readily identify it as a divine image. The other bronzes, while not as well
marked for divinity, have some combination of indicators such that scholars
regularly identify them as divine figurines. If these figurines do indeed repre-
sent deities (which seems likely), they are of the subgroup that includes El but
is not restricted to him. Signs of foreign influence (e.g., the w3s-scepter on the
Beth-Shean figurine [Figure 5.41]) caution us not to restrict our identifications
to the West Semitic realm.133 All we can conclude with some certainty is that
these figurines do not seem to represent storm and/or warrior figures, so such
deities known from the regional pantheon as Baal, Hadad, Reshep, and Rakib-el
need to be set aside.134 We cannot be certain that these figurines represent El.
Even in those instances where one might wish to align the material record with
biblical tradition (the Nablus/“Shechem” figure with pre-Israelite El Berith?),
we cannot extrapolate any firm evidence that would help us understand how El
was portrayed in Iron Age Israel.135 The closest we would come would be the Tel
Kinneret bronze because of its use in the Iron IIB period (Fritz 1990: 115).
Figure 5.39 A seated male bronze figurine from Beth Shemesh.

Courtesy Haverford College.
The Beth Shean Seal

Keel and Uehlinger have argued in detail that a cylinder seal from Beth Shean
(Figure 5.44) helps document the importance of El worship, especially in the
Iron Age IIC period.136 Using epigraphic data such the ʾl qn ʾrṣ inscription from
Jerusalem (see Chapter Four, p. 81) and the Khirbet Beit Lei inscriptions (see
Chapter Six, p. 245) combined with the biblical El-Elyon traditions, they go so
far as to assert that “El-aspects advance into the foreground of the Palestinian
religious symbol system during Iron Age IIC, especially in the central parts of the
country” (1998: 311, fig. 308; Uehlinger 1997: 142).
The seal appears in two registers and represents, in Keel and Uehlinger’s
(1998: 312) words, “an iconographic anthology of deities and other numinous
beings.” The primary figures in the upper register include a winged “Lord (?) of the
Animals” and a kneeling archer in a hunting scene together with a standing caprid
in the middle and a winged composite animal on the right below the archer and
his prey. According to Keel and Uehlinger, the lower register stands in “remarkable
contrast.” From left to right we have another (but different) winged composite an-
imal, a tall jar, a stylized tree, a caprid, an upright male holding an object (a fan?), a
small figure with a long pointed object, a seated bearded male wrapped in a lengthy
garment and holding a jug, another (but different) stylized tree, and an armed man.
Such a complex symbol set urges caution. The multiplicity of images and scenes
makes a uniform interpretation difficult. Yet Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 313) con-
clude that the lower register portrays “one complex constellation.” Moreover, “the
Figure 5.40 A seated Late Bronze Age II male bronze figurine gilded with gold leaf
from Megiddo.
Courtesy of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.
juxtaposition of the . . . enthroned male figure and the . . . cultic symbol, which
mediates the blessing of the god in the form of a stylized tree, points clearly to the
fact that this is a representation of El and ‘his asherah’” (1998: 314, italics theirs,
underlining mine).137 They conclude by noting that here we have a “completely
independent confirmation for the interpretation of the meaning ‘Yahweh . . . and
his asherah’ ” in the inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud and Khirbet el-Qom (on
which see Chapter Six, pp. 236–243, and Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330).
Yet the difficulties in interpreting the evidence from this cylinder seal provide
enough reasonable doubt that such a certain verdict cannot be rendered. Who,
for example, is the “armed man” behind the seated figure, and how does he func-
tion? The royal images in the bottom register also present problems. Keel and
Uehlinger write:
In front of the [seated figure] stands a servant with fan or brush.138 A compa-
rable figure never appears in front of a god in contemporary glyptic art; one
Figure 5.41 A seated Late Bronze Age male bronze figurine from Beth-Shean
holding a w3s-scepter.
does appear, however, in the Neo-Assyrian cultic scenes in front of a standing

or seated king. . . . Aspects that are connected with a king’s display of his royalty
that appear frequently in Neo-Assyrian cylinder seal glyptic art (a servant with
a brush, a cup being raised) appear here as well, in the royal imagery. (Keel and
Uehlinger 1998: 313–314, emphasis mine)
In light of these data, Keel and Uehlinger’s solution, that the royal imagery
“portrays a local deity,” is not convincing.139 In addition, they argue that the
asherah is represented here by a “conflation” of two separate motifs associated
with the goddess elsewhere, the winged creature and the caprid, who appear to
the left and right, respectively, of the stylized tree. Granted, the goddess Asherah
may be portrayed elsewhere by flanked caprids and lions, yet as we saw with
Figure 5.37, so is the male deity from Hazor Area A. The use of single creatures
here and the unexplained tall jug (to the left of the tree), which interrupts such
a clean portrayal, when added to the royal imagery that suggests a human king
Figure 5.42 A bronze seated figure from Tell el-ʿOreme (Tel Kinneret), likely Late
Bronze Age II.
(not to mention the unexplained armed man), add up to too much uncertainty
to confirm their assertion that this seal “clearly” depicts “El and ‘his asherah.’ ”
Lastly, while ʾIlu and ʾAthiratu are attested as a pair at Late Bronze Age Ugarit,
our Iron Age Judean sources (i.e., epigraphic material and the biblical tradition)
suggest the pairing of Baal and/or Yahweh with the asherah, not El.
Masseboth as Representations of El?
The etymological origin of cultic stones known as betyls or baetyls (from bēt-ʾel,
“the house of God/El”) predisposes us to look for ways in which sacred stones
were envisioned as physical representations of the deity El.140 Primarily as a re-
sult of research by Mettinger (esp. 1995), who builds much of his foundation on
the work of the archaeologist Uzi Avner, scholars have been reanalyzing how
standing stones known as masseboth (sing. massebah) may represent divine
Figure 5.43 An unprovenanced seated male bronze figure that is said to have come
from Nablus. Harvard Semitic Museum 1907.3.1.
Courtesy of the Semitic Museum, Harvard University.
Figure 5.44 A cylinder seal from Beth Shean with two registers depicting numerous
scenes including a “lord of the animals” and kneeling archer (top) as well as a
stylized tree and seated bearded male (bottom).
Image from O. Keel and C. Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God. © Fortress Press.
Reproduced by permission.
symbols.141 As for a massebah representing a divine symbol of El, Mettinger

looks to the description of worship at Bethel found in Genesis 28. He writes: “The
pre-Yahwistic cult at Bethel was focussed on an El deity (with a standing stone
as the major manifestation of his presence)” (1997b: 192; cf. 1995: 140–141).
Similarly, Marjo Korpel (1999a: 819) equates standing stones with ancestor cults,
which are—“at least at Hazor”—associated with a cult of El (cf. de Moor 1995a;
Bonfil 1997: 100–101).
The interpretation of the masseboth material (archaeological and textual) is
tricky business, with pitfalls everywhere. One need only remember failed past
attempts where architectural pillars were mistakenly viewed as divine because
of the strong desire to interpret every object coming out of the ground as cultic
(Shiloh 1979: 147). In addition, archaeologists must decide whether to interpret
a fallen slab as a massebah, a house pillar, a table, or an altar. As for textual in-
terpretation, Carl Graesser (1969: 1–25; 1972) has documented a long history
of scholarship that introduced extraneous items (e.g., primitive stone worship,
phallic symbols, sacred mountains) into the reading of a text.
Mettinger (1995: 32, 37) concludes too strongly that “the cultic function
seems to me to be predominant” and, with even less justification, that the “cultic
masseboth must be regarded as aniconic representations of the divine.” Even if
he were correct with the first claim, this by no means implies the second. The
archaeological record is simply replete with standing stones in all shapes, sizes,
and number, and it would be naive to think that every grouping documents a
pantheon.142 The same can be said of the textual material. There are two passages
that do indeed indicate that a massebah could represent a divine symbol.
(Unfortunately for the present discussion, neither is associated with El.) 2 Kings
3:2 specifically mentions “the massebah of Baal which his father made,” and in 2
Kings 10:26–27 we read of “the massebah of Baal,” which resided in “the temple
of Baal,” demolished during Jehu’s purge (cf. 2 Kgs 23:14).143 It is equally clear
that there are standing stones that did not mark the deity’s presence. Masseboth
could function as tombstones (for Rachel, Gen 35:19–20), as boundary markers
(between Jacob and Laban; Gen 31:44–49), as markers for twelve tribes (Exod
24:3–8), and as a surrogate for a male heir (2 Sam 18:18).144 In none of these
passages is a massebah symbolic of a deity. None of the four biblical passages
that Mettinger (1995: 140) proposes to show “masseboth as representations of the
deity” is explicit (cf. Lewis 1998).
What makes matters even more difficult are the clear indications that
masseboth could be used to mark encounters with a deity and not the deity
per se. Here it is instructive to look at the related verbal root nṣb/yṣb, where
the deity acts as subject. As Joseph Reindl (1998: 528) has observed, in the
Hebrew Bible there are eight occurrences of Yahweh/Elohim in this capacity,
with an additional four occurrences that have the quasi-divine malʾak-Yahweh
as subject (on which see Chapter Seven, pp. 349–353). In several of these
episodes, God “stands” before an individual in a dream or a vision (e.g., with
Jacob in Gen 28:23; with Amos in Amos 7:7; 9:1; with the boy Samuel in 1
Sam 3:10). In yet another, Yahweh “stands” before Moses via a cloud (Exod
34:5). In Psalm 82:1, God “stands” among the deities who make up the divine
council (cf. Job 1:6; 2:1). In the Balaam oracles, the malʾak-Yahweh “stands” in
the road, visible to the donkey but not to the human Balaam (Num 22:22–23,
31, 34). It is clear from all of these passages that the authors are not speaking of
a physical entity that one could see in real (non-dream, waking, non-mystical)
space. If the same notion of the root meaning (i.e., √nṣb/yṣb, used of divinity)
is operative in the noun pattern (maṣṣēbâ/maṣṣēbôt, used of divinity), then
perhaps we should view some of the standing stones more anthropologi-
cally. In other words, individuals may have desired to use a “standing stone”
(maṣṣēbâ) to mark physically in space and time what they perceived to be a
mystical encounter with the deity “standing” before them. (Analogously, yet
in the non-mystical realm, stones were used to commemorate all sorts of so-
cial encounters, such as treaties, boundary negotiations, and funerals.) Such
a commemorative marking may or may not imply that the deity was thought
to inhabit the stone. (For further exploration of this conceptualization, see
Chapter Seven, pp. 333–336).
Returning to archaeology, according to Bloch-Smith’s (2005, 2006, 2015) syn-
thetic treatments, we do have clear examples of masseboth in both public space
and cultic contexts from the Iron I and Iron II periods. Bloch-Smith (2006)
categorizes what she calls “questionable or mistakenly identified masseboth”
(Megiddo, Tell Taʿanach, Lahav, Jerusalem, a basalt saddle quern at Lachish,
Beth Shemesh), as opposed to “the best candidates for masseboth.” The latter she
categorizes by either “public space” (Tell el-Farʿah N, Lachish, Tel Dan) or “sa-
cred space” (Shechem, the Bull Site, Hazor, Arad). When the masseboth occur
in clear cultic contexts, they may very well represent the deity/deities.145 Let us
briefly examine Bloch-Smith’s last four examples as well as additional examples
coming from Hazor Area A and Area M, the gate complex at Tel Dan, and a stela
from Khirbet Ataruz.146
Masseboth at Shechem
According to Lawrence Stager, three masseboth in the vicinity of Temple 1 func-
tioned well into the Iron I period.147 A huge massebah (Figure 5.45) of worked
limestone (with a corresponding stone socket) stood 6.5 ft. (2 m) southeast of the
temple. Though broken, its current measurements are impressive: 5.4 ft. (165 cm)
tall × 4.75 ft. (145 cm) wide × 1.4 ft. (42 cm) thick. Graesser (1969: 181) called
it “perhaps the most striking of all Palestinian maṣṣēbôt.” Estimates of its orig-
inal height put it twice as high. Two small standing stones (with stone sockets)
Figure 5.45 What remains of an impressively large standing stone of worked

limestone at Shechem. The original is estimated to have been approximately 10 ft. (3
m) in height.
Zev Radovan/Bible Land Pictures.
flanked the entrance to the temple in its later phases, according to Stager.148 The
huge massebah has the classic attention-focusing characteristics needed to indi-
cate cult and is located next to a large rectangular open-air altar in the forecourt
of the temple. Its great size can mark divinity, if not directly then at least by as-
sociation, as we see elsewhere with the huge Molten Sea, which also stood in a
temple courtyard. Yet seeing this large stela as a divine image is complicated in
that it is not located in a cultic niche in the inner sanctum of the temple, where
one would like to have a divine image reside (contrast Arad and Hazor, discussed
later). Moreover, Stager (1999: 233; 2003: 33) even suggests that it may have been
plastered and “once bore an elaborate inscription.”149 If this proves true, its com-
municative value may have been more didactic in nature. Stager is influenced by
Deuteronomy 27’s preservation of memories of a ritual involving “large stones”
(ʾăbānîm gĕdōlôt) erected on Mt. Ebal (overlooking Shechem).150 Here Moses
and the elders instruct the people to erect and plaster over (wĕśadtā ʾōtām baśśîd)
multiple large stones on which teachings (dibrê hattôrâ hazzōʾt) are inscribed.
Mention is also made of the erection of an altar together with various types of
sacrifice (wĕhaʿălîtā ʿālāyw ʿôlōt . . . wĕzābaḥtā šĕlāmîm) and a ritual banquet
(wĕʾākaltā) (Deut 27:1–8).
Two other traditional accounts (Josh 24; Judg 9) place cultic stones directly
at Shechem. In neither of these traditions do the stones function explicitly as a
divine image. In Joshua 24:26–27 a “great stone” (ʾeben gĕdōlâ) is erected “under
the oak in the sanctuary [miqdaš] of Yahweh” to serve as a witness to treaty
obligations. One is immediately reminded of how deities typically play the role
of witnesses in ancient Near Eastern treaties. In contrast, the author of Joshua 24
seems consciously to use a large stone in the place of the deity. Yet one wonders
to what degree this is a later updating by the Deuteronomist. Perhaps without the
layer of Deuteronomistic editing, there once stood a tradition where the huge
stela represented the Israelite deity witnessing the treaty obligations.151
In Judges 9:6 the citizens of Shechem make Abimelech king “by the oak [and]
the pillar [ʾēlôn muṣṣāb] at Shechem.”152 Both Wright (1965: 123–138) and
Stager (1999, 2003) connect the physical temple (Temple 2 for Wright; Temple
1 for Stager) with the temple of the god El-Berit (bêt ʾēl bĕrît) at Shechem,
mentioned in Judges 9:46. In Stager’s (1999: 242; 2003: 31–33) words, “the like-
liest place for the anointing of Abimelech would have been on the acropolis of
Shechem, in the courtyard of the most prominent building in the city and the
region, the ‘Temple of El-Berith’; that is, in the courtyard of Temple 1, beside the
great slab stela (Maṣṣēbāh 1).” It is anyone’s guess as to how the ancients would
have viewed the stela in such a coronation ceremony. It is conceivable that it
could have represented the very presence of the deity giving his sanction to the
activity.
If the huge massebah did represent divine presence, it is likely that its earliest
referent at Shechem was El. Compare again how Stager (2003: 31) argues that
“Temple 1 was the Temple of El-berith, that is, El, the Lord of the Covenant” (see
Lewis 1996a). El traditions at Shechem have a long heritage, as one sees in the
divine epithet “El, the god of [the patriarch] Israel” (ʾēl ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl), used of
the Shechemite deity in Genesis 33:20. Masseboth traditions are also associated
with the god El at Bethel (Gen 28:18–19, 22; 31:13; 35:14; also see Chapter Four,
pp. 99–101.) Although it uses different vocabulary, compare too the archaic El
tradition found in Genesis 49:24–25, where, in addition to being referred to as
“The Mighty One of Jacob” and El Shadday, the deity is also referred to as “the
Rock [ʾeben] of Israel.”153
The Massebah at the Bull Site

As its name implies, the so-called Bull Site, located on the top of a mountain
ridge in northern Samaria (Daharat et-Tawileh), is most famous for the dis-
covery of an exquisitely fashioned bronze bull statuette dated to the Iron Age
I period (see pp. 200, 202 and Figure 5.70). Equally intriguing at this one-period
site (apparently an open-air cult center) is the presence of a large (4 ft. [122 cm]
long × 3 ft. [91 cm] high × 1.75 ft. [53 cm] thick), rough, slightly worked stone
(Figure 5.46), in front of which lies a pavement of rough flat stones. Scholars are
quick to note that the large stone is wider than it is high and thus not typical of
other examples of masseboth. Nonetheless, due to various associated items (two
bowl fragments, a small bronze object, a corner of a cult vessel) and especially the
bull statuette, most conclude that the installation was cultic, with the “conspic-
uous” stone designating a massebah of some sort (Mazar 1982: 34–37; 1983: 36–
37; 1993: 267; Mettinger 1995: 153–155; Zevit 2001: 178; Bloch-Smith 2006: 75;
contrast Coogan 1987b).154 Doron Ben-Ami (2006: 129) argues that despite the
exquisitely made bull figurine, it was nevertheless the “standing stone that served
as the focal point in this cult place.”
If the Bull Site is indeed cultic in nature, and if its bronze bull represents El
worship rather than a cult of Baal or even Yahweh (as will be discussed later), then
perhaps El is also associated with the large stone found at the site.155 The paved
area in front of the large stone has been interpreted as a place for offerings (Mazar
1982: 35; Zevit 2001: 179; Bloch-Smith 2006: 75). Amihai Mazar (1982: 35, 41
Figure 5.46 A large, slightly worked stone from the Iron Age I Bull Site (so called
due to Figure 5.70), located on the top of a mountain ridge in northern Samaria.
Photo: Amihai Mazar, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
n. 5) notes a suggestion by Menahem Haran that “the stone and the floor in front
of it served as a simple altar.” If offerings were indeed placed on the flat stone
pavement, then the massebah stone would occupy the position typically reserved
for the divine image. Mazar (1983: 37; 1982: 36) refers to “a few remains of some
animal bones, possibly from sacrificial animals,” though Ziony Zevit (2001: 180)
remarks that “no archaeological evidence supports [the] conjecture” that “sacri-
fice was part of the ritual performed at this place.” Mazar (1982: 35) also refers to
the analogy of Genesis 35:14, where Jacob pours out a drink offering (nesek) and
oil (šemen) on a massebah to El Shadday, who had spoken to him about his name
being changed to Israel (Gen 35:9–15).156 Obviously, such liquids would leave
little if any archaeological traces.
Masseboth at Hazor
Several masseboth installations have been excavated at Hazor, the largest (more
than 225 acres [91 ha]) and most important site in the southern Levant, located
on strategic trade routes in the Upper Galilee. These installations range from the
Middle Bronze Age to the Iron Age, underscoring the long-standing tradition
at Hazor of using such stones in a symbolic and even cultic manner. From the
Middle Bronze Age we have the Standing Stone Precinct (Figure 5.47), located
in the ceremonial precinct in the Upper City (Area A), which contained approx-
imately thirty standing stones. According to Ben-Tor (2013: 82; 2016: 52–54),
these stones together with “several offering tables” and “a round stone basin”
indicate “that, in addition to the cultic activities held in the [nearby] roofed
Southern Temple, cultic rituals were also carried out a short distance away under
the open sky.”157 Late Bronze Age evidence for the symbolic use of standing
stones at Hazor is well known because of the Stelae Temple (Figure 5.48), in Area
C of the Lower City, which contained several small stelae, including one stela
with two hands raised toward a lunar symbol.
Turning to the early Iron Age, excavators found an eleventh-century BCE in-
stallation (termed a “cultic corner”) in Area A approximately 65 ft. (20 m) east
of the ruins of the Ceremonial Palace (Ben-Tor 2016: 130–131, 139). A single
medium-sized basalt standing stone (Figure 5.49) (measuring approx. 2.3 ft.
[70 cm] × 1.6 ft. [0.5 m]) was found in situ. The standing stone was roughly
dressed and clearly the focal point of the area, which contained several flat
stones—described by Ben-Tor (2016: 130–131) and Ben-Ami (2006: 123) as
“offering tables”—and a “circular installation” of ten small stones. According to
Ben-Ami (2006: 125), the only remarkable additional find was “a horned head
of a zoomorphic vessel, most probably a bull . . . found buried in a pit dug ap-
proximately 2 m to the east of the paved area.” Regrettably, “no signs of ash or
organic material could be traced inside or in the immediate vicinity of the [cir-
cular] installation, thus its actual function remains unclear.” We are therefore in
Figure 5.47 The Middle Bronze Age standing stone precinct that contained
approximately thirty standing stones. Located in Hazor’s ceremonial precinct in the
Upper City (Area A).
Figure 5.48 Several small stelae (including one stela with two hands raised toward
a lunar symbol) from Hazor’s Late Bronze Age Stelae Temple in Area C of the
Lower City.
Figure 5.49 A prominent basalt standing stone from Hazor Area A together with a
circular installation of ten small stones and several flat stones seen as offering tables.
no position to make any definitive remarks other than that the standing stone
was an attention-focusing device that seems to have been “intentionally located
at high elevation” with pavement that seems to have been a place for offerings.
One particular feature that does stand out, as noted by Sharon Zuckerman
(2011: 387–388), is how this cult area was intentionally “dug into the destruction
layers of the Late Bronze Age ceremonial precinct,” seemingly as an act of “con-
scious appropriation.”
Preliminary reports of Area M (on the northern slope of the acropolis) give
us additional information for understanding masseboth as we come down to the
tenth century BCE. In the vicinity of the ruins of the Late Bronze Age adminis-
trative palace, archaeologists uncovered four limestone standing stones together
with their bases (Figure 5.50). Ben-Tor (2016: 139–140) considers this additional
“masseboth precinct” to be “a small cultic installation” dating the tenth century
BCE. Both Zuckerman (2011) and Ben-Tor (2016: 131) wonder if these two Iron
Age installations (Figures 5.49 and 5.50)—together with another installation in
Area B (discussed next)—constituted “ruin cults.”158 With such installations,
worshippers marked sacred space and offered cult in response to the “awe” and
“fear” that were occasioned by “the fierce conflagration that brought Bronze Age
Hazor to its end and whose ruins were still visible in the tenth century BCE.”
Figure 5.50 A series of four standing stones with their bases from Hazor Area M,
dating to the tenth century BCE.
When one considers the impressive architectural glory that once was Hazor,
prominently visible remains of its dramatic destruction certainly occasioned a
cultic response (to whom we do not know), much as ruined Egyptian remains
occasioned Percy Shelley’s famous poem of the shattered Ozymandias or, better
yet, Horace Smith’s of a destroyed London: “What powerful but unrecorded race /
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.”159
The cultic area known as the Iron Age I “high place” at Hazor (coming from
stratum XI, Area B) represents another “value-laden landscape” whose place-
ment, according to Zuckerman (2011: 399), was another “undoubtedly in-
tentional” act of “conscious appropriation.” This installation was excavated by
Yadin in the 1950s and restored during the 1996 season by Orna Cohen under
the direction of Ben-Tor.160 Zuckerman’s (2011: 387–388) “ruin cult” theory
underscores how its location on the higher western entrance of the tell gave its
Iron Age inhabitants a perfect view of the remains of the once illustrious and
now violently destroyed Late Bronze Age ceremonial precinct. What is preserved
of the Iron Age area are four partial rooms with the southern part higher than
the northern. As can be seen from Zevit’s (2001: 204) isometric drawing (Figure
5.51), Locus 3283 constituted the primary room, with a tall, curved basalt
standing stone functioning certainly as an attention-focusing device—especially
with its curvature—and, according to Ben-Ami (2006: 127), “as the prime focus
of the cult practiced in Area B.” The stone can be seen lying horizontally prior to
restoration in (Figure 5.52) (middle, rear) yet vertically in (Figure 5.53) (middle),
as conservators stood it erect in a plaster socket that was found during the 1996
restoration.
This room also contained a cultic stand, a lamp, a store jar, multiple basalt objects
(bowls, pestles, mortar, scraper), and, most importantly, a jar under the floor filled
with bronze objects (Figures 5.54, 5.55). One of these bronzes was the divine image
(seated, in benedictory pose) discussed in Figure 5.35. Those commenting on this
deposit of bronze objects have expressed radically different opinions of its nature: a
foundation deposit, a favissa, a hoard, offerings, heirlooms, and even scrap metal.
As noted on pp. 157–158, the jug and its objects are not foundation deposits from
the Iron Age I but rather are of Late Bronze Age vintage.
As for the character of the jar and its contents, judicious comments can be
found by Bloch-Smith (2006: 76) and David Ilan (1999: 156). Bloch-Smith
summarizes:
While the figurine supports cultic continuity, the aggregate bronzes require ex-
planation. In addition to the figurine, the jug contained an axe, two swords, two
javelin butts, a needle, a wire, two javelin heads, two possible fibula, a bracelet,
a bent rod, and a lump. The bronzes are arguably scrap metal to be smelted and
cast anew.
Figure 5.51 An isometric drawing reconstructing Hazor Area B, Locus 3283,

with its tall, curved basalt standing stone and related assemblage of various bronze
objects including a divine image (Figure 5.35).
From Ziony Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches
(London: Continuum, 2001), with permission.
In the end, after considering the rest of the four-room area (which contained
a total of five cult stands), Bloch-Smith (2006: 76) concludes that “this aggre-
gate assemblage likely served a cultic function.”161 Rather than adopting a binary
model (cultic or mundane), Ilan (1999: 156) wisely concludes:
Assuming that the deposit does belong to Stratum XI, what we have is a group
of scavenged LB metal objects placed in a scavenged LB jug, left as either an of-
fering of sorts or socked away for future commercial exchange or remelting. As
we have seen in the discussion of the Tel Dan Sanctuary 7082, cultic behavior,
metallurgy and metal hoarding frequently go together in this period.
In short, the cultic function of the standing stone in Area B at Hazor makes
good sense and seems to be the emerging consensus (Zevit 2001: 202; Ben-Ami
Figure 5.52 The location of the standing stone in Hazor Locus 3283 prior to
restoration.
Figure 5.53 The location of the standing stone in Hazor Locus 3283 after
restoration.
Figure 5.54 The various bronze objects included in a jar that was buried under the
floor of the main room of Locus 3283, including Figure 5.35.
2006: 125–127; Zuckerman 2011: 389–390).162 Given its Late Bronze Age–Iron
Age I cultural context, if the standing stone marked the presence of a deity, El
would certainly be a candidate, as would Addu. Even though archaeologists
have yet to find Late Bronze or Iron Age archives at Hazor, there is a tradition
of Semitic deities attested from the Middle and Late Bronze Ages in a handful of
administrative documents and letters. A Middle Bronze Age disbursement (pay-
roll?) tablet contains theophoric elements in personal names with close affinities
to Old Babylonian Mari. Among these are the names ʾIlu-Kayyanum, Ishme-
El, Ḫinni-El, Ibluṭ-El, Ishpuṭ-Addu, Yanṣur-Addu, and Yadâda.163 A poorly
preserved vessel seems to contain the personal name Ishme-Addu together
with what may be a forked lightning symbol (Horowitz, Oshima, and Sanders
2006: 65–66). As noted previously, typologically the bronze figurine could
designate El.
Masseboth at Arad
Arad is our best example of masseboth found in the inner sanctum (dĕbîr/“holy
of holies”) of a temple, where one usually locates the cult statue.164 It should
be noted that the dating and character of this material are much debated, and
we do not have clear archaeological reports to help us reconstruct the history
of the masseboth in the temple.165 Even though most photographs (Figure
Figure 5.55 The jar with the deposited bronze objects (from Hazor Area B,
Locus 3283).
5.56) show two neatly reconstructed masseboth side by side—which some

scholars are overly quick to identify with Yahweh (the taller) and Asherah (the
shorter)—according to Yohanan Aharoni’s initial report (1967) there were
three stones. Two rough “slabs of flint stone” were found “located near the
walls” (cf. Figure 5.57). According to Graesser (1972: 52, fig. 6), these two flint
stones “were built into the right and rear walls.” A third well-dressed stone—a
3.2 ft. (1 m) limestone stela with rounded top—that contained traces of red
pigment was found “lying on the floor of the shrine” (visible in Figure 5.57).
Aharoni concluded that this taller stone was used separately from the other
two and at a later stage. According to Aharoni, the two flint stones “probably
belong to an earlier phase of the building, and only the last stone was used in
stratum IX” (1967: 248; 1968: 19). Ze’ev Herzog also emphasizes that only the
single “rounded stele” (3.3 ft. [1 m] high) originally stood in the niche of the
stratum IX temple (cf.Figure 5.58).166 If it is indeed correct that the tall red-
painted stela comes from a different time than both the two stone slabs (and
the two small incense altars), then the commonly used picture of the tall stela
Figure 5.56 A common portrayal of dual standing stones at Arad that belies the
difficulty of our evidence and varying interpretations.
Kim Walton.
juxtaposed with one of the stone slabs and both incense altars (Figure 5.56) is
very misleading.
Scholars are of one mind when it comes to the single large red-painted stela,
seeing it as a marker or symbol of divinity. Herzog (2013: 40) identifies it as a
massebah, “symbolizing the presence of the deity in the temple.” Bloch-Smith
(2015: 112) concurs: “The Arad stone occupied the place where the deity resided
and was manifest” in the late ninth-to eighth-century BCE temple. The char-
acter of the two “slabs of flint stone” is debated. Nadav Na’aman (1999a: 405;
2006a: 324–325), following Herzog (1997b: 192), argues that “the two stone slabs
differ in work and dimension from the well dressed maṣṣebah and were appar-
ently part of the construction of the temple, one serving as a door post and the
other support[ing] the sanctuary’s western wall. Only one maṣṣebah stood in the
sanctuary and served as the central symbol of the deity’s presence in the place.”
Zevit (2001: 166–167, 169) agrees that only a single red-painted stela stood in the
temple in strata X–IX (which he dates to the eighth century BCE). In contrast,
Figure 5.57 The temple niche at Arad during excavations showing a 3.3-ft. (1 m.)
limestone stela with rounded top in its original location lying on the floor.
Figure 5.58 Only a single stela originally stood in the niche of the stratum IX
temple at Arad.
Zevit (2001: 166–168) argues that Na’aman’s two stone “slabs” (which Zevit calls
“stele-shaped slabs” and then simply “stelae”) stood in the niche during stratum
XI (which he dates to the first half of the ninth century BCE). That the “two-
by-two” slabs parallel the “two-by-two” small incense altars “suggests strongly
that two deities were worshipped in the stratum XI temple.” If the two stones
were not merely a part of the construction, then Zevit’s suggestion is an inter-
esting possibility. But even here, Graesser’s comments about the duality of stones
used elsewhere to mark symmetry should caution us not to rule out artistic
conventions.167 The most recent treatment of the two flint stones by Bloch-Smith
(2015: 101) favors the interpretation of Na’aman and Herzog: “The variant type
of stone, their rough contours compared to the worked limestone example, and
their placement in the niche walls favor the constructional interpretation.”
Masseboth at Tel Dan

Tel Dan is one of the richest sites when it comes to documenting religious
expressions in ancient Israel in both text and archaeology. The most famous tex-
tual tradition involves King Jeroboam setting up major cult centers in Dan and
Bethel to rival the Jerusalem Temple (see 1 Kgs 12:28–33 and pp. 198–200 on
his use of bull images). The most famous archaeological discovery at Tel Dan is
surely its Area T, which contains an impressive temple complex containing (1) a
large podium (the so-called bamah platform), (2) a large central altar area with
temenos wall and double stairs, (3) an olive press installation, and (4) a smaller
cultic area in T-West as documented by a small square sacrificial altar of five trav-
ertine blocks, two incense altars, three iron shovels, a carinated bronze bowl, and
a deposit of animal bones.168
Yet for our present purpose, what is most remarkable is the attestation of
multiple standing stone installations at Tel Dan in the Area A–AB gate com-
plex (mostly dating to Iron Age IIB, prior to the destruction by the Assyrian
king Tiglath-Pileser III in 733 BCE).169 Preliminary reports document at least
four such installations, including three areas of five stones and one with three
stones (Biran 1998). One of the installations of five stones (Figure 5.59) also in-
cluded items (e.g., sheep and goat bones, incense burners, lamps) and a bench/
table in front that caused the excavator to assert: “That these are maṣṣebot, or sa-
cred pillars, there is no question . . . sacrificed animals had been offered or eaten
here” (Biran 1998: 44). The installation with three stones (labeled the “sacred
enclosure”) has been dated to the seventh century BCE after the destruction by
Tiglath-Pileser III. Here we find an elevated structure with three (or four?) basalt
stones standing side by side (Figure 5.60). Most notable is the presence of a bowl
in front of the tallest of the standing stones (Figure 5.61) in which were found
ashes. According to Avraham Biran (1998: 42, 45), “the monoliths marked a
place of cultic worship” and gave evidence that “the religious practices hallowed
Figure 5.59 One of the installations of five stones at Tel Dan from the Iron Age II
Area A–AB gate complex.
Kim Walton.
Figure 5.60 A seventh-century BCE installation of three stones in the gate complex
at Tel Dan (labeled “the sacred enclosure”) with an offering bowl in front of the
tallest of the stones.
Kim Walton.
Figure 5.61 A close-up of Figure 5.60 showing the bowl, in which was found ash
residue.
in previous generations obviously persisted” despite the Assyrian destruction.

Though Bloch-Smith (2006: 74) discusses the Dan masseboth in the context of
public space, she too concludes that while “it is not certain that all these stones
[from Area A] served cultic purposes,” a cultic function for the stones that make
up the so-called sacred enclosure is “confirmed.” Bloch-Smith also notes how
these stones in what seems to be a gate shrine at Tel Dan finds support in the well-
documented gate shrine at Bethsaida (the Iron Age capital of Geshur), which has
a standing stone carved with a bull-headed deity (see the following discussion
and Figure 7.18).170
In addition to the material just discussed, we should note an additional area in
the Area A gate complex. A single large basalt stone (Figure 5.62) was found next
to a canopied or baldachin-like structure (with a raised platform) between the
outer and inner gates. Biran (1998: 42, 44) wondered whether the stone should
be interpreted as a massebah symbolizing a deity. Arguments against this pro-
posal would be its position relative to the canopied structure (a divine symbol
Figure 5.62 On the left is yet another standing stone at Tel Dan in the Area A gate
complex next to a canopied structure (Figure 5.64).
Kim Walton.
should be in the center of the canopy, not to the side) and the ninth-century BCE
Bethsaida gate shrine (Figure 5.63), where a pair of standing stones mark the
passageway to the immediate left of the shrine. Perhaps the standing stone at Tel
Dan was one of two, the other stone (now missing) marking the other side of the
Tel Dan passageway. Compare the two small standing stones that flanked the
entrance to the temple at Shechem (see pp. 172–173 and n. 148 in this chapter).
As for the canopied structure itself (Figures 5.62, 5.64), the platform with a
large stone block featuring a depression has been interpreted as once housing
either a statue of the king or a divine image.171 For an example of the former,
compare a relief (Figure 5.65) from the ninth-century BCE Balawat gates that has
Shalmaneser III receiving booty after the battle of Qarqar. For an example of the
latter, compare the relief (Figure 5.66) of the enthroned god Shamash from the
ninth-century BCE Sippar Tablet of Nabu-apla-iddina II (cf. T. Ornan 2005a: 63–
65; Hurowitz 2000). The Baʿlu Cycle from Late Bronze Age Syria contains a de-
scription of a divine throne (kattu ʾili// kaḥṯu ʾili), footstool (hudumu ʾili), and
canopied structure (ḫayamu wa-tabṯuḫu) made by the craftsman god Kotharu-
wa-Hasisu as a gift for the goddess ʾAthiratu (cf. KTU 1.4.1.29–35).
Figure 5.63 Dual standing stones at the Bethsaida gate complex marking a
passageway next to the shrine.
Kim Walton.
Figure 5.64 A canopied structure at Tel Dan, though what it housed is unknown.
Figure 5.65 A relief from the ninth-century BCE Balawat gates that has
Shalmaneser III receiving booty after the battle of Qarqar.
Figure 5.66 The enthroned god Shamash from the ninth-century BCE Sippar Tablet
of Nabu-apla-iddina II.
A Massebah from Khirbet Ataruz

Finally, to round out the broader Iron Age masseboth picture, one must bring in a
remarkable temple from Khirbet Ataruz (Ḫirbet ʿAṭārūs, 8.7 mi. [14 km] north-
west of Dhiban, Jordan) that combines a prominent standing stone with a sig-
nificant bull cult (on which see pp. 202–205).172 Excavations at Khirbet Ataruz
have documented an early Iron Age II multi-chambered temple complex with
several cultic installations (Ji 2012; Ji and Bates 2014). Hundreds of cultic objects
were found, including a storage jar decorated with seven bulls and one ibex (see
Figures 5.71 and 5.72). The storage jar was found in the Main Sanctuary Room
and was filled with ashes including the remains of animal bones (Ji 2012: 207,
211, fig. 2). Significantly, the jar was located 16 ft. (5 m) in front of a prominent
standing stone (4.9 ft. [1.5 m] high) that stood atop a pedestal (4.3 ft. [1.3 m]
high) within a cultic niche and next to an offering table (Figure 5.67). According
to Chang-Ho Ji (2012: 206), the cultic assemblage found in association with the
pedestal suggests that it “was erected not only to hold the standing stone but also
to support a terracotta altar and the lamps and cups for burning incense and
oil.”173 As for interpreting the standing stone, the excavators (Ji 2012: 212; cf. Ji
and Bates 2014: 51) argue that “given its size and location . . . [it] is most likely to
have represented the main deity that was worshiped in the Ḫirbet ʿAṭārūs temple.”
Concluding Remarks About Masseboth as Representations of El

When one considers the six sites that have been described (Shechem, Bull Site,
Hazor, Arad, Tel Dan, and Khirbet Ataruz), it is abundantly clear that standing
Figure 5.67 On the right, a prominent standing stone (4.9 ft. [1.5 m] high) that stood
atop a pedestal (4.3 ft. [1.3 m] high) within a cultic niche and next to an offering table.
Photograph courtesy of Adam L. Bean.
stones (masseboth) were regularly used in cultic settings from every time pe-
riod. At Hazor, standing stones were in use for hundreds of years, long before
any Israelite presence at the site—underscoring their longue durée and the re-
spect with which they were viewed by subsequent generations. As Mettinger
(1995: 140) observes, “Masseboth simply belonged to the normal cultic parapher-
nalia of such shrines.” Here archaeology and text (i.e., descriptions of masseboth
in the Hebrew Bible) are fully compatible. We need not rehearse once again the
multiple uses of masseboth. Any comprehensive study of the data acknowledges
the multifaceted functions of impressive monoliths (see pp. 171–172). Among
these functions is to focus attention in sacred space, whether to mark a past
memorable experience with a deity/deities (e.g., a theophany), to signify the
place where cult (offerings, libations, prayer) to a deity/deities took place, and/
or to mark the ongoing presence of the deity residing in (or symbolized by) a
standing stone.174 Our present concern here is whether the deity in question at
these six sites was El. (On Yahweh being represented by masseboth, see Chapter
Seven, pp. 333–336.)
Though the word “betyl” (which, as we have seen, derives from bēt-ʾel, “the
house of El”), used of cultic stones, predisposes us to look for El’s presence, no
inscriptions or iconography accompanies the masseboth described here. We
have no explicit archaeological indicators that would help us to determine the
deity or deities to whom cult was given at these Iron Age sites.175 The following
speculations can be put forth. Of the Iron Age standing stone installations, some
are plural in nature (Hazor Area M, Tel Dan), yet a significant number are sin-
gular in focus (Shechem, the Bull Site, Hazor Area B, Hazor Area A, Arad [i.e.,
its well-dressed 3.3-ft. (1 m) massebah], Khirbet Ataruz). It seems plausible that
these could mark monolatrous worship. The clearest markers of the plurality of
divinity would be the standing stones at Tel Dan and Tel Hazor (discussed later),
with the two flint stones at Arad possibly being an additional example, although
this is less likely, as we have seen.
The only explicit indicator of divinity associated with masseboth are the texts
of the Hebrew Bible. Granted, many references are generic in nature, such the
Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic traditions denouncing the masseboth of the na-
tions (e.g., Deut 7:5; 12:3; 16:22; 1 Kgs 14:23; 2 Kgs 17:10; cf. 2 Kgs 18:4; 23:14;
2 Chr 14:2; 31:1) and similar generic pronouncements in the Priestly material
(Exod 23:24 [cf. Exod 34:13, traditionally J]; Lev 26:1) and certain prophets
(Micah 5:12 [Eng 5:13]; Isa 6:13 [cf. Iwry 1957]). Yet in a handful of references
masseboth are associated with specific deities: El (Gen 28:18, 22; 31:13; 35:6–15;
cf. Gen 49:24); Baal (2 Kgs 3:2; 2 Kgs 10:26–27); seemingly Re, the sun god in
Heliopolis (Jer 43:13); and Yahweh (Isa 19:19–20; Hos 3:4; 10:1–2; see Chapter
Seven, pp. 335–336).
Regrettably, none of these specific biblical passages contains traditions re-

lated to the six sites studied here.176 We can say in general terms that the deity
El is associated with masseboth in ancestral traditions, especially those at Bethel.
Moreover, as has been noted, the strong connection of the Shechemite cult to El
traditions (e.g., El Berith, El, Elohe Israel) makes El’s association with the mate-
rial cult at Shechem (including its majestic massebah) quite plausible. Moreover,
as discussed in Chapter Four, pp. 100, 114–115, Israelite El worship was typi-
cally associated with sacred space on a smaller scale, with traditions commonly
centering on clan and family. (Contrast Ugaritic ʾIlu worship, associated with
the power and prestige of the Late Bronze Age city of Ugarit, and the worship
of Yahweh as a national deity with state support.) Thus to have a massebah in a
smaller cult space that is less impressive architecturally (e.g., the Bull Site and
the so-called ruin cults at Hazor Area A and Area B) would be appropriate for
El worship. Lastly, one can at least say that, typologically, the bronze figurine in
Hazor Area B (Figure 5.35)—if it is related in a meaningful way to the massebah
site (Figures 5.51–5.53)—would fit what we know of El. Yet in the end, all such
musings are speculative and we would likely be surprised at which god was being
worshipped at a specific site were we able to walk back in time.
A final note needs to be made about multiple standing stone installations at Tel
Hazor and Tel Dan. As seen with the thirty-some Middle Bronze Age standing
stones found at Hazor (Figure 5.47), correlating this large number of stones with
any list of named deities has proven impossible. We see no indication of there
ever being thirty deities worshipped at Hazor.177 Thus one wonders if these thirty
standing stones marked multiple encounters with a deity (or deities) that were
thought to be especially noteworthy, or perhaps episodes where the god(s) acted
in a particularly benevolent way. Alternatively, these thirty stones could com-
memorate humans (rulers? ancestors?) and their achievements.
Can we be more successful in correlating multiple groupings that are smaller
in number? As noted, at Hazor we have four large standing stones in Area M
(Figure 5.50) and a circle of ten small stones in Area A (Figure 5.49). At Tel Dan
we have three groupings of five stones (Figure 5.59) and one installation of three
stones (Figures 5.60, 5.61). No satisfying proposal has yet been offered for iden-
tifying a cluster of deities with the ten, five, four, or three stones at these two sites.
We have a wide distribution of numbers of standing stones from the Southern
Negev (singles, pairs, and triads as well as groups of five, seven, and nine), yet
their dates (sixth through third millennia BCE) are far removed from our ma-
terial (see Avner 2018). More significant is Shua Kisilevitz’s (2015: 151) mention
of “five medium sized field stones” in the Iron IIA sacred complex at Tel Moẓa
that “were clearly placed in the temple intentionally and probably served as sacred
stones, or maṣsẹ b̄ ôt.” A far-afield reference is the mention of five pillars (ʿmwdyʾ)
being offered to the single god Baal-Shamem in a Palmyrene votive inscrip-

tion.178 Yet these pillars seem to be support pillars for a sacred construction (cf.
the ʿammudîm in the Solomonic Temple in 1 Kgs 7:21), not stand-alone pillars
as with the masseboth. George Athas (2003: 315) and Bob Becking (2011: 413–
414) have suggested that the stone pillars in the Temple of Yahô in fifth-century
BCE Elephantine document divine images. No specific number of pillars is given,
yet Athas suggests that they are five in number, which he correlates with Yahô,
Anath-Bethel, Eshem-Bethel, and Bethel. Though this is tantalizing material (and
would further confirm the long duration of this practice), the context refers to the
demolition of the temple by describing various architectural features that were
destroyed (e.g., hewn stone gateways, standing doors, bronze hinges, cedarwood
roof).179 Thus it is hard to discern whether the stone pillars (ʿmwdyʾ is used rather
than mṣbʾ or mṣbtʾ) are indeed divine images or non-cultic architectural features.
To my knowledge, the only clear Iron Age Levantine examples come from
two archaic Aramaic inscriptions from the city-state of Sam’al (Zincirli). These
two eighth-century BCE inscriptions (the Hadad Inscription = KAI 214 and
the Panamuwa Inscription = KAI 215) are contemporaneous with the Iron IIB
gate complex at Tel Dan. The Hadad inscription contains four attestations of a
near-fixed list of five deities (Hadad, El, Rashap, Rakib-El, and Shamash).180 The
Panamuwa inscription (line 22) contains four of these five deities (Hadad, El,
Rakib-El, Shamash) and a reference to “all the gods of Yʾdy,” a substitute for the
god Rashap. It would be extremely rash to make an equation of these five deities
with the five standing stones at Tel Dan.181 And yet Andrew Davis (2013: 174)
has noted that Tel Dan’s “location at Israel’s border with Aram made it suscep-
tible to religious fluctuations, as it alternated between Israelite and Aramean he-
gemony.” In other words, it seems likely that the cult celebrated by the inhabitants
at Tel Dan incorporated elements from both Israelite and Aramean spheres.
A variety of deities would also be appropriate for meeting the “religious needs”
of “merchants and travelers many of whom were not indigenous inhabitants at
Dan.”182
Possible Theriomorphic Representations

of Israelite El in Textual Sources
As we have seen, in the ancient Near East majestic animals often served as
symbols of gods or pedestals on which the deities were mounted. As we saw with
depictions from Ugarit, the mature bull was the animal of choice to render the
virility and power of “Bull ʾIlu.” (See pp. 150–152 and Figure 5.32.) Nowhere are
there any references to Ugaritic ʾIlu being represented by other majestic animals,
such as lions, dragons, or even horses.
El and Lions
In this light it is curious to come across the occurrence of the name ʾAriel (ʾārîʾēl;
“El is a lion”?, “the lion of El”?) and its variants attested in the Hebrew Bible and
the Mesha inscription and used to designate a proper name (Ezra 8:16), the city
Jerusalem (Isa 29:1–2, 7), and an altar hearth (Ezek 43:15–16).183 At first glance
we might assume that El was portrayed as a lion both in literary texts and in ma-
terial culture. While we could turn to a great number of lions in the archaeolog-
ical record (from the large Hazor lions to numerous seal impressions),184 some
of which even occur in temple complexes (e.g., Hazor, Arad),185 on cult stands
(especially the two from Tell Taanach),186 and even in amulets,187 we have no
clear example of any of them functioning as an attribute animal that was the ob-
ject of cult.
For example, the numerous lions on the Taanach cult stand are interpreted by
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 155) as guardian animals rather than divine symbols.
Even if lion images are associated with the divine, they need not refer to El, with
other West Semitic deities being more likely candidates, especially the god Baal-
Seth and the goddess Qedeshet (see Cornelius 1994: 195–208; 2004; Strawn
2005: 193, 196–197) or even Yahweh (discussed later).188 In contrast to the use of
lions as divine epithets elsewhere in the ancient Near East (Lewis 1996b: 34–45;
Strawn 2005: 200–214), the closest we come to a similar usage in biblical litera-
ture are the descriptions of El crouching like a lion (Num 24:9). Yet we have no
hints, apart from the name ʾAriel, that El was ever referred to with lion epithets
in ancient Israel.
El and Bulls
Let us return to consider whether bull imagery was used of Israelite El. At the
outset we should note that nowhere does Israelite El ever bear the epithet ṯr/šôr,
as does Ugaritic ʾIlu. Scholars have long debated possible bull imagery for El in
three cases: (1) lying behind the phrase ʾăbîr yaʿăqōb in Genesis 49:24, which
some scholars translate as “the Bull of Jacob”; (2) in the description of El acting
like a horned ox in the Balaam oracles; and (3) in the description of Jeroboam’s
bull images in 1 Kings 12:28–33. We will treat each of these passages in turn.
El, the Mighty One/Bull of Jacob

Determining the precise connotations of ʾăbîr yaʿăqōb, “the Mighty One of
Jacob,” is complicated. The expression occurs five times (Gen 49:24; Isa 49:26;
60:16; Ps 132:2, 5). Of these, Genesis 49:24–25 is a distinctly El tradition that
resonates with the theophoric element in the similar ʾăbîr yiśrāʾēl, “the Mighty
One of Israel,” occurring in Isaiah 1:24. Some scholars such as Sarna (1989: 343)
argue that this title “corresponds to the Akkadian divine title bel abāri, ‘endowed
with strength,’ and is to be distinguished from ʾabbir, which is used of stallions,
bulls, and warriors.” Other scholars admit that ʾabbir can be used of stallions
(cf. Judg 5:22; Jer 8:16; 47:3) but underscore its clear reference to bulls else-
where (Isa 34:7; Ps 50:13 [cf. 50:9]; 68:31 [Eng 68:30]). They then conclude that
the Masoretes consciously and artificially omitted the doubling of the b in ʾăbîr
yaʿăqōb “to avoid any suspicion that Yahweh [or El in our case] was to be identi-
fied with the bull” (Kapelrud 1974: 42). Setting aside such hairsplitting, it is easy
to see how ancient hearers of the divine epithet ʾăbîr yaʿăqōb could use the vocab-
ulary and imagery of a bull as they tried to describe the strength of Jacob’s deity.
This would line up nicely with the agrarian imagery used in the Jacob narratives
regarding El-Bethel (see p. 100). To borrow the words Curtis (1990: 31) used to
describe Ugaritic ʾIlu and apply them here: “The ‘bull’ imagery would suit . . . ad-
mirably in the eyes of people who were familiar with herds. The bull was the head
of the herd, the strongest and most fearsome of the group. . . . [Bull] horns prima-
rily symbolize strength and dignity.”
El as Victorious Bull
As mentioned earlier (pp. 116–118), the description of “El bringing Israel out
of Egypt” (ʾēl môṣîʾām mimmiṣrāyîm) “like the horns of a wild ox” (kĕtôʿăpōt
rĕʾēm lô) in Numbers 23:22; 24:8 leaves no doubt about bull imagery being used
of El. Most scholars see rĕʾēm referring here to Bos primigenius, the auroch,
but our textual evidence is mixed.189 Note how rĕʾēm is parallel to šôr (“bull”)
in Deuteronomy 33:17 and to ʿēgel (“young bull”) in Psalm 29:6. Yet there is
no doubt that the bull here is a mature, muscular beast who (as in Deut 33:17)
is aggressively victorious in battle (Num 24:8). What is still open to debate is
whether this expression indicates a parallel (earlier?) tradition where El (and not
Yahweh) was seen to be the God of the Exodus. Indeed, the conflation of these
two traditions could have been facilitated if bull imagery was used of both El and
Yahweh (see the next section).
El and Jeroboam I’s Bull Images

Our third passage involves King Jeroboam I’s erection of two bull images at Bethel
and Dan as described in 1 Kings 12:25–33. We need not rehearse the details of this
passage or the many theories on how it relates to the famous passages centering
on the “golden calf ” incident (Exodus 32, Deut 9:7–21, Hosea 8), for they are well
known.190 (For Hosea 8:5–6, see Chapter Seven, pp. 320–321.) The material cul-
ture probably associated with the event (especially the Area T North podium in
Str III at Tel Dan) will be taken up in a subsequent chapter. The prominence and
success of Jeroboam I’s cultic activity can easily be inferred from the amount of
attention devoted to it in the Deuteronomist’s polemic against it. Gary Knoppers
(1995b: 94–95) writes well: “Like the authors of Exodus 32, the Deuteronomist
implicitly concedes the antiquity and appeal of Jeroboam’s cultus, including his
tauromorphic iconography. . . . Moreover, if the sanctuaries at Bethel and Dan

were not popular and well established, there would be no need to privilege them
with such critical coverage.”
What is at issue is the deity being represented by Jeroboam I’s bull images.
Some scholars interpret Jeroboam’s acts as part of either a Yahweh cult or a
Baal cult (see Chapter Seven for details).191 Other scholars point out that had
Jeroboam initiated a Baal cult with his bull images, he would have had little hope
of winning over Israelite Yahwists; furthermore, had he tried to introduce such
a cult, “tradition should have preserved [that] fact, in vivid invective.”192 Thus
they assume that Jeroboam I’s cult was devoted to the deity El as he wooed the
people away from the Jerusalemite worship of Yahweh to his version of a vener-
ated El worship, especially at Bethel, an old El sanctuary.193 (Note too that the
passage begins by mentioning how Jeroboam I rebuilt Shechem and Penuel [1
Kgs 12:25], both associated with El worship [see pp. 85–86].) With this strategy
Jeroboam I was attempting to “out-archaize” David, who was so skillful in his
use of the Ark of the Covenant, a venerated symbol of divine presence from the
days of the tribal league (Cross 1973: 74).194 The people need not make a pil-
grimage to the Solomonic temple, with its worship of an aniconic Yahweh, when
they could instead venerate El as the Mighty One of Jacob at locales with their
own history of divine visitation. According to this theory, “Jeroboam I’s real sin
[according to the Deuteronomist] was in establishing a rival to the central sanc-
tuary in Jerusalem, not in the introduction of a foreign god or pagan idol” (Cross
1973: 75).
Though I lean toward this interpretation, it must be admitted that all
interpreters are forced into a good deal of speculation, for in the attempt to recon-
struct Jeroboam’s true intentions all we have to work with is the Deuteronomist’s
polemical language. The Deuteronomist goes out of his way to discredit Jeroboam
I’s ritual actions not only in the passage discussed here but also throughout his
history, where Jeroboam I is held up as a negative role model of apostasy. Indeed,
his actions are portrayed as leading to the fall of the Northern kingdom (2 Kgs
17:7–23, esp. vv. 16, 21–23). By equating Jeroboam I’s apostasy with that of
Aaron’s perversions of the “golden calf ” and then making his objects of worship
dyotheistic, the Deuteronomist attempts to delegitimize the Bethel and Dan cults
through slander.195 One cannot overemphasize the Deuteronomist’s passion for
centralizing worship in Jerusalem. Such fervor could very likely have motivated
his negative portrayal of Jeroboam I’s “high place sanctuaries” (bāttê habbāmôt, 1
Kgs 13:32; cf. 1 Kgs 12:31).
Support for this thesis depends on the meaning of the noun ʿēgel and how it
came to be used in the Jeroboam and Exodus 32 passages.196 The term can in-
deed be used of a young bull calf, even one suckling. Obviously, such a dependent
offspring would not be the most appealing visual for a divine image, especially
one designating a senior or sovereign deity (see Fleming 1999a and the remarks
earlier in this section). If this is the meaning of ʿēgel in our passages, then one can
only conclude that the biblical authors or editors substituted a pejorative term in
order to discredit even further Jeroboam’s and Aaron’s activities.197
Yet the term ʿēgel can also designate a young bull in its prime, and thus we
find it used in parallel to šôr (Ps 106:19–20) and rĕʾēm (Ps 29:6), two terms for
grown bulls.198 Even our pejorative sources suggest that a young bull image was
crafted by those who deemed it an adequate representation of the divine. The
young bull (ʿēgel) is specifically and repeatedly referred to as ʾĕlōhîm. Moreover,
it is treated as a divine image in ways that resonate with practices elsewhere in
the ancient Near East (see pp. 136–141), including being a focal point in sacred
space involving sacrifice and the burning of incense (Exod 32:5–6; 1 Kgs 12:29–
33), traveling in procession (Exod 32:1; cf. 1 Kgs 12:28), being surrounded by
ritual dance (Exod 32:19), and eventually being ritually destroyed (Exod 32:20;
cf. Num 5:23–28). The bull images could then either designate divine bull images
of El or (if Jeroboam I felt threatened by Jerusalem’s more innovative abstract
theology of aniconsim) serve as pedestals on which El could have been invisibly
mounted.199
Possible Theriomorphic Representations

of Israelite El in Material Culture
As for physical representation, the same cautions stated with respect to identi-
fying bronze bull figurines at Ugarit apply to bull figurines found in Israel. From
the Late Bronze Age temple of Area H at Hazor (stratum 1A; thirteenth century
BCE) we have a 2-in. (5.5 cm) bronze statuette of a bull (Figure 5.68).200 Three
miniature (approx. 1.5–3 in. [4–8 cm] in length) bronze bull figurines, one of
them silver-plated, were found in the Late Bronze Age throne room of Area A’s
Ceremonial Palace (Figure 5.69).201
The best candidate for a theriomorphic representation of Israelite El
(Figure 5.70) would be from the Bull Site, published by Mazar in 1982, which
included a standing stone (see Figure 5.46).202 Mazar attributed the bronze zebu
bull (Bos indicus) from this site to “Israelite settlers of the 12th ct. B.C.,” “dated to
the period of the Judges.”203 In contrast, Ahlström (1990: 79–81) argues that the
bull represents a non-native religious tradition brought by “an intrusive group”
from the north. This is suggested, argues Ahlström, by the nature of the figurine,
which represents a type of bull not native to Canaan. Yet the Hazor bronze bull
from Area H (with which Ahlström is familiar), as well as the new Hazor bronze
bulls, would seem to suggest otherwise.
Figure 5.68 A bull statuette from the Late Bronze Age temple of Area H at Hazor.
Figure 5.69 Three miniature bronze bull figurines from the Late Bronze Age throne
room of Hazor Ceremonial Palace in Area A.
Figure 5.70 An exquisitely made bronze bull from the Iron Age I Bull Site in
northern Samaria, where a large worked stone was also found (see Figure 5.46).
Mazar (1982: 32) further commented that “the size of our figurine, the great
care taken in its manufacture, and the inlayed eyes that are unusual in simple
votive offerings suggest . . . . an actual cult object in itself.” Ahlström (1990: 79)
concurs that it “is most certainly a ritual object,” but adds that “its precise func-
tion cannot be established . . . [the bull] can . . . be considered the deity’s at-
tribute animal.” Even Michael Coogan, who questions the cultic (public) context
of the site, argues for a ritual function of the bull figurine.204 Thus most scholars
see the figurine representing either El, Baal, or Yahweh. At the same time, the
cautions we have mentioned keep us from knowing definitively. If Baal’s bovine
iconography is to be equated with riders on top of bulls only, then perhaps we
should consider El. Though Yahweh remains a possibility, Dever (1990: 130; cf.
2017: 178) states that “it is irresistible to connect this [the bull figurine] with the
worship of the god El.”205
To round out the broader picture, one should also note two Jordanian sites
with bull representations.206 The excavations at Iron Age II Khirbet Ataruz
have already been mentioned (p. 193) with respect to the large standing stone
within sacred space (Figure 5.67). Among the hundreds of cultic objects also
found in the Main Sanctuary Room was a storage jar decorated with seven bulls
and one ibex (Figures 5.71, 5.72). East of the Main Sanctuary Room excavators
found five altars with a nearby courtyard. West of this courtyard was a rectan-
gular building (whose function has yet to be identified) with an assortment of
cultic objects including a splendid terra-cotta bull figurine (14.2 in. [36 cm] long
× 6.5 in. [16.5 cm] wide × 15.2 in. [38.5 cm] high) (Figure 5.73). Ji (2012: 211)
notes the conspicuously large horns on the seven bull reliefs and on the terra-
cotta figure (to judge from the disproportionate thickness of the broken re-
mains). Extrapolating from the statue’s “superbly sculpted head and neck and
slightly rippling muscles,” Ji (2012: 211–212) infers that these are indicators
of “the deity’s power, prowess, and supremacy.” Ji further posits “that the ico-
nography and practice of bull cult was truly embedded in the religion of Ḫirbet
ʿAṭārūs during the early Iron Age II era.”207 Ji’s conclusion was underscored when
Figure 5.71 An image of a bull on a storage jar from the Main Sanctuary Room at
Iron Age II Khirbet Ataruz.
Photo by Robert D. Bates.
Figure 5.72 An image of a bull and ibex on a storage jar from the Main Sanctuary
Room at Iron Age II Khirbet Ataruz.
Figure 5.73 A terra-cotta bull figurine from Iron Age II Khirbet Ataruz.
yet another bull image was discovered, this time carved/plastered on the wall of
the entrance shaft of a cistern located near the Western Courtyard. Preliminary
remarks describe a bull image that is 1.6 ft. (50 cm) × 2.0 ft. (60 cm) (Figure 5.74)
with a face shape “nearly identical to those on the bull storage jar from the Main
Sanctuary Room . . . [and] reminiscent of the [terra-cotta] bull figurine” (Ji and
Bates 2014: 57–58, figs. 23, 24, 26).
The University of Sydney’s excavations at ancient Pella (modern Ṭabaqāt
Faḥil) in the north Jordan Valley have documented temple architecture with
six distinct phases from MB I through Iron Age IIA. Using the MB temple at
Shechem as an analogue, Stephen Bourke (2012: 165) tentatively suggests that
the MB “Hollow-Box” architecture of the MB Pella temple may have been as-
sociated with the deity El and that El may have been worshiped as “a numi-
nous aniconic deity.”208 Due to the architectural change that occurred with the
Late Bronze Age IIB longroom temple as well as the mention of the ruler Mut-
Baal ruling from Pella in the Amarna letters (EA 255, 256), Bourke (2012: 170)
Figure 5.74 An artist’s rendering of a bull that was carved/plastered on the wall of
the entrance shaft of a cistern located near the Western Courtyard at Khirbet Ataruz.
Drawing by Stefanie P. Elkins; published by permission. All rights reserved, Robert D. Bates.
suggests a change in cult from the god El to the deity Baal. One could also note
the presence of a Late Bronze Age male bronze figurine with raised arm (iden-
tified as a “Resheph” figure in Bourke 2012: 175, 177, fig. 12.4) that could also
point toward the god Baal.
As for the presence of bull images, a fragment of a Late Bronze Age IIA
cult stand depicts a painted “bull-man” figure (Figures 5.75, 5.76) that has
tentatively been identified as a man wearing a bull mask (Bourke 2012: 183
fig. 18). A model shrine with five bull heads (Figure 5.77), termed the “bull
box,” was discovered in the courtyard east of the remodeled Iron IIA “bent-
axis” temple construction. Bourke’s (2012: 184–191; figs. 21–22; Tafel 42A,
42B) preliminary publication of this material documents “extensive evi-
dence” of burning in the bottom and lower sides of the bull box, with chalices
and incense cups in the vicinity as well as large storage jars, one of which
was decorated “with ceramic bulls-head protomes associated with a ceramic
pomegranate.”
Figure 5.75 A photograph of a painted bull-man figure on a Late Bronze Age IIA
cult stand from ancient Pella in the north Jordan valley.
© Pella Excavation Project, University of Sydney.
Figure 5.76 A line drawing of Figure 5.75.
Figure 5.77 A model shrine with five bull heads from the courtyard east of the
remodeled Iron IIA “bent-axis” temple construction at Pella.
The preliminary nature of both of these Jordanian finds cautions against any-
thing but tentative speculation. We can confidently say that bull symbolism was a
part of the religious vocabulary at each of these sites, and speculate that the Pella
bull-man figure could point to ritual performance where a religious officiant
wore bull attire (yet for what purposes we do not know).209 The identity of the
deity behind these various bull images is nearly impossible to secure. One would
have to have much more data about the Moabite religion practiced at Khirbet
Ataruz to suggest the deity depicted by (or associated with) the terra-cotta bull
figurine (Figure 5.73).210 From the Mesha inscription alone one could posit
Kemosh, a syncretistic Ashtar-Kemosh, Baal, or even Yahweh.211 As for the reli-
gion practiced at Pella, we are once again faced with the methodological criteria
for identifying divinity, and the degree to which it is diagnostic to use the theo-
phoric element in a ruler’s name (Mut-Baal) or the presence of a nearby bronze
figurine to extrapolate about the overall cult practices at such a complex religious
site. Caution is in order. Moreover, from what we know of the presence of El wor-
ship at Deir ʿAlla and the religious activities of Israelites in the Transjordan (cf.
Levine’s “El repertoire” in Chapter Four, p. 90), one would not want to rule El out
as a possible candidate for Transjordanian bull symbolism.
6
The Origin of Yahweh
Introduction
It was logical to start our examination of Israelite religion with the deity El,
whose worship predates that of Yahweh. Admittedly, Chapter Five was largely an
effort in gleaning El traditions imbedded in later narratives. It was necessary to
caution readers that our El traditions have been handed down and preserved by
worshippers who came to identify El with Yahweh. In writing and editing their
material in retrospect, they have collapsed a good deal of material. The ancients
were less interested in the historical development of religion than a modern
historian is. To them it was more important to present a unified storyline that
underscored Yahweh’s preeminence as a time-honored tradition. They did this
by applying El’s epithets and attributes to Yahweh (e.g., Yahweh-El-Elyon and
Yahweh-El-Olam). Even personal names seemingly attest how Yahweh was El
(see Elijah, Joel, and the names ʾlyw, ʾlyhw, yhwʾl and ywʾl in the onomastic re-
cord).1 These authors (especially the P literary strand) thought it equally crucial
to emphasize an ancestral connection. The deity whom the patriarchs wor-
shipped as an El figure was in reality Yahweh (Exod 6:3; Gen 17:1). According
to biblical writers, their ancestors never worshipped two separate deities under
the names El and Yahweh, however much a historian of religion might like to
suggest otherwise.2 Rather, Yahweh is El (cf. Ps 118:27; 150:1). All of the themes
associated with El articulated earlier (eternity, supremacy, creativity, sovereignty,
fatherhood, kinsman, benevolent protector, and head of the divine council) are
applied to Yahweh without reservation.
New chapters were added to the story to announce Yahweh’s additional abili-
ties. In particular, worshippers told of a powerful divine warrior who fought on
their behalf, a liberating deity who battled on a cosmic scale, and a god of na-
tional stature who favored the establishment of the monarchy. Yahweh was a di-
vine king, the nation’s patron deity who bonded with “his people” in a special
covenant relationship. Yahweh was the supreme judge of a society that required
an organized judiciary. Such a deity could no longer be worshipped only at the
family level with a minimal cultic apparatus. It was fitting that a deity of such
stature should have an elaborate priesthood, an intricate cult, and a great house
of worship.3
So even though the name Israel bears witness to El as the founding deity, when
Yahweh became Israel’s national god the foundation story was updated. In ad-
dition, it is only natural to find his royal presence retrojected into the remote
past, even when there was no nation at that time over which one could rule. Thus
prophet and psalmist alike assert that Yahweh is the “king from of old” (malkî
miqqedem; Ps 74:12) who battled cosmic forces “in days of old, generations long
ago” (yĕmê qedem dōrôt ʿôlāmîm; Isa 51:9; cf. Isa 45:21; Hab 1:12; Prov 8:22).4
Not only was his throne established “from antiquity,” but so was his very origin
(nākôn kisʾăkā mēʿāz mēʿôlām ʾāttâ; Ps 93:2). Yahweh is El Olam (yhwh ʾēl ʿôlām;
Gen 21:33) but in royal dress.
Section I: The Meaning and Revelation of the

Name Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible
Who Is Yahweh?
Who is this deity who won the allegiance of ancient Judeans and Israelites and
the subsequent worship of Jews and Christians? Who is this god whose name is
overwhelmingly attested in the onomastic record of Iron Age Israel?5 What was
so appealing about his nature that he supplanted not only El but also all of the
deities attested in the various regional pantheons of the Iron Age Levant? A bet-
ting person in the Late Bronze Age would certainly have placed his money on
El, Baal, Hadad, Dagan, or even Reshep as the male deity who would capture the
devotion of the people living in the land of Canaan. What was it about Yahweh
that proved so inviting? Where should one look for his origin? Is he found in any
Late Bronze Age literature? Is his representation fashioned in bronze or stone
elsewhere in the Levant? How was Yahweh seen to function in ways similar to
and different from those of El?
Prior to searching for answers to these questions, we need to establish the basic
meaning of the name Yahweh (yhwh). This is no small task even though we are
dealing with only four consonants (often referred to as the Tetragrammaton) of
a most common verb (“to be”). The vast literature on the topic attests to the pas-
sion that scholars have brought to the investigation. Indeed, so much attention
has been paid to the etymology of Yahweh that one would think unlocking its
meaning is the key to understanding the nature of Israelite religion as a whole.6
Such lofty hopes are deflated by Frank Moore Cross’ (1973: 60) assessment that
the many articles are more likely “a monumental witness to the industry and in-
genuity of biblical scholars.” All the wind could go out of our sails if the differ-
ence of opinion among scholars leads one to conclude, as does H. O. Thompson
The Origin of Yahweh 211
(1992: 1011), that “the meaning of the name is unknown” or if we are overly
critical of the value of the etymological enterprise, as when Karel van der Toorn
(1999b: 913) concludes that “even if the meaning of the name could be estab-
lished beyond reasonable doubt, it would contribute little to the understanding
of the nature of the god.” Thankfully, there is enough of a consensus in the field
that one need not become agnostic, and there remains a return for investing time
in etymological study. While van der Toorn (building on the work of James Barr)
is certainly correct that “it is much more important to know the characteristics
which worshippers associated with their god, than the original meaning of the
latter’s name,” there remains nonetheless a great value to be gained from un-
derstanding the meaning of the name of Yahweh. The ancients—who had a far
greater appreciation for the significance of names (see Mettinger 1988: 6–13)—
certainly understood and respected the denotation and connotation of the name
Yahweh, and they were fully aware that the name constituted a prefixal form of
a verb.7
The Pronunciation of the Name Yahweh
A common assertion in introductory textbooks and even in more scholarly

treatments is that we do not have a firm hold on the pronunciation of yhwh.
It is common to read that “the pronunciation of yhwh as Yahweh is a scholarly
guess” (Thompson 1992: 1011) or “uncertain” (Baker 2003: 362) or “unknown”
(Grabbe 2010: 175 n. 1; 2017: 193). Such statements are overly circumspect
and reflect a long-standing agnosticism born out of the post-rabbinic tradition
that one ought not to pronounce the divine name at all.8 In contrast, historians
of Israelite religion have confidently vocalized yhwh as Yahweh for years, and
rightly so. Numerous lines of evidence both internal and external can be mar-
shaled for such a pronunciation. That the first vowel is an a-class is clear from
the abbreviated form Yah that occurs independently (e.g., Exod 15:2; Ps 68:5,
19 [Eng 68:4, 18]; Ps 89:9 [Eng 89:8]; cf. also yh yhwh at Khirbet Beit Lei), as
a theophoric element in personal names (e.g., Nērî-yāh = “Yah is my light”;
Nĕtan-yāh = “Yah has given”), and in liturgical expressions such as hallĕlû-yāh,
“Praise Yah.” That the second vowel is an i-class is clear due to the regular for-
mation of third-he verbs in Hebrew (the precise stem form—causative or non-
causative—will be discussed later). External evidence concurs. In Amorite
personal names we find yaqtil forms such as yawi-ila, yahwi-dagan, yawi-addu
(“DN lives/exists” or “DN brings life/causes to exist”). In Greek transcriptions
we find both iaoue and iabe.9
Excursus: The Putative Name Jehovah
Despite numerous scholarly treatments to the contrary, one can still find in
popular discourse those who speak of the name “Jehovah” as the original
name of “the Lord.” Historically, the name Jehovah never existed in antiq-
uity. It is an artificial construct based on an erroneous understanding of the
Masoretic pointing of the Hebrew text.
Due to the reverence for the divine name Yahweh (written in pre-Masoretic
manuscripts without vowel indicators as yhwh), which was perceived to
be holy, the tradition developed early to read a substitute whenever it was
encountered. This tradition continues into the present, with observant Jews
utilizing a variety of substitutes (e.g., Adonay, Lord, Ha-Shem, The Name,
Adoshem, Lo[rd] + Name) rather than pronounce the name Yahweh. The tra-
dition crosses over into English, where we find the Jewish tradition of substi-
tuting “G-d” for “God” and where most translations render Yahweh as “the
Lord” rather than as a proper name (cf. too the proper names of El, such as El
Shadday, usually rendered “God Almighty”).
The Masoretes who pointed the Hebrew text in the second half of the first
millennium CE continued a tradition of reading the noun adonay, “Lord,” as a
substitute for Yahweh. Similarly, the Septuagint and the Vulgate usually render
Yahweh by “Lord” (kurios, dominus). The Masoretes guaranteed the continued
use of the practice by graphically rendering the consonants of Yahweh’s name
(yhwh) with the vowels taken from the word ʾădōnay. A similar substitution
system, known as the Ketiv-Qere practice, was used by the Masoretes to indicate
a preferred oral reading (Qere) in contrast to what was written in the received
consonantal text (Ketiv), especially when dealing with textual corruptions.
The result of this activity was an artificial hybrid form (“Yehovah”) that was
never intended to be read. The vowels were merely perpetual indicators to
signal readers to read “ʾădōnay” rather than “Yahweh.” Graphically, the situa-
tion can be represented as follows:
Original: *yahweh
Substitution Process: yhwh + vowels from ʾădōnay
Result: *Yehowah [written, but to be read as ʾădōnay]
YHWH + vowels from adonay (“lord”)
YaHoWaH
Clarifications:
1. The earliest texts are not written with vowel indicators. Thus by “orig-
inal” we mean the form as reconstructed from the lines of evidence
noted earlier.
2. The word ʾădōnay, due to its first letter being a guttural consonant
(ʾ), contains a composite or hateph-shewa (ă). The first letter of the
Tetragrammaton (yhwh) is not a guttural consonant. Thus when the
reduced vowel ă is applied to y it takes the form of a regular shewa (ĕ).
3. The Hebrew letter waw was originally pronounced as a w (thus scholars
reconstruct “Yahweh”), though later Hebrew (including modern
Hebrew) came to pronounce it as a v (thus Yehovah).
4. English normalizes j for Hebrew y. Thus, as English writes “Jerusalem”
for Hebrew “Yerushalayim,” so too it renders Jehovah (not Yehovah).
Again, it must be stressed that the Masoretes were not intending for readers
to pronounce the hybrid form as written (*yĕhōwāh). There is no evidence of
such a pronunciation until the Middle Ages, when the Masoretes’ pointing
system was misunderstood.10 The hybrid form (with the consonants of the
original word combined with the vowels from a substitute reading) is purely
artificial.11 The Qere vowels were simply indicators for the pious to pronounce
ʾădōnay rather than Yahweh to avoid possible profanation of the holy name.
The same practice (reading ʾădōnay even though the written consonants
are yhwh [= Yahweh]) continues today when reading the Hebrew text in
synagogues, yeshivas, seminaries, and even secular universities.
The Meaning of the Name Yahweh
The aphorism “etymology is not destiny” is certainly true in that the meaning
of a word can change over time. In and of themselves, words have no inherent
meaning and can be redefined by different communities with the passage of
time. Yet it is just as true that the denotation and connotation of a word can be
reinforced over time, and this may hold true for the way in which divinity was
conceived and passed down, especially if a deity’s specific nature continued to
resonate with societal needs. Thus conceptualizing a deity as a mighty “lord”
(baʿal) could be reinforced continually, as the need for a dominant/warrior god
was an ever-present reality in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages.
There have been so many suggestions for the etymology of the name Yahweh
that one could devote an entire monograph to the subject.12 Yet there are only
a handful of serious possibilities, and thus our treatment can be brief. William
F. Albright’s (1968a: 168) assessment that “the most incredible etymologies are
still advanced by otherwise serious scholars” is as true today as when he penned it
some fifty years ago. One need not devote time to non-Semitic proposals such as
(1) an Egyptian moon god named Yah + we3, “one”; (2) a Proto-Indo-European
*Dyau-s, which comes down into Greek as Zeus, into Latin as Jupiter, and into
Hebrew as Yaw; (3) the Hurrian ya, “god,” plus a -ha or -wa suffix; (4) and a pu-
tative deity Yae/Yaue from an undeciphered third-millennium BCE inscription
from the Indus Valley.13 Also unlikely is Sigmund Mowinckel’s (1961: 131) argu-
ment that the name should be analyzed as a cultic shout, ya-huwa (“O He!”), sim-
ilar to “the ecstatic cries of the Islamic dervishes ‘Allah hu!’ ” Mowinckel suggests,
on analogy with the Arabic, that ya- is an interjection and huwa the archaic
third-person singular masculine pronoun. This view has won few adherents.14
Rather, the consensus of scholarship is certainly correct that yhwh represents a
verbal form, with the y-representing the third masculine singular verbal prefix
of the verb hyh “to be.”15
The foundation for this consensus is the revelation of the divine name in
Exodus 3:14, a notoriously difficult passage where God declares “I am who
I am” (ʾehyeh ʾăšer ʾehyeh). Despite the various ways in which the passage can
be interpreted, scholars unanimously assert that the Hebrew ʾehyeh is the first
person prefixal form of the verb “to be” with God as the speaker. (This verb is
necessarily reformulated into yhwh by worshippers when they speak to or of God
in the third person. Cf. Exod 3:15.) This is corroborated by the nearby context
in which God assures Moses by saying “I will be [ʾehyeh] with you” (Exod 3:12)
and “I will be [ʾehyeh] with your mouth” (Exod 4:12, 15). Dennis McCarthy
(1978: 316) argues that “the repeated assonance ʾehyeh—ʾehyeh—ʾehyeh—
yahweh” in Exodus 3:14–15 has “tied Yahweh to hyh irrevocably.” Compare too
the wordplay in Hosea 1:9, which can be translated as either “I am not Ehyeh to
you” or “As for me, I will no longer be[long] [ʾehyeh] to you.”16 Such references
and the oral traditions and transmission histories that preserved them argue
against Rainer Albertz’s (1994: 51) view that the ʾehyeh tradition in Exodus 3:14
is a “speculative allusion” that “stands in almost complete isolation.”
The Interpretation of Exodus 3:14
The difficulties associated with the enigmatic expression ʾehyeh ʾăšer ʾehyeh (dur-
ative verbs usually translated “I am who I am” or “I will be who I will be”) are
many. The unusual syntax (where the same verb is repeated before and after a
relative pronoun) has led some scholars to insinuate a “suspicion of haziness” in
which God is deliberately sidestepping the question. They suggest that the tau-
tology is dismissive in nature; God would rather people not know the meaning of
his sacred name (cf. Mettinger 1988: 33–34; Albertz 1994: 50). Yet the examples
of this idem per idem construction are not uniform and are too few in number
to be relevant for our passage, especially in light of the context where God is
portrayed as willingly revealing his name. Elsewhere the hiddenness of the di-
vine name plays a thematic narrative role (e.g., Gen 32:29–30; Judg 13:17–18),
but in the present passage God is anything but evasive when it comes to divul-
ging his name.17
Yahweh: “He Who Is”?
One of the most common suggestions for the etymology of Yahweh can be traced
back as early as the Septuagint translators who construed the name Yahweh in
terms of being.18 Thus Exodus 3:14 refers to “I am the one who is” or “I am the ex-
isting one” (egō eimi hō ōn). Similar understandings can be found in the Wisdom
of Solomon 13:1 (where God is ton onta, “the one who is”) and in the Qumran
Community Rule (where God is hwwʾ ʿwlm, “Eternal Being”; 1QS XI:4–5). Critics
have argued that such an etymology is secondary, reflecting Greek philosophical
language that is incompatible with the original Hebrew.19 Yet the element yahwi-
(ia-wi) in Amorite personal names (noted by many to be the semantic equivalent
of the Akkadian ibašši-DN, designating that the deity is present) cautions against
relegating all such notions to Hellenistic thought.20 Roland de Vaux (1978: 353)
agreed that we should not import “the [Greek] metaphysical idea of Being in it-
self or Aseity,” yet he retained the etymology, which fits “the biblical view of God,
according to which ‘being’ was first and foremost ‘existing.’ ” Still, one wonders
whether an etymology having to do with existence would appeal to an ancient
Semite. According to ancient Near Eastern lore, do not the gods exist immor-
tally by definition? Numerous myths (e.g., Adapa, the Gilgamesh Epic, Aqhatu)
illustrate the mortality of humans in contrast to undying gods (cf. Genesis 3:22;
Ps 82:6–7). The Gilgamesh Epic (a fragment of which was even found at Megiddo
[George 2003: 339–347]) reminded humans that they are fragile, “snapped off
like a reed” (Tablet X, 301 [Column VI.10]; George 2003: 505, 696–697). The di-
vine Alewife in the story reminds Gilgamesh: “When the gods created humans,
they established death for humans, Eternal life they kept just for themselves.”21
Even the brash Gilgamesh knows in his heart that “only the gods dw[ell] forever
along with the sun” and that humans, whose days are numbered, cannot scale
heaven (cf. George 2003: 200–201).22 Thus what sense would it make to say that
one’s deity “exists” if gods were thought to be immortal?
On the other hand, such myths do not tell the whole story. Occasionally we
see clear indications that gods can and do die.23 There are the well-known stories
of the deaths of Osiris in Egypt and Baʿlu at Ugarit, yet their emergence later in
Figure 6.1 A god cuts the throat of another god. From a cylinder seal of the
Akkadian period.
Courtesy the Trustees of the British Museum, and the British Museum Press.
the myths erases the fear that they remained dead. Dumuzi’s descent into the
underworld evokes ritual mourning, reflected in Mesopotamian literature and
in the Bible (Ezek 8:14). Occasionally we can point to religious iconography of
one deity killing another (e.g., Figure 6.1), which comes as no surprise to anyone
familiar with the creation myth Enuma Elish (where Ea kills Apsu and Mummu,
Marduk kills Tiamat, etc.). Other tales, both East and West Semitic, that tell of
the death of the gods include those in the Chaoskampf traditions (see Chapter
Eight), those dealing with rebellious gods, and those that describe the killing of
individuals who were deemed guilty of some offense (cf. Qingu in Enuma Elish
VI). Compare especially the tale of Atrahasis (1.4.223–226), which tells of the
slaughter of the rebel god Geshtu-e (formerly read as We-ila), whose flesh, blood,
“spirit” (eṭemmu), and “intelligence” (ṭēmu) are then used as ingredients for
making humans.24
Yet the musings found in Ugarit’s Kirta Epic may be more telling. It is hard
not to feel the uncertainty voiced as Kirta’s son weeps for his ailing father and
wonders: “Do gods die after all?” (KTU 1.16.I.20–23; 1.16.II.43). Perhaps there
was enough instability in the Levant regarding the permanence of the divine that
it would have been appealing for the ancient Israelites to name their deity “the
(permanently) existing one.” Is it just a coincidence that Yahweh (a divine name
written with a prefixal verbal form that can designate past durative as well as
future durative) comes to bear the “Olam” epithet of El, who exists “from ev-
erlasting to everlasting” (mēʿôlām ʿad ʿôlām ʾattâ ʾēl; Ps 90:2)?25 Similarly, what
prompted Israelite authors to describe Yahweh as “the living god” (cf. Mettinger
1988: 82–91) if all gods were by definition immortal? One advantage of under-
standing Exodus 3:14’s etymological puzzle as dealing with eternal existence is
that it would be in concert with the following verse. Together the two verses un-
derscore that “the god who is” bears a name that reflects the permanency of his
character.
Yahweh has sent me . . .

This shall be my name forever, zeh šĕmî lĕʿôlām
This is my appellation for all eternity. zeh zikrî lĕdōr dōr
(Exodus 3:15)
Instability among the gods was not restricted to their deaths. Because of
their own ill-fated behaviors, gods could be viewed as less than dependable.
Consider the heavy drinking by Ugaritic ʾIlu (see Chapter Four, pp. 79–80),
where he collapses dead drunk like those who descend to the underworld.
Dennis Pardee (1997b: 304 n. 16) notes how this is “a rather striking image for
an immortal.” At other times gods simply disappeared. Turning again to ancient
Near Eastern lore, we find considerable mention of gods who vanish, some for-
ever, others for only a period of time. Anatolia is our richest resource for tales
about gods disappearing (cf. Beckman 1997: 566–567; Archi 1995: 2375), often
in anger and often with drastic ramifications for humans’ crops, especially if
the god in hiding is the storm god or the sun god. The most famous Hittite
myth tells of the disappearance of the storm god Telepinu (Hoffner 1990: 14–
20; cf. also 20–29). The result of a deity disappearing is often the same as if the
deity had died: anxiety and distress, especially in agrarian-based societies that
attributed stagnation, drought, and sickness to the god’s absence. Mark Smith
(2001a: 121–122), building on the work of Jonathan Z. Smith (1969, 1987a)
and Simon Parker (1989a), has argued that the category of “disappearing gods”
is more appropriate than the “dying and rising god” motif promoted ubiqui-
tously ever since Sir James George Frazer’s The Golden Bough. If the notion that
gods could be in hiding, sleeping, or occupied elsewhere was widely known
in the Levant (cf. KTU 1.16.III and 1 Kgs 18:27 [Parker 1989a]), then perhaps
such uncertainty prompted the choice of the name Yahweh to designate a deity
who existed permanently. In short, “the existing one” is he who will not angrily
disappear and leave the worshipper alone with his drought and/or personal
illness.26
Yahweh as Actively Present?
This brings us back to de Vaux’s suggestion that we should add an existential di-
mension to our understanding of the etymology of Yahweh as the existing god.
McCarthy (1978: 317) concurs that “he who is” is a statement about the deity
actively participating in the life of his worshippers: “Yahweh is above all others
and this means active and helping, for being and acting effectively were not
separated. . . . He is Yahweh. . . . The one who is acts.” Similarly, Nahum Sarna
(1991: 17–18) writes that Yahweh’s name expresses eternal being along with “dy-
namic presence” and “unvarying dependability.” Albertz (1994: 50) adds that
“Yahweh is the god who is with his people and works for them.”
A volume on ancient Israelite religion is not the proper place for a discourse
on the Hebrew verbal system, yet for understanding the full significance of the
name Yahweh one needs to know that the form yhwh is a prefixal (non-perfective
or “imperfect”) conjugation that designates an incomplete or durative (even ha-
bitual) action. Thus ʾehyeh can equally designate “I am” or “I will be,” and most
translations that render Exodus 3:14 as “I am who I am” also footnote the alter-
native translation “I will be who I will be.” The ancients—not being preoccupied
with our modern compulsion to form dichotomies—may have held both ideas
simultaneously. But in what sense was “the existing one” also the one who “will
be”? McCarthy (1978: 316) has humorously noted that a true future meaning
without a predicate (“I shall be”) “used absolutely means that the speaker is not
yet in existence, a very unstable platform from which to speak.”
Indeed, the verb ʾehyeh is consistently used with a predicate (often the prep-
osition “with”) denoting the active presence of Yahweh. One need turn no fur-
ther than the present context. As already mentioned, the exact verbal form ʾehyeh
occurs immediately before (Exod 3:12) and after (Exod 4:12, 15) the enigmatic
ʾehyeh ʾăšer ʾehyeh expression in Exodus 3:14. It is hard to ignore the significance
of such a juxtaposition.27 In each instance, ʾehyeh is used to emphasize that God
will be “with” Moses, in both speech and action, to bring about the liberation of
the Hebrew slaves. This is not the only place where biblical authors employ this
particular vocabulary. Deuteronomistic authors used the language of “Yahweh
being with a person” to show divine favor (e.g., Josh 1:5, 9; Judg 2:18, 6:12; see a
more complete listing in Cross 1973: 252). In particular, the expression is used
as a “theological leitmotiv” of the Davidic royal ideology (McCarter 1984: 201–
202). Consider the parade example in 2 Samuel 7:3–14:
Nathan said to the king . . .

Yahweh is with you . . . yhwh ʿimmĕka . . .
Yahweh of Hosts says . . .

I was with you wherever you went, wā ʾehyeh ʿimmĕkā . . .
clearing all your enemies from your path . . .
Yahweh declares to you . . .

For my part, I will be for him as a father, ʾănî ʾehyeh lô lĕʾāb
For his part, he will be for me as a son. wĕ hûʾ yihyeh lî lĕbēn
Here the notion of Yahweh’s presence (ʾehyeh)—mixed with adoption language

(cf. Ps 2:7; Ps 89:27–28 [Eng 89:26–27])—is used to legitimize the institution of
the monarchy and its dynastic succession, in contrast to the tribal league’s the-
ocratic ideal with its emphasis on temporary leadership. Yahweh was “with”
David in a military way, cutting down the enemies in his path, similar to the way
Yahweh dispatched Pharaoh for Moses (note how 2 Sam 7:6 alludes to the exodus
from Egypt). Yet not only is Yahweh actively present, but his relation to the king
is presented as kinship, with God being the father. Similarly, the king bears an
active role as a son, not merely as a divinely appointed ruler. Indeed, the divine
election language of Yahweh being with the Davidides is so strong and obvious in
this passage (cf. 1 Sam 16:18; 17:37; 18:14, 28; 2 Sam 5:10; 1 Kgs 1:37; 11:38; Ps
89:21; Isa 7:14) that one wonders whether the ʾehyeh/yahweh etymology origi-
nated as a part of the Davidic apology (cf. McCarter 1980b: 494, 503–504; Knapp
2015: 222) or whether it was brilliantly adapted from earlier traditions. The vo-
calization of yahweh, to which we now turn, may point to the latter.
“Yahweh”: An Archaic Vocalization?
If the etymology of Yahweh has to do with his eternal and active presence, the
verbal form would be in a non-causative (Qal) stem. (For a possible etymology
involving the causative stem, see the next section.) What accounts then for the a-
class vowel in yahweh? The normal non-causative form would be yihweh. Tryggve
Mettinger (1988: 32), following de Vaux (1978: 348), suggests that this vocaliza-
tion “may be understood as an archaism . . . a survival from an earlier stage in
the history of the language.” The ya- prefix (if non-causative) would argue that
yahweh stems from a dialect other than classical biblical Hebrew prose (usually
identified by linguists with the time of the monarchy). The use of w as the middle
radical would point in the same direction. That Hebrew’s yiqtol/yiqtel forms are
secondary to older yaqtul/yaqtil forms is supported by evidence from Ugaritic

and Amarna Canaanite.28 The existence of yaqtul/yaqtil forms in these two lan-
guages, which date from the Late Bronze Age II, would suggest that the vocali-
zation of yahweh (if non-causative) is pre-monarchic. One could argue that the
biblical tradition is archaizing, yet this would be peculiar especially in light of the
yawi-/y ahwi- forms occurring in Amorite personal names.29
Yahweh: “He Who Causes to Be”?
Another way of sifting much of the same data has been advocated by Albright
(1924: 370–378; 1948; 1968a: 168–172) and his students David N. Freedman
(1960; Freedman and O’Connor 1986) and Cross (1962a; 1973: 60–71).30 This
view argues on several lines of evidence that yahweh is a causative, “he who causes
to be,” a reference to the ability of the deity as creator. Freedman (Freedman and
O’Connor 1986: 513) argues that “yahweh must be a causative, since the dissim-
ilation of yaqṭal to yiqṭal did not apply in Amorite, while it was obligatory in
Hebrew. The name yahweh must therefore be a hiphil [= causative].” Such an
analysis is perfectly logical, but it allows for no dialectical variation and ends
up analyzing the morphology of yahweh according to the standards of classical
biblical Hebrew prose. Yet the ya-prefix as reconstructed for the earliest stage of
Hebrew (a yaqtil form for III weak verbs; cf. Ugaritic and Amarna Canaanite)—
which predates classical biblical Hebrew—does not require a causative meaning
(cf. Kitz 2019). In addition, the root in question (hwy, hwh, or hyh) never occurs
in Hebrew as a causative—a remarkable fact given the commonness of the root.
Mettinger (1988: 32) tallies 3,561 attestations of the verb hyh (“to be”) in Hebrew
with “not a single example . . . construed in the causative stem.”
Having said this, one needs to acknowledge the elegance and economy of the
Albright-Freedman-Cross hypothesis, which offers one of the best explanations
for why the name of the deity Yahweh is a verbal form to begin with (cf. the
noun baʿal, “lord,” to describe Baal).31 In addition, it accounts for the epithet
Yahweh Sebaoth, exquisitely relates all of this to the worship of the deity El, and
even yields a theory to solve the crux of Exodus 3:14. No wonder it has been so
appealing.
The foundation to the theory is to see yahweh as a verbal element of a “sen-
tence name” whose other constituent element was the name of a deity. Appealing
especially to the Amorite onomastica, this theory noted that personal “sentence
names” (e.g., yahwi-addu) reflected the deity worshipped by an individual com-
bined with a verb describing the deity in action. Such names were thought to be
“formulas” derived from cultic liturgies and litanies.32 Over the course of time,
such “transparent appellations” typically shorten rather than lengthen. In Cross’
(1962a: 252; 1973: 62) colorful wording, West Semitic divine epithets and names,
like personal names in general, go through a process of shortening and disin-
tegration: “They do not begin in numinous grunts or shouts and build up into
liturgical sentences or appellations.”
Thus yahweh was originally the verbal element of a sentence name. An addi-
tional building block for this theory was found in the phrase Yahweh Sebaoth.
Rather than rendering it in the traditional way as “Yahweh of Hosts,” Albright
advocated translating it as “a perfectly good sentence meaning, ‘He brings armies
into existence.’ ” Cross (1973: 65) buttressed Albright with a grammatical argu-
ment: “yahwê ṣĕbāʾôt . . . cannot be read ‘Yahweh of hosts,’ that is, as a construct
chain. A proper name cannot be put into the construct state (as a nomen regens)
according to grammatical law.” Similarly, Cross (1973: 70) translated this as “he
creates the (divine) hosts,” a fitting liturgical title for a divine warrior/creator
worshipped by tribes of the League militia, which advocated a holy war ideology.
Freedman (1960: 152–156; 1997: 86–88) and Cross (1973: 69) underscored such
an epithet in the Ark narrative, where “The One Enthroned upon the Cherubim
creates the hosts (of Israel)” (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt yōšēb hakkĕrubîm; 1 Sam 4:4). In ad-
dition, Freedman and O’Connor (1986: 515) pointed out that yahweh ṣĕbāʾôt is
not the only use of yahweh in a sentence name. Other examples include yahweh
šālôm, “he creates peace” (Judg 6:24); yahweh qannāʾ, “he creates zeal” (Exod
34:14); and yahweh nissî, “he creates my refuge” (Exod 17:15).
The final piece of the puzzle turned out to be the most elegant. Cross simply
probed the identity of the deity who once stood behind the sentence name. El,
the creator god best known from Ugarit, was the irresistible choice. Thus Yahweh
was “originally a cultic name of ʾEl,” whose full epithet was *ʾēl zū yahwī ṣabaʾōt,
“El who creates the heavenly armies” (Cross 1962a: 256; 1973: 71). This is why
biblical tradition shows no animosity between El and Yahweh (in contrast to the
friction between Yahweh and Baal). In addition, this theory would account for
why Yahweh came to bear many of the traits and functions of El (Cross 1973: 72).
Finally, according to Cross (1973: 71), when Yahweh became the principal
cult name of the Israelites’ deity at a later stage (most likely through the short-
ening process previously described), Yahweh would have been substituted for El,
resulting in the sentence name hypothetically reconstructed as *yahwê zū yahwê
ṣabaʾōt, “Yahweh who creates the heavenly armies.” Once one recognizes zū as
an older relative pronoun, one sees how this reconstruction is the third-person
approximation of God’s first-person declaration ʾehyeh ʾăšer ʾehyeh in Exodus
3:14 (especially if one follows Cross [1973: 68 n. 94] in revocalizing the original
form of both verbs as causatives: ʾahyê ʾăšer ʾahyê, “I create what I create”).33
As elegant and economical as this theory is, it is not without its drawbacks. At
the outset we mentioned how the verb “to be” (hwy, hwh, or hyh) never occurs in
Hebrew as a causative despite a large statistical sampling. Nor is the verb hyh ever
explicitly used for creation.34 Hebrew instead uses the verbs brʾ, ʿśh, and yṣr to
denote creative activity (Eichrodt 1961: 189). These criticisms can be overcome
if one hypothesizes that the choice of the verb in the causative to denote the deity
was itself the reason behind the statistics. In other words, because the verb hyh in
the causative stem (i.e., Yahweh) came to denote the sacred, the same usage was
restricted from denoting the profane. But this seems forced. Would not Hebrew
poets, with their love of alliteration, have celebrated Yahweh’s creative activity by
artistically juxtaposing his name next to hyh?
The grammatical difficulty that Cross used to support Albright’s hypothesis
(that yahweh ṣĕbāʾôt could not be in a genitive relationship) is weakened due to
inscriptions that have come to light since Cross’ treatment. The inscriptions from
Kuntillet ʿAjrud attest, in contrast to Cross’ statement, that a proper name can
be used in a construct state in Hebrew (Emerton 1982). In particular, we read
of the divine name yhwh used in construct with geographical locations: Yahweh
of Samaria, Yahweh of Teman (Meshel 1992: 107; 1993: 1462; 2012: 130). In
addition, even if we agree to reconstruct the necessary hypothetical liturgical
formulas (*ʾēl zū yahwī ṣabaʾōt is never actually attested), we run into logical
difficulties. It seems circular to posit a shortened liturgical phrase in order to
procure the name Yahweh independently (*ʾēl zū yahwī ṣabaʾōt → yahwī ṣabaʾōt
→ yahwê) while at the same time needing the full liturgical formula to be op-
erational in order to substitute (an already independent) Yahweh for El (*ʾēl zū
yahwī ṣabaʾōt → *yahwê zū yahwê ṣabaʾōt). Perhaps there was a fluid process
of shortening appellations while at the same time retaining their fuller form as
functioning heirlooms. Coexisting modernizing and conservative tendencies
are common in all religions. Yet to advocate this line of thinking feels like special
pleading.
Finally, there is the fundamental critique voiced by de Vaux: “The most serious
objection to this hypothesis is that it insists on a correction to the text of Ex 3:14,
which provides [the biblical] explanation of the name Yahweh.”35 Not only would
one be rewriting the “obvious wordplay” in this verse (Mettinger 1988: 32), but
one would be ignoring the immediate context as well. As has been noted, the
triple occurrence of the exact verbal form (ʾehyeh) in Exodus 3:12 and 4:12, 15
argues for keeping the vocalization of 3:14 as it is represented in the Masoretic
text. Thus the non-causative etymology of yahweh must be preferred if our aim
is to understand the biblical interpretation of the name Yahweh. This conclusion
does not rule out the hypothesis that a different (causative) understanding of the
name could have existed in pre-Israelite times or in extra-biblical material. If this
was the case, the biblical texts would be witnesses to a reformulation. But until
some newly discovered inscriptions cause us to think otherwise, it is prudent to
retain the biblical witness as the best window into the ancient Israelite under-
standing of the etymology of Yahweh.
Yahweh: “He Who Blows”? “He Who Fells with Lightning”?
As will be shown, many biblical and extra-biblical sources point to a locale for
the origin of Yahweh in the area south or southeast of the Dead Sea. This has
prompted some scholars, building on older work of defenders such as Julius
Wellhausen, to look to Arabic etymologies for hwy, meaning “to blow (wind)”
or “to fell (with lightning).”36 Such an etymology, they argue, would be fitting
for Yahweh as a storm god and would help explain “why Yahweh could assume
various of Baal’s mythological exploits” (van der Toorn 1999b: 916). There is
no denying that Yahweh shares many qualities of a storm god, as does Baal, but
one need not argue that this aspect of his nature was derived from an Arabic
theonym. Furthermore, it is difficult to posit a verbal meaning (“to blow” or “to
fell”) that was never productive in the language used to worship the deity.37 One
could, I assume, envision an archaic frozen epithet (Yahweh = “he who blows”)
that the ancient Israelites inherited from their southern neighbors. Yet again,
would we not expect to find punning or alliterative poetry (i.e., using hwy in this
sense alongside yhwh) celebrating Yahweh as he who blows with the wind and
fells with his lightning, especially when Hebrew bards have left behind such a
great deal of literature containing storm imagery?38 Finally, the same critique
leveled against the causative use of hyh and its relation to Exodus 3:14 applies
here. The meaning of a verb denoting blowing or felling cannot be reconciled
with the wordplay of Exodus 3:14, which reveals the etymological understanding
of at least one segment of ancient Israelite society. Until we are able to secure
more complete information, this segment’s understanding will have to serve for
the whole.
The Revelation of the Name Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible
When was the name Yahweh revealed, according to the various literary
presentations that have come down to us in the Hebrew Bible as we now have it?
The Hebrew Bible presents different answers to this question, and source critics
have long used this material to define various literary strands. In Chapter Five, on
the deity El, we looked at P’s famous assertion—placed on the lips of the divine—
that the patriarchs worshipped God under the name of El Shadday. To clarify
more precisely, P has God declare: “But I did not make myself known to them
by my name Yahweh” (Exod 6:2–3). This coincides with the passage we have
just visited (Exod 3:14) where the name Yahweh was revealed during the time of
Moses as a part of the story of liberation from Egypt. Traditional source critics
who analyze Exodus 3:14–15 as the E literary strand point out that this source
affirms the same timetable of revelation as P. God speaks to Moses and identifies
himself as “Yahweh, the god of your fathers.” In contrast to these to sources, J

assumes that the name Yahweh was known prior to the Mosaic period. For J, the
worship of Yahweh goes back to the earliest times; it was in the days of Enosh
that people “began to call upon the name of Yahweh” (Gen 4:26). However one
understands source criticism (traditional J and E sources or non-P), it is obvious
that we are dealing with variant streams of tradition that coexisted in antiquity
without any need to harmonize their differences. Nonetheless, the literary critic
can still probe to see which of these traditions is a more dominant reflection of
the biblical understanding of the time when the worship of Yahweh commenced,
an understanding that the historian can then juxtapose with the first attestations
of the name Yahweh in the extra-biblical inscriptions.
Let us look at both streams of traditions and assume for our first test case that
the name Yahweh was thought to be known in patriarchal times (= J’s view).
In support of this view one can marshal approximately ninety occurrences of
the name Yahweh spread across the patriarchal narratives (e.g., Gen 4:1–7; 7:1,
5; 8:20–21; 12:1, 4, 7–8; 15:1, 6–7; 17:1; 18; 21:1; 24:1; 25:21–23; 26:12, 24–25;
28:13, 16; 29:31–35; 30:24; 30:27; 39:23). Indeed, for traditional source critics,
the name Yahweh helps demarcate the J literary strand. Adam’s grandson Enosh
was not a lone voice calling upon the name of Yahweh. Despite the statement
in Genesis 4:26 that people began to call upon the name Yahweh, the deity was
already known to Adam and Eve as well as Cain and Abel (Gen 4:1–7). Many
who came after Enosh and yet prior to Moses (including Noah, Abraham, Sarah,
Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, Leah, Rachel, and Joseph) also had a relationship with the
deity Yahweh, to whom they prayed, brought offerings, and built altars (Gen 8:20;
12:7–8; 13:4, 18; 26:25), not to mention engaging in other cultic activity such as
Laban’s use of divination (Gen 30:27; cf. 44:5, 15). Even the name of Moses’ own
mother (Jochebed) could be used to prove that Yahweh was worshipped prior to
his advent.39
How does this view handle P’s bold contradiction in Exodus 6:2–3 that the
name Yahweh was unknown in patriarchal times? One could assume, along with
more conservative scholars (who are generally dismissive of source criticism in
the first place), that the name Yahweh was understood in patriarchal times and
that Exodus 6 is not stating that the appellation itself was unknown; rather, it was
the covenantal nature of the name that was kept secret prior to Moses.40 Thus the
author meant for his audience to be able to read between the lines. Yet relying on
an ellipsis to communicate such an important concept hardly makes for an at-
tractive hypothesis. Other, more critical scholars find their solution in the nature
of P. All source critics agree that well-ordered structures and patterns are char-
acteristic of P. Fastidiousness is one of P’s defining characteristics. In looking at
how P structures his history, we see a sequential progression in the revelation of
God’s name. In a three-stage process P shows how God’s name was revealed in a
Figure 6.2 P’s structure of covenantal history.

Illustration by Theodore J. Lewis.
step-by-step fashion coinciding with three “eternal covenants” (bĕrît ʿôlām) and
three particular “covenant ʾôt-signs” (ʾôt bĕrît, ʾôt lĕʿōlām) (Gen 9:16–17; 17:7, 11;
Exod 31:16–17; see Figure 6.2).41
P emphasizes how the fullness of God’s self-disclosure comes only through
the revelation of the name Yahweh to Moses. P uses Elohim for the primeval his-
tory, then El Shadday for the patriarchs, reserving his most special name for the
foremost covenant, which culminates with the priest and lawgiver Moses. The
priestly interests of P here are easy to see. Not only is Moses’ covenant celebrated
as the zenith of this historical timeline, but so too is sabbath observance. It is
not just a coincidence that P tells the creation story to teach a cultic lesson. After
the heavens and the earth were finished, God observed a sabbath and hallowed
the seventh day so that humans could do likewise (Gen 2:2–3). By designating
the sabbath as the eternal covenant sign (ʾôt lĕʿōlām) and combining it with the
unique revelation of the name Yahweh, P is going out of his way to underscore
the preeminence of the Sinaitic covenant.
In other words, P may have had an ulterior motive in presenting his scenario
as he does. His rationale would have been to give credibility to Mosaic legisla-
tion and to underscore the need for sabbath observance. What better way to ac-
complish this than to have Yahweh self-disclose to Moses in Exodus 6:2–3 and
to make apparent the sabbath sign that was foreshadowed in creation (Exod
16:22ff.; 31:12–18)? If J’s account that Yahweh was already worshipped since the
time of Enosh is to be believed, then P’s omission of such a fact in Exodus 6:2–
3 would be intentional editing on his part. In sum, P’s assertion that the name
Yahweh comes into use after the patriarchal period could be discounted due to
his concealed motive.
The alternative option, our second test case, assumes that P and E are correct
in their “unanimous witness” (Mettinger 1988: 20) that the name Yahweh was
revealed at the time of Moses and not beforehand. There may be a possible allu-
sion to a Mosaic timetable in the self-presentation formula “I am Yahweh your
God, from the land of Egypt” (ʾānōkî yhwh ʾĕlōhêkā mēʾereṣ miṣrāyîm), found
twice in the book of Hosea (12:10 [Eng 12:9]; 13:4). Several translations and
commentators treat the preposition min as temporal. Thus JPS, NEB, NRSV, and
NAB translate Hosea 13:4 as “I have been Yahweh your God ever since the land
of Egypt.” While such a grammatical usage expressing the terminus a quo is pos-
sible (Joüon and Muraoka 1991: §133e; Waltke and O’Connor 1990: §11.2.11c)
and fits the context of Hosea 13:4, there is always the possibility that the Hebrew
is elliptical in nature (cf. LXX) and expresses the notion that Yahweh is the god
(who brought the people out) from the land of Egypt (cf. Hos 11:1; Exod 20:2;
Andersen and Freedman 1980: 617, 634).
Offering better support is the preponderance of El names in the patriarchal
narratives. In fact, Mettinger (1988: 20–21) points out that “in the patriarchal
narratives there is not a single name . . . in which the Name [Yahweh] is a consti-
tutive element, as we would have expected if the patriarchs had actually known
this divine Name.” Dana Marston Pike (1990: 35) concurs, writing that “a simple
survey of the Biblical onomastic evidence yields no Yahwistic PN preserved
from the time prior to the Israelite bondage in Egypt, nor do such names ap-
pear in significant numbers until well into the period of the Judges.”42 This sta-
tistical evidence resonates with what we learned of Israelite El in the Chapter
Four. There we saw, through several lines of converging evidence, that El wor-
ship is attested in the earliest biblical narratives (e.g., Gen 49:25). Set against a
Late Bronze Age backdrop (such as the Ugaritic texts that celebrate the prom-
inence of a deity also named ʾIlu), the biblical tradition that El worship pre-
ceded Yahwism makes perfect sense. The name Israel (with El as the theophoric
element) is just what we would expect for groups of people who looked back to
El and not Yahweh as their founding deity (cf. again the name “El, the god of
Israel” in Gen 33:20).
How then does our second test case account for J’s own bold contradiction
that the worship of Yahweh began in the days of Enosh? And how does this
view account for the presence of the ninety occurrences of Yahweh in the pa-
triarchal narratives? For the first question, many scholars doubt whether the
meaning of Genesis 4:26 refers to the beginning of Yahweh worship, for if it
does, J would be contradicting his own reference to Eve calling on Yahweh in
Genesis 4:1. Rather, they assert, this is simply a reference to the beginning of
public worship, or worship in a general sense.43 Gordon Wenham (1987: 116)
draws Sumerian parallels where worship is established in the pre-flood era. As
for the many occurrences of the name Yahweh prior to the advent of Moses,
scholars argue that these are anachronistic and reflect the writing and ed-
iting of these texts in retrospect. In other words, all of these texts were written
and/or edited at a later point in time when Yahweh was worshipped as the
preeminent Israelite god. Thus it was natural for editors holding this belief to
retroject Yahweh’s worship to the earliest time—indeed, even back to Eve and
Adam.44
In support of this anachronistic theory are the clear signs of editing that show
a mixture of older notions and more recent updating. For example, in Genesis
16:11 Hagar is told, “You will bear a son and you will call his name Ishmael
[yišmāʿ-ʾēl, “May El hear/El hears (my cry)”] because Yahweh has heard your
cry.” The obvious wordplay here presupposes that El and not Yahweh was the
original name of the deity mentioned in the second half of the verse. Hagar’s son
was named Ishma-El and not Ishma-Yah or Shama-Yah. This is also supported
by the broader context of this pericope where the deity is named El-Roi (Gen
16:13; see Chapter Four, pp. 95–97). Similarly, El is the deity who is associated
with the place Bethel (bêt-ʾēl even means “house/temple of El”) in the patri-
archal narratives (and later in Jeroboam’s bull cults). In Genesis 35:7 we read
of the deity “El of Beth-El,” after whom Jacob names an altar site at Bethel. So
when we come across Abram building an altar to Yahweh at Beth-El (Gen 12:8;
cf. 28:16, 19) one again suspects that the hand of a later (Yahweh-worshipping)
editor is at work updating his inherited (El) sources. Thus the answer offered by
proponents of our second option (that the many occurrences of Yahweh names
in the patriarchal narratives are the result of anachronistic editing) has good
precedent.45
Section II: The Name Yahweh in Extra-Biblical

and Epigraphic Sources
The Name Yahweh in Extra-Biblical Sources
In recent years archaeologists and epigraphists, by finding and deciphering

extra-biblical inscriptions, have grounded our discussions about the origin of
Yahweh with more empirical evidence. I do not mean to imply that biblical texts
are unreliable—they exhibit internal criteria (morphology, syntax, prosody,
etc.) that give us clues as to when and where the texts were penned. And while
it is safe to say that such criteria do not support the notion that all we have are
late Hellenistic retrojections, we are, nonetheless, presented with traditional ac-
counts, and this complicates our task. Traditional texts, due to their reuse (which
can entail updating and rewriting), are hard to anchor in space and time. Thus
when we find extra-biblical inscriptions (especially those found in situ) men-
tioning Yahweh, it does constitute a significant advancement for reconstructing
the origin of the deity.
False Leads: Yahweh at Ebla and Ugarit, Moses as Beya
There have been missteps along the way where scholars alleged that the name
Yahweh could be found in certain ancient Near Eastern texts. The most famous
of these, which made headlines and even carried political repercussions,46
was the announcement in 1976 by Giovanni Pettinato that a “specific divinity,”
Ya (a shortened form of Yaw), was mentioned in the third-millennium BCE
texts from Ebla (Tell Mardikh in northern Syria).47 Even though Pettinato
hedged, noting that the -yà ending in question could just be hypoco-
ristic, commentators hastily rushed to equate Ebla’s Ya with the patriarchs’
Yahweh.48 Anson Rainey (1977: 38) feared non-specialists becoming “too en-
thusiastic about the value of a ‘parallel,’ ” thereby tending “to overdramatize
the relevance of the comparative evidence.” And dramatize they did, despite
an article by the epigraphist Alfonso Archi in 1979 that poured cold water
on the equation (see too Archi 1981: 153). For example, Mitchell Dahood
(1981: 277) wrote that, based on personal names at Ebla, “the evidence for the
pre-Israelite existence of Ya for a Canaanite deity grows ever more impres-
sive.” Elsewhere, Dahood (1978: 107) referred to the “pre-Abrahamic designa-
tion of God as Ya” at third-millennium Ebla and then stated that this seemed
“to be in accord” with Genesis 4:26, where “in the second generation after
Adam ‘man began to call upon the name of Yahweh.’ ” Today, with the benefit
of hindsight, scholars no longer draw such sensationalistic parallels—what
Manfred Krebernik (2017: 61) categorized as “wishful thinking lead[ing] to
premature conclusions.” All of the past excitement was based on the interpre-
tation of a single cuneiform sign (NI) in personal names, such as mi-ga-NI,
en-na-NI, and iš-ra-NI. In contrast to reading NI as ià, a theophoric element,
most scholars today would read NI as either a hypocoristic ending or, fol-
lowing Hans-Peter Müller (1980, 1981), an abbreviation for ì-lí, “my god.”49
Van der Toorn (1999b: 911) deals a final blow to the Yahweh-at-Ebla theory by
pointing out that “in no list of gods or offerings is the mysterious god *Ya ever
mentioned; his cult at Ebla is a chimera.”
Ebla is not the only Syrian site where scholars have thought that they found
Yahweh. Four decades before Ebla was discovered, Charles Virolleaud published
a Ugaritic text (VI AB IV = KTU 1.1.4) which mentioned a deity yw. René
Dussaud and Cyrus Gordon were two of the major Semitists who followed
Virolleaud’s lead in identifying yw with Yahweh.50 In the years since, few scholars
have embraced this view, with critics (see especially Gray 1953) pointing out the
total absence of the deity yw elsewhere in the Ugaritic corpus. In addition, the
mention of the well-known deity Yammu in the next line caused most scholars to
conclude that “Yw may be a different way of writing Ym or else part of a title of the
same god” (de Vaux 1978: 342; cf. Smith 1994b: 148–152). The relevant text is a
cryptic section in KTU 1.1.4.13–14 that reads as follows:
wyʿn lṭ<p>n ʾil d[pʾid] ʾIlu the gracious and be[neficent] replies:
[ . . . ] (14) šm bny yw ʾilt . . . the name of my son is Yw, O goddess,
[ . . . ] (15) wpʿr šm ym [ . . . ] . . . and he pronounced the name Yammu.
Despite his own earlier rejection of the Yw = Yahweh hypothesis, Johannes

C. de Moor revived the theory.51 It is clear to de Moor that “the people of Ugarit
equated Yawê with Yam, the sea-god,” for “Yawê/Yam is a deliberate Ugaritic car-
icature of YHWH” (1995b: 221–222, emphasis mine). De Moor based most of
his argument on a comparative analysis in which he tried to show how there are
parallels between Yammu in the Ugaritic texts and Yahweh in the Bible. Yet the
motifs and epithets suggested by de Moor (Yammu and Yahweh both bear the
titles of King, Lord, Master, Judge, etc.) are so generic that they could apply to any
number of ancient Near Eastern deities.
While the identification of yw in KTU 1.1.4 with Yahweh is tantalizing, it must
be rejected as too conjectural, especially when based on such a fragmentary text.
The Ugaritic pantheon is well attested in deity lists, sacrificial lists, and ritual texts,
not to mention the better-known myths, legends, and epics. There is no evidence
of Yw as a distinct deity in any of this material. The only attestation is in the broken
text presented earlier, and it strains credulity to base such a grand thesis on such
little evidence. In addition, there are other solutions (see Hess 1991: 182–183) to
explain the name yw, which seems to be an alternative designation (a by-form?)
of Yammu. There is no hint that the Late Bronze Age Ugaritic scribes are making a
caricature of the Israelite deity Yahweh, and de Moor’s appeal to “a historical asso-
ciation of the proto-Israelites with certain Sea peoples” is special pleading.
The third false lead for identifying Yahweh in extra-biblical inscriptions prior to
the Iron Age can also be traced to de Moor. In The Rise of Yahwism de Moor popu-
larized a bold thesis (following Knauf 1988: 135–141) that an Egyptian vizier from
the New Kingdom who bore the name of Beya was actually Moses.52 The name
Beya, suggested de Moor (1990: 149), might mean “In Yh (is my trust).” Critiquing
this theory would take us too far afield, and Richard Hess has done a splendid job
in pointing out the weaknesses of such speculation. Even if de Moor is correct in
pronouncing this personal name as Beya (the Egyptian reads B3i) based on RS
86.2230 from Ugarit, Hess (1991: 182) is nonetheless correct that “the presence of
a hypocoristic suffix in the name Beya seems a much more probable interpretation
than its identification as a shortened form of the divine name Yahweh.”
Three Possible Leads: Shasu Nomads, a Shepherd

of Yah, and Yahweh in Hamath, Syria?
In contrast to the three attempts just described, there are three more promising
possibilities for finding the name Yahweh in extra-biblical inscriptions, two from
Egypt (the Shasu material and a proper name found in a Book of the Dead man-
uscript), and one from northern Syria (Stephanie Dalley’s Hamath theory). If
these three possibilities are correct, they would constitute dramatic evidence. The
first two from Egypt would represent the earliest mention of Yahweh—indeed, as
early as the fourteenth century BCE. The third would document Yahweh in in-
land Syria in the eighth century BCE, a previously unattested instance and one
that could contrast with the view of most scholars who look to a southern locale
for the deity’s origin. Moreover, it would challenge the claims of some biblical
authors that “Yahweh was worshipped solely by the people of Israel and Judah,
through the institution of the Covenant” (Dalley 1990: 23).
Egyptian geographical lists from the time of Amenophis III (first half of the
fourteenth century BCE) and Ramses II (thirteenth century BCE) refer to “the
land of the Shasu[-nomads?] of Yhw,” t3 š3sw yh(w)/yhw3, and “the Shasu[-
nomads?] of Seir,” š3sw sʿrr.53 Some scholars have seen in this material not only
the earliest mention of the divine name Yahweh but also solid proof that the deity
originated in the area of the Arabah.
Who were these Shasu (or Shosu), who crop up in texts from the
Eighteenth Dynasty through the Third Intermediate Period? They are known
pictographically from the reliefs of battle scenes at Karnak, where they wear
short kilts and turban-like headdresses.54 The term š3sw comes from a root (š3s)
that refers to traveling or wandering (cf. Coptic šōs, “shepherd, herdsman”),
and so most scholars see them as nomads or semi-nomads, although Lawrence
Stager (1985b: 59*) is correct that the texts “reveal very little about their mode
of livelihood.” Lester Grabbe (2017: 55, 128) cautions that we should not as-
sume that all Shasu were exclusively nomadic: “Although we know that pasto-
ralism was characteristic of some or possibly even most Shasu, we cannot say
that this was the sole means of livelihood of all of them.” Writing more generally,
he adds: “Nomadic pastoralism covers a wide-ranging spectrum and can include
those who raise crops, engage in trade, or even go raiding or robbing caravans,
alongside their livestock husbandry.”
Donald Redford (1992: 271–272) notes how the Egyptians shaded the term
š3sw to mean “lawless malcontents” (cf. Hebrew šāsâ, “to plunder”; Lambdin
1953: 155). They are described as military foes in texts at Seti I’s Karnak temple in
Thebes (CoS 2:23–25), and in Papyrus Anastasi I, a text filled with West Semitic
loanwords (Wente 1990: §129; CoS 3:9–14; ANET 475–479). Yet in Papyrus
Anastasi VI they are portrayed as serene pastoralists, “clans of the Shasu of
Edom,” traveling to the Delta region in search of the “pools [brkt, a West Semitic
loanword] of the House of Atum” (Per-Atum = biblical Pithom?) for their live-
stock (CoS 3:16–17; ANET 259).55
Though they are to be found throughout Syria-Palestine, Redford (1992: 272)
argues, based on the geographical lists previously mentioned, that the “original
concentration of Shasu settlements lay in the southern Transjordan in the plains

of Moab and northern Edom.” This is in concert with the view of many scholars
that Seir (its connection with the Shasu will be discussed shortly) is to be located
east of Wadi Arabah. Moshe Weinfeld (1987: 304), using the same lists, argues
that Seir “should not be sought in Edom of Transjordan . . . because the mountain
of Seir denotes also the range of mountains to the west of Arabah and to the south
of the Dead Sea” (cf. Deut 1:2; Josh 11:17; 12:7; EA 288:26).56 Nadav Na’aman’s
(1992: 74) conclusion unifies both theories: “The names Seir and Edom orig-
inally referred to the entire area south of the Dead Sea, on both sides of Wadi
Arabah.”57 Tantalizing evidence from the Faynan region in southern Jordan (es-
pecially the Wadi Fidan 40 cemetery) has also been related to the activity of the
Shasu. Erez Ben-Yosef and colleagues (2010: 743) write: “The evidence from
Faynan indicates that the resumption of copper production at the very end of
the Late Bronze–Early Iron Age, was opportunistically initiated by local semi-
nomadic tribal societies. These may be the ‘Shasu’ tribes” (cf. Levy, Adams, and
Muniz 2004; Levy 2008, 2009b).
The Shasu are tantalizing for historians of Israelite religion due to their men-
tion in conjunction with the term yh(w)/yhw3 (pronounced ya-h-wí?), which
seems to be a toponym rather than a theonym, to judge from parallel expressions
that refer to the various encampments of the Shasu.58 Raphael Giveon (1964: 415–
416) speculates that the fuller form of the toponym might have been Beth
Yahweh. Nevertheless, the term is still relevant for tracing the origin of Yahweh
because, as Michael Astour (1979: 25) reminds us, “in the ancient Near East
many anthroponyms could serve as toponyms” (cf. the GN and DN Aššur). In
fact, it may very well be that the name of the territory was derived from the deity
or vice versa (Giveon 1964; van der Toorn 1999b: 911–912). Thus many scholars
conclude that these Shasu are nomads worshipping a god named Yahweh as early
as the fourteenth century BCE. Redford (1992: 280) even goes so far as to speak
of “the religious life of the Shasu/Israelites.” In contrast, Frank Yurco (1978; 1986;
1990) and Stager (1985b) argue that the two are distinct based on the Karnak
battle reliefs (from the western wall of the Cour de la Cachette), where the dress
of the Israelites is portrayed quite differently from that of the Shasu. Yet the in-
terpretation of this iconography is debated (Rainey 1991, 1992, 2001a; Rainey
and Notley 2006: 103; Yurco 1991, 1997; Hasel 2003; Faust 2006: 185–186). In
particular, Rainey (1992: 74; 2001a: 69–70) notes the presence of chariots in the
relief (attributed by Yurco to the Israelites) and counters that “the status of the
chariot warrior and the maintenance of chariot forces, not to mention the need
for training and logistics to support a chariot force, were hardly commensurate
with Israelite social structure until the age of the monarchy.” Instead, for Rainey
(1991: 59), “Yurco has probably found the long-sought missing link between
Israel and the Shosu/Shasu pastoralists known from Egyptian inscriptions.” In
Rainey’s (1991: 93; cf. Rainey and Notley 2006: 111–112) opinion, “The Israelites
were part of the Shosu pastoral elements in Canaan (especially in the hill country,
in the steppe land of Mt. Seir/Edom in Transjordan and in the Sinai) during the
13th and 12th centuries BCE.” Yurco (1997: 41–42) also believes that some of the
Israelite pastoralists (cf. Judg 5:16) originated as Shasu, but that “nowhere do the
Egyptians call the Shasu Israelites.” This is not the place to survey competing the-
ories about the emergence of Israel and its ethnogenesis, especially with regard
to pastoral and sedentarizing nomadism and agrarianism as well as the role of
nomads in the Transjordan (cf., for example, Finkelstein 1988; Faust 2006: 17–
19, 167–187; Dever 2017: 200–257). Yet every theory leaves room for some of
the Shasu groups becoming a part of what eventually constitutes the peoples
of Israel. Thus the association of the Shasu with the term yh(w)/yhw3 remains
tantalizing.
The expression š3sw sʿrr has served as the linchpin connecting these texts with
the biblical tradition.59 Many scholars have interpreted sʿrr as Seir and noted that
Yahweh marching from Seir (śēʿîr) is featured in archaic biblical poetry (Judg
5:4; Deut 33:2) along with other southeastern locales such as Edom, Teman, Mt.
Paran, and Midian (addressed later). Several dissenting voices, such as Manfred
Weippert (1972: 491 n. 144), Michael Astour (1979), Gösta Ahlström (1986: 59–
60), and Johannes de Moor (1990: 111), have argued that sʿrr is not to be equated
with Seir. In addition, some of these critics argue that the toponym Yhw is to be
located in Lebanon and Syria, in the Beqaʿ-Orontes districts. Redford calls such
skepticism “wholly unwarranted.”60 He argues that the doubled r of sʿrr does in-
deed designate Seir and “is thoroughly in keeping with Late Egyptian orthog-
raphy.” In addition, the Shasu and Seirites are mentioned together in Papyrus
Harris I (as objects of Ramses III’s destruction), and Papyrus Anastasi VI speaks
of the Shasu from Edom.61 In this light, compare Judges 5:4, which uses Seir and
Edom as parallel terms designating the place from which Yahweh marches as a
divine warrior.
After decades of scholars writing about the yh(w)/yhw3 toponym in the Shasu
texts, the Egyptologist (and onomastic specialist) Thomas Schneider (2007)
entered the discussion with what he proposed to be “the first historical evidence
of the god” associated with the land of Yah.62 The reference in question comes
from the late Eighteenth or Nineteenth Dynasty and thus is a perfect fit to relate
to the pharaohs mentioned earlier, with Amenophis III being in the Eighteenth
Dynasty and Ramses II in the Nineteenth Dynasty. Schneider’s evidence comes
from the name of “an acculturated foreigner” who owned a copy of the Book of
the Dead that preserved his name as “My lord [Yahweh] is the shepherd of [the
land of] Yah” (ʾadōnī rōʿē-yāh). The interrelationships of Egypt with the Levant
during these two dynasties is well documented, including the presence of West
Semitic “émigré gods” (Baal, Reshef, Astarte, Anat, Horon, Qedeshet) in text and
iconography.63 Yet here for the first time, argues Schneider, appears a reference to
the god of the land of Yah (yh), whose shepherding resonates with the nomadic
Shasu, also of the land of Yah (yh(w)/yhw3). Can such references have any con-
nection to biblical traditions that tell of both El and Yahweh being shepherds of
their ancestors, who were also shepherds (e.g., Gen 48:15; 49:24; Num 27:17; Isa
63:11; Ps 78:52; 80:1)?
Jumping hundreds of years forward, we turn to a theory by the Oxford
Assyriologist Stephanie Dalley, who concluded, based on three personal names,
that “in the late 8th century both before and after the fall of Samaria, Yahweh
was worshipped as a major god in Hamath and its vicinity” (1990: 28, emphasis
mine). Dalley (1990: 24) started out by noting that scholars in the past have
worked with “the unspoken assumption that a person with a Yahweh-bearing
name is automatically considered to belong to Israel and Judah.” She then ana-
lyzed three royal names associated with Hamath (in northern Syria) or its vi-
cinity and argued that they contained Yahweh as a theophoric element: (1)
Azri-Yau of the vicinity of Hamath (Hatarikka?), mentioned in Tiglath-pileser’s
annals (Cogan and Tadmor 1988: 165)—though not to be confused with the pu-
tative Azriyau of Yaudi, whose existence, based on a false reading, has now been
disproven; (2) Yau-bi’di, a king of Hamath who led an anti-Assyrian coalition
in 720 BCE; and (3) Yôrām, mentioned as son of Toi, the king of Hamath, in
2 Samuel 8:9–10.64 Specialists in the field are well acquainted with the debates
swirling around these names, and Dalley is by no means original in using this
material to look for signs of Yahweh worship among the North Syrian Arameans
(e.g., Murtonen 1951). Nonetheless, her theory that we are dealing with indige-
nous Syrian rulers breathed new life into the thesis and met with some accept-
ance (cf. Zevit 1991; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 314 n. 35; Grabbe 2010: 178–179).
As enticing as this theory is—especially the association of three royal names
with Hamath, which at first glance seems hardly coincidental—it is not without
difficulties that are significant enough to cripple its plausibility (van der Toorn
1992a: 88–90; cf. too Krebernik 2017: 61–63). First, given the comments on the
use of onomastica to reconstruct religion (see Chapter Three), should we draw
such a grand conclusion (that Yahweh was a major god in North Syria) based on
a mere three examples, two of which (Azri-Yau and Yau-bidi) may indeed refer
to usurpers of Israelite/Judean lineage? Despite Dalley’s rebuff, would it not be
more likely to find Idri-Yau (rather than Azri-Yau) if the king bore an indige-
nous Aramaic name?65 In addition, there is the possibility that Yau-bidi does not
even contain Yahweh as a theophoric element. According to Edward Lipiński’s
(1971b) and Karel van der Toorn’s (1992a: 89–90) analyses, Yau-bidi occurs in
six different spellings, including mi-lu-ú-bi-’-di and mdingir-bi-’-di. This may in-
dicate that the name was pronounced Iluyu-bi’di or that the full name ʾIlu-yahū-
bi-ʿīdī, “El/god will appear as my witness,” may have contained yahū as a verbal
element, rather than a reflex of the deity Yahweh. In addition, if Yahweh was a
major deity, why is he absent from native inscriptions that mention the deities
Baʿlat, Baalshamayin, Elwer, Shamash, and Shahar (van der Toorn 1992a: 89)?
In short, of these possible leads, the Shasu texts and Schneider’s notion of Yah as an-
other example of a West Semitic “émigré god” are more likely to contain attestations
of Yahweh worship than Dalley’s Hamath theory. As will be seen, the Shasu material
is also more in accord with archaic poetic passages in the Hebrew Bible that point to
a southern rather than northern locale for Yahweh’s origin.66 But first it is necessary
to turn from false and possible leads to epigraphic sources that are not in doubt and
solidly attest the worship of Yahweh in pre-exilic, extra-biblical inscriptions.
Epigraphic Sources from the Ninth and Eighth Centuries BCE
Due to the traditional nature of our biblical sources (and challenges to their early
dating and/or historicity), it is important to underscore that there is a substan-
tial body of extra-biblical epigraphic evidence documenting the presence of
the deity Yahweh that is not in doubt. All of it is West Semitic. None of our epi-
graphic evidence that explicitly names Yahweh predates the ninth century BCE.
And yet Yahweh’s presence may indeed be documented in the late eleventh-/
tenth-century BCE epigraphic record—though under another name/title. The
Ishbaʿl inscription (Figure 6.3) from controlled excavations at Qeiyafa (found
in 2008) is dated radiometrically to circa 1020–980 BCE. As others have pointed
out, the DN bʿl in the personal name Ishbaʿl (“man of bʿl,” ʾšbʿl) can attest to
Figure 6.3 The late eleventh-/tenth-century BCE Ishbaʿl inscription from Khirbet
Qeiyafa containing the earliest reference to bʿl in a Judean site.
Courtesy of the Khirbet Qeiyafa Expedition, Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of
Jerusalem. Photographer Tal Rogovski.
the presence of Yahweh worship as easily as that of the Canaanite god Baal.67
Albertz’s (Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 348–359, 576–581) study of “equating
names” such as baʿalyāh (“Baal is Yah[weh]”/“Yah[weh] is Baal/lord”) shows the
overlap of the two deities, as does Hosea 2:18 (Eng 2:16).
The earliest uncontested explicit occurrence of the name Yahweh comes from
the Moabite stone, also known as the Mesha stela (Figure 6.4), the earliest and
longest royal inscription from the southern Levant.68 Its inscription, which dates
to the mid-ninth century BCE, mentions how Mesha, the king of Moab, at the
direction of his god Chemosh, engaged the king of Israel in battle. As a part
of his successful campaign he brags that he dragged “the [ve]ssels of Yahweh”
([k]ly yhwh) from (a sanctuary at) the Reubenite town of Nebo before his god
Chemosh.69 In this type of divine ḥrm-warfare, the captured enemy cult objects
would have been understood as war booty presented to the divine warrior who
enabled the victory, in this case Chemosh (Rainey 2001b: 304).70
Figure 6.4 The mid-ninth-century BCE Moabite Stone (also known as the Mesha
Inscription) containing the earliest uncontested explicit occurrence of the name
Yahweh.
Kim Walton, taken at the Louvre.
In the late 1990s, Pierre Bordreuil, Felice Israel, and Dennis Pardee published
two Hebrew ostraca (sometimes referred to as the “Moussaieff Ostraca” after the
name of their collector), one of which mentions the giving of “silver of Tarshish
to the House/Temple of Yahweh” (lbyt yhwh).71 The other ostracon opens with
the blessing formula “May Yahweh bless you in peace” (ybrkk yhwh bšlm). They
have been dated on paleographic grounds to the late ninth or early eighth century
BCE by Frank Moore Cross and P. Kyle McCarter (Shanks 1997c: 31). In con-
trast, the authors of the editio princeps assign the ostraca to the latter part of the
seventh century BCE (Bordreuil, Israel, and Pardee 1996: 57–59). Unfortunately,
the ostraca are unprovenanced, and while there have been strong assertions re-
garding their authenticity, counterarguments suggesting that they are forgeries
render them too questionable to use.72 The most detailed of these is the analysis
by Christopher Rollston (2003: 173), who was once in favor of their authenticity
but now is “confident beyond a reasonable doubt that both of the Moussaieff
Ostraca . . . are modern forgeries.”
Inscriptions from the site of Kuntillet ʿAjrud have become more famous for
reconstructing the presence of the goddess Asherah in Israelite religion than for
documenting early occurrences of the name Yahweh.73 According to the final
report, the corpus includes fifty-five mostly fragmentary texts written on various
media (incised in stone and pottery as well as being written in ink on pottery and
on plastered walls). The consistent use of northern theophoric names (-yw as op-
posed to -yhw) as well as the reference to Yahweh of Samaria in KA 3.1 buttresses
the view that Kuntillet ʿAjrud was closely associated with the northern Kingdom
of Israel. Based on epigraphy, pottery, and C-14 dates, a common view is that the
findings of Kuntillet ʿAjrud, a single-period site, should be dated to the end of the
ninth century BCE or the first half of the eighth century BCE and correlated with
the reign of Jeroboam II (ca. 787–748 BCE) or perhaps Jehoash (ca. 801–787
BCE). In response to this consensus, William Schniedewind (2017) has argued
that we have at least three different scribal hands, and thus a case can be made
that Kuntillet ʿAjrud is a multigenerational site “ranging from the late 10th cen-
tury through the late eighth century BCE.”74
Strategically situated on the Darb el-Ghazza caravan route, the site of Kuntillet
ʿAjrud (located in the northeast Sinai Desert 30 mi. [50 km] south of Qadesh-
Barnea) reveals signs of a religious presence including inscribed names of var-
ious deities, prayers for blessings, a military theophany, dedicated vessels, and
sacred iconography. Though the architecture and the absence of altars give no
evidence of a temple,75 Ziony Zevit concludes that we have a “dedicated struc-
ture, i.e., one planned in advance for a certain purpose, and that its raison d’être
was cultic.”76 Ze’ev Meshel (2012: 65–69, esp. 68, 307) also writes of “the religious
nature of the site.” For Meshel, the presence of linen suggests a sacerdotal ward-
robe, and he extrapolates that “the inhabitants comprised a group of priests and
Levites who were supplied by the provision of offerings and tithes that were sent
to them from Jerusalem.” As a result, he subtitles the final report An Iron Age II
Religious Site on the Judah-Sinai Border (emphasis mine).
Other scholars suggest that Kuntillet ʿAjrud was more likely a desert way sta-
tion (a caravanserai) where weary travelers thanked their god(s) for sustenance
and prayed for safety on the open road (e.g., Hadley 1993).77 After surveying the
various options, Nadav Na’aman and Nurit Lissovsky (2008: 189) conclude that
“neither the royal caravanserai hypothesis, nor the ‘religious centre’ one (with all
its variants), fully resolve the problems entailed in the interpretation of the site.”
Nonetheless, Na’aman and Lissovsky (2008: 190) still see a religious function as
being primary. They offer a “daring hypothesis,” speculating that the site “was
chosen because of a prominent sacred tree (or a sacred grove) grew in its vicinity”
and was dedicated to the goddess Asherah.78 Schniedewind (2014: 273–274)
offers a substantive critique of Na’aman and Lissovsky’s putative sacred tree as
well as Meshel’s priestly wardrobe. Instead, he argues for the military function of
this strategic “state-sponsored fortress” together with significant scribal activity
that “underscores the economic and administrative function . . . as opposed to a
religious interpretation.” Alice Mandell (2012: 137) offers a mediating view: “The
‘fortress-like’ design of Building A, the site’s location at the nexus of desert routes
coupled with the unique décor and inscriptions suggest that Kuntillet ʿAjrud was
originally built as a military installation to monitor the regions, but over time
developed into a religious attraction—two functions which are not mutually
exclusive.” See too Tallay Ornan’s (2016: 3) conclusions about the royal nature
of the iconography: “The combination of . . . themes typifies state-run official
buildings . . . and does not support the suggestion that Kuntillet ʿAjrud served
as a ‘religious’ building or centre, although the state sponsored site at Kuntillet
ʿAjrud included a small cultic architectural space.”
The full name Yahweh occurs several times at Kuntillet ʿAjrud in a variety of
contexts. In shortened form, the name Yaw (-yw, yw-) dominates the onomastica
coming from the site.79 A stone basin (Figure 6.5) (whose weight, approx. 330 lbs.
[150 kg; pace Na’aman and Lissovsky 2008: 199], argues for it being native to the
site rather than brought from elsewhere) contains the inscription “[Belonging] to
ʿObadyaw, son of ʿAdnah. Blessed be he of Yahweh” (lʿbdyw bn ʿdnh brk hʾ lyhw).80
Two large pottery storage jars (pithoi) also contained inscriptions written in
red ink. The inscription on Pithos A (= Pithos #1 in other publications) is brief
and partially missing. (On the iconography of three figures depicted alongside
and even overlapping this inscription and the possible representation of Yahweh
and the goddess Asherah, see Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.) The text that is pre-
served describes an unknown person asking for blessings for two other indi-
viduals (Yehal[ʾel] and Yawʿasah) from “Yahweh of Samaria and his asherah”
(lyhwh šmrn wlʾšrth) (Figure 6.6).81 Mention of the god Yahweh in conjunction
Figure 6.5 A stone basin (approx. 330 lbs. [150 kg]) at Kuntillet ʿAjrud containing
the name Yahweh (yhw).
Figure 6.6 An inscription from Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos A mentioning “Yahweh of

Samaria and his asherah” (lyhwh šmrn wlʾšrth).
with the northern capital (or region) of Samaria is quite significant since it was
found at the southern site of Kuntillet ʿAjrud. (Elsewhere in the Kuntillet ʿAjrud
inscriptions, as we will see, Yahweh is connected to Teman, a locale that is much
closer geographically.)82 One is tempted to extrapolate the widespread prestige
of the northern Yahwistic cult and/or the syncretistic nature of religious expres-
sion at Kuntillet ʿAjrud that combined northern and southern expressions of
Yahwism, not to mention the worship of other Canaanite deities (El, Baal, and
Asherah) also appearing in this epigraphic record.83 At the least, we have evi-
dence that this author had exposure to Yahweh of Samaria and preferred to use
this divine name as the effectual element in this blessing.84
There are various inscriptions on pottery fragments of what once constituted
Pithos B (= Pithos #2 in other publications).85 The largest of the three (Figure
6.7), by a certain Amaryaw, asks for blessings for his (unnamed) lord from
“[Ya]hweh of Teman and his asherah” (ly‌hwh tmn wlʾšrth). Note here the des-
ignation of Yahweh by a regional geographic locale (as opposed to “Yahweh of
Samaria” on Pithos A) and by either the goddess Asherah or, more likely, a cult
symbol representing her presence. Amaryaw then beseeches of Yahweh: “May
Figure 6.7 An inscription from Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos B mentioning “[Ya]hweh of

Teman and his asherah” (ly‌hwh tmn wlʾšrth).
he bless and keep you and be with my lord” (ybrk wyšmrk wyhy ʿm ʾdny).86 As
noted by commentators, this blessing resonates with letter formulae and finds
close parallels in the priestly blessing found in Numbers 6:24 (yĕbārekĕkā yhwh
wĕyišmĕrekā) and the divine promise to Jacob (ʾānōkî ʿimmāk ûšĕmartîkā)
in Genesis 28:15.87 As astutely noted by Zevit (2001: 396) and Jeremy Smoak
(2015), it is also found in the amulets from Ketef Hinnom (ybrk yhwh wyšmrk;
discussed later).
What is particularly noteworthy is the clear presence of third-person mascu-
line singular verbs (ybrk wyšmrk) in this blessing.88 The presence of “Yahweh and
his asherah” has been used repeatedly to suggest an active divine pair, or, in the
words of Garth Gilmour, it helps provide “overwhelming evidence” for “a well es-
tablished religious dualism in ancient Judah in the 8th and 7th centuries and that
the two deities involved are best identified as Yahweh and Asherah” (2009: 100,
emphasis mine). Na’aman and Lissovsky even mistakenly speak of the “remark-
able appearance [of Asherah] in the inscriptions as a source of blessings, side by
side with YHWH.”89 More accurate would be the carefully worded conclusion of
Zevit (2001: 397), who writes that our author here records “a prayer that YHWH,
not YHWH and Asheratah, will bless, guard and be with his lord.”90 This focus
on Yahweh as the sole blessing agent is also found in the stone basin described
earlier.
Another inscription from Pithos B is similar.91 Its blessing formula also
mentions the regional “Yahweh of the Teman” together with “his asherah” (lyhwh
htmn wlʾšrth).92 Similar to the other inscription on Pithos B, it too contains a
third-person masculine singular verb (ntn) mentioning Yahweh alone as the
deity who will grant the supplicant his desire (lit. “according to what is in his
heart,” wntn lh yhw klbbh).93
In addition to the inscriptions on the pithoi, multiple fragments of inscriptions
originally written in ink on white plaster walls were found among the floor de-
bris.94 One of these (KA 4.1.1; Figure 6.8) twice refers to “Yahweh of Teman/the
south” ([y]hwh tymn; yhwh hty[mn]) together with three third-person mascu-
line singular verbs remarking on the god’s lengthening of days ([y]ʾrk ymm) and
making things go well (hyṭb, used twice) for the worshipper.95 Note once again
how these verbs underscore Yahweh as the sole agent of blessing.96 Yet another
plaster text (KA 4.2) stands out as truly remarkable, as it describes a militaristic
wilderness theophany couched within what has been called “the oldest known
Hebrew poem” outside of the Hebrew Bible.97 This text is discussed in detail in
Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587 (see too Lewis 2020). It mentions El (ʾl) and Baal (bʿl),
terms that some scholars understand to represent independent Canaanite deities
worshipped at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, while others see these two terms as indicators of
the syncretistic nature of worship at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, where overall a single deity,
Yahweh, was prominent.
Figure 6.8 A part of the plaster inscription (KA 4.1.1) from Kuntillet ʿAjrud.
Yet another inscription dated on paleographic grounds to the first half of the
eighth century BCE appears on an exquisite miniature seal carved from jasper
gemstone (Figure 6.9). It reads “Belonging to Miqneyaw, servant of Yahweh”
(lmqnyw ʿbd yhwh).98 While the epithet “servant of Yahweh” is known from
the Hebrew Bible, the Miqneyaw seal is the only occurrence of the title in a
seal or extra-biblical inscription and may designate an official title (a terminus
technicus). Because there is only one other mention of a person with the name
Miqneyahu (in 1 Chr 15:18, 21), Cross (1983: 56, 62–63), followed by Nahman
Avigad and Benjamin Sass (1997: 25–26), suggested that the Miqneyaw men-
tioned in this seal may have been a functionary of the Jerusalem Temple, per-
haps a temple musician. Sadly, this seal is unprovenanced, and so it must be
discounted.
From the late eighth century BCE we have Yahweh documented at the site
of Khirbet el-Qom (probably biblical Makkedah), located approximately eight
and a half miles (13.7 km) west of Hebron.99 In 1967, William Dever became
aware of a three-line inscription, robbed from a tomb, that contained a Yahwistic
Figure 6.9 An exquisite miniature seal carved from jasper gemstone that
reads: “Belonging to Miqneyaw, servant of Yahweh.” Harvard Semitic Museum
1959.1.2
Photograph by Bruce Zuckerman, West Semitic Research. Courtesy of the Semitic Museum,
Harvard University.
personal name, Netanyahu. Dever, “after considerable intrigue,” quickly traced

the inscription to the modern village of Khirbet el-Qom. As a part of a “salvage
operation” to prevent further looting, Dever excavated two Iron Age tombs.
Another inscription (Figure 6.10) soon emerged; it had been looted, but thanks
to Dever’s detective work, it too was identified as coming from Khirbet el-Qom
(from the “butterfly-shaped” Tomb II).100 Indeed, Dever (1969–1970: 146) writes
that “a recess in the east pillar revealed where [the inscription] had recently been
removed; the lateral dimensions and the smoothly dressed sides of the inscrip-
tion fit this hole perfectly.” The inscription is accompanied by a deeply carved
upside-down human hand, the relevance of which was most likely apotropaic.101
At first the decipherment of the inscription proved difficult. Through subsequent
study102 it came to be seen as a petition asking that a person bearing a Yahwistic
name, ʾUriyahu, be blessed and saved by Yahweh (brk103 ʾryhw lyhwh . . . hwšʿ lh).
The remainder of the inscription is quite hard to read, though the presence of the
reading asherah is certain (occurring two and perhaps three times). The context
seems to mention ʾUriyahu’s enemies, but the legibility is uncertain (wmṣryh?
lʾšrth hwšʿ lh). Thus the Khirbet el-Qom inscription closely parallels those found
Figure 6.10 A late eighth-century BCE inscription from Khirbet el-Qom

accompanied by a deeply carved and upside-down human hand, most likely used
apotropaically.
Kim Walton, taken at Israel Museum.
at Kuntillet ʿAjrud in attesting the worship of Yahweh in the eighth century BCE
both in the south and in the Judean hills, not to mention the possible worship of
Asherah. Yet once again, the verb for saving is in the masculine singular (hwšʿ
lh, “he saved him”), underscoring, in Othmar Keel and Christoph Uehlinger’s
(1998: 239–240) words, how “only one divine power, namely Yahweh, is con-
sidered as the active agent who provides freedom from enemies.” While this is
undeniably true, given the many masculine singular verbs, the juxtaposition of
ʾšrth with Yahweh makes one wonder whether what we have both here and at
Kuntillet ʿAjrud is a reinterpretation of what some viewed as a divine pair.104
Epigraphic Sources from the Seventh and Sixth Centuries BCE
The independent use of the divine name Yahweh is amply attested in the seventh
century BCE and later. From the first half of the seventh century BCE we have
several cave inscriptions/graffiti published by Joseph Naveh in 2001 (Figures

6.11, 6.12). Though these are of unknown provenance, epigraphists have noted
that the script is quite close to that of the Khirbet el-Qom inscriptions and a cer-
tain named individual (ʿOfay son of Netanyahu) may occur in both texts (cf.
Khirbet el-Qom #1–2 and Naveh #2–3).105 In the Naveh inscriptions the name
Yahweh is invoked for blessing (brk) and cursing (ʾrr) a total of four times. Of
Figure 6.11 An unprovenanced seventh-century BCE cave inscription mentioning

Yahweh Sebaoth. Line drawing by Joseph Naveh.
Figure 6.12 An unprovenanced seventh-century BCE cave inscription mentioning

Yahweh.
particular note is the use of Yahweh Sebaoth (yhwh ṣbʾt in inscription #1 [Figure
6.11]), a divine name well known from the Hebrew Bible yet only attested here in
the epigraphic corpus.106
Several inscriptions dating from circa 700 BCE were found in a burial cave
at Khirbet Beit Lei, a short distance east of Lachish.107 Epigraphers (e.g., Naveh,
Cross, Lemaire, McCarter, Zevit, Suriano)108 all agree that these inscriptions at-
test to the worship of Yahweh by supplicants who prayed that he would save them
from their dire straits (“Save, O Yahweh!” hwšʿ [y]‌hwh)109 as well as curse (ʾrr)
their detractors/enemies. Sociolinguists (e.g., Mandell and Smoak 2016: 234)
argue that Yahweh’s salvation was particularly “germane to the context of
concerns over death and the status of the deceased in the tomb.” There is dis-
agreement when it comes to interpreting the two longest inscriptions coming
from this cave, yet most scholars see a confession affirming that Yahweh, “the
God of Jerusalem” (ʾlhy yršlm), is also “the God of the entire earth” (yhwh ʾlhy kl
hʾrṣ), whose sovereignty includes “the highlands of Judah” (hry yhdh).110 What
follows next is a plea for a “compassionate” Yahweh (ʾl ḥnn or yhwh ḥnn) to “in-
tervene” (pqd) in the present crisis and absolve (nqh) the petitioner.111
From a similar date (ca. 700 BCE) we have an enigmatic tomb inscription
(Figure 6.13) from a cave in the Judean desert near Ein Gedi, what Zevit refers to
Figure 6.13 Ziony Zevit’s line drawing of a tomb inscription from a cave in the
Judean desert near Ein Gedi.
From Ziony Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches
(London: Continuum, 2001), with permission.
as “an ad hoc cult place . . . used by a Jerusalemite refugee.”112 The word for curse
(ʾrr) occurs at the beginning and end of the extant inscription.113 In the middle
one can read the phrase “Blessed is Yahweh” (brk yhwh) followed by an appeal
in the next line for Yahweh to reign (ymlk).114 An acknowledgment of Yahweh
being blessed “among the nations” (brk bgy[m]‌) has also been reconstructed by
Zevit (2001: 352–356).
Inscriptions on ostraca coming from Arad (dating from the late seventh/early
sixth centuries BCE) were first published by Yohanan Aharoni.115 The most im-
portant of these for the present purpose (ostracon #18, Figure 6.14) petitions
Yahweh for health (lines 2–3: yhwh yšʾl lšlmk) and makes mention of “the house/
temple of Yahweh” (line 9: byt yhwh).116 Another inscription (ostracon #21)
describes Yahweh restoring a person to his master (yšlm yhwh lʾdn[y]‌). Prior
to the discovery of the inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud and Khirbet el-Qom,
Figure 6.14 A inscription from late seventh-/early sixth-century BCE Arad

(ostracon #18) mentioning “the temple of Yahweh.”
scholars had restored similar blessing formulas in two Arad ostraca (ostraca
#40.3: brktk [lyhw]h; cf. #21.2).
Next we turn to the two Ketef Hinnom inscriptions dating to the end of the
seventh or the beginning of the sixth century BCE.117 These texts have received
much attention since their discovery in 1979 because they constitute our oldest
attestations of a biblical passage—namely, the famous Priestly Benediction of
Numbers 6:24–26. That these two “mini-scrolls” were etched in silver and were
found in an elaborate burial complex shows that their owners were elite by most
standards.118
The two inscriptions (designated KH I [Figure 6.15] and KH II [Figure 6.16])
are notoriously difficult to analyze because of their small size and poor state of
preservation. Yet from the outset the benediction could be clearly read with
minor reconstructions. KH 1:14–18 reads “May Yahweh bless you and [may he]
keep you. [May] Yahweh make [his face] shine [upon you]” (ybrk yhwh [wy]šmrk
[yʾ]r yhwh pn[yw ʾlyk]), while KH II:5–12 contains the fuller benediction “May
Figure 6.15 One of the two inscriptions etched on silver scrolls from Ketef Hinnom
(dating to the end of the seventh or the beginning of the sixth century BCE) that
constitute our oldest attestations of a biblical passage (Numbers 6:24–26).
Photograph by Bruce and Kenneth Zuckerman, West Semitic Research. Courtesy Israel Antiquities
Authority.
Yahweh bless you [and] may he keep you. May Yah[we]h make his face shine
[upon] you and grant you p[ea]ce” (ybrk yhwh yšmrk yʾr yh[w]‌h pnyw [ʾl]yk wyśm
lk š[l]m]). Considering that we have exactly the same vocabulary attested at late
ninth-or early eighth-century BCE Kuntillet ʿAjrud (ybrk wyšmrk; discussed
previously), not to mention its presence in Numbers 6:24–26, we can confidently
underscore a long standing (for at a minimum more than two hundred years)
and geographically widespread tradition of associating Yahweh with protection
and well-being.
Many other readings in these two inscriptions are often overlooked. Using vo-
cabulary well known from biblical literature, Yahweh is celebrated as the deity
“who [keeps] the covenant” ([šmr] hbryt) and is “gracious toward those who
love [him]” ([h]‌ḥsd lʾhb[w]).119 He is also looked to as the petitioner’s “restorer”
([m]šybnw) and “rock” (ṣwr) “in whom there is redemption” (ky bw gʾl).
Figure 6.16 One of the two inscriptions etched on silver scrolls from Ketef Hinnom
(dating to the end of the seventh or the beginning of the sixth century BCE) that
constitute our oldest attestations of a biblical passage (Numbers 6:24–26).
Photograph by Bruce and Kenneth Zuckerman, West Semitic Research. Courtesy Israel Antiquities
Authority.
Additionally, new readings confirmed by the 2004 edition by Gabriel Barkay

and colleagues have dramatically contributed to our understanding of how
Yahweh was viewed at this time in this locale. For the first time, we have clear Iron
Age evidence of the power of the divine name Yahweh, as well as the power of the
written word (i.e., using a biblical passage) being used for apotropaic purposes,
similar to the well- attested practices of Late Jewish antiquity. Specifically,
Yahweh is described in KH II.2–5 as “the warrior [or helper] and the rebuker of
[E]‌vil” (lyhw[h] (3) hʿzr w (4) hgʿr b(5)[r]ʿ; cf. also hrʿ in KH I.10). Indeed, this
occasions little surprise when one remembers that the two “mini-scrolls” were in
fact small amulets that would have been worn as talismans around the neck.120
One should also note how these texts contribute to our understanding of
Yahweh and family/domestic religion. The Ketef Hinnom inscribed amulets were
found in close proximity in a “repository” of a grave complex that totaled five
burial chambers (Barkay 1992: 139–147). Similarly, the Khirbet el-Qom inscrip-
tion with its apotropaic character was found in a burial context.121 Even though
the prayers invoked at Ketef Hinnom share with the prayers from Kuntillet ʿAjrud
exact vocabulary seeking Yahweh’s assistance (ybrk yhwh wyšmrk), the former’s
domestic/ familial/
burial context contrasts with the latter’s cultic structure,
which focused on Yahweh’s protection of its regional inhabitants and travelers
seeking safety on the open road.122
Lastly, from early sixth-century BCE Lachish, we have letters that use a series
of formulaic greetings invoking Yahweh’s blessings.123 These letters were written
by a subordinate to his administrative and/or military superior.124 They include
full blessing formulas such as “May Yahweh cause my lord to hear reports of
peace and goodness/prosperity” (ostracon #3.2–4: yšmʿ yhwh [ʾt]ʾdny šmʿt šlm
w[š]m[ʿt] ṭb; cf. #5.1–2) and shortened variants asking for either peace (ostracon
#2.2–3) or prosperity (ostracon #4.1–2). Yahweh is also implored to “cause my
master to see this season in good health” (ostracon #6.1–2: yrʾ yhwh ʾt ʾdny ʾt
hʿt hzh šlm; cf. #5.7–8). In addition to such introductory salutations, we also
find in the Lachish letters two examples of the oath formula “As Yahweh lives”
(ostracon #6.12: ḥy yhwh; cf. #3.9) so well known from biblical texts and else-
where (cf. Ringgren 1980: 339–340) (Figure 6.17). Finally, Yahweh also occurs
Figure 6.17 An inscription from early sixth-century BCE Lachish (ostracon #6)
containing the oath formula “As Yahweh lives.”
independently in an enigmatic broken text that reads ybkr yhwh . . . (ostracon

#2.5). If the text is correct, it may refer to Yahweh giving priority to someone
(Aḥituv 2008: 62), with the verb being analyzed as a denominative of bĕkôr,
“firstborn.” In contrast, it has been suggested that ybkr is a scribal metathesis for
an original text that referred to Yahweh blessing (ybrk) someone.
Conclusions from Epigraphy
Setting aside the Shasu material, extra-biblical inscriptions document that the
deity Yahweh was known as early as the mid-ninth century BCE, the date of the
Mesha stela. Both of the most common reconstructions for the broken text (ei-
ther “[ve]ssels of Yahweh,” [k]ly yhwh, or “the a[ltar-hea]rths of Yahweh,” ʾ[rʾ]ly
yhwh) assume that some type of cultic activity was devoted to Yahweh by the
inhabitants of Nebo (cf. Mesha stela lines 14–18). Cross (1998: 57–58) surmises
we have “every reason to believe that there was a Reubenite shrine beneath Mount
Nebo” that was “reestablished in the time of Omri.”125 If the Moabite king and
his scribes were cognizant of the existence of the god Yahweh by the ninth cen-
tury BCE, one can posit (totally apart from the Hebrew Bible) that Yahweh was
known across a wide geographic region even earlier and even in northern Israel
(to judge from the mention of Omri).126 Such geographic breadth is precisely
what we have attested soon afterward at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, which makes men-
tion of both Yahweh of the south/Teman (yhwh htmn/yhwh tmn) and Yahweh of
Samaria (lyhwh šmrn).
Obviously, there is a large gap between the putative mention of Yahweh in
the thirteenth-century BCE Shasu texts and the firm mention of Yahweh in the
ninth-century BCE Mesha stela. This is not the place to engage the “tenth-century
question” or discussions of state formation. Yet if we are looking at a southern or-
igin for Yahweh (see Section III in this chapter), Thomas Levy (2009a: 258), in
writing on Edomite ethnogenesis, has plausibly filled the gap:
The Egyptian scarabs and stamp seal found at Khirbat en-Nahas and the Wadi
Fidan cemetery indicate that nomads had connections with Egypt from the
late fifteenth century to the tenth century BCE, providing archeological evi-
dence for the “tribes” or Shasu nomads known from Papyrus Harris, Papyrus
Anastasi, and other biblical sources.
Epigraphically, Seth Sanders (2009: 120) and others have noted that “a state is
not a prerequisite of scribal production.” Suffice it here to quote Schniedewind
(2013: 69) on the “active [though non-standardized] writing tradition [of the]
decentralized . . . small polities” of the early Iron Age, and McCarter’s (2008b: 48)
comment that “inland Canaan had a long history of alphabetic literacy prior to
the 10th century BCE.” Here McCarter has in mind the “substantial corpus of
Old Canaanite epigraphic materials” from the “13th through the 11th centu-
ries.”127 Regrettably, none of these texts makes mention of Yahweh128 (though
the Canaanite deities Anat, Astarte, Baal, Dagan, Elat and Ṣidqu do appear
in the fuller corpus).129 More recent epigraphic finds such as the Tel Zayit
abecedary130 and the inscription from Khirbet Qeiyafa attest to literate culture
in tenth-century BCE Canaan (though not universal literacy)131 and, according
to McCarter, to a distinctively South Canaanite (or Proto-Hebrew) scribal tradi-
tion whose heir will be found in the Hebrew national script (McCarter 2008b: 49;
Tappy et al. 2006: 26–28, 40–42; contrast Rollston 2008: 82). Though Yahweh has
yet to be found in these tenth-century BCE inscriptions, it would seem (to judge
from the attestation of Yahweh in the ninth-century BCE Mesha inscription,
whose scribe certainly did not invent Yahweh de novo) that finding such an epi-
graphic attestation in this “nascent Old Hebrew script” is just a matter of time.132
Section III: The Geographic Origins of Yahwistic Traditions

and the Debate Concerning Northern (Canaanite) Versus
Southern (Midianite) Origins
The Geographic Origins of Yahweh
These discussions have set the stage for the debate surrounding the geographic
origin of Yahwistic traditions and whether we should be looking to the north or
to the south. Chapters Four and Five detailed the cultural heritage of northern
Canaanite religion as it pertains to the Israelite deity El. In particular, textual
references from the kingdom at Ugarit illustrated points of similarity and dif-
ference between how ʾIlu was conceptualized at Late Bronze Age Ugarit and
how El was depicted at Iron Age Israel. Material culture emphasized remarkable
continuity with regard to enthroned bronze figurines, standing stones, and bull
figurines of the Late Bronze Age–Iron Age I Levant.
Proper methodology argues strongly against homogenizing such data into
any type of one-to-one correspondence, especially when hundreds of years and a
vast distance separate the two cultures, whose societies were distinctly different.
Yet a cultural continuum with regard to Canaanite religious concepts is clearly
evident, and this phenomenon deserves further elaboration. Moreover, it is es-
pecially appropriate to explore the northern Canaanite continuum at this point
in our study, for it has played a vital role in unpacking the possible northern or-
igin of Yahwism. At the same time, and in direct contrast, the best extra-biblical
parallels for exploring the possible origin of the deity Yahweh are the texts
describing the Shasu Bedouin with mention of Yh and Seir (see pp. 229–232).
These sources point not north but south. In what follows, we will document why
a synthetic description of the origin of the deity Yahweh and the religious culture
of Yahwism must include both southern and northern traditions.
A Desideratum: The Study of Pre-Israelite Canaanite Lore
For decades scholars have thoroughly documented the presence of pre-Israelite

Canaanite lore, which is vital for reconstructing a synthetic treatment of ancient
Israelite religion. Yet in spite of this rich cultural heritage there remains, as Cross
(1973: vii) would bemoan, “the tendency of scholars to overlook or suppress con-
tinuities between the early religion of Israel and the Canaanite . . . culture from
which it emerged.” Understanding pre-Israelite Canaanite religious concepts re-
mains a desideratum for the study of ancient Israel’s religious expressions. The
simple fact that Hebrew falls within the Canaanite language family (one of two
branches of Northwest Semitic, the other being Aramaic) should rivet atten-
tion on the Canaanite world of the Hebrew Bible.133 Similarly, a desire for un-
derstanding the nuances of Canaanite religion should be quickened once one
recognizes that the religion practiced in ancient Israel was situated geograph-
ically in a part of what was termed “the land of Canaan” in biblical and extra-
biblical sources (e.g., the Amarna letters).134
“Canaanite Religion”: A Modern Scholarly Construct
At the outset, we need to underscore that there never existed a unified

“Canaanite” religion. “Canaanite” religion never existed in a single locale such
that we can speak of it as we speak of Egyptian or Mesopotamian religion. (Yet
even here, the widespread geographic religious influence of these two major
cultures can complicate any attempt at tidy definitions.) As such, any notion
of a one-size-fits-all “Canaanite” feature or practice simply belies the data. The
designation “Canaanite religion” that appears so often in scholarly and popular
literature is merely a scholarly construct. It has been used (more often by the
past generation than the present) to describe shared religious traditions found in
the Levant in the geographic areas occupied today by Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and
Jordan.135 Ideally, it would be preferable to find a neutral geographical designa-
tion such as “Levantine” to describe such regional continuity, a term that would
not carry the polemical baggage that comes with the term “Canaanite.” And yet,
as we will be demonstrating, the broad term “Levantine” does not adequately
differentiate between Canaanite and Aramean divinity. Thus we are left with the
term “Canaanite.” Yet hopefully the following discussion will help readers reha-
bilitate the term.
The Biblical Polemic and Sketching Canaanite Religion

from Phoenician Inscriptions
Prior to the modern discovery of the remains of the ancient kingdom of Ugarit
(at Ras Shamra and at neighboring Ras Ibn Hani) along the coast of Syria, most
people’s impression of “Canaanite” religion came from the Iron Age biblical texts,
many of which were polemical in nature. The portrait was decidedly skewed—
like having your worst enemy write your obituary. It is not that the biblical
writers were ignorant of the multitude of Canaanite deities in their midst. On
the contrary, biblical texts contain numerous references to the likes of Asherah,
Ashtoreth (Ashtart, Astarte), Baal, Baal-Zebub, Chemosh, Dagan, Milcom, and
the Queen of Heaven (cf. too references to yām, nāhār, liwyātān, tannin, môt, and
rĕpāʾîm). Yet the biblical writers and/or editors chose not to flesh out the natures
and characteristics of these deities. Sometimes they serve as mere foils to the bib-
lical deity. From the mocking portrayal of Dagon in 1 Samuel 5 one would never
guess that he was a major deity in Syria, with a temple at Ugarit and his principal
residence at Tuttul on the Balih River.
The modern misperception of Canaanite religion was not due to a lack of
non-polemical sources that were linguistically Canaanite. Indeed, thousands of
Phoenician inscriptions (many of which are contemporaneous with authors of
the Hebrew Bible) have been known for decades.136 Yet their nature was such
that the Canaanite religion they espoused had to be teased out of non-literary
references. (I am not considering here secondary references to Phoenician re-
ligion found in Classical Greek and Roman authors.) The large collection
of Phoenician inscriptions does not consist of lengthy mythological tales of
banqueting with the gods, lamenting dying gods and celebrating rising ones,
embarking on grand quests for eternal life, or fearing a descent through the
gates of the netherworld.137 We have no elaborate liturgies from which to de-
scribe the movement of assorted religious paraphernalia by consecrated reli-
gious officiants. Rather, the bulk of our epigraphic sources is made up of royal
inscriptions, dedicatory stela, funerary inscriptions, votive texts, sacrificial
tariffs, temple expenses, building inscriptions, personal names, and graffiti.138
Sergio Ribichini (1997: 120) bemoans the fact that “although Phoenician ep-
igraphic sources at present amount to a total of over 6,000 inscriptions, for the
most part they provide no information on religion.” This is certainly an over-
statement (contrast Peckham 1987, 2014; Clifford 1990; Schmitz 1992; Markoe
2000: 115–142; Quinn 2018: 78–79, 91–131). Consider the lengthy list of cultic
personnel associated with the fifth-century BCE temple to ʿAštart at Kition

(cf. KAI 37; see the Conclusion, p. 685). Yet the point is made nonetheless. By
gleaning references from our textual, onomastic, and archaeological sources
we can document the presence of numerous Canaanite deities including Anat,
Ashtart, Baal, Baal-Hammon, Baal-Shamem, Baalat, Bes, El, Eshmun, Horon,
Kushor, Melqarth, Reshep, Shamash, Tanit, and Yarih, not to mention var-
ious divine ancestors.139 Indeed, the rich data gathered by Rainer Albertz and
Rüdiger Schmitt (2012: 343, 512–513, table 5.12) reveal a “striking diversity”
of divinity. Yet for the general reader, and even many scholars, such gods never
fully captured the imagination because of the lack of compelling stories. It was
far easier to reiterate the pejorative caricature of Canaanite religion that had been
inherited and reinforced through hundreds of years of confessional teachings.
Even the documentation of religious expression in excavations at Byblos (an-
cient Gubla), Sidon, Tyre, Kition (eastern Cyprus), Sarepta, and Umm el-ʿAmed
and their environs did little to rewrite the biblical portrait (cf. the Conclusion,
pp. 685–689). If anything, the tophet sanctuary at Carthage was used to rein-
force the demonizing accusation that all Canaanites engaged in widespread child
sacrifice (cf. Lev 18:21; Deut 12:31; 2 Kgs 3:27; 21:6; 23:10). In contrast, today
scholars debate whether ritual infanticide among the Carthaginians was an ex-
ceptional and localized custom used in extreme circumstances or a regular and
systematic practice.140
Philo of Byblos
The use of Phoenician epigraphic sources has been limited. In contrast, some
hope for reconstructing Canaanite religion was thought to be found in the so-
called Phoenician History by Philo of Byblos. Here one’s imagination is captured
by Philo’s accounts “Cosmogony,” “History of Culture,” “History of Kronos”
(hon oi phoinikes ’Ēl “whom the Phoenicians call El”), “On Human Sacrifice,”
and “On Snakes.” For the past generation of scholars, the then new discovery
of the Ugaritic texts breathed new life into the possibility that Philo of Byblos
might indeed preserve authentic Canaanite traditions. Yet over the past three
decades such enthusiasm has waned considerably as scholars have called for a
sober reassessment.
What we have in Philo of Byblos (ca. 70–160 CE) is third-or fourth-hand ma-
terial that is polemical in nature (Baumgarten 1992; L’Heureux 1979: 40–45).
Philo’s Phoenician History only comes down to us through Eusebius of Caesarea’s
(ca. 260–340 CE) Praeparatio Evangelica. As for the source of Philo’s information,
he supposedly used a learned scholar named Sanchuniathon (Sakkunyaton),
who presumably antedated Hesiod and tracked down the records of Taautos,
yet none of this can be confirmed (cf. Barr 1974: 33–40; Baumgarten 1992: 342–
344). While there are touchpoints between the mythology of Philo of Byblos
and the Canaanite/Israelite lore of the Late Bronze and Iron Ages, it is far from
what we know from other Northwest Semitic sources closer in time and prox-
imity. For but one example, Elioun dies in an encounter with wild beasts, a motif
without reflex in the West Semitic Elyon traditions (but cf. the death of Adonis
and Apollodorus; see Attridge and Oden 1981: 86 n. 83).141
Albert Baumgarten (1992: 343) asserts that “Philo’s claims are now . . . regarded
with considerable skepticism. . . . Philo does present Phoenician traditions . . . but
he has not discovered and somehow preserved unaltered texts from hoary antiq-
uity. Rather he has retold contemporary versions of Phoenician myths, modified
them to suit his pet theories, and presented the results as true ancient versions.
We therefore do not read relatively unaltered Bronze Age or early Iron Age
sources in Philo.”142 Even scholars who are more charitable about using Philo
are nonetheless cautious. For example, Grabbe (1994: 115) acknowledges that
“whatever Philo’s sources, his version has taken in many elements known from
Greek cosmogonic accounts, whether added by him or already present in his
source(s). . . . Philo [may] include native Phoenician elements. The problem is
sorting them out.”
The Canaanite Cultural Continuum: The Middle Bronze Age,

Late Bronze Age, and Iron Age
Where then shall we turn for our best archive of pre-Israelite Northwest
Semitic lore? As will become clear, the elevated reputation of the material
coming from Late Bronze Age Ugarit is justly deserved. Yet it would be prema-
ture to start there without a few comments about even earlier periods that re-
veal cultural contacts from north to south. One could of course start at the very
beginning, following Richard Steiner’s (2011: 10) admonition that “trade be-
tween Egypt and the Levant is attested not only in the Old Kingdom but also in
the Predynastic and Early Dynastic periods.” Steiner’s 2011 work on the early
Northwest Semitic serpent spells in the Old Kingdom Pyramid texts provides
written documentation from the oldest of our Egyptian sources. Or one could
follow the lead of Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 16ff.), who settled on the Middle
Bronze Age for a starting point to survey the religious landscape for their Gods,
Goddesses and Images of God in Ancient Israel. Their reasoning is instructive to
read at length:
Whereas Egypt grew noticeably weaker at the end of the Twelfth Dynasty, the
Palestinian cities grew even stronger during the eighteenth century, at the
beginning of Middle Bronze IIB. Strong influences came from the north, spe-
cifically from Syria. The powerful Canaanite influence reached even as far as
the Nile Delta and led there to the establishment of a Canaanite dominated dy-
nasty about 1650 [BCE], the Fifteenth Dynasty that is often identified by using
the term “Hyksos” (a hellenization of the Egyptian ḥq3.w ḫ3ś.wt, “ruler from
foreign lands”).143
One can justify beginning our survey at this point, when the urban culture
of Palestine begins to flourish, because from this point on we can deal with a
cultural continuum in Palestine that extends all the way to the time of the emer-
gence of the Hebrew Bible. . . . [B]‌oth the Canaanite and the Egyptian cultures
had begun to exert considerable influence on each other already during the
Middle Bronze Age. It is also likely that the same ethnic groups continued to
maintain their cultural system from the Middle Bronze Age right into the Iron
Age. (Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 17, emphasis theirs)
This is not the place to examine the many historical and archaeological
questions associated with the renaissance of complex society in Middle Bronze
Age IIA nor the flowering of Canaanite culture in Middle Bronze Age IIB–C.144
Nor is it appropriate here to explore the current stage of research on the Hyksos
rulers, their capital at Avaris, and their Levantine origins.145 And space does not
allow us to explore the presence of Canaan in Egyptian literature such as the
Tale of Sinuhe and the Execration Texts or the particulars of the New Kingdom
Legend of Astarte and the Tribute of the Sea—not to mention the Canaanite
pantheon attested in the Proto-Sinaitic inscriptions at Serabit el-Khadim.146
(Though we will single out gleanings from the fourteenth-century BCE Amarna
texts shortly.)
What must be underscored is the “cultural continuum” of which Keel and
Uehlinger write, with points of mutual contact and influence from north (Syria)
to south (Egypt) and south to north.147 The two-way influence between Egyptian
and Canaanite religious cultures is easily underscored by the presence of each
culture’s deities in the other’s material culture and textual sources. Compare, for
example, the presence in Egypt of Canaanite gods such as Baal (equated with
Seth), Reshep, Anat, Astarte, Qudshu/Qedeshet, and Horon (cf. Tazawa 2009;
Zivie-Coche 1994, 2011; Schneider 2003, 2006) and, in turn, the presence in the
Levant of Egyptian gods such as Hathor, Horus, Bes, Ptah, Amun, and Re. Of
particular note, consider the number of Egyptian amulets that abound in the ar-
chaeological record.148 As for textual sources, Zevit (2001: 117 n. 51; cf. Ayali-
Darshan 2015) has remarked how “local versions of myths widely circulated
through the Middle Bronze period in the Levant” such that “the goings-on of
the deities in Ugaritic myths were most likely local versions [thereof].” Similarly,
he continues, “the presence of Canaanite deities in the Egyptian pantheon from
the reign of Amenophis II (1436–1413 BCE) to the Roman period suggests that
myths about these gods were circulated widely.”
Let us focus particularly on the Late Bronze Age. Canaanite religious cul-
ture of this time period is remarkably widespread and thus influenced by and
integrated with adjacent cultures. That there is a cultural continuum of certain
West Semitic religious practices from the Late Bronze period through the Iron
Age and beyond is easily demonstrated through the institution known as the
marzeaḥ.149 Pondering such enduring traditions—even if we cannot easily artic-
ulate mechanisms of transmission—is instructive.150 Sociolinguists have dem-
onstrated how language and writing are vehicles of such cultural transmission
and integration, and with regard to Canaanite culture, the development and
spread of alphabetic writing was key (Schniedewind 2013: 53–66). For the ma-
terial culture of the Late Broze Age Levant, consider the various descriptive cat-
egories used by Ora Negbi (1976) for the bronze figurines she analyzes in her
Canaanite Gods in Metal. Negbi arranges her many figurines into categories
based on physical features (male/female warriors in smiting pose, male/female
deities in benedictory pose, enthroned male/female figures, joined figurines,
divine couples). Though they are clearly Canaanite (originating mostly “in the
Levantine coast and its immediate hinterland”), the presence of well-defined
cultural identifiers results in Negbi using descriptors that reflect the mixing of
cultural styles (esp. Syro-Egyptian, Syro-Anatolian, Syro-Phoenician, and Syro-
Palestinian). Negbi (1976: 2) concludes that “various considerations may enable
us to demonstrate that the Levantine metalsmiths evolved a certain style of their
own,” yet “it is true that many figurines found in the Levant depend largely on
Egyptian, Mesopotamian and Anatolian counterparts.”
As for the presence of religion in Late Bronze Age textual sources, we have al-
ready noted the rich pluralistic attestations of divinity exhibited in the Amarna
letters, where theophoric elements attest to Egyptian (Amon, Api, Horus, Hu,
Ḫaʿpi, Jah, Ptaḥ, Rēʿ, Seth), Mesopotamian (Anu, Aššur, Baštu, Ninurta), Kassite
(Ḫarbe, Šugab), Hurrian (Ḫebat, Iršapppa, Teššub), and Indo-Aryan (Índraḥ,
Rta, Yamáḥ) deities alongside broadly attested Semitic deities ([H]‌addu, Dagan,
ʿAmmu) and deities known from West Semitic sources (ʿAnat, ʾAsherah, ʿAštart,
Baʿlu, Beltu, El, Milku/Malik, Ṣaduq, Yamm). In short, there is substantial evi-
dence of a widespread and enduring Canaanite religious influence from Syria to
Egypt from the Middle Bronze Age on and especially so in the Late Bronze Age.
This brings us to the religious culture of Ugarit, a city on the Syrian coast whose
discoveries have already been noted, especially with regard to the deity ʾIlu/El
(Chapter Two, pp. 29–30; Chapter Four, pp. 76–81; Chapter Five, pp. 142–155).
To emphasize the point: The Late Bronze Age civilization of Ugarit (with its some
1,550 mythological, ritual, and administrative alphabetic cuneiform texts—
not to mention approximately 2,500 texts in seven other languages, especially
Akkadian, and the impressive material culture of Tell Ras Shamra) is without
rival for articulating the northern Canaanite religious lore that resonates with later
Iron Age Israelite belief and ritual. Whereas earlier decipherers (e.g., Virolleaud)
dated the texts in the fourteenth century BCE, new textual discoveries (RS
92.2016 = KTU 1.179) suggest that Ugarit’s most famous scribe, Ilimilku, lived in
the last decades of the thirteenth century BCE (cf. Pardee 2007b: 186–189; Dalix
1997a, 1997b).
Why Ugarit?
The discovery of ancient Ugarit changed everything. Its importance for

reconceptualizing Canaanite religion cannot be underscored enough. Since the
modern discovery of Tell Ras Shamra in 1928 (and especially since the publica-
tion of the mythological texts coming from the first three seasons of excavations),
every new treatment of Canaanite religion has looked to Tell Ras Shamra first
and foremost—and with good reason. For here we have a richly documented re-
ligious culture evidenced by the royal complex, the two acropolis temples, the
residential “rhyton sanctuary,” numerous tombs, a host of cultic objects, and—
last but certainly not least—hundreds of religious texts. And while the mytho-
logical texts have garnered past attention, the fuller spectrum of Ugaritic religion
has been emerging as scholars explore the wide range of literary genres, espe-
cially the ritual texts (see Pardee 2000, 2002a).
Early Ugaritic Studies: Parallelomania Versus Demonization

At the outset, apart from those studies devoted to linguistics and archaeology,
many scholars filtered these amazing discoveries through two distinctly different
(and sometimes polar opposite) lenses, both equally narrow and colored.151
Their respective glasses may be labeled “parallelomania” and “demonization.”
Showing little concern for differences in Sitz im Leben, chronology, function, and
literary Gattung, the “parallelomania” approach rushed to propose putative sim-
ilarities between Ugarit and various ancient Near Eastern cultures. Parallel Akitu
festivals, myths of dying and rising gods, rituals of child sacrifice, and cultic pros-
titution were thought to be everywhere. A wide variety of religious concepts and
practices were thought to be homogenous transhistorically and transculturally.
The “demonization” approach was employed most often by biblicists who used
the Ugaritic texts as just another platform to continue the Deuteronomistic tra-
dition of ridiculing the Canaanites in order to underscore the supremacy of bib-
lical religion. The rhetoric was so pejorative that Delbert Hillers (1985: 253–254)
wrote in response that biblical scholars were “singularly ill-suited” to articulate
the wonders of ancient Ugarit, for they “are committed in advance to finding it
inferior, puerile, barbarous, retarded, or shocking”—merely an “abomination”

to be ridiculed. Mark Smith characterized the early years of Ugaritic studies
as being dominated by the “contrastive approach,” where the stereotype of the
depraved Canaanites was everywhere.152 Such an approach reduced a magnif-
icent culture to the status of a handmaid of biblical studies. Ugarit’s fame was
as merely a “Canaanite” foil to the biblical viewpoint.153 Yet that was more than
ninety years ago. To be charitable, those scholars of the past who wrote polem-
ically against Canaanite (i.e., Ugaritic) culture did so with only a fraction of the
texts we have available today, and with only a partial understanding of what we
now know of the Late Bronze Age kingdom of Ugarit.154
What has happened in the years since? The independent discipline of Ugaritic
studies that was always at the core of the French Mission to Ras Shamra has con-
tinued to flourish fully apart from the field of biblical studies. Note in partic-
ular the many volumes published in the Ras Shamra–Ougarit series (Éditions
Recherche sur les Civilisations, Paris). Comparative study between Ugaritic and
biblical studies goes on apace, yet with only a rare hint (if any) that a major civili-
zation like Ugarit should function in a subservient handmaid role. While current
studies emphasize the shared cultural legacy between ancient Ugarit and ancient
Israel, most are cognizant of not drawing overreaching conclusions that would
ignore the wide geographical, chronological, and societal divides.
Ugarit as “Canaanite”: The Linguistic and Religious Continuum

Most notably for our discussion, the relation between Ugaritic language and reli-
gious culture and that of the “Canaanites” has been significantly clarified thanks
in part to the work of Rainey, Na’aman, Pardee, Joseph Tropper, and others.
As pointed out by Rainey (1963, 1964, 1996) and Na’aman (1994, 1999), if one
desires a narrow geographical definition, then it is clear from the texts themselves
that the people of Ugarit viewed Canaanites as foreigners (cf. KTU 4.96)!155 One
text (RS 20.182A+B = Ugaritica V #36) even mentions a payment by the “sons of
Ugarit” to the “sons of Canaan.” Thus geographically, the people of Ugarit are not
Canaanites.
What about a linguistic definition? Is Ugaritic a Canaanite language? The
answer to this age-old question is “it depends.” That is, whether Ugaritic is
Canaanite depends on the criteria used for assessment. Those in favor point to
certain linguistic features that would support their case, while those in oppo-
sition tally their own list.156 The current writer would side with Tropper (1994)
in the affirmative because of the simple fact that Ugaritic is in the Northwest
Semitic family, which is divided into two main branches, Canaanite and Aramaic.
Whatever Ugaritic is, it is clearly not Aramaic. It is either a Northern Canaanite
dialect (so Tropper) or a direct descendant from a Levantine “Amorite” dialect
(so Bordreuil and Pardee).157
Finally, and most importantly for the present discussion, we come to a cul-
tural and religious definition. Without doubt, the vast corpus of literature (and
iconography) from Ugarit presents us with the clearest picture of “Canaanite”
religious culture as it has been customarily defined. For example, thanks to texts
of varying genres (mythological, ritual, administrative) and numerous divine
figurines and other cultic artifacts, Ugarit presents us with the fullest assemblage
of Canaanite deities universally recognized as Canaanite from other sources (i.e.,
Phoenician, Punic, Egyptian, Amarna Canaanite, the Hebrew Bible, epigraphic
Hebrew, Moabite, Edomite, Ammonite).158 These Ugaritic deities (which have
direct etymological counterparts in the surrounding civilizations) include the
male figures ʾIlu (El), Baʿlu (Baal), Athtar, Dagan, Rashpu (Reshep), Yarihu, and
Horanu (Horon); the goddesses ʾAthiratu (Asherah), ʿAnatu, ʿAthtartu (Ashtart,
Astarte), and Shapshu; the negative protagonists (i.e., combat figures) of Yammu,
Motu, and Litanu (Leviathan); the shades of the dead, known as the Rapiʾuma
(Rephaim); ancestral gods (ʾIlu-ʾibi; cf. the Hebrew Bible’s ʾĕlōhê ʾăbôt, “the god
of fathers”); and divine assemblies (pḫr ʾilm; pḫr mʿd; ʿdt ʾilm).
When we compare the pantheon in Late Bronze Age Ugaritic religion with
the West Semitic deities mentioned in Late Bronze Age Egypt and Amarna
Canaanite and the various Iron Age religious cultures (Phoenician, Israelite,
Moabite, Edomite, Ammonite), we see a cultural continuum that warrants the
label “Canaanite.” This is not to say that each of these cultures did not develop
their own preferences (and novelties) with regard to the makeup of their re-
gional pantheons and which deities played which roles. To do so would be to
ignore empirical data about cultural preferences such as Israel’s insistence on
the supremacy of Yahweh, Tyre’s selection of Melqart, Baal/Baal-Shamem, and
ʿAštart, Sidon’s recognition of Eshmun as their chief god, Moab’s elevation of
the god Chemosh, the Edomite choice of Qos, and the Ammonite adoption of
Milcom.
Moreover, recent research on divinity at Ugarit has led to a nuancing of tradi-
tional understandings of Levantine pantheons. Thanks to the variety of literary
genres within the Ugaritic textual corpus, we are now able to recognize different
types of pantheons, each with different rankings. In the past, the “mytholog-
ical” (or “narrative”) pantheon (assembled from the literary texts KTU 1.1–1.24)
dominated every publication of Ugaritic religion. Scholars today round out the
picture by drawing attention to how several deity lists reveal synthetic attempts
at documenting a “canonical” pantheon (for lack of a better term).159 Yet another
view of divinity is the “functional” pantheon, which includes the various gods
that actually receive cult and in what quantity (thus designating rank).160 Here
ritual texts, administrative texts, and personal names play a central role, not to
mention the expenditure of resources devoted to certain gods, as ascertained
through archaeology. In short, though we have a cultural Canaanite continuum
throughout the Levant, any attempt at synthesizing divinity within even a single
culture must be appropriately nuanced.
In addition to describing divinity, Ugaritic religion is of paramount impor-
tance for sketching many of the religious themes and motifs that dominate the
Canaanite religion found in the Hebrew Bible. Many of these themes will be
treated in Chapters Eight through Ten, and thus our treatment here will be very
brief. Chief among these has been the combat myth (or Chaoskampf traditions),
where the divine storm/warrior god defeats enemies described as the Sea or
a related cosmic dragon creature. Such traditions are widespread in the an-
cient Near East (especially Mesopotamia), as recognized long ago in Hermann
Gunkel’s (1895) famous volume Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit. Yet,
as John Day (1985: 4) has underscored, “since the discovery of the Ugaritic texts
from 1929 onwards, it has become clear that the immediate background of the
Old Testament allusions to the sea monster is not Babylonian but Canaanite.”
Consider how the Ugaritic texts’ Baʿlu and the Hebrew Bible’s Yahweh (both
designated “Rider of the Clouds”) fight the very same foes (ym/Yammu—yām;
nhr/Naharu—nāhār; Litanu—liwyātān/Leviathan; Tunnanu—tannîn; Motu—
māwet/môt). Multiheaded dragons of the same name are slain by each culture’s
divine warrior. There may be minor disagreement among historians of religion
about the precise literary genre used by writers to convey these stories (e.g.,
mythopoeic vs. mythopoetic), yet all scholars are in agreement about the ubiqui-
tous presence of pre-Israelite Canaanite Chaoskampf traditions within the pages
of the Hebrew Bible as well as in Iron Age epigraphic Hebrew (cf. the Kuntillet
ʿAjrud plaster fragment described later). These widespread Canaanite tales are
also marked by longevity. To borrow Sanders’ (2009: 58) words, “Ugaritic litera-
ture drew on old traditions that were widely known: the Baal epic’s theme of the
battle between the storm god and the sea appears in West Semitic cultures five
hundred years earlier at Mari and a thousand years later in the biblical book of
Daniel.”
Equally remarkable are poetic conventions (parallelism, phraseology, poetic
formulae) and stock literary type-scenes. Groundbreaking work by scholars such
as Harold Louis Ginsberg, Umberto Cassuto, and Albright provided a founda-
tion for subsequent work such as that of Parker (1989b), whose identification
of shared stock type-scenes in the Kirta and Aqhat poems (e.g., the birth an-
nouncement, the vow, the marriage blessing) led him to assert that the Ugaritic
texts constitute a “pre-biblical narrative tradition.”161 Parker (1989b: 225) asserts
that “Ugaritic represents better than any other second millennium language or
literature the antecedents of the language and literature of ancient Israel.”162 See
too the work of Frank Polak (1989, 2006) on the linguistic and stylistic aspects of
poetic formulae.163
Finally, a brief remark needs to be made about the phenomena of sacrifice

and religious personnel. It goes without saying that the entire ancient Near East
developed temple economies that constituted the core of religious ritual. Few
if any historians of religion would assert a direct line of dependence between
Late Bronze Age Ugaritic and Iron Age Israelite sacrifice and cultic personnel.
(What would be the mechanisms?) Yet the specific linguistic vocabulary used by
these two cultures is so exact and precise etymologically that one cannot deny a
shared cultural legacy.164 Pardee (2002a: 233) calls the etymological similarities
“striking.”
The Ugaritic ritual texts attest to the following sacrifices with exact etymo-
logical parallels to Israelite sacrifice: (1) the general term dibḥu (Hebrew zebaḥ),
(2) the term for altar, madbiḥu (Hebrew mizbēaḥ), (3) the “peace” or “com-
munion” offering known as the šalamūma (Hebrew šĕlāmîm), (4) the presen-
tation offering known as the šanūpatu (cf. Hebrew tĕnûpāh), and (5) the nidru
offering of a vow (Hebrew neder).165 The many types of offerings in the Ugaritic
ritual texts also have direct etymological correlates in Hebrew (e.g., male bovid,
ʾalpu/ʾelep; ram/sheep, šû/śeh; donkey, ʿêru/ʿayir; lamb, ʾimmiru/ʾimmēr; dove,
yônatu/yônâ; liver, kabidu/kābēd; silver, kaspu/kesep; wine, yênū/yayin; neck,
napšu/nepeš; wheat, kussumu/kussemet).
Ugaritic religious officiants with etymological parallels in the Hebrew Bible
include (1) priests (Ugaritic kāhin/kāhinūma; Hebrew kōhēn/kōhănîm), (2) chief
priests (Ugaritic rabbu kāhinīma; Hebrew hakkōhēn haggādôl), (3) the king as
religious officiant (Ugaritic malku; Hebrew melek), (4) cultic scribes (Ugaritic
sāpiru; Hebrew sōpēr), (5) cultic herdsmen (Ugaritic nāqid; Hebrew nōqēd),
(6) undefined “holy” cultic functionaries (Ugaritic qdš; Hebrew qdš), and (7) var-
ious incantation specialists (Ugaritic mulaḫḫišu; Hebrew mĕlaḥăšîm).
The various locales of sacred space also resonate etymologically: (1) temple,
bêtu/bayit; (2) sanctuary, qidšu/qodeš; (3) altar, madbiḥu/mizbēaḥ; (4) palace,
hêkalu/hêkāl; (5) threshing floor, gurnu/goren; (6) vineyard, karmu/kerem;
(7) meeting place, marziḥu/marzeaḥ; and (8) tomb, qibru/qeber.
Once again we must underscore Pardee’s (2002a: 233) caveat that “identity or
similarity of vocabulary may not be taken as indications that practice and ide-
ology were the same” (similarly Smith 2002a: 24). Returning to divinity, we could
cite Ribichini’s (1997: 124) caution that “the same divine name . . . cannot be
accepted as proof that the morphological and functional features of the deity
of that name remained unchanged.” In fact, such truisms should be stated even
more strongly. It is certainly the case that each of these cultures developed dif-
ferent religious practices and imbued many of these religious terms and dei-
ties with different ideologies. Israelites, according to the Hebrew Bible, never
sacrificed donkeys, as we have in KTU 1.40 (but cf. Lewis 2006a: 347–348). As
demonstrated by the location of tombs under their houses, Ugaritians did not
share the same notions about corpse contamination and ritual pollution that we
find in Numbers 19 (see Pitard 2002: 150; Lewis 2002: 182). The royal cult of
Judean kings never comes close to matching the pageantry of the Ugaritic king as
chief religious officiant (e.g., KTU 1.41, 1.119). Israel’s preoccupation with blood
as a purificatory substance is entirely absent from the Ugaritic ritual texts (cf.
Lewis 2006a: 346–347). Nonetheless, the point has been clearly made: Even with
a wide array of culture-specific practices factored in, and the religious autonomy
of each culture, there was nonetheless a demonstrable and overarching linguistic
and religious Canaanite continuum between Late Bronze Age Ugarit and Iron Age
Israel.166 The “larger Canaanite cultural continuum” in which Israel found it-
self led J. Andrew Dearman (2006: 535) to conclude that “indeed, Israel could
hardly be anything else than Canaanite, culturally speaking.” For the historian
of religion in search of data, Smith’s (2014a: 41) words ring true: “The Ugaritic
texts . . . often represent a more proximate resource for understanding themes
and concepts expressed in early Israelite literature or society than many biblical
texts that date to the eighth century or later.”
Aramean Religion
Ugarit is not the only Syrian culture to contribute to our understanding of an-
cient Israel’s religious heritage. Discoveries such as finding an Old Aramaic
memorial inscription mentioning the god Hadad at Tel Dan, one of the most
important religious sites in Israel, remind us of the presence of Aramean reli-
gion at this multiethnic hybrid site, even if its primarily religious affiliation was
Yahwistic (cf. Thareani 2016; Greer 2017). Similarly, the bull-headed warrior
deity discovered in the elaborate gate shrine of Bethsaida (in Geshur of Aram)
likely designates the Aramean god Hadad and/or the Aramean moon god Śahr
(see Chapter Seven, pp. 330–333). Biblical tradition notes how Rebekah, the
mother of Jacob and Esau, is “the daughter of Bethuel, the Aramean of Paddan-
Aram” (Gen 22:23; 25:20; 28:5).167 Deuteronomy 26:5 contains the famous ref-
erence to Jacob as an ăramî ʾōbēd (Deut 26:5), “a wandering” (RSV) or “fugitive”
(JPS) Aramean. Absalom makes a vow to Yahweh while in Geshur of Aram (2
Sam 15:8). The boldest story in the Hebrew Bible about a king officiating in the
cult, specifically with regard to blood manipulation, is that of the Judahite king
Ahaz in 2 Kings 16:10–16. The king admires an altar (in what is presumably an
Aramean temple complex) in Damascus and has a replica built in Jerusalem; on
this altar he engages in various religious rituals. While the god of the Damascus
altar is never explicitly mentioned, it could very well have been the Aramean god
Hadad (cf. Greenfield 1999: 380; 1987: 70).
In light of this, one would think that Aramean religion would be a focal point
of historians of Israelite religion, especially as providing another portrait to bal-
ance (or rival) the Canaanite backdrop. (After all, according to J’s account in
Gen 24:2–4, Abraham’s search for an Aramean wife for Isaac was specifically in-
tended to avoid his marriage to a Canaanite!) As yet another northern source,
should not Aramean religion too be mined as a possible wellspring for religious
concepts that become central to Iron Age Israelite Yahwism?
Once again methodological caution is in order. Just as one recognizes the im-
possibility of defining a unified “Canaanite religion,” so too one needs to under-
score that there never existed anything approaching a single Aramean religion
or culture. Attempts to define Aramean identity face significant hurdles (Sergi,
Oeming, and de Hulster 2016; Berlejung, Maeir, and Schüle 2017). Moreover,
the terms “Aramaic/Aramean” themselves are imprecise and inadequate as
classifying terms, as they can refer to languages and dialects that are not easily
grouped together as well as distinctly different sociopolitical polities.168 Yet we
have no alternative. Caveat lector.
Nonetheless, we do have a few synthetic treatments of Aramean religion
(e.g., Niehr 2013, 2014a; Lipiński 2000: 599–640). Like the various Canaanite
civilizations, Aramean cultural expressions (though of murky origin) have a
long legacy during the late second and especially the first millennium BCE.169
Because Aramaic was used as a sort of lingua franca throughout the Fertile
Crescent, Aramean language spread much further abroad than the political or
military reach of any of its minor polities (active mostly in the tenth through
the late eighth centuries BCE). Regrettably for the historian of religion, the vast
amount of Aramaic literature was not written by Arameans and thus is of little
use for articulating indigenous Aramean religion. Caution is in order to guard
against reconstructing Aramean religion via inaccurate non-Aramean portrayals
(which could even redefine or appropriate certain elements). Consider as but one
example how Neo-Assyrian theologians during the time of Sennacherib (704–
681 BCE) took it upon themselves to portray the god Amurru as an Aramean
deity riding beside Aššur in his chariot as he sets off to battle the cosmic monster
Tiamat.170
As for uncovering the various forms of indigenous Aramean religion, the rel-
evant source material is primarily epigraphic, onomastic, and sparse. Yet from
this material we can at least sketch Aramean divinity (albeit imperfectly due to
the small statistical sampling), acknowledging at the outset that “there never
was a pan-Aramean religion . . . any more than there was an overall Aramean
kingdom” (Niehr 2014a: 127). Restricting ourselves to the most important
Archaic Aramaic inscriptions (ninth/eighth centuries BCE) as a control group,
we can come up with an impressive list of named deities, half of which are not
Aramean!171 Once we set aside the distinctly Mesopotamian deities (’Inurta, Ir,
Laṣ, Marduk, Nabu, Nergal, Nikkal, Nusk, Shala, Sibitti, Sin, Tashmet, Zarpanit)
as well as the Phoenician Melqart, the Anatolian Kubaba, and the Urartian Ḫaldi,
we are left with a core list.172
If we then remove generic references to the gods (e.g., ʾlhy/ʾlhn/ʾlhyn; ʾlhy byt
ʾby), references to (deified?) natural phenomena (Heaven and Earth; Abyss and
Springs; Day and Night), and the gods of a certain locale (the gods of Arpad, the
gods of KTK, the gods of Yʾdy), a primary list of Aramean deities comes into
focus.173 This list includes Hadad (and his manifestation in Aleppo and Sikkan),
Baʿl-Shamayn, El, ʿElyan, Ilu-Wer/El-wer, Rashap (and the seemingly related
ʾArqu-Rashap), Rakib-El, Shahar/Śahr, and Shamash.174 As noted earlier, five of
these deities occur in multiple near-fixed lists in the two Sam’alian Aramaic texts
from Zincirli: Hadad, El, Rashap, Rakib-El, and Shamash. (See Chapter Five,
pp. 196 and 750, n. 180.)
Hadad is clearly the most preeminent deity in Aramean religion. As nicely
summarized by Daniel Schwemer (2001; 2008: 135–168), Alberto R. W. Green
(2003: 166–175), and Alan Lenzi (2011: 85–86), the West Semitic/Amorite deity
Adad is attested in Sumerian and Akkadian sources as early as the third millen-
nium BCE. His cult was centered in the Middle Euphrates and Syria and “diffused
not only southward throughout Babylonia, but also to the north, affecting
the Anatolian Plateau, and to the northeast, in the Urartian regions” (Green
2003: 169). A fascinating prophecy text from eighteenth-century BCE Mari gives
us a peek into what must have been a rich Chaoskampf mythology surrounding
this storm/warrior god. A prophet of Adad, lord of Aleppo, by the name of Abiya
mentions (speaking for the deity in first-person discourse) how the god Adad
let King Zimri-Lim use his divine weapons, the very weapons Adad used to de-
feat the cosmic monster Tiamat.175 Compare too the Iron Age orthostat discov-
ered at the citadel of Aleppo that depicts the storm god of Aleppo being pulled
in a chariot by a majestic bull (Figure 5.29; cf. Kohlmeyer 2000, 2009). Surely
similar myths circulated about Hadad in Aramean religion, which inherited this
cultural background. The Old Aramaic royal inscription from Bukan speaks of
Hadad thundering with language (ytn ql) reminiscent of Adad (rigim Adad), not
to mention Yahweh-Elyon (yittēn qōlô; e.g., Ps 18:14 [Eng 18:13]).176 The cul-
tural continuum is also reflected in biblical texts where a reference to the god
Hadad-Ramman (Hadad the Thunderer) is reflected in 2 Kings 5:18. Here in
a single verse the Syrian army commander Na’aman thrice mentions a temple
of Rimmon (bêt rimmôn) seemingly in Damascus. Yet another tradition in
Zechariah 12:11 is particularly fascinating. It mentions “the mourning of Hadad-
Rimmon” (mispad hădad-rimmôn), a likely reference to stories about Hadad as a
dying (and later rising) god (cf. Greenfield 1976; 1999: 380–381).
The use of the name Hadad to designate this storm/warrior god remained cen-
tral in Aramean religion, in contrast to the name Baʿlu/Baal, which came to label
the equivalent deity in Canaanite culture. The texts from Ugarit reflect the change
in process. In the mythological texts Baʿlu and Haddu can serve as synonymous,
parallel terms, yet notably with Baʿlu always functioning in the dominant A posi-
tion parallel to Haddu in the B position (A//B).177 The ritual texts are even more
instructive. Hadad is never the recipient of cult, in contrast to Baʿlu Ṣapunu/
Baʿlu, who receives the majority of offerings (cf. Pardee 2002a: 222–224). Baʿlu
appears prominently and in multiple manifestations in the various deity lists
(and corresponding to dIŠKUR), whereas the writing of Hadad/Haddu (hd) in
alphabetic cuneiform is virtually absent.178 Commenting on the later Iron Age,
Jonas Greenfield (1987a: 68) argues that “in the first millennium a functional
bifurcation had taken place—Baʿlu/Baal became a Canaanite god and Hadad an
Aramaic one.”179
According to Lipiński (2000: 599–636), who includes the onomastic data, in
addition to Hadad the other most prominent Aramean deites would include ʾIl/
ʾEl, ʿAttar, Reshep, Shamash, and the moon god Śahr; there were also vibrant
cults of betyls and ancestors. As for quantifying the onomastic evidence, Lipiński
(2000: 614) notes that “the name ʾIl is the commonest theophorous element in
the Aramaic personal names of the first millennium B.C. and it certainly reflects
the importance of the cult of ʾIl among the early Arameans.” One example is
Matîʿʾēl (mtʿʾl), the king of Arpad (an Aramean kingdom 19 mi. [30 km] north of
Aleppo), whose name means “protected [or saved] by [the god] El.”180
To date there is no comprehensive study of the iconography of Aramean di-
vinity (cf. Schwemer 2008: 31–36; Gilibert 2011; Yadin 1970). Hadad was cer-
tainly depicted as a storm/warrior god riding a bull (cf. Figures 5.23, 5.24). With
the discovery of the bull-headed stela at Iron Age Bethsaida, Keel has studied
the iconography of the Aramean moon god Śahr, the equivalent of Sin. After
documenting “typically Aramean phenomena” with regard to the “astral deities
of the night,” Keel (1998: 101) concludes:
The numerous anepigraphic seals with symbols of the astral deities of the night
from the Palestinian eighth and seventh centuries [BCE], as well as the evi-
dence given in the Old Testament of the widespread cult of the “host of heaven”
in seventh-century Judah, are compelling evidence for the heavy impact of
Aramean culture on Judah as well as on the whole of the Levant at the end of the
eighth and, mainly, in the seventh century [BCE].
In conclusion, the several points of contact between Aramean culture and an-
cient Israelite culture noted at the outset of this discussion (e.g., the Tel Dan stela,
the bull-headed stela from Bethsaida, King Ahaz’s replication of a Damascus
altar, the numerous references to the Arameans in biblical tradition) as well as
the names of various Aramean deities that resonate (at least etymologically) with
gods appearing in Israelite religion (e.g., Hadad, ʾIl/ʾEl, ʿElyan, Reshep, Shamash)
make a compelling case for factoring in Aramean influence throughout Israelite
religion.
Mixed Texts: Deir ʿAlla and Arslan Tash
Prior to leaving the Canaanite and Aramean backdrop to ancient Israelite re-
ligion, we must briefly note two texts that do not fit easily into tidy linguistic
categories: the eighth-century BCE Transjordanian Deir ʿAlla texts and two
seventh-century BCE incantations coming from Arslan Tash (ancient Ḫadatu).
Though it is the later of the two, we will treat the Arslan Tash material first due
to geography (i.e., dealing first with north Syria, close to the present-day Turkish
border, prior to heading south to the eastern Jordan valley).
The two small seventh-century BCE limestone plaques from Arslan Tash are
well known for being our best examples of Levantine incantations (lḥšt) com-
plete with graphic iconography.181 The language of the inscriptions seems to
be Phoenician (or a local dialect) with possible Aramaisms, while the script is
Aramaic.182 As for divinity, we read of common generic references (kl bn ʾlm, “all
the sons of the gods”; dr kl qdšn, “the assembly of all the Holy Ones”) and deified
natural phenomena (šmm wʾrṣ, Heavens and Earth). Named deities include the
Assyrian Aššur and the Canaanite gods Baal (bʿl),183 who hitches his chariot (bʿl
ʾsr mrkbty; cf. Figure 5.29), and Hawron/Horon (ḥwrn), who seems to be called
“the lord of holiness” (bʿl q[d]š).184 The presence of the Assyrian god Aššur is
expected given Ḫadatu’s role as a seat of Assyrian administration (Akkermans
and Schwartz 2003: 382–384). As for the two other deities, they are Canaanite,
not Aramean. Note how an eighth-century BCE basalt stela (Figure 5.24) also
documents a striding storm god atop a charging bull at Arslan Tash a century
earlier than our two incantations. Stylistically, the figure depicts the Assyrian
Adad, and the stela was found in the temple of the goddess Ishtar. Yet given the
overlap of Adad with Aramean Hadad and Canaanite Baal, the identity for the
dwellers at eighth-century BCE Arslan Tash likely depended on the eye (and
ethnic background) of the beholder.
The Transjordanian Deir ʿAlla plaster texts that date to the eighth century
BCE have been discussed with regard to how their “El repertoire” (Baruch
Levine’s terminology) might shed light on the Hebrew Bible’s El Elyon and El
Shadday (see Chapter Four, pp. 89–90, 96, 116). Jeremy Hutton (2010a: 166–
167; 2006) nuances Levine’s treatment to describe a “literary appropriation
of sacred geography . . . [the] reclamation of the very physical . . . pilgrimage
paths along which the covenant community of the biblical Israel purportedly
received its identity.” The precise language of the texts has been debated at
length because of their admixture of Aramaic and Canaanite traits. Many
scholars view the language as an Aramaic dialect and account for certain lin-
guistic distinctives and oddities by appealing to its peripheral or regional na-
ture as well as its literary or archaistic character (Hoftijzer and van der Kooij
1976; McCarter 1980b: 50). Material culture complicates such conclusions.
According to Aren Maeir (2017: 59–60), “There is very little, if at all archae-
ological evidence of an Aramean connection [at Deir ʿAlla] . . . the pottery
styles and technologies are of local Southern Levantine character . . . the
overall evidence makes it hard to accept an Aramean ‘story’ behind the Deir
Allā texts.” Others argue for the language being Canaanite, specifically a
South Canaanite dialect, in order to account for similarities with Moabite and
Hebrew (Hackett 1984: 109–125; Pat-El and Wilson-Wright 2015). Holger
Gzella (2017: 23–24; 2015: 72–77, 87–91) suggests a hybrid approach where
“a local, and perhaps oral, tradition in a Transjordanian language was then
recorded in a basically Aramaic grammatical code or literally translated
into Aramaic.” Some linguists assert that the “Deir ʿAlla dialect is . . . neither
Canaanite nor Aramaic” (Huehnergard 1995: 276) or that it is simply “a dead-
end, peripheral dialect” (Kaufman 1980: 73). McCarter (1991: 97) notes how
“the Deir ʿAlla dialect resists classification as Aramaic or Canaanite in cate-
gorical terms” yet is perfectly understandable in terms of dialect geography
(remote from Phoenician, strongly linked to Hebrew and Moabite with their
communities nearby as well as to Aramaic with the considerable political and
cultural influence of Damascus).
A great deal of the subject matter of these texts directly resonates with
traditions recorded in the Hebrew Bible, particularly the mention of the
seer called Balaam (cf. Num 22–24).185 Aramean, Canaanite, and Israelite
conceptions of prophecy and divination (vis-à-vis practices at eighteenth-
century BCE Mari and Neo-Assyrian Nineveh) will be treated elsewhere (cf.
Nissinen et al. 2003, 2019). What concerns us here are the various references to
divinity that include a group of generic gods (ʾlhn) and the specific mention of a
divine assembly (mwʿd) wherein we meet the Shaddayyin (šdyn) gods. Named
deities include El, Sheger, and Ashtar. However one parses the linguistic char-
acter of the Deir ʿAlla texts, the family of the gods here is decidedly Canaanite,
with clear etymological reference points to ancient Israelite religion (i.e.,
El Shadday; the demythologized šeger and ʿaštĕrôt in Deut 7:13; 28:4, 38, 51;
and P’s Tent of Meeting [ʾōhel môʿēd]). Levine (2000b: 141) argues that “given
what is known of the immediate region in the early to mid-eighth century
BCE, it is likely that Israelites constituted the principal element in the Gileadite
population.”
Yahweh from the North: An Insurmountable Problem?
The shared cultural heritage of northern Canaanite religion (best exem-

plified by Ugaritic religion) as well as certain features of Aramean religion
could argue strongly for a northern origin of many of the key components of
Israelite religion—except for its most vital ingredient: the god Yahweh! Thanks
to the Ugaritic texts we know of a robust “Canaanite” pantheon with hundreds
of named deities, from ‘Adamma to Zizzu-wa-Kamatu. Yet the god Yahweh is
not attested in any of our several deity lists nor in any ritual or mythological
texts, even the ones that mention deities of surrounding nations. (As has been
remarked, the putative notion that Yahweh is found in KTU 1.1.4 has met with
near universal rejection. See pp. 228–229.)
Where does this leave us as to the geographic origin of Yahweh? Whereas the
majority of scholars would join Cross (1973: 72) in asserting that “the early cultic
establishment of Yahweh and its appurtenances . . . all reflect Canaanite models,”
they would at the same time wonder how such a cult of Yahweh could be estab-
lished without any antecedent for its chief (and eventually national) deity. That
Yahweh rides on the clouds like Baʿlu and fights the very same cosmic foes almost
begs for his presence in Ugaritic lore. Or, if Ugarit cannot come through, surely
his presence might be found at Late Bronze Age Emar or Iron Age Damascus or
Phoenicia. To further complicate matters, we have no imported divine image of
Yahweh (in metal, stone, or even terra-cotta) coming from an Iron Age I find spot
in Israel that could be assessed for chemical composition in hopes of locating its
place of origin.
Despite these daunting hurdles, those who argue for Yahweh emerging from
northern traditions assert that there is a “general religious-historical constella-
tion, according to which YHWH belongs to the North Levantine-Syriac type of the
kingly weather-god Adad-Baal” (Leuenberger 2017: 165; emphasis his).186 The
only (allegedly) explicit solutions for a northern origin of Yahweh were the two
noted earlier, and neither is without its problems. The weaker of the two solutions
is that of Dalley, who tried to use three royal names to assert that “Yahweh was
worshipped as a major god in Hamath” (Syria) in the eighth century BCE.
Not only are there significant obstacles to this theory (see pp. 233–234), but it
still would not account for the origin of the god Yahweh. There are many an-
cient Yahwistic traditions and actual poems (or at least portions thereof) in the
Hebrew Bible that predate the eighth century BCE (e.g., Gen 49, Exod 15, Deut
33, Judg 5, 2 Sam 22 = Ps 18, Ps 29, Ps 68, Hab 3). The mention of Yahweh on the
mid-ninth-century BCE Moabite stone (i.e., the Mesha stela) is also earlier than
Dalley’s Hamath references.
The more promising of the two solutions is the Albright-Cross-Freedman
theory that Yahweh’s origins are indeed to be found in the northern Canaanite
traditions surrounding the god ʾIlu/El (cf. Green 2003: 246, 254). (The theory
and its weaknesses have already been discussed at length [see pp. 220–222], but
to summarize: Cross [1973: 169] writes that “Israel used traditional Canaanite
language in early descriptions of Yahweh’s theophany”—that is, authors drew on
traditions with “highly imaginative poetry of the storm god’s epiphany” inspired
by “the northern storms of Lebanon, Cassius, or the Amanus”; the independent
name Yahweh resulted from a shortened sentence name; and a full cultic expres-
sion describing El as “the god who creates the heavenly armies” [*ʾēl zū yahwī
ṣabaʾōt] over time came to emphasize its creator epithet [“he who creates”] alone,
so what was once a verbal element (yahwê) was isolated to become the name of
the deity [Yahweh].) In addition to the critiques already listed, one could add the
lack of any reference to this new creator god in any northern sources. In order for
this theory to be salvaged, the process of differentiating Yahweh from El as a sep-
arate deity would have to have taken place in the Iron I period and in the land of
Israel. Indeed, Cross (1973: 71) advocated that “the god Yahweh split off from ’El
in the radical differentiation of his cultus in the Proto-Israelite league.”
And yet for Cross the “traditional poetic language” that was inspired by Late
Bronze Age northern storms was used in “the Epic accounts of the revelation
at Sinai.” Indeed, Cross places a great deal of emphasis on ancient poems in the
Hebrew Bible that speak of Yahweh marching from the south (to be discussed
later). In his earlier work, Cross (1973: 71) suggested how the wedding of
northern and southern traditions could be facilitated: “If Yahweh is recognized
as originally a cultic name of ’El, perhaps the epithet of ’El as patron deity of the
Midianite League in the south, a number of problems in the history of the reli-
gion of Israel can be solved.” Granted, no explicit mechanism is articulated for
such a wedding. Yet as we will see, Cross (1988, 1998) later developed these ideas
by reworking the well-known Midianite hypothesis.
Southern Origins of Yahwism: A Brief Overview

of the Midianite Hypothesis
The earliest references to what has come to be known as the Midianite hypo-
thesis (aka the Kenite hypothesis and the Midianite/Kenite hypothesis) have
been traced back to Friedrich Wilhelm Ghillany writing under the pseudonym
Richard von der Alm (1862), C. P. Tiele (1872: 558–560), Bernhard Stade (1887),
and Karl Budde (1899). Daniel Fleming has argued convincingly that Tiele
should get credit as the innovator of the hypothesis.187 Two of the ways the theory
came to be viewed can be seen in the contrasting portrayals by H. H. Rowley
(1950: 149–160) in the affirmative and by Theophile James Meek (1950: 93–98)
in opposition. In its briefest exposition, the hypothesis asserts that Moses first
learned of Yahweh through contact with his father-in-law Jethro, who was a
priest in Midian (Exodus 3:1; 18:1). Albertz (1994: 52) summarizes: “We may
suppose that the Midianites or Kenites were already worshippers of Yahweh. . . .
[T]‌he god Yahweh is older than Israel; he was a southern Palestinian mountain
god before he became the god of liberation for the Moses group.” In the more
elaborate formulation that we find today, the hypothesis integrates the extra-
biblical references to the Shasu texts mentioned earlier, ties to the tribe of Reuben
(Cross 1988, 1998), the archaeology of Midian and “Midianite/Hijaz painted pot-
tery” (also known as Qurayyah ware; cf. the work of Peter J. Parr and others),188
references to caravan economy in Judges 5 (Schloen 1993), the underpinnings
of King Saul’s reign (van der Toorn 1996b: 281–286), and southern geographical
traces in “ancient Yahwistic poetry.”
The Hebrew Bible’s Differing Portrayals

of the Midianites and Kenites
It is helpful at the outset to sketch the ways in which the Midianites and Kenites
are portrayed in the Hebrew Bible. According to ancestral tradition, the
Midianites are an Abrahamic people whose eponymous ancestor was one of six
sons born to Abraham and his wife Keturah (Gen 25:2). This underlying under-
standing of kinship will be reflected in the material discussed later, especially
when it comes to mitigating the hostility felt toward the Midianites (cf. too the
ambivalence toward the Edomites). Some understanding of kinship, some rec-
ognition of intimacy, lies behind the portrayal of brothers and cousins (even with
sibling rivalry) and, in contrast, the completely negative representation of those
with whom there are no kinship bonds (e.g., the alien Philistines).
A cursory glance at various biblical traditions could easily lead to the most
negative of assessments about the two related tribal groups known as the
Midianites and Kenites. According to the J/non-P literary strand, Cain (qayin),
the eponymous ancestor of the Kenites (qênî), is the first murderer of the human
race, and he is cursed with banishment from the soil he once tilled (Gen 4:1–
16).189 This same tradition tells of Abram’s descendants being granted the land
of the Kenites along with that of the Canaanites and other dispossessed peoples
(Gen 15:19). Midianite traders play a role in selling Joseph into slavery (Gen
37:28 [cf. 37:36], traditionally labeled as E). The P(riestly) Tradition contains an
extensive holy war narrative in Numbers 31 where Yahweh commands Moses
to bring about the full destruction of the Midianites (including “the five kings
of Midian” and the prophet Balaam) as a result of the famous Baal Peor incident
(Num 25:6–18).190 Finally, consider the Gideon narrative (Judg 6:1–8:12), which
portrays the Midianites (along with the Amalekites) as a marauding enemy
whom Gideon defeats through God-given instruction and ability. The lore about
this defeat lived on such that Isaiah could simply refer to divine conquering “as
on the day of Midian” (kĕyôm midyān) (Isa 9:3 [Eng 9:4]; cf. 10:26).191
In this light it is most intriguing to read of parallel traditions that portray ex-
tremely positive relations with the Midianites and Kenites. In these traditions
(which are used to support the Midianite hypothesis), Moses has very good rela-
tions with the Midianites (Exod 2:15b–22 = J/non-P)—so good, in fact, that he
marries Zipporah, a Midianite, and tends her father’s herds (Exod 3:1). Moses’
father-in-law is a priest of Midian who is passionate in his praise of Yahweh’s
deliverance of Moses and Israel from the hand of the Egyptians (Exod 18:9–
12; = E/non-P). “Yahweh is greater than all gods!” (gādôl yhwh mikkol-hāʾĕlōhîm)
he exclaims in response, together with presenting burnt offerings and sacrifices
(ʿōlâ ûzĕbāḥîm). Furthermore, this Midianite priest is depicted as a wise and
trusted advisor to Moses in the subsequent narrative, instructing him in how
best to structure his judicial administration (Exod 18:13–26).192 Later still in
the storyline, Moses begs his Midianite father-in-law to travel with them to the
promised land, for Moses views him as an expert guide in traversing the wilder-
ness, someone “who can serve as eyes for us” (wĕhāyîtā llānû lĕʿênāyim; Num
10:29–32 = J/non-P). There is no hint here of P’s directives that Moses should
instead be annihilating any and all Midianites. As for the Kenites, 1 Samuel 15:6
mentions how the Kenites dealt kindly with all the Israelites when they came out
of Egypt (wĕʾattâ ʿāśîtâ ḥesed ʿim-kol-bĕnê yiśrāʾēl baʿălôtām mimmiṣrāyim)—
an “obvious reference,” asserts Levine (1993: 335), “to Exodus 18 and to Num
10:29–32.” The most celebrated poem dealing with Kenites is Judges 5, one of
the oldest passages in the Hebrew Bible.193 Here we read of the actions of Jael,
a “tent dwelling woman” (minnāšîm bāʾōhel). Her stature as eventual heroine is
implied at the outset of the drama, as the stage is set with the laudatory phrase “in
the days of Jael” (Judg 5:6).194 The climatic event has Jael, “the wife of Heber the
Kenite,” dealing the death blow to the enemy general Sisera (Judg 5:24–26).195
This Kenite woman is hailed as “most blessed of women” (tĕbōrak minnāšîm yāʿēl
ʾēšet ḥeber haqqênî minnāšîm bāʾōhel tĕbōrāk) for her heroic actions, which are
then recounted in detail with exquisite poetry. In the later prose account of the
tale (Judg 4:17–22), Jael’s defeat of Sisera is foretold in Deborah’s prophecy as an
event that Yahweh will bring about (Judg 4:9, 15).196
Moses’ Father-in-Law: A Complicated Textual Tapestry
The Hebrew Bible also contains a complicated portrayal of Moses’ father-in-law

that must have resulted from varied textual traditions and literary strands that
were used to weave the final tapestry that appears in the Hebrew Bible.197 The
heuristic chart that follows illustrates the situation as we find it in classical source
criticism.198
Passage/ Name of Relation to Moses Occupation/Tribal

Source Individual + Association
Exod 2:16, 18, 21 Reuel father-in-law priest of Midian
[J]‌ “friend of El” (ø but cf. v. 21) (kōhēn midyān)
Exod 3:1 Jethro father-in-law priest of Midian

[E]‌ (ḥōtēn) ḥōtnô (kōhēn midyān)
Exod 4:18 Jeter/Jethro father-in-law ø

[E]‌ (ḥōtēn) ḥōtnô [setting = Midian 4:19]
Exod 18:1–27 Jethro father-in-law priest of Midian

[E]‌ (ḥōtēn mōšeh) (kōhēn midyān)
Num 10:29 Hobab father-in-law Midianite

[J]‌ Son of Reuel (ḥōtēn mōšeh) hammidyānî
Judges 1:16 ø father-in-law Kenite

[LXXA Hobab] (ḥōtēn mōšeh) qênî
Judges 4:11 Hobab father-in-law Kenite

(ḥōtēn mōšeh) qênî/qayin
In light of this confusion, Ernst Knauf (1992: 693; 1988) posits that “in the most
ancient tradition, Moses’ father-in-law seems to have been without a name.”
Unless harmonized, the data could imply that three different individuals (pos-
sibly four if Jeter in Exod 4:18 is separate from Jethro) were named as Moses’
father-in-law or, following Rashi, that one individual simply went by multiple
names. Of these three, two (Reuel and Jethro) bear the title “priest,” while the
other (Hobab) does not. Two (Reuel and Jethro) are distinctly identified as
Midianite (and never as Kenite), while the other (Hobab) is associated with both
Midianites and Kenites. Most problematic, both Reuel and his own son Hobab
(according to Num 10:29) were Moses’ father-in-law. In light of this, Albertz’s
(1994: 51) comment that “the tradition fluctuates a little” is somewhat of an
understatement.
The various streams of tradition that underlie these data are no longer fully
recoverable. Were one to harmonize the passages, the easiest route would be
to identify Reuel and Jethro as the same individual, who is known by different
names in variant traditions. An editor would have been responsible for conflating
these variant traditions into the storyline as we have it. The most obvious dis-
crepancy in the list is Hobab not being identified as a priest, a title of prestige
that one would expect to be listed had an individual actually served in such a
capacity. Albright (1963: 6) noted how the social roles of Jethro (elderly with
seven daughters) and Hobab (a seemingly younger, vigorous wilderness guide)
are distinctly different. Repointing ḥōtēn to the more generic ḥātān (“related by
marriage”) would result in Hobab being the brother-in-law of Moses.199 This sug-
gestion would have the advantage of erasing the conflict between Exodus 2 and
Numbers 10:29 (both J) previously noted.
Who Taught Whom?
At the core of the Midianite hypothesis is that Jethro instructed Moses about
Yahweh. Some adherents of the theory would even assert that Moses was trained
in priestly functions by his father-in-law.200 The theory is based on the “Jethro
tradition” found in Exodus 18. This (traditionally E) account is privileged over J’s
“Reuel tradition,” to which we will return.
It is easy to see why the proponents of the Midianite hypothesis chose to priv-
ilege Exodus 18 and ignore Exodus 2. It is not because Moses’ father-in-law is
identified as “a priest of Midian,” since both traditions contain this designation
(Exod 2:16 [J]‌; Exod 18:1 [E]). Rather, it is primarily due to Jethro’s cultic activ-
ities. Upon hearing of Yahweh’s deliverance of the Israelites from the Egyptians,
he breaks out in superlative praise of Yahweh (Exod 18:9–11). Immediately
thereafter, he presents burnt offerings and sacrifices (ʿōlâ ûzĕbāḥîm) followed by
partaking in a meal with Aaron and the elders of Israel (Exod 18:12). Herein lies
the strength of the Midianite hypothesis. Adherents of the theory (e.g., Rowley
1950: 151) point out how such sacrifice can hardly be the action of a new initiate
into the faith of Yahweh. Rather, asserts Rowley, Jethro was formerly “a properly
initiated priest [of Yahweh]” who would not be “presid[ing] at the sacred feast
unless his own God was being approached.”
Critics of the hypothesis are quick to point out that nowhere is there any ex-
plicit reference to Jethro being “a priest of Yahweh” even in the three explicit
references to his priestly office (Exod 2:16; 3:1; 18:1). A straightforward reading
of Exodus 18:8 (as well as the logical function of the “recognition formula” of
ʿattâ [“now, as a result”] in Exod 18:11) more likely implies that Moses, as the
evangelist, helped bring about Jethro’s conversion to Yahwism.201 After all, the
intent of Exodus 18:11 is apologetic in nature. As for Jethro’s cultic acts, we are so
far removed from ancient tribal norms that even with our best anthropological
models it is sheer hubris to assert that we understand what priests, converts, and
initiates could or could not do. Meek (1950: 95) adds that had Jethro been a priest
of Yahweh “who initiated the Hebrew into his cult, it would surely have been
on that ground that Moses would have invited him to join their journey” rather
than “solely on the ground that he knew the desert and its camping places, and so
would prove an efficient guide (Num. 10:29–32).”
Moreover, the name of Moses’ mother, Yochebed, contains a Yahwistic theo-
phoric element (not to mention the Levitical lineage in J’s account in Exod 2).202
Most importantly, at least for understanding the Hebrew Bible’s ancestral (i.e., E)
traditions, is the narrative in Exodus 3 (cf. too Exod 6:3 [P]‌) that describes the
revelation of the name Yahweh to Moses as being intimately connected to the
God of the three patriarchs (Exod 3:6, 13, 15–16). It would be hard to describe
what the E tradition would be up to if it had Yahweh (speaking in the first person)
saying that he was “the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and
of Jacob” (wayyōʾmer ʾānōkî ʾĕlōhê ʾābîkā ʾĕlōhê ʾabrāhām ʾĕlōhê yiṣḥāq wēʾlōhê
yaʿăqōb; Exod 3:16) while at the same time affirming the contradictory notion
that Jethro’s Midianite clan was the true originator of Yahwism, with Jethro being
a pre-Mosaic priest of Yahweh. (Like Exod 3:16, Exod 18 is also traditionally
assigned to the E literary strand.)
In the end, it is hard to reconstruct Jethro as the originator of Yahwism from
the Hebrew Bible, which combines various traditions that all celebrate Yahweh’s
unique revelation to Moses. (On Moses as priest, see Chapter Ten, pp. 617–619.)
This is not to assert that there could not have been extra-biblical traditions that
preserved hagiographic traditions about Jethro as a “priest of Yahweh.” Yet such
traditions are not to be found in the Hebrew Bible, which does not accord Jethro
such a title even though he is portrayed as a passionate Yahwist (Exod 18:9–12).
Elsewhere the Hebrew Bible (i.e., the Deuteronomist) will assign the title “priest
of Yahweh” (kōhēn yhwh) to the ill-fated priesthood at Shiloh (1 Sam 14:3). But
the title is never accorded to Jethro, even in the J literary tradition. (E’s reluc-
tance to use Yahweh for Jethro’s deity [e.g., Exod 18:19, 21, 23] is understand-
able.) Perhaps here is an appropriate time to revisit J’s “Reuel tradition” (Exod
2:15b–22). Is it relevant that J’s version of Moses’ father-in-law has him bearing
an El name? What does J have in mind when he speaks about this rĕʿû-ʾēl (“friend
of El” or “El is [my] companion”) being a priest of Midian?203 If anything, this
would suggest, as Meek (1950: 95) observed long ago, that Moses’ father-in-law
“was originally a worshiper of the god El” and not Yahweh.
Updated Versions of the Midianite Hypothesis
In a series of works culminating in 1998, Cross (1973, 1983, 1988, 1998) argued
for a “reformulated” Midianite hypothesis (see esp. 1998: 66ff). Central to Cross’
theory is not the role of Moses’ father-in-law but rather the role of Reuben as the
firstborn of the patriarch Jacob and the conduit of archaic southern Yahwistic
traditions. Cross (1998: 53) states an anthropological truism and then asks a
simple question. The truism is that the placement of a person (and his tribe) at
the head of a tribal list designates more than mere birth order, for “genealogies
serve social, political, or religious functions” (sometimes more than one) and can
“shift to meet new circumstances or changed social realities.” If this is true, what
accounts for Reuben’s preeminence as the firstborn of Jacob? When we survey
the reality of which tribes hold power, authority, and leverage, it is obvious that
Judah and Levi hold the reins of royal and priestly power for most of Israel’s his-
tory after the advent of the monarchy. Cross (1998: 53, 56) asserts that there was
indeed a time when “Reuben once played a role in Israelite society, even a domi-
nant one.”204 This “era of preeminence was early in the history of the tribes, per-
haps in the formative era of Israel’s religious and political self-consciousness.”
A hint can be found in the archaic poetry of Genesis 49:3, the Blessing of Jacob.
Though it too speaks of Reuben’s later demise (cf. Gen 49:4; Deut 33:6), it begins
with his dominance:
Reuben, my firstborn, rĕʾûbēn bĕkōrî

You are my strength, ʾattâ kōḥî
The prime of my vigor, rēʾšît ʾônî
Preeminent of rank, yeter śĕʾēt
Preeminent of power. yeter ʿāz
Cross’ theory is too elaborate and detailed to rehearse here.205 In the end Cross
(1998: 68) argues that “there is good reason to believe that the religious traditions
and military institutions that inspired and shaped the league stemmed from
those elements of Israel who came from the southern mountains and entered
Canaan from the lands of Reuben.” This “migration or incursion from Reuben
[contained] elements of Israel who came from the south, with ties to Midian, and
whose original leader was Moses” (Cross 1998: 70). Yet over time, “Reuben’s time
of greatness [became] hidden . . . overlain by a patina of traditions stemming
from later centers of power and prestige, in Joseph and Judah,” as well as “the tri-
umph of the Aaronids and the Zadokite house in Jerusalem” (1998: 56, 70).
Another scholar updating the Midianite hypothesis with the use of archaic
poetry and southern caravan routes is David Schloen (1993a). Schloen bases his
study on Judges 5, the archaic text we earlier noted that celebrates the heroism
of Jael the Kenite woman, who kills the oppressive Canaanite general Sisera in
her tent. Building on the work of Stager (1988), Schloen asks “why any of the
Israelite tribes [mentioned in Judg 5] found it necessary to fight” a battle with
an enemy of such superior force. After ruling out several motives (territorial
conquest, countering Canaanite raids, asserting political hegemony), Schloen
argues that Israelite highlanders had “a powerful incentive” to protect Midianite

caravans and the lucrative trade upon which they were dependent. Schloen looks
to hints in Judges 5:6–7 that mention caravan traffic being stifled by “Sisera and
his Canaanite allies . . . through extortion of exorbitant tolls, or even outright
plunder.”206 To buttress his arguments, Schloen (1993a: 26–27) reads midyān in
Judges 5:10 as an explicit reference to the Midianites, who, given their joint eco-
nomic interests, “celebrate the victories of Yahweh and his villagers in Israel” in
the verse that follows.207 As for the attention given by the poet to Jael, Schloen
(1993a: 30–32) notes how “it is striking that at the climax of the narrative, it
should be a Kenite and not an Israelite who vanquishes the foe.” Such atten-
tion may hint at “some sort of alliance” between the Kenites and the Israelites,
“symboliz[ing] the common cause [Jael’s] people had made with the villagers of
Israel.” Finally, Schloen’s theory attempts to solve the notable problem of “how
the kings of Canaan expected to garner luxury goods [i.e., the silver, slaves, and
textiles noted in Judg 5:19, 30] when they met the [“decidedly impoverished”]
Israelite militia at Taanach.” As Schloen (1993a: 30) notes, if these sought-after
spoils are “typical caravan commodities, the difficulty vanishes.” In summation,
Schloen (1993a: 38) argues that Judges 5 provides “a glimpse” at how “a new
ethnic identity involves the making of boundaries—inclusion and exclusion, al-
liance and enmity,” fleshed out in particular as “the villagers of Yahweh [being]
allied with caravan-trading Midianites (including Kenites and Amalekites)
against a common enemy.”
A decade later Schloen (2002: 59) would embrace Cross’ 1998 formula-
tion that “situates the original cult of Yahweh in northwest Arabia, where the
theophanic mountain of Sinai should properly be located.”208 For Schloen,
“Midianite caravans moving through inland Palestine in the early Iron Age were
the carriers and proselytizers of this southern faith.” Schloen briefly mentions
“the intrinsic appeal of the new religion and its symbolization of the cosmos,”
yet he clearly places heavier weight on the political-economic incentives that led
to the forging of Israel’s Yahwistic identity: “The wealth and prestige of the first
Arabian Yahwistic preachers, and the common political and economic interests
of southern traders and highland villagers over against the lowland Canaanites
may have played a role in fostering conversion to Yahwism.”
In contrast to Cross, Stager, and Schloen, van der Toorn (1996b: 281) thinks
it erroneous to assume “that the Israelites as an ethnic group honoured Yahweh
as their common god well before the Monarchic Era.” Instead, van der Toorn
(1996b: 281–286) argues for “a modified form” of the Kenite hypothesis that
tries to answer the question of why Saul, with links to the Gibeonites, would
have chosen Yahweh to be his national deity instead of Baal or some other more
prominent West Semitic deity. For van der Toorn (1996b: 284), it is “highly plau-
sible that the Kenites introduced Israel to the worship of Yahweh, [yet] unlikely
that they did so outside the borders of Palestine.” More likely is that such beliefs
were “brought to Transjordan and Central Palestine by traders along the caravan
routes from the south to the east.” Here van der Toorn (1996b: 284 n. 89) briefly
and cautiously cites Schloen’s caravan hypothesis. Van der Toorn (1996b: 286)
admits that his case is “circumstantial,” yet he is convinced that links between
the Gibeonites and the Edomites are sufficient to claim that Saul’s reign was the
“turning point in both the political and religious history of Israel.”209 “Henceforth
(with Saul’s choice of Yahweh), the Israelites would be ‘the people of Yahweh.’ ”
Topographic Allusions to Yahweh Coming

from the South/Southeast
Most of these scenarios make mention of how archaic poetry in the Hebrew Bible
(as well as the late ninth-/early eighth-century BCE inscriptions from Kuntillet
ʿAjrud, also known as Ḥorvat Teman) connect Yahweh to southern locations.210
It is best to assemble all of these references in a single place. Consider the fol-
lowing passages:
Judges 5:4–5
O Yahweh, when you set out from Seir, yhwh bĕṣēʾtĕkā miśśēʿîr
When you marched from the steppe of Edom, bĕṣaʿdĕkā miśśĕdēh ʾĕdôm
The earth quaked, ʾereṣ rāʿāšâ

Yea, the heavens rained, gam-šāmayim nāṭāpû
Yea, the clouds rained water, gam-ʿābîm nāṭĕpû māyim
The mountains shuddered, hārîm nāzĕlû

Before Yahweh, the one of Sinai, mippĕnê yhwh zeh sînay211
Before Yahweh, the God of Israel. mippĕnê yhwh ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl
Psalm 68:8–9, 18 [Eng 68:7–8, 17]
O Yahweh, when you set out at the head

of your army yhwh212 bĕṣēʾtĕkā lipnê ʿammekā
When you marched in/from the wilderness, bĕṣaʿdĕkā bîšîmôn
The earth quaked ʾereṣ rāʿāšâ

Yea, the heavens rained ʾap-šāmayim nāṭĕpû
Before Yahweh, the one of Sinai, mippĕnê yhwh zeh sînay213

Before Yahweh, the God of Israel. mippĕnê yhwh ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl
...
Yahweh’s chariotry [numbers in] the myriads, rekeb yhwh ribbōtayim
Thousands upon thousands; ʾalpê šinʾān
Yahweh comes from Sinai . . . yhwh bāʾ missînay . . .214
Deuteronomy 33:2215
Yahweh came from Sinai yhwh missînay bāʾ

He dawned from Seir . . . 216 zāraḥ miśśēʿîr lāmô
He beamed forth from Mt. Paran. hôpîaʿ mēhar pāʾrān
With him were myriads of holy ones, ʾittô-m217 ribĕbōt qōdeš

At/From his right hand fire flies forth, mîmînô ʾēšdāt218 lāmô
Yea, the [???] of the troops. ʾap ḥōbēb ʿammîm
Habakkuk 3:2a, 3–7
O Yahweh, I heard of your fame, yhwh šāmaʿtî šimʿăkā

I was frightened, Yahweh, by your deeds . . . yārēʾtî yhwh pāʿālĕkā . . .
Eloah came from Teman, ʾĕlôah mittêmān yābôʾ

Qadosh [the Holy One] from Mt. Paran. qādôš mēhar-pāʾrān
His glory covered the heavens, kissâ šāmayim hôdô

His splendor filled the earth tĕhillātô219 mālĕʾâ hāʾāreṣ
[his] radiance was like light. nōgah kāʾôr tihyeh
He had horns/rays [coming out] from his hand qarnayim miyyādô lô

There he cloaked [?]‌his power šām ḥebyôn ʿuzzōh
Before him went Pestilence, lĕpānāyw yēlek dāber

Plague marched at his feet. yēṣēʾ rešep lĕraglāyw
He stood, and spanned the earth ʿāmad wayĕmōded ʾereṣ

He scrutinized, and made the nations tremble, rāʾâ wayyattēr gôyim
Ancient mountains crumbled yitpōṣĕṣû harĕrê-ʿad
Age-old hills collapsed. šaḥû gibʿôt ʿôlām
His ancient paths [were destroyed]. hălîkôt ʿôlām lô
. . . 220
The tents of Cushan quaked,221 ʾohŏlê kûšān yirgĕzûn
Tent curtains of the land of Midian. yĕrîʿôt ʾereṣ midyān
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, Pithos B222

Utterance of ʾAmaryaw: “Say to my lord: ‘Is it well with you? I bless you by
Yahweh of Teman and his asherah. May He bless you and may He keep you, and
may He be with my lord.’ ”
ʾmr ʾmryw ʾmr l ʾdn[y] hšlm ʾt brktk lyhwh tmn wlʾšrth ybrk wyšmrk wyhy
ʿm ʾd[n]y
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, Pithos B223

To Yahweh of the Southland and His asherah . . . all which he asks from the com-
passion god [a compassionate man?] . . . and may Yahw[eh] give him according
to what is in his heart
[ ]‌lyhwh htmn wlʾšrth [ ]kl ʾšr yšʾl m ʾl ḥnn (ʾš ḥnn?) . . . wntn lh yhw klbbh
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, plaster fragment 4.1.1224

May he prolong [their] days and may they be sated . . . may they give to [Y]‌ahweh
of Teman and His asherah . . . Yahweh of the Southland has made things go
well . . .
[yʾ]rk .ymm . wyśbʾw . . . ytnw l[y]hwh tmn wlʾšrth . . . hyṭb.yhwh. hty[mn]
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, plaster fragment 4.2225

. . . second time/years* . . .
. . . with/during the earthquake, when El shines forth (or buffets?) [with fire?];
[Ya]hwe[h]‌* . . .
. . . The mountains melt, the hills are crushed . . .
. . . earth. The Holy One at/against the ever-flowing waters. He gazes like . . .
[Or: From/In] the land of Qadesh at the ever-flowing stream he looked upon
[with favor]
. . . [??] to bless the (war-)lord [El? Yahweh?] on a day of war . . .
. . . [to prai]se the name of El on a day of wa[r] . . .
. . . šnt* . . .
. . . brʿš.wbzrḥ. [or wbyrḥ] ʾl b[ʾ˚š] [y]hw[h]* . . .
. . . r.wymsn. hrm. wydkn. pbnm
. . . [ ]ʾrṣ.qšdš.ʿl˚y.ʾt˚n˚/m˚. ḥz.kr/s[
Or: . . . [m/b]ʾrṣ.qšdš.ʿl˚y.ʾt˚n˚/m˚. ḥz.kr/s
. . . ˚kn l˚brk. bʿl. bym. mlḥ[mh] . . .
. . . [lhl]l šm ʾl. bym. mlḥ[mh] . . .
As seen in the archaic material, the Hebrew Bible contains enduring poetic
traditions about Yahweh’s presence in the south that resonate with the blessing
texts and the militaristic wilderness theophany coming from the late ninth-/
early eighth-century BCE Kuntillet ʿAjrud. One of the most fascinating narrative
traditions in the Hebrew Bible is the ninth-century BCE prophet Elijah’s flight to
Mt. Horeb in the south, a healthy distance away from Mt. Carmel in the north,
where the Gileadite prophet had his most glorious and triumphant public ex-
perience (1 Kgs 18). That Elijah heads to Mt. Horeb for his personal theophany
blatantly underscores his connection to the southern locale where Moses too ex-
perienced Yahweh. According to 1 Kings 19, this mountain site (where Yahweh
came to the prophet amidst wind, earthquake, fire, and voice) was located in the
wilderness, a far-off journey in the steppe lands south of Beer-sheba. (Cogan
[2001: 452] rightly notes that the reference to a forty-day and forty-night journey
south lends a legendary feel to the story.)
Yet whereas 1 Kings 19 is written polemically against the use of storm god
imagery (here Yahweh is not in the wind, earthquake, fire), the ancient poetry
celebrates precisely Yahweh’s march as a victorious warrior and storm god. Over
and over again, the setting for his military march is from the south with respect
to Judah (Seir, the steppe of Edom, Sinai, yĕšîmôn, Mt. Paran, Teman, Cushan,
and Midian).226 Indeed, Kuntillet ʿAjrud’s reference to “the Teman” (hty[mn])
refers to “the Southland.” While the precise southern locale of two of these places
(yĕšîmôn and Cushan) is uncertain, the other places are more precisely known
and point to areas south of the Dead Sea in and around the Wadi Arabah as it
stretches southward to Midian.
Conclusions
The best conclusion with regard to the origin of the deity Yahweh would be one
that is appropriately agnostic and yet adventurous enough to articulate which
data and which scenarios are more likely to be on the right path.227 It should be
appropriately humble given our cultural and historical distance from Iron Age
Israel, and it should also be appropriately complex, taking into account the com-
plicated nature of our data.
Agnosticism comes easily. We simply do not know the historical origin of the
deity Yahweh. Here Stager’s (1998: 148) well-balanced conclusion strikes the
right tone:
Circumstantial evidence of time and place suggests Midianite antecedents and

contributions to Yahwism. . . . [We have several] tantalizing hints about the re-
lationship. But until more is known about Midianite religion, these connections
will remain tentative at best.
As for the complex nature of any conclusion, the Propp Principle deserves to be
referenced again:228
Given the gaps in our knowledge, the complexity of historical processes and
our inability to conduct proper experiments, we should aim rather for mul-
tiple, parallel hypotheses, as complex as the events they purport to explain. We
can and must take into account the 95 percent of information hidden from our
view, the sea bottom connecting solitary islands of data. The only sensible re-
sponse to fragmented, slowly but randomly accruing evidence is radical open-
mindedness. A single, simple explanation for a historical event is generally a
failure of imagination, not a triumph of induction. (Propp 2006: 793)
What Can We Posit?
Given the Propp Principle, what can we posit from the approximately 5 percent
of information that we possess? We submit that the uniform witness (of ancient
poetic biblical sources and the inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud) to a southern
tradition is telling. Moreover, not only does Yahweh march from the region of
Seir, Edom, and Teman, but he is also consistently portrayed as “the one of Sinai”
(yhwh zeh sînay).229 Compare especially the nearly identical wording found in
Judges 5:4–5 and Psalm 68:8–9 (see translations on pp. 279–280). The endurance
of Mt. Sinai traditions (also found ubiquitously in narrative texts such as 1 Kgs
19) is significant, especially when it goes against expectations of Judean Yahwism
(and in particular its royal cult), as McCarter (1992: 128) has pointed out:
The persistence of the Sinai tradition is remarkable, because there was a nat-
ural tendency to eliminate it. That is, there was an understandable tendency
to transfer the mountain location of the theophany of Yahweh to some place
within the Promised Land, and specifically to Jerusalem. And, in fact, in the
royal theology that grew up after the establishment of the Davidic dynasty, Mt.
Zion was the sacred mountain. According to the Zion tradition, the Solomonic
Temple was Yahweh’s dwelling place forever (1 Kings 8:13). Why, then, didn’t
Mt. Zion displace Sinai altogether? The only explanation I know is that the old
Sinai tradition was so venerable and well known, that it was so persistent and
authentic, that it couldn’t be suppressed.
In short, even in later Judean royal religion, Sinai remained as the paradigmatic
locale of sacred revelation, reaching legendary status.
The 95 percent of information that Propp suggests is “hidden from our view”
would include all the ways in which the tantalizing data discussed earlier might
suggest “multiple, parallel hypotheses” for both the origin of Yahweh (through
the heroism of a Moses? via Midianite clans? mediated through Kenite oral
traditions?) and the possible locale of Mt. Sinai (in southern Edom? in northern
Midian?), not to mention a Reubenite sanctuary on Mt. Nebo. Propp’s “radical
open-mindedness” would have us explore the mechanism for how such origin
traditions traversed trade routes (via Shasu nomads? whose material culture lay
in the Faynan region in southern Jordan? whose copper production may be re-
flected in the nĕḥaš nĕḥōšet lore of Num 21:9?),230 ultimately ending up in south-
eastern territories (Edomite and Moabite) that came into contact with people
groups (e.g., Reubenite clans) that in turn embraced Yahweh as their ancestral
deity. Mechanisms for transmitting Yahwistic traditions from the Transjordan
into tribal areas north and south of the Jezreel valley may very well have involved
external economic interests and alliances (via Midianite caravans coming from
the south?) as well as bards singing or writers inscribing religious lore (cf. the
Deir ʿAlla texts, the narratives of Elijah the Tishbite from Gilead, and the strange
case of Mt. Ebal).231 In addition, surely one should be open to how the continuity
of traditions about Yahweh could be maintained at non-state religious festivals
(cf. 1 Sam 1) and perhaps even via “military muster . . . [which could be an] occa-
sion for contacts across greater distances.”232
Similarly “hidden from our view” is how trade routes passing through stra-
tegic southern locales (such as at Kuntillet ʿAjrud but earlier) would have facili-
tated the transfer of Yahwistic origin traditions into inland Canaan, where they
might have been written down by scribes using a distinctly South Canaanite (or
Proto-Hebrew) scribal tradition. Though we cannot determine precisely the
medium, eventually these origin-of-Yahweh traditions would be wed with the
royal cult of David and Solomon in Jerusalem as well as that of northern kings
proclaiming allegiance to “Yahweh of Samaria.” Finally, Propp’s “complexity of
historical processes” would also include the decidedly different ways in which
some later groups (reflected in the P literary tradition) emphasized the unique
self-disclosure of this god Yahweh to the Moses of Exodus fame (Exod 6:2–3),
while others (reflected in the J tradition) imagined Yahweh’s origin to be even
older, going all the way back to the days of Enosh (Gen 4:26).
Ethnic Self-Identification
At the same time, we should juxtapose Propp’s “multiple, parallel hypotheses”

with hypotheses that run counter-parallel.233 Just as messy to discern, if not mes-
sier, this line of thinking would underscore how the origin of Yahweh was a part of
a multifaceted process of ethnic self-identification and boundary marking.234 As
we will see in the following chapters, identity formation and complex processes of
legitimization and differentiation—the defining of oneself and one’s group against
others (often polemically), which includes the construction and maintenance of
boundaries—are constants throughout ancient Israel’s history. As Carly Crouch

(2014: 114) has emphasized, “the definition and protection of Israelite identity”
arise “out of social, economic and political circumstances”—and religion is inte-
gral at every turn.235 Perhaps an early reflex of the use of religion is found in Judges
5:8, where mention is made of tribes “choosing new gods” (ʾĕlōhîm ḥădāšîm), es-
pecially in a heightened battle context, “when war was at the gates.”
Though certain groups may have had an underlying understanding of kin-
ship (see the earlier discussion of the Midianites as an Abrahamic people), they
nonetheless defined themselves against even their closest of kin (real or fictive).
Thus even though etiological tales were told of Moab being the son of Abraham’s
nephew Lot (Gen 19:30–38), Moabites came to be identified as those who wor-
shipped the god Chemosh. Ammonites, descended from the other son of Lot,
worshipped the deity Milcom. Jacob’s brother Esau, “red/ruddy and hairy”
(ʾadmônî, śēʿār/śāʿir; Gen 25:25; 27:11), moves (appropriately so) “to the land of
Seir, the country of Edom” (ʾarṣâ śēʿîr śĕdēh ʾĕdôm; Gen 32:3; 36:8–9), whence
marched Yahweh. Nonetheless, Esau’s heirs, the Edomites, were known as those
who worshipped the god Quas/Qos. As for Jacob/Israel, his people were self-
identified and recognizably marked (especially in the archaic poetry noted ear-
lier) as those who chose to worship the storm god Yahweh, who was thought to
fight on their behalf. Granted, alternative traditions would describe the decision
in more theological terms. In this perspective, cast in remote antiquity, it was El
Elyon who made the choice for them.236
Remember the days of old,

Consider the years of many generations;
Ask your father, and he will tell you;

Your elders, and they will inform you.
When Elyon [ʿelyôn] allotted the nations,

When he divided the human race,
He fixed the boundaries of peoples,

Equal to the number of divine beings [bĕnê ʾĕlōhîm].237
Lo, his [Elyon’s] people became Yahweh’s portion,238

Jacob his allotted heritage . . . (Deut 32:7–9)
The boundary marking that is concomitant with ethnic self-identification can be

seen in texts early and late. As early as Exodus 15 we read of (the then new and re-
vised) boundary marking, which gives no hint that the deity who was praised for
vanquishing the Edomites and Moabites “with terror and dread” once marched
from a homeland in Edom or dwelt in a sanctuary on Mt. Nebo.
They were dismayed ʾāz nibhălû

the clans of Edom, ʾallûpê ʾĕdôm
the rams of Moab ʾêlê môʾāb
seized by terror, yōʾḥăzēmô rāʿad
melted nāmōgû
all Canaan’s inhabitants. kōl yōšĕbê kĕnāʿan
You fell on them tippōl ʿălêhem
[with] terror and dread, ʾêmātâ wāpaḥad
By your great power bigdōl zĕrôʿăkā
they were still as stone. yiddĕmû kāʾāben (Exod 15:15–16)
The late Deuteronomy 2:1–6 acknowledges that the people had “traversed Mt.
Seir for many days” (Deut 2:1). Yet once again there is no hint of celebrating
Yahweh as victoriously “dawning” from this region, as we have in the archaic
poetry (Deut 33:2), or of being blessed by Yahweh of Teman/the Southland, as
mentioned in the inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud. Rather, this territory is di-
vinely marked as Edomite (“I have given Mt. Seir to Esau as a possession”; Deut
2:5). The boundary lines could not be drawn more dramatically: “I will not give
you of their land so much as a foot can tread on” (Deut 2:5).
The Northern Canaanite Cultural Continuum Redux
We have emphasized that there is substantial evidence (linguistic data, geographic

determinants, and material culture) of a widespread and enduring Canaanite cul-
tural continuum between Syria and Egypt from the Middle Bronze Age on and es-
pecially in the Late Bronze Age (e.g., the Ugaritic texts and the Amarna letters; the
data we are able to glean from Phoenician sources coincide). That this Canaanite
cultural continuum continues into the Iron Age is especially apparent in the realm of
religion, except for a single datum: the complete absence of Yahweh. Here the historian
of Israelite religion must again remain agnostic. We simply do not know the social
settings and mechanisms by which the widespread pre-Israelite Canaanite lore (e.g.,
both the family religion of El traditions and the storm and warrior themes associ-
ated with Baal) was woven on to the god Yahweh of southern, southeastern, and
Transjordanian fame.239 What we can assert was that it was—and so thoroughly that
it is unmistakable. Yahweh’s origin seems to be southern, yet many of the garments
put onto Yahweh are sewn from northern and inland Canaanite cloth. And yet over
time the deity Yahweh would become central to the differentiation process whereby
Israel’s ethnic boundaries were constructed and maintained.240
7
The Iconography of Divinity: Yahweh
Section I: The Iconography of Yahweh: Anthropomorphic

and Theriomorphic Traditions
Currently there is no consensus as to whether Yahweh was represented in ei-

ther anthropomorphic or theriomorphic form. As will become apparent in the
discussions that follow, literary and archaeological challenges will offer dis-
comfort for scholars no matter what position they hold. On the literary side,
one reads of an aniconic Yahweh being enthroned invisibly above the winged
cherubim or described with “Name” (šēm) and “Glory” (kābôd yhwh) theologies.
Other voices add commandments against graven images (Exod 20:4, 23), divine
pronouncements that “one cannot see God’s face and live” (Exod 33:20, 23), and
prophetic parodies mocking the fashioning of the divine in material substance
(e.g., Jer 10:1–6, Isa 40:19–20; 41:5–14; 44:6–22). Yet at the same time, and in
striking contrast, one reads of various body parts of Yahweh on almost every
other page of the Hebrew Bible, not to mention the erection of bull images for
“the Mighty One of Jacob.”
In the field of archaeology, we come across first-rate scholars asserting that
we have never found any image of Yahweh alongside other premier scholars
who claim the very opposite. The former assert that “the perennial search
for . . . Yahweh-statues goes on apace but it is as unlikely as ever to produce
results” (Hallo 1988: 54). The latter counter that archaeology attests not just one
but multiple examples of divine images of Yahweh (Uehlinger 1997). Moreover,
they add, because these figures come from a variety of sites, logic would posit
that a divine image once stood in the Jerusalem Temple as well. The following
analysis will sketch various arguments and data (text and object) relevant to the
debate.
Anthropomorphic Representations of Yahweh

in Textual Sources
When analyzing the Hebrew Bible’s viewpoint on representing the deity Yahweh,
it is helpful once again to remember that while biblical tradition may speak with
a uniform voice on a particular topic, it nonetheless includes a variety of nuances,
the certain outcome of literary traditions growing over hundreds of years and
voiced by authors and editors of different perspectives. Thus even within the
aniconic tradition’s assertion that Yahweh is not to be portrayed in concrete
form, we see diversity. Strikingly different portrayals are woven together in the
Hebrew Bible’s composite picture. Consider how the picture of Yahweh majes-
tically (though invisibly) enthroned above the winged cherubim contrasts with
the altogether different abstract notion of him taking up divine residence via his
sacred “Name” (šem), which is itself conceptually quite distinct from the notion
that Yahweh’s “Glory” (kābôd yhwh) represents his tangible presence.
The Hebrew Bible challenges all these portrayals. It has no qualms about
describing Yahweh in human terms and with human body parts (apart from
genitalia).1 Archaic poetry celebrates Yahweh as a “man of war” (ʾîš milḥāmāh)
whose right hand shatters his enemies and whose nostrils blast waters into a
pile (Exod 15:3, 6, 8). The highly anthropomorphic representation of Yahweh
is one of the defining characteristics of the Yahwist’s (J’s) literary style. In con-
trast to P’s more transcendent picture, the Yahwistic source presents a God who
fashions a man from clay (Gen 2:7), plants a garden (Gen 2:8), walks in the garden
of Eden (Gen 3:8), makes clothes (Gen 3:21), is grieved in his heart (Gen 6:6),
seals the door of the Ark (Gen 7:16), smells the pleasing aroma of Noah’s sac-
rifice (Gen 8:21), visits Sodom and Gomorrah to see what is happening (Gen
18:21), and even bargains with Abraham (Gen 18:22–32). Exodus 33:11 is most
explicit in describing how Yahweh “speaks with Moses as a man speaks to his
friend” (kaʾăšer yĕdabbēr ʾîš ʾel rēʿēhû; cf. Deut 34:10).2 Additional examples
can be found throughout the Hebrew Bible (in various literary genres and from
all periods) by simply noting the various human features (e.g., face, head, eyes,
arms, hands, legs, feet), human occupations, and social relations used to describe
the divine.3
In dealing with hundreds of years of literary activity, we see that there were cer-
tainly lesser degrees of emphasis, as well as multiple voices emphatically under-
scoring that Yahweh is God and not human. Consider the nuances within the
priestly traditions. H is comfortable speaking of offerings as a type of “food” for
God, as they are transformed through fire into a rêyaḥ nîḥōaḥ lĕyhwh, a phrase
usually translated as “a pleasing aroma for Yahweh” or a “soothing, appeasing
odor for Yahweh.”4 In either case, the notion implies that the deity has nostrils.
In contrast, as Knohl has emphasized, P “systematically attempts to remove all
anthropomorphisms from the name of Yahweh.”5 In particular, “the description
of the Presence [kābôd] of God, as it is revealed to all of Israel, lacks all human
dimension.”6 Turning elsewhere, the prophet Hosea has Yahweh proclaim “I am
God and not human” (kî ʾēl ʾānōkî wĕlōʾ-ʾîš) to underscore divine compassion
(Hos 11:9), as does Balaam (lōʾ ʾîš ʾēl wiykazzēb) to underscore divine honesty
(Num 23:19). The Deuteronomist proclaims that “Yahweh sees not as humans
The Iconography of Divinity: Yahweh 289
see” (kî lōʾ ʾăšer yirʾeh hāʾādām. . . wayhwh yirʾeh lallēbāb) because he can per-
ceive the human heart (1 Sam 16:7). Job complains that God is not human, as Job
is (kî lōʾ ʾîš kāmōnî), and so Job would not stand a chance at trial in a case against
him (Job 9:32), while at the same time using God’s lack of human properties to
argue his complaint against him (Job 10:4–6).
Yet overall, anthropomorphic descriptions of Yahweh are ever present. In
Genesis 32, God shows up as a man (ʾîš) with whom Jacob wrestles at a place he
then calls “the Face of God” (pĕnîʾēl). Yahweh uses the palm of his hand (kap)
to shield Moses from his glory, but then allows him to see his back (ʾāḥōr; Exod
33:23). Isaiah seats Yahweh on a throne, as does the Deuteronomist (Isa 6:1–2; 1
Kgs 22:19). Jeremiah takes a cup from the very hand of Yahweh (Jer 25:15–17),
while the divine hand in Ezekiel 8:2 grabs the prophet by a lock of his hair. Job’s
divine slayer gnashes his teeth and pierces with his eyes (Job 16:9). Apocalyptic
literature mentions a disembodied hand (of God) (Dan 5:5; cf. Exod 31:18; Deut
9:10) and will even dress the “Ancient of Days” with the appropriate white rai-
ment and matching hair (Dan 7:9). Conceptually, the editors of the Hebrew Bible
found it perfectly acceptable to juxtapose an embodied Yahweh in literature with
denouncements of anyone attempting to craft such a body in physical form.
There are occasional pauses where authors were more reflective about how
they used anthropomorphic language to describe Yahweh. The author of
Numbers 12 describes Moses as privileged7 to see the tĕmunāh (“form, sem-
blance, likeness”) of Yahweh, which, though evidently not a full manifestation,
is nonetheless of a higher order than a “vision” (marʾeh).8 Similarly, in Exodus
33:23 Yahweh declares that Moses may see his “back” (ʾāḥōr) rather than his
“face” (pānîm).
Yet it is Ezekiel who excels all others in the cautious use of anthropomorphic
language to describe Yahweh. In his description of the theophany (Ezek 1:26–28;
cf. 8:2), he uses the words for “human being” (ʾādām) and “loins” (motnayîm) to
describe, as Moshe Greenberg (1983: 52) put it, “an effulgent human figure. . . all
brilliant and fiery, and encased by a rainbow radiance . . . the Majesty of God.”
Yet the priest-prophet qualifies his depiction with explicit words of restraint
that occur so frequently, his intention cannot be missed. In particular, he uses
three words for comparison (marʾeh, dĕmût, ʿên) a total of fourteen times
in three verses! In language befitting a vision or dream (cf. marʾôt ʾĕlōhîm in
1:1), he portrays the human-like divine figure opaquely. Only by analogy is a
given property of the divine articulated to have the “appearance” or “likeness”
of something tangible. Ezekiel’s rhetoric of circumvention (what Greenberg
called “buffer terms”) will be unpacked together with his preoccupation with
describing Yahweh through multiple “radiant” images (see pp. 373–379).
Yet such circumvention is rare and surely the product of Ezekiel’s desire as
a priest to differentiate the Most Sacred from the profane, even if the profane
objects of comparison are gleaming metals (kĕʿên ḥašmal), fire (ʾēš), and radiant
brightness (nōgah).9 Ezekiel’s description of the divine in 1:26–28 is the axio-
matic exception that proves the rule. The norm was to use anthropomorphic lan-
guage to describe Yahweh.
There is no attempt in the Hebrew Bible to circumvent literary anthropomorphism
of the divine, as we have with later traditions such as those found in the Aramaic
Targums. There we find “a general tendency towards the transcendentalization of
God” (Grossfeld 1988: 19) that avoids anthropomorphic language when speaking
of Yahweh’s presence. The use of paraphrases and/or substitutes such as the Memra
(“command, word”), the Yeqara (“majesty, honor”), and the Shekinta (“residing
presence”) of God try to avoid expressing the corporeality of God.10 Yet we see no
such circumvention in the Hebrew Bible. The closest we come is P’s suppression of
anthropomorphic language used of God and Ezekiel’s unique formulation.11
Do Anthropomorphisms and Metaphors Indicate

a Divine Image of Yahweh?
Unpacking the abstract ideas behind aniconism requires considerable discus-

sion. How did the various biblical authors and editors handle the antinomy of
not representing Yahweh as corporeal in metal, stone, and wood while freely
mentioning his body parts in their literary compositions? Equally important is
Herbert Niehr’s (1997: 74) double query: How would Yahweh have been per-
ceived as being vitally present in the Jerusalem Temple, and how would actual
temple ritual have worked without a divine image?
Yet first one should consider the thesis of several scholars who solve such
tensions by claiming that they are based on false assumptions. They argue that the
physical descriptions of Yahweh are precisely that: physical descriptions. And di-
vine images of Yahweh were indeed fashioned, especially for rituals that took place
in the Jerusalem Temple; the production of such images was a regular practice
elsewhere in the ancient Near East. After looking at this thesis, we will turn our
attention to archaeology to see how it squares with the various literary positions.
Excursus: Was There an Anthropomorphic Divine Image of Yahweh

in the Jerusalem Temple?
The Argument
Scholars who have argued that there were divine images of Yahweh (and espe-
cially an anthropomorphic statue of Yahweh as a focal point in the Jerusalem
Temple) include Manfried Dietrich and Oswald Loretz (1992: 158–172),
Christoph Uehlinger (1993, 1996, 1997, 2006), Brian Schmidt (1996), Bob
Becking (1997, 2006), Herbert Niehr (1997, 2003), and Karel van der Toorn
(1997b, 2002); cf. Berlejung (2017: 75–77). Seven key concepts are central to
this argument.
1. The cultures of ancient Israel’s neighbors were uniform in that they all
emphasized the need for divine images of their deities. All types of ritual
activity (processions, sacrifices, offerings, prayers) had the gods’ divine
images as their focus. The divine image (usually crafted of precious ma-
terial) took center stage in the inner sanctums of ancient Near Eastern
temples and sanctuaries. This is amply documented in text and archae-
ology. Thus, asserts this thesis, it makes perfect sense to start here and
assume that ancient Israel is part and parcel of the ancient Near East,
with past claims for the uniqueness of aniconism being more the fruit
of the history of scholarship than the realia of Iron Age cult. In Niehr’s
(1997: 93) words: “There is no reason to assume that the cult of the First
Temple deviated from the predominant ancient Near Eastern practice.”
2. Reading between the lines, we can infer from the various injunctions
against the use of divine images that such images were indeed a reality.
Here Uehlinger’s (1993: 281; 2006: 84) succinct words are apt: “Had
‘Israel’ not known images, no veto would ever have been conceived.” “The
prohibition of cultic images . . . presupposes the knowledge and practice
of iconolatry in at least some circles of Judahite society.”
3. The various texts describing the aniconic tradition “should not be read
as mirrors of factual reality” (Uehlinger 2006: 84). Here one can easily
document past historians of ancient Israelite religion who uncriti-
cally parroted the Deuteronomistic, prophetic, or priestly viewpoints.
Instead, readers should treat the texts at our disposal as “collective
memory struck by a kind of amnesia, as a result of which the once flour-
ishing worship of images was now remembered as a foreign intrusion
into the religion of the fathers. The authors responsible for the meta-
morphosis . . . are the Deuteronomists” (van der Toorn 1997b: 240). In
Niehr’s words, the Hebrew Bible presents the “strong ideological bias” of
certain exilic and post-exilic theologians. What we have is a “completely
misleading picture,” the product of a Deuteronomistic “coalition” of
concealment (Niehr 1997: 74, 82).
Other scholars nuance the debate differently by suggesting that there were a
variety of Yahwisms, of which aniconic Yahwism was only one option. “Concrete
depictions of animals, humans, and the greater and lesser lights were eliminated
as acceptable symbols and receptacles of YHWH by biblical writers,” remarks
Schmidt (1996: 96), “although they undoubtedly served as images in the com-
peting versions of Yahweh religion.” Similarly, Becking (1997: 158) writes that
“the aniconic Yahwism in its monotheistic form was only one of a variety of
Yahwisms.” Uehlinger (1997: 153) argues that future researchers should ad-
dress “competing Yahweh iconographies by not only differentiating the
Israelite from the Judahite traditions . . . but also rivaling traditions within
Israelite and/or Judahite society.”
4. Some biblical passages explicitly mention a divine image for Yahweh.

According to Niehr (1997: 89), “the original Sitz im Leben of [the] an-
thropomorphic mode of speaking about Yhwh is evident in the cult
surrounding his statue in the First Temple.” Descriptions of Yahweh’s
garments, sandals, and jewels are not mere metaphorical expressions
(1997: 89). “The most simple and most plausible explanation of the phrase
‘to see the face of Yhwh’ ” is “the existence of a divine statue” (1997: 84; cf.
Uehlinger 1997: 148).
5. Some biblical passages implicitly mention a divine image for Yahweh. That
the Jerusalem Temple is referred to as the “House of Yahweh” suggests
a resident inhabitant: “This locution implies that gods dwelt in their
temples as humans did in their houses” (Niehr 1997: 75; cf. van der Toorn
2002: 48–49).
Becking (2006) argues that the motif of the “return of the deity” in the
Hebrew Bible is best understood in its ancient Near Eastern context to refer to
the return of the divine image. In particular, Becking (2006: 57) uses the Ketiv
of Jeremiah 31:21 (“the road that I [= Yahweh] will go”) to conclude the fol-
lowing: “Because ancient Israelite tradition was one part of a greater ancient
Near Eastern whole, we may presume that the return of the Israelite divine
from Exile should be construed as the carrying home of a tangible object.”
Lastly, consider how the erection of Asherah images by Queen Maacah and
King Manasseh prompts van der Toorn (1997b: 239; 2002: 50) to suggest the
following: “Since an image of Asherah was present in the temple in Jerusalem
(1 Kgs 15:13; 2 Kgs 21:7; 2 Kgs 23:6), there is every reason to suspect that her
consort also was represented by an image.”
6. Two identical hexagonal cuneiform prisms from Nimrud contain a descrip-

tion of the booty Sargon II derived from his conquest of Samaria. Among
the items mentioned are “the gods in whom they trusted” (DINGIR.MEŠ
[ilāni] tiklīšun). This text is mentioned by several scholars advocating the
theory of a divine image of Yahweh, with detailed analyses appearing in
Becking 1997 and in Uehlinger 1997: 123–128; 1998 (and, in opposition,
Na’aman 1999, 2006a: 311–338).12 Becking (1997: 166) concludes that the
phrase “the gods in whom they trusted” is not a mere literary topos and
that “the divine images taken away were most probably not theriomor-
phic, but anthropomorphic.” The mention of “Yahweh of Samaria” in the
Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscription has led some scholars of this thesis to iden-
tify Yahweh and Asherah as “the gods in whom they trusted.” Becking
(1997: 166) finds such a suggestion “attractive, but [it] remains to be
proven.” After positing a divine image of Yahweh in a temple in Samaria,
some scholars by analogy then assert that a similar divine image resided in
the Jerusalem Temple and was similarly taken away by Nebuchadrezzar.
7. A driving force behind the theory (if not the driving force) is the presence
of various archaeological figures thought to represent Yahweh. The fullest
collection can be found in Uehlinger 1997: 152. Uehlinger concludes that
his vast catalogue of data is “definitely sufficient to make the hypothesis
[of an anthropomorphic divine image of Yahweh] more reasonable and
probable than its opposite.”
The Response
How can one respond to these points?
1. It makes perfect sense to assume for the sake of argument that there was
a divine image in the Jerusalem Temple. The rest of the current chapter
will test various exemplars to see if such a hypothesis can be proven em-
pirically. It is an altogether different and misguided methodological step
to assume in one’s comparative method that all ancient Near Eastern
cultures were uniform. See the comments on comparative methodology
in Chapter Three, pp. 69–72.
2. It is a truism that the existence of laws reflects an underlying social reality
to which those laws correlate. References to cultic images (divine and oth-
erwise) are common in the Hebrew Bible. Yet their existence must be ana-
lyzed on a passage-by-passage basis with an eye toward determining the
reality they signified and for whom they signified it (see, for example, the
discussion of Jeroboam’s bull images on pp. 198–200, 318–322).
3. As with all literature, a variety of perspectives, ideologies, and motives are
in play. Biblical texts both can and cannot mirror reality. Rather than pos-
iting blanket statements assuming large-scale “coalitions of concealment”
meant to misrepresent all “factual reality,” it is more likely that the views
of ancient writers were multidimensional. The study of individual texts
(again on a case-by-case basis) must articulate the multiple nuances of
authors and editors alike. It is agreed that ancient Israelite religion was
more pluralistic than our texts lead us to believe.
4 and 5. Contra Niehr, there is no reason metaphorical expressions of Yahweh’s

body cannot be “the most simple and most plausible explanation.”13
Either view (physical or literary representation) can be valid (cf. Schwartz
2010).14 Neither should be privileged from the outset. Referring to the
Jerusalem Temple as being “God’s house” need not imply a physical divine
image in residence any more than how God is thought to reside in various
“houses” of worship today. As van der Toorn (2002: 48) admits: “That [a
god] was believed to inhabit [a house] . . . need not imply that this presence
took the form of an image.” Moreover, as Tryggve Mettinger (2006: 277)
underscores in light of West Semitic cults of standing stones, it certainly
does not require an anthropomorphic image.
Even passages such as Isaiah 6:1 (where the prophet says that he “saw the Lord
sitting upon a throne, high and exalted”) need not imply a divine image, even
though the vision is based on the physical Jerusalem Temple and not a heavenly
sanctuary (so Williamson 2007: 124–126). Williamson’s careful study shows how
the phrase is a part of the narrative structure (cf. 1 Kgs 22:19) and is similar in
phraseology to Amos 9:1 (“I saw the Lord standing beside the altar”). Equally im-
portant, Isaiah 6:1–4 envisions a deity of enormous size. Williamson (2007: 129)
concludes: “That he exceeds by far the confines of the sanctuary . . . seems easier
conceptually to derive from the presence of an empty throne than from one on
which there was a cult statue of ex hypothesi limited size.”
While divine images do indeed travel in the ancient Near East (see Chapter Five,
pp. 136–138), metaphorical travel is common as well. Becking even acknowledges
the well-known literary motif of the eschatologische Wundersstrasse (especially
prominent in Deutero-Isaiah) that promises the return of Yahweh to Jerusalem.
The existence of Asherah images in the Jerusalem Temple need not imply
coexisting Yahweh images. After all, our knowledge of the existence of Asherah
images comes from the pejorative portrayal of them by the Deuteronomists, who,
one would have to assume, would have heaped vitriolic criticism on Manasseh
had he also erected a divine image of Yahweh contrary to the Deuteronomistic
“Name” (šem) theology (2 Kgs 21:7). Likewise, the same Deuteronomists who
mention Josiah’s destruction of the Asherah images associate her vessels with
those of the god Baal, not Yahweh as consort (2 Kgs 23:4–6).
6. A detailed discussion of the Nimrud prisms is beyond the scope of this

study. Suffice it to say that the interpretation put forth by Becking and
others has not gone without challenge. In particular, Nadav Na’aman
(1999, 2006a) challenges the historical reliability of its claim about Sargon’s
removal of divine images because the episode is missing from the almost
identically worded Khorsabad annals. According to Na’aman (1999: 398;
2006a: 317–318), “the analysis of the Nimrud Prism indicates that it is an

inferior source compared with Sargon’s earlier inscriptions, and that its au-
thor felt free to manipulate his sources and write his own version of Sargon’s
campaigns.” Specifically, “in his effort to magnify the Assyrian conquest of
Samaria, [he] inserted the motif of the spoliation of divine images into his
account . . . the statement [“the gods in whom they trusted”] is a literary
embellishment by the later author and does not reflect a genuine historical
memory of the captivity of the cult images of Samaria.”
Whatever the final analysis of the historicity of the Nimrud prisms’ remark,
the notion of there being divine images in Samaria should occasion little sur-
prise, especially in light of the bull images erected by Jeroboam (see Chapter
Five, pp. 198–200, and pp. 318–322 in this chapter). Indeed, Na’aman (1999: 414;
2006a: 332) concludes: “It is not impossible that anthropomorphic images
of YHWH were also set in some Israelite sanctuaries, although no conclusive
evidence for such statues has been found.” In addition, divine and other cultic
images of Samaria are mentioned in the Lucianic rendering of 2 Kings 18:34
(“where are the gods/is the god of Samaria?”) as well as in Isaiah 10:11, where
Samaria’s images (ʾĕlîlîm) are found in parallel to Jerusalem’s (ʿăṣabbîm).15 Yet the
nature of our source material renders any attempt to identify these Samarian dei-
ties highly precarious. Consider the pejorative language being used by the author
of Isaiah 10:11, who thinks of these images as worthless idols (ʾĕlîlîm, ʿăṣabbîm).16
We may add to this the Deuteronomists’ theological lens, whereby we read that
Sargon’s capture of Samaria was a result of the people sinning against Yahweh
by fearing other gods (ʾĕlōhîm ʾăḥērîm), not to mention a catalogue of other acts
deemed illegitimate, with special mention of Jeroboam’s bull images and the dei-
ties Baal, Asherah, and the “host of heaven” (2 Kgs 17:16). If the images were of
Yahweh, we would never know it explicitly from this source material, which if
anything points in the other direction. The only clear hint is the Deuteronomist’s
refracted notion that the king of Assyria returned a Samarian priest to teach
Yahwistic faith to the foreigners he settled in Bethel (2 Kgs 17:24–28).
Yet the discussion of a supposed image of Yahweh in Samaria is off-topic
for the present excursus. If Yahweh was represented in anthropomorphic or,
more likely, theriomorphic form in Samaria, this need not imply anything
about whether there was a divine image of Yahweh in the Jerusalem Temple
(cf. Mettinger 2006: 280–281). Though “ancient Israelite religion” is the rubric
used among historians of religion, historically one must clearly differentiate
“Israelite” religion from “Judean” religion (cf. Uehlinger 1997: 153; Na’aman
1999: 394–395; 413–415; 2006a: 313–314, 331–333).
There is no mention of any divine image of Yahweh in the Jerusalem Temple in
the biblical corpus or in Mesopotamian literature. Nebuchadrezzar carried off
“all the treasures of the temple of Yahweh” and “cut in pieces all the vessels of
gold in the temple of Yahweh” (2 Kgs 25:13–17; cf. Jer 52:17–23; 2 Chr 36:18–
19). If the divine image of Yahweh was such a preeminent focal point, would
not we expect its specific mention? When these vessels are enumerated, they
include bronze pillars, the bronze sea, cult stands, pots, shovels, snuffers, gold
and silver basins and bowls, incense dishes, firepans, lampstands, and “other
vessels” of even lower importance (2 Kgs 25:13–17; Jer 52:17–23; Ezra 1:7–
11). No mention is made of a divine image.
Neither does Jeremiah or any other author refer to the divine image in the
delivery of temple vessels in 597 BCE (Jer 27:16–18; 28:3; cf. 2 Kgs 24:13; 2
Chr 36:7, 10). The Babylonian Chronicle mentions “heavy tribute” (Millard
1997: 468). That no mention is made in a Mesopotamian source, with that
culture’s emphasis on divine images being taken in battle, is telling.
Other biblical texts concur. Earlier, King Ahaz dismantles the bronze altar, cult
stands, the laver, the bronze sea, and the bronze oxen (2 Kgs 16:14, 17; cf. 16:8; 2 Chr
28:24). No mention is made of the destruction of any image of Yahweh. When the
Judean king Amaziah installs Edomite divine images (ʾĕlōhîm), there is no men-
tion of him setting them next to an image of Yahweh in a cult niche (2 Chr 25:14–
16).17 Finally, if there was a divine image of Yahweh in the Jerusalem Temple that
functioned as the focal point of worship, why are there no ritual texts describing its
making and consecrating (similar to the texts noted on pp. 129–136)?
Admittedly, these are answers from silence and from texts that have been ed-
ited by those sympathetic to aniconic theology. Yet Na’aman (1999: 404–408;
2006a: 323–327) suggests that the historical and archaeological pictures from
Lachish and Arad may provide useful analogies. Sennacherib’s destruction of
Lachish and deportation of its booty is depicted in great detail in the iconographic
record of his palace in Nineveh. Na’aman notes that the cultic vessels that are carried
off are bronze incense stands, not the prized statue of the deity of the city. The Arad
sanctuary’s image was that of a standing stone, not an anthropomorphic statue (see
pp. 183–187). Following Mettinger, Na’aman (1999: 413; 2006a: 331) concludes that
“all the available evidence from the Kingdom of Judah supports the assumption
of the image of YHWH in the eighth-seventh centuries BCE as aniconic and that
YHWH was represented in the cult places by a standing stone (maṣṣebah).”
Finally, Ronald Hendel (1997) has provided corroboration from an anthro-
pological perspective. Hendel, blending the insights of James Barr and Mary
Douglas, has drawn new attention to the leitmotif of “lethal God sightings”
found in non-and pre-Deuteronomistic stories of theophanies (e.g., those of
Jacob, Moses, Gideon, Manoah, and Isaiah).18 A handful of blessed individuals
note with surprise that despite seeing God “face-to-face,” they escaped death.
According to Exodus 33:20, “one cannot see God and live.” According to Hendel
(1997: 221–222), the belief in “deadly God-sightings” is “best understood as a
motif of Israelite folklore, rooted in popular conceptions concerning purity and
danger.” Moreover, he asserts (correctly in my opinion) that “the lethal danger

of seeing God is . . . related to the problem of anthropomorphic representation
of deity and to the de facto aniconism of the Yahwistic cult.”
If proponents are correct that Yahweh had a cult statue and that his
adherents regularly viewed Yahweh’s image in cult processions similar to those
in Mesopotamia and Egypt, how does one account for the traditions of lethal
God sightings? If adherents saw God on a regular basis (and viewed the image
in Israel as the full embodiment of divinity similar to Mesopotamia), then what
would make one think that (1) seeing God was an unusual privilege according
only to the blessed few, and (2) it was in any way lethal? In short, it seems more
likely that we should take the biblical tradition at face value in its assertion that
there was not an anthropomorphic statue of Yahweh in the Jerusalem Temple.
7. Archaeology is indeed key to resolving the issue at hand and will occupy a good
deal of the discussion that follows. Though Uehlinger (1997: 152) sometimes
refers to his large catalog of evidence as “clear,” “indisputable,” and “definitely
sufficient,” he wisely modulates his conclusion, affirming that “our picture still
remains awkwardly fragmentary.” In particular, he admits that “we are still
unable to identify beyond a doubt a Yahweh image as such, either from Israel
or from Judah.” Nonetheless, though using cautionary words, Uehlinger cer-
tainly advocates that “his main thesis . . . that Yahweh was worshipped in the
form of an anthropomorphic cult statue both in the central state temples of
Israel (Samaria) and Judah (Jerusalem), is basically correct.”
Other scholars strongly disagree. Na’aman (1999: 394; 2006a: 313) writes:
“Examining the large corpus of ‘cult objects’ collected by Uehlinger, I cannot
find a single object that was found in a cultic site in the kingdoms of Israel
or Judah and that could be unequivocally interpreted as an anthropomor-
phic cult statue of a god.” Mettinger’s (2006: 279, 281) latest statement on the
subject is similar: “The essential question is this: do we have even one three-
dimensional representation of Yhwh in metal or terracotta that may be clas-
sified as a cultic image? The answer is no.” Mettinger goes on: “At the present
state of research, the presence of a cultic image of Yhwh in the First Temple
has not been proved. The arguments adduced simply do not hold weight.”19
Anthropomorphic Representations of Yahweh

in Material Culture?
If they were made, what type of anthropomorphic figurines would best repre-
sent Yahweh? What should we look for? What markers of divinity would help us
differentiate Yahweh from other gods with similar attributes? Is there a specific
typology we should use in evaluating the pose, headdress, garments, standards,

and so forth, one that would be telling? In short, the answer is no. To judge from
the textual representations of Yahweh, no narrow typology would do. Yahweh
fully incorporates the qualities of El such that an enthroned male in benedictory
pose would be fitting (see Chapter Five). Yet the distinctive military portrayal
of Yahweh as a divine warrior would make striding males with raised weapon
equally appropriate. Could an artisan perhaps craft a striding figure that was
nonetheless benign (as we will see with the Tell Balâṭah bronze figurine to be
discussed shortly)? Such speculations are examining species of trees prior to
recognizing the contours of the forest. A wide-angled view of anthropomorphic
male figures from the Iron Age demands attention.
In 1983, after noting the hundreds of examples of female figurines attested in
the archaeological record of ancient Israel, William Dever made a side comment
that he thought “may be significant”:
No representations of a male deity in terra cotta, metal, or stone have ever been
found in clear Iron Age contexts, except possibly for an El statuette in bronze
from 12th-century Hazor and a depiction of an El-like stick figure on a mini-
ature chalk altar from 10th-century Gezer, and neither is necessarily Israelite.
(Dever 1983: 574).
Ever since, this remark has become the starting point for all scholars wrestling
with the iconic/aniconic debate. Those asserting that there were representations
of Yahweh and El set out to prove Dever wrong, while those asserting the aniconic
tradition hailed his remarks as a vindication of their position.
The two exceptions Dever noted have been eliminated from consideration
(see pp. 126–128 and 157–158). What remains are two questions: (1) Why is it
that there are no Iron Age male figurines, especially when we consider the Late
Bronze Age evidence? (2) Has archaeology produced examples since 1983 that
would now invalidate Dever’s observation?
What Accounts for the Absence of Male Divine Figurines in the

Iron Age Archaeological Record?
On pp. 156–170 we had our pick of numerous male bronze figurines coming
from the Late Bronze Age to nominate as candidates for the presence of pre-
Israelite El. These seated figures in benedictory pose included figurines from
Hazor, Beth Shemesh, Megiddo, Beth Shean, Tel Kinneret, and “Shechem.” If we
turn our attention to striding figures (often depicted with weapon in hand and
in smiting position), we could add three well-known examples from Megiddo.20
The first figurine (Figure 7.1) comes from Tomb 4 (Late Bronze Age II), the
second (Figure 7.2) from strata IX–VII, Area BB (Late Bronze Age I–Iron Age
I), and the third (Figure 7.3) from stratum VB, Area BB (Iron Age I).21 Due to
the combination of pose, weapon, and especially shield, Figures 7.1 and 7.3 are
thought to designate the Canaanite god Reshef (Cornelius 1994: 126–127, 130–
131; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 60, 116). Figure 7.2 lines up with typical striking
warrior (e.g., Baal) typologies, yet due to the absence of the left arm as well as
the object that was once in his right hand, definitive identification is impos-
sible.22 As with the bronze from eighth-century BCE Tel Kinneret (Figure 5.42),
scholars view Figure 7.3 as being inherited from the Late Bronze Age rather than
actually being fashioned in the Iron Age (Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 116, 135; cf.
Hendel 1997: 216–217). Othmar Keel and Christoph Uehlinger add that even if
such bronzes were produced in Iron Age I, “they were still following in the Late
Bronze Age tradition nonetheless.”
Figure 7.1 A striding male bronze figurine in smiting position with weapon and
shield. From Megiddo Tomb 4 (Late Bronze Age II).
Figure 7.2 A striding male bronze figurine in smiting position from Megiddo strata
IX–VII, Area BB (Late Bronze Age I–Iron Age I).
Figure 7.3 A striding male bronze figurine in smiting position with weapon and
shield. From Megiddo stratum VB, Area BB (Iron Age I).
One could also add a Late Bronze Age IIA figurine (Figure 7.4) from Tell
Balâṭah (Field VII, stratum XIII) that defies categorization in either of the two
typologies mentioned.23 The figure, which has been commented on frequently,
is a typical “Baal” figurine that was once coated with silver (cf. the grooves for
tucking the metal foil and the remnants of sheet silver sheathing).24 It wears a
conical headdress usually described as analogous to the white crown of Upper
Egypt. It stands 7.2 in. (18.4 cm) high in a striding position with bent arms
that originally grasped either a weapon, staff, or a standard. Edward Campbell
(1965a: 24) described the fists as follows: “Both fists are clenched around a core
of silver-colored metal; conceivably the right hand held a spear or staff in vertical
position while the left hand held a dagger.”25
Ora Negbi (1976: 165) suggested that the right arm was once in the upraised
position, typical of warrior figurines, but has since dropped down due to the
pegged armpit construction. But Campbell tested such a hypothesis from the start
Figure 7.4 A Late Bronze Age IIA figurine from Tell Balâṭah (Field VII, stratum
XIII) that defies categorization.
Photo by Lee C. Ellenberger; reproduced by permission of the Joint Expedition to Tell-Balâṭah
and E. F. Campbell, Publication Director.
and concluded that it was simply impossible: “The peg is of a slightly off-square
shape and will not permit setting the arm 180 degrees differently. Even if the arm
were forced into that position, it would be in a grotesque backward bend . . . the fist
would be away up behind the head and by no means in the smiting position. . . .
The only position the arm can take is the benign one on the photograph.”26
In light of the prevalence of male bronze figurines in the Late Bronze Age,
their near-total absence in the Iron Age is indeed striking.27 Equally striking is
what seems to be the near absence of male divine figurines in other media such
as stone, terra-cotta, and wood (especially in contrast to known examples of
goddesses).28 In dealing with metal statuary, two basic options are available: (1)
for some reason, few if any male metal figurines were produced, or (2) male
figurines were produced in the Iron Age from precious metals, yet for some
reason we do not have them.
Let us briefly probe each of these options. At the outset, one must underscore
the tentative nature of such an enterprise. The finding of male divine figurines
in next season’s excavations could overturn our entire analysis in one fell swoop.
Consider, for example, how the finds at Kuntillet ʿAjrud necessitated a rewrite of
all previous histories of ancient Israelite religion.
Option 1: Few if Any Male Metal Figurines Were Produced

in Iron Age Israel
Uehlinger (1997: 111) suggests that “the fact that metal statuary production
receded during the early Iron Age is most probably due to economic factors, such
as the limited availability of raw materials and technical expertise.” Depending
on how early one dates the aniconic tradition and how widespread its influ-
ence, one could also posit an ideological motivation underlying such a lack of
production.
While each of the factors could be true, various data lessen their impact. For
example, the Iron Age I bronze zebu bull figurine from the Bull Site (see Figure 5.70
Five, p. 202) shows evidence of both raw materials and expertise, as does the
ninth-to eighth-century BCE bronze plaque with an inscribed bull rider from
Tel Dan, though its execution is decidedly less sophisticated (see Figure 7.12,
p. 319). Technical craftsmanship with regard to divine (but not male) images
elsewhere and in other media include the terra-cotta Taanach cult stands (see
Figures 7.10, 7.11, pp. 315–316) and the eighth-century BCE stone bull-headed
stela from Bethsaida (see Figure 7.18, p. 331). Yet the small amount of data we
possess overall makes Uehlinger’s point well taken. As for ideological suppres-
sion of the making of images in the first place, one could note the inhospitable
environment for such production during the reigns of the kings Asa (1 Kgs
15:12–13), Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:4), and Josiah (2 Kgs 23:4–15). Yet it is empir-
ically impossible to judge how widespread such activities were and how long
they lasted, even with archaeological correlates such as the covering over of the
sanctuary at Arad (cf. Herzog 1997: 202–203; 2002: 35; 2013: 40; Bloch-Smith
2015: 101, 105–106, 114).29
Option 2: Male Figurines Were Produced in the Iron Age from Precious
Metals, Yet for Some Reason We Do Not Have Them
As noted by Silvia Schroer (1987: 164–177) and Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 136),
biblical tradition preserves memories of anthropomorphic representations of
male deities of neighboring societies. The most famous of these is the (pejora-
tive) depiction of the god Dagon in 1 Samuel 5:1–5 that describes the statue’s
head, trunk/back, and hands.30 The passage 2 Samuel 12:30 almost certainly
refers to a golden crown sitting on top of a large statue of the Ammonite god
Milkom (milkōm).31 The so-called image ban texts (though most are admittedly
late in date) are replete with mentions of images being made of gold, silver, and
wood (Jer 10:3–4; Isa 40:19–20, 41:7, 46:6; Hos 8:4, 13:2; Hab 2:19; Ps 115:4,
135:15; Exod 20:23). Such passages reveal without doubt that divine images were
well known in biblical times and seemingly produced in considerable numbers.
Given that images were made and yet are not in our possession, we could as-
sume some were destroyed in the royal religious reforms. Others could have been
buried and archaeologists have simply yet to come upon them. The practice of
burying precious metals has already been noted, with examples coming from ar-
chaeological and textual sources. The bronze hoard from Hazor (see Chapter Five,
pp. 180–184) contained a divine figurine (Figure 5.35) and was buried in a jar in
a sacred context. As for texts, in Genesis 35:2–4, Jacob is described as burying “all
the foreign gods” (kol ʾĕlōhê hannēkār) under a tree, with specific mention of the
“rings that were in their ears.” The author’s specific vocabulary has Jacob “hiding”
(yiṭmōn) the “foreign” divine images together with insisting that the people rid
themselves of them (hāsirû). Though the language is pejorative, the images were
nonetheless not destroyed nor merely cast away with the rubbish. Thus we seem
to have a type of desacralizing of cultic paraphernalia. An archaeological parallel
would be the desacralizing of the Arad temple by those who chose consciously to
bury (rather than pulverize) both the standing stone and the incense altars.32
Yet the most likely scenario is a purely pragmatic one: the metal was melted
down and reused for other purposes. While we have no real way of knowing the
extent of this practice, it makes common sense. An argument can be made by
analogy with similar practices elsewhere in the ancient Near East.
Divine Images and the Reuse of Precious Metals

In 1981, Na’aman published a fascinating text from the Alalakh VII archive that
records what he called the “recycling” of a silver statue. Two lists of silver (or-
namental silver cups and silver used for plating or settings) are tallied, with the
total value adding up to the large sum of 685 shekels; Na’aman estimates that
silver of that value would weigh more than 12 lbs. (5.5 kg). There are two notes
mentioning “the silver of the divine statue” (dALAM), one occurring after each
individual tally of silver. At first glance one could think we have here a parallel
to Exodus 32:2–4, where various items of gold were gathered together for Aaron
to use in making his divine bull image (see Chapter Five, pp. 198–200). Yet the
Alalakh texts twice mention that some of the silver was used to fashion burial
gifts for a deceased king and hence buried in his grave. Thus Na’aman (1981: 48)
concludes: “The context makes it clear that this statue [of a god] was the source of
the silver, and it appears that the statue was melted down in order to manufacture
the objects recorded in the text.”
Realizing the indispensable role of the divine image in ancient Near Eastern
ritual, Na’aman conjectures “that a new statue of the god was already fashioned and
that the old statue, too expensive to be buried in the ground, was melted down for
raw material . . . Our ancestors were quite rational in their attitude toward divine
objects. While statues of stones or figurines were buried after they became obsolete,
they saved the more expensive divine objects in order to reuse their precious metal.”
Conclusion on Absence of Male Divine Figures

A reasonable scenario for the absence of male divine figurines in Iron Age Israel
and Judah would combine the factors we have discussed. If we were only talking
about precious metals (gold, silver, bronze), then we could make an economic
argument: figurines were too expensive to make, so fewer were produced (due
to lack of raw materials and expertise), and those that were fashioned were ei-
ther desacralized (i.e., buried) or melted down at some point for reuse.33 But the
fact that older Late Bronze Age divine images were not melted down for reuse
(seemingly out of respect) together with the absence of male figures in affordable
terra-cotta shows that an economic answer cannot be the sole reason. That we
have female divine figures in terra-cotta but not male ones suggests some de-
gree of ideological motivation driving the latter’s absence. Rainer Albertz and
Rüdiger Schmitt (2012: 379) suggest that this is a part of a broader trend: “There
appears to have been a definite aversion to anthropomorphic representation of
major deities in national panthea, including Israelite/Judean YHWH, Moabite
Chemosh, Ammonite Milkom, and Edomite Qauš, as well as the major deities of
Philistia, Phoenicia, and the Aramean states.”34
An Anthropomorphic Divine Couple?
William Hallo (1988: 54–55) once remarked that it was “possible that an essentially
aniconic ethos (as applied to Israel’s God) coexisted with a more tolerant attitude
toward other icons from Mosaic to Deuteronomic times.” As for Israel’s God, he
also remarked: “The perennial search for Yahweh-idols and Yahweh-statues goes
on apace, but is unlikely as ever to produce results.” Little did Hallo realize that after
the publications of the Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscriptions (see Chapter Six, pp. 237–241)
and iconography (see pp. 325–330) the perennial search for Yahweh would indeed
go on apace, but now combined with a quest to document the goddess Asherah
at his side. Four such searches are of particular note: the famous Kuntillet ʿAjrud
standing figures (which we will treat with the theriomorphic images because of
their facial features), a pair of winged deities on a seal with a Hebrew inscription, a
pair of figurines on a terra-cotta vessel published by Jörg Jeremias, and a potsherd
from Jerusalem that depicts two geometric/anthropomorphic figures.
The Aladlammu Seal from the Seyrig Collection

A well-known (but unprovenanced) seal from the Seyrig collection of the
Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris includes a Hebrew inscription (y[h?][y]‌hw [š]
lm) as well as a portrayal of a two-winged male deity on top of an aladlammu
(lamassu) creature with a divine headdress facing a four-winged figure above
a stylized Phoenician volute tree (Figure 7.5). Though the male figure “depicts
Figure 7.5 An unprovenanced seal that includes a Hebrew inscription (y[h?][y]‌hw

[š]lm) as well as a portrayal of a two-winged male deity on top of an aladlammu
(lamassu) creature with a divine headdress.
Image from O. Keel and C. Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God, © Fortress Press.
Reproduced by permission.
an Assyrian-style male deity,” the Hebrew inscription leads Albertz and Schmitt
(2012: 379) to “tentative[ly]” suggest that “the representations most likely
corresponded to YHWH and his consort Asherah in Ishtar-like appearance.”
Compare the analysis by Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 340), who point out the
“Assyrian, Urarturian and Phoenician” stylistic features and assume that the
Hebrew inscription reflects “a local interpretatio judaica by a Judahite owner”
who may have made a connection between Yahweh and Asherah because of the
“constellation of images” with the cherub and the stylized tree.
Other studies of the seal were more circumspect, noting especially the unique
nature of the seal. Benjamin Sass (1993: 236–237) remarked upon a “cluster of
enigmas” that at first led him to doubt the authenticity of the scaraboid, whose
complex composition was more typical of cylinder seals. Uehlinger (1993: 275–
276) tones down his and Keel’s earlier inference, saying that the seal’s “Judean
owner might have recognized Yahwe and the ‘Queen of Heaven,’ possibly iden-
tified with Asherah” (emphasis Uehlinger’s). He contextualizes his comment in
a methodological discussion (building on the work of André Lemaire) in which
he notes that inferring any “religious significance” is complicated, for it must take
into account the engraver’s cultural symbol system as well as the owner’s, whose
name would have been added later “only as a result of the [economic] transac-
tion.” In his final summation about the seal representing Yahweh and Asherah,
Uehlinger writes: “But as the seal remains unique for the time being, we have no
other documentary evidence to test such an hypothesis against other documen-
tary evidence . . . [Its] weight for religious history is thus limited in comparison to
other seals [that are] more conventional.”35 Moreover, the seal’s unprovenanced
nature limits its use even more.
Jeremias’ Terra-Cotta Figurines

The terra-cotta vessel pictured in Figure 7.6 and depicting two individuals side
by side is fraught with so many problems that it would be preferable to bypass it
altogether. Regrettably, it has entered the canon of objects celebrated for possibly
depicting Yahweh and Asherah, and thus it requires attention.
The vessel in question was published by Jeremias (1993), who acknowledged
that it came from the Jerusalem antiquities market. It now resides in the Bible
and Orient Museum at the University of Fribourg, Switzerland (inv. no. VFig
2000.11). Though broken in areas significant for interpretation, it has been cele-
brated as a “unique” find representing “what scholars have tried, in vain, to find
for so long: an 8th-century Judahite figural representation of ‘Yahweh and his
Asherah’ ” (Uehlinger 1997: 149, 151).
Emotions run high about the ethics of publishing and using such items, as
evidenced in the formal denunciations coming from almost every archaeological
journal.36 Scholars must nuance their treatments, for to shy away from discussing
Figure 7.6 An unprovenanced terra-cotta vessel published by Jeremias showing two

seated individuals.
Courtesy Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis.
such objects unconditionally would mean to set aside such finds as the Amarna
tablets, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Nag Hammadi Codices, not to mention
tens of thousands of cuneiform tablets, especially those that became known in
the spring of 2003, after the Iraq War. Yet all scholars agree that unprovenanced
objects void of context are seriously flawed for use in drawing most inferences.
The current object is a case in point.
Even though lmlk-stamped jar handles (for which we have secure dates) were
among the approximately fifty items that were acquired at the same time as the
terra-cotta in question, we cannot be certain that they constituted a unified, un-
contaminated group from the same find spot.37 We certainly do not have data
that would support Uehlinger’s firm assertion that “we can be confident that the
group has a Judahite provenance and should be dated to the late 8th or early 7th
century BCE” (Uehlingher 1997: 150, my emphasis), not to mention any con-
nection with Tell Beit Mirsim, where the various items were said to have been
found. In addition to problems having to do with substantiating chronology and
geography, without context we have no way of knowing whether the object was
part of a cultic assemblage or from a find spot with some other indicators of cult.
As for its interpretation, there is no clear marker of divinity for either figure
(see Chapter Five, p. 142). A “conspicuous hairdo” led to the tentative identifica-
tion of the figure on the right as representing a god. Jeremias tentatively suggested
Baal Hammon, and Uehlinger identified Yahweh (Jeremias 1993: 54– 57;
Uehlinger 1997: 151). There is no such marker for the presumably female figure
to the left, though Uehlinger argues that “the spatial and generic relationship of
the two figures is apparently a paredros relationship which could be perfectly
transcribed by the syntagm ‘DN1(male) and DN2(female) + suffix(3.m.sg.)’ ”38
It is clear that this suggestion is being driven by the Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscriptions.
Without any cultic context or usual markers of divinity, we could very well
have human figures represented here, not deities. Indeed, pairs of male and
female elites seated side by side are ubiquitous in ancient Egypt. Uehlinger
(1997: 151–152) tries to support the claim that we have deities here by noting
that Jeremias “tentatively identified [the partially preserved animals on the ob-
ject] as lions or sphinxes” and then concluding: “Sphinxes and cherubim were
naturally related to major state deities in the Phoenician-Palestinian art of the
late Iron and Persian periods.” Yet a look at the sphinxes/cherubim used on the
Idrimi statue, the Ahiram sarcophagus, and the Megiddo ivory (which we will
discuss later) shows that this artistic motif can just as easily be associated with
royalty.
Lastly, Jeremias suggested that rather than a male and female on a throne,
these could be two chariot riders, a notion he derived from Cypriot terra-cotta
figurines. Publishing his article in 1993, Jeremias did not have at his disposal
Nancy Winter’s (1996) extremely detailed report of the terra-cotta chariot
groups from the excavations of the archaic precinct of the sanctuary of Appollo
Hylates at Kourion.39 While the material from Kourion is later than the putative
date assigned to the Jeremias terra-cotta, the number of finds there is staggering,
especially when added to the previously published Cypriot data. According to
Winter (1996: 100), “More than 700 horse riders and 110 chariot groups were
reconstructed . . . in addition, over 1,000 unjoined heads and 500 horses” were
documented, such that “riders can be estimated to have numbered ca. 1,000
and chariot groups less than 300.” While there is, regrettably, only a handful of
pictures of the chariot groups in Winter’s publication, the presence of two indi-
viduals side by side, pillar-like legs for the horses, and a box-like frame for the
chariot argues for reconsidering Jeremias’ alternative explanation that we may
have chariot riders here.
If we have riders here driving a schematic chariot (and this remains a big if),
one would still have to debate whether the pair of figures represents humans or
deities. If the latter, one would then have to debate whether the primary chariot
driver would be Baal or Yahweh, both known to be “Riders on the Clouds” (cf.
too Rakib-El; see Niehr 2014a: 158–159). If the latter could be substantiated, it
would make more sense, judging from Habakkuk 3:5, to see the god Reshep at
Yahweh’s side (or, if the second figure is female, a war goddess associated with
horses, such as ʿAštart/Astarte, rather than the non-warrior Asherah. And yet,
according to Habakkuk 3:8, Yahweh alone drives his chariot!
When such substantial interpretive doubt is added to an already suspect
unprovenanced object, we can only conclude that this terra-cotta is of no help in
documenting whether Yahweh was represented in material culture.
A Geometric Pair from Jerusalem

As a result of the Shelby White– Leon Levy Program for Archaeological
Publications, Garth Gilmour worked through the material produced by
excavations at the Ophel in Jerusalem in the 1920s carried out by R. A.
S. Macalister and J. G. Duncan. A highlight of his research has been the redis-
covery of a sherd from an Iron Age II jug that was engraved with two geometric
(triangular) humanoid figures (Figure 7.7). Gilmour (2009: 93) understands this
engraving “to represent two deities to be identified as Yahweh and Asherah, with
the male figure, Yahweh, striding over the natural world.”
The two figures here do not meet many of the criteria for determining whether
a specific object can be categorized as divine (see Chapter Five, p. 142). On the
positive side, Gilmour (2009: 95) points out that “the naked frontal view with
prominent pubic triangle [of the figure on the left] is a definitive element.” He
Figure 7.7 Two geometric (triangular) humanoid figures portrayed on a sherd from
an Iron Age II jug excavated at the Ophel in Jerusalem in the 1920s.
Garth Gilmour, “An Iron Age II Pictorial Inscription from Jerusalem Illustrating Yahweh and
Asherah,” PEQ 141, no. 2 (2009): 87–103; © Palestinian Exploration Fund.
argues, based on comparisons with similar iconography from Late Bronze

Age Lachish, Gezer, and Tel Batash, that it represents “the most common type
of female religious iconography.” As for the male figure on the right, Gilmour
notes parallels for the conical headdress among Middle Bronze through Early
Iron Age bronze figures thought to be divine (cf. Figures 7.1–7.4). Yet Gilmour
concedes: “Humanoid deity figures with triangular shapes carved into pottery
are unprecedented in Iron Age Israel and Judah.” The closest parallels are several
male warriors with upper bodies represented by inverted triangles coming from
two sherds from Late Bronze Age Megiddo (cf. Keel and Uehlinger 1998: figs.
58–59). Yet the Megiddo figures are decidedly militaristic (wielding weapons
and holding shields), which the Jerusalem sherd figure is not. Moreover, because
they are grouped in sets of three (or more—one sherd is broken), they likely rep-
resent humans rather than an array of deities posed for battle.40
All other diagnostic criteria for determining divinity are lacking. The sherd
was not found together with a cultic assemblage or in any type of sacred precinct.
There are no other clear markers of divinity (horns, hairdo, garb, insignia, sym-
bolic animal, body posture combined with standards and/or other correlates of
cult, precious metals) and no inscriptional evidence (apart from what could be
the letter taw).
This is not to say that the sherd is not cultic. Though it fails to meet the criteria
needed to designate divine images (and hence should not have been published
with such certainty), we could have here an expression of domestic religion.
In commenting on the famous Judean pillar figures, Carol Meyers (2002: 286)
remarks: “Even if the figurines are meant to represent a deity, the focus on iden-
tifying the deity detracts from a consideration of their function.”41 It is wise to
apply the same corrective to analysis of the Jerusalem sherd. The current fixation
with identifying another example of “Yahweh and his asherah” can keep us from
considering why this sherd was engraved in the first place and how its owner
used it. When viewed through the lenses of non-elite cult and the materiality of
cult, one might conclude that this engraving on a small terra-cotta sherd from a
spouted jug was meant to address a medical or social concern.
What is the significance of the X mark that dominates the center of the re-
lief? Gilmour (2009: 95) comments: “Clearly it may represent a taw sign, but in
the absence of any obvious significance it may be more prudent to interpret it
simply as a space filler, filling in the open area created by the lines joining the
two figures.” If the X is indeed the letter taw, perhaps clues to its significance can
be found in the two passages in the Hebrew Bible that mention the letter. In Job
31:35, the letter taw designates Job’s signature. An X signature can signify agree-
ment with the contents of a “signed” document or even ownership, but more im-
portantly, it represents and validates a person’s presence. Studies on materiality
(e.g., Mandell and Smoak 2016) have underscored the performative nature of
inscriptions, and perhaps we should look here to help us understand its iconog-
raphy. The other use of such a mark in Ezekiel 9:4–6 is more explicit with regard
to functionality. Here the X mark serves as a divinely given protective (apotro-
paic?) symbol assigned to the righteous to avert destruction. In particular, it is
given to those who grieve over the cultic “abominations” that were taking part in
the Jerusalem Temple (as depicted in Ezekiel 8). If the X on the Jerusalem sherd
functioned in any way similar, then the two individuals “marked” by the X here
would be humans. In this sense, the owner of the sherd could have kept it as a
mark of his (and his wife’s?) righteous standing and/or as an apotropaic object to
ward off perceived evil.
To factor in the nudity of the female, perhaps the talisman was perceived to
ward off any threat to the woman’s fecundity. Here Meyers’ comments on do-
mestic cult deserve to be quoted at length:
For any pre-modern agrarian people, the production of offspring is essen-

tial for maintaining the household’s food supply and thus its survival and
also in securing care for aging adults. In such a context, infertility, childbirth
complications resulting in the death of the mother or child, difficulty in lac-
tation, and high infant mortality rates are constant threats to the durability
of the family household. Women’s religious practices can be seen as strate-
gies akin to preventative and restorative medical procedures of the modern
world, to intervene with the divine forces believed to impact the well-being
of mother and child and to influence them in order to assure their benev-
olent and protective presence or to avert their destructive powers. (Meyers
2002: 283)
As noted by Gilmour, the iconography of the female figure (an inverted triangle
on the top of a triangle) is without precedent. The following material from a
much later time period (and with as many differences as similarities) is intro-
duced heuristically to help us think in new categories.
Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked (1993, 1998) have published collections
of magic spells and formulae written on various media and coming from Late
Antiquity. They include several instances of people engraving broken potsherds
that were then used in rituals for various family and social remedies. Because our
Jerusalem sherd depicts a male and a female, it might be useful to note that some
of the texts documented by Naveh and Shaked functioned as love spells. The fol-
lowing two rituals using potsherds are recorded in a collection of magic spells:
Write on unbaked clay. . . Just as this piece of clay burns in the fire, so shall the
heart of PN son of PN and his kidneys burn after me, and after my fortune
and after my lot. His heart shall not sleep. (Naveh and Shaked 1993: 216–
217 = Geniza 22, §1.8ff.)
For a man to return to his wife. Wr[ite] on an unbaked piece of clay, and throw
it in an oven or fire, and this is what you shall write: In the name of TSN WP
[further magic words]. (Naveh and Shaked 1993: 196, 202 = Geniza 18, §17:9)
An actual engraved potsherd from the excavations at Horvat Rimmon contains

just such a love spell (see Naveh and Shaked 1998: 84–89). It too mentions a sym-
pathetic magic ritual asking for the heart and desire of a person to burn after the
petitioner. It should be noted, but only in passing, that the second love charm
(from Geniza 18) also contains two schematic drawings (Figure 7.8) of an in-
verted triangle on the top of a triangle complete with small circles (cf. the same
triangle orientation of the female figure on the Jerusalem sherd together with
small circles denoting facial features) together with additional magic symbols
(Naveh and Shaked 1993: pl. 54).
In conclusion, we do not have enough information to interpret the iconog-
raphy of the Jerusalem sherd with any degree of confidence. Any suggestion—
whether “it is the earliest picture of Yahweh ever found” (Gilmour 2009: 100), an
Figure 7.8 Two schematic drawings of an inverted triangle on the top of a triangle
with small circles from a love charm drawn on a potsherd from Late Antiquity.
Courtesy The Hebrew University Magnes Press.
apotropaic symbol of divine favor, or an apotropaic object to secure love—is spec-

ulative. Given the fact that domestic religion has largely been unexplored, it seems
best to conclude with P. R. S. Moorey and Stuart Fleming (1984: 79) that no figure
should “be taken to represent a divinity until the arguments for a mortal have
been discounted.” There are certainly other instances where an inscribed X must
occur, and these must be discovered (by combing through the archaeological re-
cord) and explored first in order to help contextualize the Jerusalem sherd.42
Possible Theriomorphic Representations of Yahweh
Yahweh and Lions

As has been noted, there are no explicit examples of an Israelite deity (El or
Yahweh) being referred to with the epithet of a lion in the Hebrew Bible or extra-
biblical sources.43 This may come as a bit of a surprise to Christians, whose New
Testament celebrates Jesus as “the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David”
(Rev 5:5). Yet this picture comes from a particular genre that weds the anointed
Davidide material (e.g., Isa 9:2–7; 11:1–10; Jer 23:5–6; 33:14–16) with the men-
tion of the eponymous ancestor Judah as a lion in Genesis 49:9–10.
Yet leonine metaphors and literary images in the Hebrew Bible are so nu-
merous that Brent Strawn (2005: 58) notes that “the Deity is frequently compared
to a lion . . . more so than with any other animal.”44 Indeed, various prophets de-
scribe Yahweh “roaring like a lion” (Amos 1:2, 3:8; Joel 4:16 [Eng 3:16]; Hos 5:14;
11:10, 13:7–8; Jer 25:30), a simile used to describe divine ferocity so intense that
even the heavens and earth shake in response (Joel 4:16 [Eng 3:16]). Such explicit
references to Yahweh behaving like a lion lead Strawn (2005: 250) to conclude
that “Yahweh might well be described as a Lion-God.” Be that as it may, a literary
trope need not indicate that lions ever served as emblematic animals in actual re-
ligious rituals where they would have been objects receiving cult (e.g., sacrifices,
adoration). An analogy would be the ubiquitous anthropomorphic imagery used
of Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible, and yet there is no indication that an anthropo-
morphic statue ever served as a divine image of Yahweh in the inner sanctum of
the Jerusalem Temple. Indeed, our extant texts argue the opposite, as we will see.
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 190–191) go beyond the Hebrew Bible’s literary
references to Yahweh and lions by adding iconographic data such as the famous
Megiddo “Shemaʿ-servant-of-Jeroboam” seal with its majestic roaring lion (see
too Strawn 2005: 102–104). After sifting the various data, they conclude: “As in
the Northern Kingdom, Yahweh could also be depicted in Judah by means of a
roaring lion. But these images can hardly be interpreted as symbols or attribute
animals of Yahweh.” In contrast, Tallay Ornan and colleagues (2012: 5*–8*) col-
lect several additional seals (from the City of David, Tell en-Nasbeh, and an
unprovenanced CWSS 1098) to argue that “lions in both Israelite and Judahite
seals symbolize Yahweh. . . . If this proposal is accepted, the lion will join other
Yahwistic emblems.” In another article, Ornan (2012: 17*) refers to the lion here
as “a stand-in for Yahweh.” Going even further, Ornan and colleagues (2012: 11*
n. 12) argue that a ninth-/eighth-century BCE seal (Figure 7.9) from the City
of David that shows a striding lion together with a (perpendicularly aligned)
human with a raised right arm depicts “a gesture of veneration, signifying the
beast as a focus of worship” (my emphasis).45
The terminology in these discussions (symbol, attribute, emblem) is murky
from a semiotic perspective. At the least, all would agree to a metonymic desig-
nation where the glyptic record aligns well with the literary record of the Hebrew
Bible to underscore that Yahweh was frequently associated with lions. Moreover,
Yahwistic leonine associations fit well within the larger ancient Near Eastern
context, where divine warriors were juxtaposed with lions over which they were
seen to be victorious (Ornan et al. 2012: 6*–7*; Lewis 1996b: 33–45). Beyond
this we simply do not have enough data. While the City of David seal published
Figure 7.9 A ninth-/eighth-century BCE seal from the City of David depicting a
striding lion with lifted tail and a human with raised right arm.
Courtesy Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem.
by Baruch Brandl is enticing, it stops short of proving that a statue of a lion ever
served as a divine image used in cult—that is, a lion image served as an attention-
focusing device to which cult would have been offered, similar to what can be
said of bull images (to be discussed shortly).
Yet as for cult, it should be emphatically underscored that lion images appear
on cultic objects (apart from divine images). That the enigmatic term “ʾAriel”
(see Chapter Five, p. 197) seems to have been used for Yahwistic altar hearths
in Ezekiel 43:15–16 and presumably in the Mesha inscription suggests that lion
images were used as symbols on Yahwistic cult objects.46 Note the presence of the
three lion heads on a libation tray from Tell Beit Mirsim that Ruth Amiran, in
contrast to William F. Albright, dated “to the 8th or at the earliest, to the 9th cen-
tury B.C.”47 Lions together with bulls and cherubim (not to mention date palm
trees [timōrōt]) were used to decorate cultic stands in the Solomonic temple
complex devoted to Yahweh (1 Kgs 7:29, 36).48
It is quite fascinating that the collocation of these animal and tree motifs
appears on the two tenth-century BCE cult stands from Taanach.49 The first
of these stands (Figure 7.10) was found by Ernst Sellin in 1902 and depicts
Figure 7.10 A cult stand from Taanach (discovered in 1902) depicting alternating
lions and cherubim/sphinxes (one on top of the other) and two caprids flanking a tree.
Courtesy Ziony Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches
(London: Continuum, 2001), 318, fig. 4.8.
alternating lions and cherubim/sphinxes one on top of the other. Two caprids
appear on both sides of a tree, a timeless motif in the ancient Near East attested as
early as the third millennium BCE and very popular in Late Bronze Age Palestine
(Beck 1994: 363).
Similarly, the second cult stand (Figure 7.11) from Taanach (discovered by
Paul Lapp in 1968) also contains alternating lions and cherubim/sphinxes, al-
though with a distinctly different arrangement. As noted by Pirhiya Beck
(1994: 360), these two “cult stands from Taanach are the only ones in Palestine
on which lions and winged sphinxes appear together.”50 Like the first stand, the
second register of the second stand contains two caprids flanking a tree, pre-
sumably a sacred symbol. The top register of the second stand contains another
animal as well, but scholars are divided on whether it is a bull or a horse. If
Figure 7.11 A cult stand from Taanach (discovered in 1968) depicting alternating
lions and cherubim/sphinxes and two caprids flanking a tree—as well as an animal
under a winged sun disk in the top register and a naked female with lions in the
lower register.
Courtesy Gary Lee Todd WorldHistoryPics.com. https://www.flickr.com/photos/101561334@N08/
42312681665/in/album-72157698086736974.
it is the former, the second stand would have all four motifs (lions, cherubim,
bulls, trees) that are used in the description of the Yahwistic cult stands in 1
Kings 7:29, 36.51 John Holladay (1987: 296) boldly suggests that “it is not im-
possible that the Ta’anach . . . ‘Cult Stands’ might be exactly such provincial-
izing substitutes for the bronze wheeled stands of 1 Kgs 7:27–37.”52 The bovine/
equine and cherubim images (along with the empty space on register three) will
be addressed later.
Yahweh and Bulls

Painting with a broad brush, it is easy to see why certain worshippers fully
embraced using bull imagery for Yahweh, for, in William Henry Propp’s
(2006: 580) words, “in ancient iconography and myth, the wild male bovine in
its maturity represents untrammeled masculinity and fecundity. The domestic
bull represents masculinity civilized—powerful, potentially violent, but under
restraint.” Yet imagery is one thing, and a direct one-to-one representation of
Yahweh by a bull image is quite another. Thus it is equally easy to understand
how those holding to an aniconic theology would have rejected a physical image
if they perceived it as reducing ultimate Reality to an object.
From the biblical narrative, it is clear that bull symbols were used by artisans
in their depictions of the accoutrements used in the worship of Yahweh. The
extremely large cast metal basin described in 1 Kings 7:21–26—the so-called
Molten Sea (yām mûṣāq)—stood in the Temple courtyard (1 Kgs 7:39) and was
supported on the backs of twelve huge bull statues (1 Kgs 7:25, 44). Arranged in
four triads with each group facing a different point of the compass and with their
faces oriented outward, the spectacle of these twelve colossal bulls would have
been impressive. Indeed, so much bronze was used that Jeremiah 52:20 says it
was “beyond weighing.” Elizabeth Bloch-Smith (1994: 20–21, 25), in noting the
“unusually great size” of the basin complex (as well as the magnitude of the cher-
ubim throne), concludes: “The enormous size symbolized the spatial and tem-
poral magnitude of the deity.”
As we have noted, bulls, together with lions and cherubim, were used as dec-
orative elements engraved on side frame panels of the ten cultic wheeled stands
used in the Temple (1 Kgs 7:29, 36). Finally, Solomon’s magnificent ivory and
gold throne was also said to have bull imagery (royal cult mimicked the divine),
with a bull head carved on its back and set against the backdrop of fourteen lions
(so LXX’s Vorlage ʿēgel for MT’s term ʿāgôl; 1 Kgs 10:19–20).
More mystically, consider Ezekiel’s “visions of God” (marʾôt ʾĕlōhîm).53 Here
the winged cherubim that made up Yahweh’s flying throne were part human
and part composite animals (cf. the Mischwesen discussion in Chapter Five,
pages 149–150), one of which was the bull (šôr). The composite creature also
possessed bull hooves (kĕkap regel ʿēgel) (Ezek 1:7, 10; but cf. 10:14).54
Bull Traditions About El Applied to Yahweh

As for bull epithets used of Yahweh, much of what we discussed earlier is rele-
vant here, for the authors and editors of the Hebrew Bible sewed descriptions
of El together with those of Yahweh into a single seamless garment. Thus if the
epithet “the Mighty One of Jacob” (ʾăbîr yaʿăqōb) evoked bull imagery for El
(Gen 49:24–25), which seems likely, then it equally did so for Yahweh, to whom
the title was enthusiastically applied without qualification (Isa 49:26; 60:16; Ps
132:2, 5). See also the PN ʾAbbiryāhû, “[my] strength is Yahweh” (Albertz and
Schmitt 2012: 313). The similar epithet “the Mighty One of Israel” (ʾăbîr yiśrāʾēl)
in Isaiah 1:24 is used unreservedly to describe “the Sovereign, Yahweh of Hosts”
(hāʾādôn yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt). While El may have been the god who was thought by
some to have “brought Israel out of Egypt like the horns of a wild ox” (ʾēl môṣîʾām
mimmiṣrāyîm kĕtôʿăpōt rĕʾēm lô), it was Yahweh who was celebrated with this
bovine imagery as the tradition was handed down (Num 23:21b–22; 24:8).55 As
has been suggested, perhaps the ease with which bull symbols and imagery could
be used of both El and Yahweh helped facilitate this weaving process.
Yahweh and Jeroboam I’s Bull Images

Once again we must return to Jeroboam’s bull images and the related golden calf
traditions (see pp. 198–200). It is here that many advocates find the clearest bull
imagery used of Yahweh, a claim that sounds counterintuitive from a straightfor-
ward reading of Exodus 32 and its apostasy.
In summing up previous scholarship on Jeroboam I’s (and Aaron’s) bull
images, Lloyd Bailey (1971: 97) wrote, “The consensus is that they were intended
to be variations upon the cherubim, pedestals upon which the invisible Yahweh
rode” (emphasis mine).56 He cited scholars such as Walter Harrelson (1962: 488–
489), who proclaimed that “the connection of the bull with Yahweh is unmistak-
able.” While the nominations for the intended bull deity increase each decade
(current suggestions include El, Yahweh, Baal, Sin, Apis, Hathor, Mnevis, and
Moses), the consensus that the god in question is Yahweh remains firm.57 And
there is good reason. Both Exodus and Jeroboam traditions describe the bull
image as representing “the god(s) who brought the people out of Egypt,” and bib-
lical tradition affirms Yahweh to be that very god, from the earliest texts to the
latest. The thesis is secured by mention of Aaron proclaiming a “feast to Yahweh”
(ḥag lyhwh) in the very context in which he fashioned the young bull and built an
altar before it (Exod 32:5).58
What is left to debate is whether the bull image was a direct representation
of Yahweh or whether it served as a pedestal for an aniconic Yahweh. As noted,
in Bailey’s generation scholars firmly embraced the latter. Yehezkel Kaufmann
(1960: 271) wrote: “[Jeroboam’s bulls] were not conceived of as representations
of YHWH—such a notion would have been too blasphemous for the biblical
historian to have passed over in silence.” Albright (1957: 299) was of the same
mind when he penned: “Direct representation of Yahweh as bull-god” is a “gross
conception” that is “not only otherwise unparalleled in biblical tradition, but is
contrary to all that we know of Syro-Palestinian iconography in the second and
early first millennia B.C.” Yet today the former option is back in play, especially
because of new iconographic data. The following discussion, though not exhaus-
tive, will bring the history of scholarship up to date.
As a representative of modern scholars who support the “pedestal” option,
consider Mettinger, one of the most prolific scholars in the study of aniconism in
ancient Israel. With regard to Jeroboam I’s cult images, he concludes:
There are examples [in the ancient Near East] where the deity is represented as
standing on the back of a bull. The male figure above the bull then symbolizes
the god. But the animal itself is only the god’s pedestal or socle animal. Similarly,
Jeroboam’s bull image is thus only the visible pedestal over which JHWH stands
unseen. We are confronted by the Northern Kingdom’s counterpart to the
empty divine throne in the Holy of Holies of the Jerusalem temple.59
Similarly, Zevit (2001: 317) believes that “YHWH was considered to be the in-
visible deity standing on the back of the calf/young bull pedestal.”60 In addi-
tion to the numerous examples of deities riding on bulls from elsewhere in the
ancient Near East (cf. Chapter Five, pp. 149–155, Figures 5.23-5.28), the 1998
excavations at Tel Dan provided us with a ninth-to eighth-century BCE divine
bull rider at one of the very cities where Jeroboam had earlier set up his bull
images.61 Granted, what we have in Figure 7.12 is a small bronze plaque, not big
Figure 7.12 A divine bull rider (Ishtar?) depicted on a small bronze plaque from Tel
Dan (ninth to eighth century BCE).
enough to be a divine image that could have functioned as the focal point of re-
ligious ritual. Moreover, it most likely represents a goddess (Ishtar?) rather than
a god, and it is decades later than Jeroboam I’s reign. Nonetheless, this artifact
underscores the presence of the long-enduring motif of divine bull riders.62
The fact that some of the bull images on which gods rode were composite an-
imals (Mischwesen) would have made them a close parallel with the cherubim in
the Jerusalem temple. Compare, for example, the winged lion with the head of a
bull in Figure 5.30 with the composite cherub of Ezekiel 1:10 that is also a winged
beast—part lion, part bull.63 Years ago scholars asserted that “Jeroboam’s calves
were perhaps of the winged type and thus no more than a variation on the theme
of the cherub. In essence, then, there is no difference between the calves and the
cherubs” (Kaufmann 1960: 271; cf. Albright 1957: 300).
In order to sustain this interpretation of Jeroboam I’s (and Aaron’s) orig-
inal intention being to create a version of an invisible Yahweh astride a bull
(rather than cherub), one must posit that aniconic theology is quite old.
Indeed, Mettinger (2006: 290) concludes that “the Israelite cult was aniconic
from the beginning.” While some aniconic traditions are in fact ancient—
judging from Elijah’s intolerant monolatry within a pre-Deuteronomistic set-
ting (note the positive use of a Yahwistic sanctuary outside of Jerusalem)—it
should be noted that many of the prophetic parodies against making a di-
vine image, not to mention the Deuteronomistic sanctions, are quite late (cf.
Dohmen 1985).64
Hosea’s Portrayal of Jeroboam I’s Bull Images

Alongside the Elijah material, Wesley Toews (1993: 151–172), Michael Dick
(1999a: 10–11), and other scholars point to the role of Hosea 8 as a precursor to
the extensive image polemics that were to follow. In Hosea 8:5–6 (cf. too Hosea
13:2), the prophet speaks out against what he considers to be an illegitimate cult
in Samaria. In his anti-image polemic he refers to the “bull of Samaria” (ʿēgel
šōmrôn) that will be destroyed.65 Here Hosea is directing his words against
Jeroboam I’s two golden bull (šĕnê ʿeglê zāhāb) shrines at Dan and Bethel (1 Kgs
12:25–33). Yet Hosea’s take on the matter is altogether different from what we
have seen previously. Unlike Elijah, Elisha, Jehu, and Amos, Hosea does not pass
over Jeroboam I’s bull images without comment. And unlike the Deuteronomists
in 1 Kings 12:25–33, Hosea’s concern about Jeroboam I is not merely about
condemning him for setting up rival sanctuaries to Jerusalem’s centralized
worship.66
In Hosea 8:5–6, the prophet gives no indication that Jeroboam might have
been finessing his theology to compete against Jerusalem. For Hosea it is a
matter of making an illegitimate graven image of the divine. The bull of Samaria
(whether it designates El or Yahweh, and whether the deity is directly or invisibly
enthroned) should be rejected outright (zanāḥ), for as the product of human

workmanship (hûʾ ḥārāš ʿāśāhû), “it is not God” (lōʾ ʾĕlōhîm hûʾ).67 Elsewhere in
the book (13:1–2) the making of the bull images is juxtaposed with Baal worship,
damning any of Jeroboam I’s possible good intentions with guilt by association
and mockery (ʿăgālîm yiššāqûn).68
Yahweh Represented Through a Bull Image?

This has led some scholars to deny the hypothesis that Jeroboam was en-
gaged in his own brand of competitive aniconic theology. Instead, they assert
that Jeroboam set up bull images as actual representations of Yahweh. Niehr
(1997: 82) writes: “The calf, as YHWH’s divine image, is not only a pedestal
for an invisible deity, as is so often claimed, but is itself a theriomorphic cult
image.”69 Similarly, Na’aman writes: “The calves were considered both statues
and pedestals of YHWH, and theriomorphic divine images were part of the of-
ficial cult in Israel.”70 In this line of thinking, Hosea’s description of Jeroboam’s
bull of Samaria should be taken at face value as designating a bull image of
Yahweh.
A circumstantial case can be built to support this hypothesis by piecing to-
gether scattered data. It is indeed interesting that Samaria ostracon #41 (though
broken) preserves the PN ʿglyw, “Yah[weh] is a bull.” One could compare the
name ʿglhdd, “Hadad is a bull,” that appears on an unpublished scaraboid cur-
rently housed in Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts.71 Though unprovenanced,
a quadruped (bovine?) is depicted on a ninth-century BCE seal (Figure 7.13)
Figure 7.13 A quadruped is depicted on an unprovenanced ninth-century BCE seal

along with the name “Shemaʿyahu son of ʿAzaryahu.”
Charles Jean Melchior de Vogüé, Mélanges d’archéologie orientale (Paris: Imprimerie impériale,
1868), 131, fig. 34.
along with an individual’s name that contains Yahwistic theophoric elements

(“Shemaʿyahu son of ʿAzaryahu”).72 Yet it should be noted that the theophoric
element in personal names on seals does not always correspond to the depiction
of the deity on the same seal (cf. Bregstein 1993).
Mark Smith (2002a: 84, following Steiner 1997a: 318) notes that Yahweh (to-
gether with Horus) is described as a bull in the syncretistic religion portrayed in
the Egyptian Papyrus Amherst 63.73 Yet this interpretation has been debated. The
Demotic contains the fixed spelling of a divine name (ʾḥr2w2 or divine determi-
native), followed by yhw2 tʾr2ʾnʾ (col. xii, 17).74 Richard Steiner initially read the
name as Horus and the second series as two words, Yaho followed by t(w)rn, “our
bull.” In contrast, Sven Vleeming and Jan-Wim Wesselius (1985: 51, 59) read the
name of the fixed spelling as Yaho and the following letters as one word, yhwtrn
(literally “may he cause us to be left”), citing Ps 79:11 as a parallel. Steiner’s 2017
edition (Steiner and Nims 2017) reads YHW(H) tnṭr-(l)k and translates “LORD,
may you protect [us].” Yet more recently both van der Toorn (2018a: 66, 166–
168) and Tawny Holm (forthcoming) read yhw(ʾ) trnʾ ʿymn and translate “May
Yahu, our Bull, be with us.”
Most intriguing is the mention of “Yahweh of Samaria” (yhwh šmrn) in one
of the inscriptions coming from the southern site of Kuntillet ʿAjrud (on Pithos
A; see Chapter Six, pp. 237–239). As will be seen, the standing figure drawn
immediately below this inscription has caused some scholars (notably P. Kyle
McCarter) to argue that the Kuntillet ʿAjrud artist was portraying Yahweh with
bovine symbolism in precisely the way that would have led Hosea to speak out
against the idolatrous bull of Samaria (ʿēgel šōmrôn).75 The record from material
culture deserves its own section, to which we now turn.
Possible Bull Representations of Yahweh in Material Culture

Can archaeology help us to determine whether Yahweh was portrayed using bull
symbolism? Of the Iron Age evidence we possess, four bull images deserve men-
tion: the Bull Site bronze, the top register of the Taanach cult stand, the largest of
the two standing images on Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos A, and the bull-headed war-
rior from the gate shrine at Bethsaida.
Once Again: The Bull Site Bronze

As we have seen, our data from bronze figurines (be they anthropomorphic or
theriomorphic) are frustratingly inconclusive because of the lack of accompa-
nying inscriptions. Thus we simply do not know whether the Bull Site bronze
(see Figure 5.70) depicted El, Yahweh, or even Baal. What is not to be lost in
stating such objective uncertainty is the possibility that it could indeed represent
a cultic statue of Yahweh used in a ritual in an Iron Age I cultic setting. It is pos-
sible. We just don’t know for certain.
Once Again: The Taanach Cult Stand

The top register of the Taanach cult stand discovered by Lapp in 1968 portrays
a quadruped underneath a winged sun disk (Figure 7.14). The quadruped has
been taken as an animal associated with a deity, but not as a direct emblem of
the deity (although at times these lines of distinction become blurred). If any-
thing, the winged disk above the quadruped is seen as the divine symbol in this
picture. As for the animal, scholars are quite divided on whether it is a bull or
a horse. In surveying the secondary literature about the identity of the animal,
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 158) conclude that these two options are “irreconcil-
able . . . both supported recently in opinions offered by zoologists.”
The excavator of the cult stand interpreted it as a bovine (Lapp 1969: 44), and he
has been followed by many interpreters (e.g., Dayagi-Mendels 1986: 163; Hestrin
1987: 67; Weippert 1988: 472; Smith 1990: 20; 2002a: 53; Bretschneider 1991: 82,
215; Beck 1994; Zevit 2001; King and Stager 2001: 343; Dever 2005: 219).76 This
line of thinking points out the lack of a mane if it was a horse and that the tail and
Figure 7.14 The top register of a Taanach cult stand (discovered in 1968),
portraying a quadruped underneath a winged sun disk.
possibly split hooves are more bovine than equine (e.g., Zevit 2001: 321). As for
the deity here associated with the bull, some scholars insist on Baal, while others
advocate Yahweh.
The strongest case for the animal being a horse has been made by J. Glen
Taylor (1988: 561–564; 1993: 30–33; 1994: 57–58), whose view was buttressed by
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 158) when they wrote that “not a single bit of zoolog-
ical evidence identifies the animal clearly as a bovine.” Taylor further argued that
the horse here is associated with Yahweh, who, as a solar deity, is represented by
the sun disk. Furthermore, the empty space of tier three on the stand represents
Yahweh’s invisible presence (discussed later). To bolster his theory, Taylor noted
how King Josiah’s seventh- century BCE cult reforms specifically mention
removing horses that Judean kings had dedicated to the sun at the entrance to the
temple of Yahweh (2 Kgs 23:11). Similarly, Taylor argued that a terra-cotta horse
figurine (with a disk on its forehead) from Hazor was fashioned to depict the an-
imal drawing the sun god’s chariot.77 Other scholars who agree that the animal
on the top register of the Taanach cult stand is a horse are Glock, Schroer, Keel
and Uehlinger, Hadley, and Sommer.78 Yet the identity of the animal as a horse
need not necessitate its association with Yahweh. Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 160),
for example, argue that “it is much more likely that the striding horse is to be
interpreted . . . as an attribute animal of Anat-Astarte.”79 If we do have an associa-
tion with ʿAshtart on the top register, it would resonate with Smith’s (2014a: 208)
suggestion that ʿAshtart is also the goddess being portrayed between the lions on
the bottom register.80
Though artistic convention should be interpreted cautiously, perhaps a new
factor to consider is how scholars often describe the animal in question as being
“young” (e.g., Hestrin 1987: 67; Beck 1994: 356), “frolicking” (Taylor 1994: 58),
or even “frisky” (Stager 2008: 580).81 If the animal is a horse, its youthfulness
contrasts with mature/stately horses that are well documented as prestige ani-
mals in iconography from Egypt to Assyria and the Levant.82 For a cultic item
such as we have in the Taanach stand, we could contrast its youthful colt with
the mature horse on which a goddess stands coming from the Late Bronze
Age acropolis temple at Lachish. If the animal is a bull calf, its youth would be
underscored by its lack of horns. Lawrence Stager (2008: 579) suggests that the
horned bull calf figurine at Ashkelon (see Figure 5.33) “depicts a male calf about
a year old.” The calf on the Taanach cult stand has not aged to the point of devel-
oping horns and would thus be extremely young.
Whether bull calf or colt/filly, would such a young creature be an appropriate
animal to designate the status of a god such as Yahweh? (See Fleming 1999a.)83
Because the other gods nominated (Baal for a calf; Anat/Astarte for a horse)
are referred to elsewhere as offspring deities, they seemingly would be better
candidates to be associated with the animal here in question. Granted, this may
be stretching Daniel Fleming’s thesis thin, yet nowhere is Yahweh ever described
as an offspring deity such that a young animal would be appropriately associated
with him.84 In contrast, the traditions we do have about Yahweh (biblical and
extra-biblical) describe him as a senior/creator god and one who easily appro-
priated the epithets of an aged and sovereign El, together with divine warrior
traditions in which he vanquishes others riding on horses with the “blast of his
nostrils” (Exod 15:1, 8, 19, 21).
The Standing Figures from Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos A

Whether Yahweh is represented as a bull figure at Kuntillet ʿAjrud depends on
(1) whether the standing figure to the left (illustration S) in Figure 7.15 does in-
deed have bovine features, as some scholars claim, and (2) whether that figure is
then to be equated with the inscription that specifically mentions Yahweh.85
The notion that Yahweh was represented through bull imagery in the iconog-
raphy drawn on Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos A was suggested from the outset by the
Figure 7.15 A depiction of two standing Bes-like figures and a seated lyre player
from the Iron Age II site of Kuntillet ʿAjrud.
excavator of the site, Ze’ev Meshel. Meshel (1979: 31; cf. 2012: 129–133), who
wrote that it was “enticing to try to find a connection between the inscription
[i.e., Inscription 3.1, mentioning “Yahweh and his asherah”] and the drawings
below it,” noticed that “the faces and ears of the two figures on the left resemble
a cow or a calf.” Without skipping a beat, he immediately mentioned Jeroboam’s
bull images and then concluded that the bovine presence was that of Yahweh and
the goddess Asherah. In subsequent years, numerous scholars have reinforced
Meshel’s view that the two standing figures contain bovine imagery.86 Scholars
astutely pointed out how the use of Kuntillet ʿAjrud’s bovine imagery with what
they deemed a figure of Yahweh resonated with “theriomorphic aspects of the
‘bull of Jacob’ ” (Coogan 1987a: 119) or Hosea’s condemnation of the “young bull
of Samaria” (Gilula 1979; McCarter 1987: 147).87 Some of these scholars saw the
bull imagery here as a part of Bes iconography (Meshel 1979: 30–31; Margalit
1990: 275, 288–289), while others saw such imagery as pointing away from Bes
(Coogan 1987a: 123 n. 23; McCarter 1987: 154 n. 55).
Yet as certain as some of these scholars were that the features were bovine
and hence not Bes (e.g., McCarter 1987: 154 n. 55: “the bovine features of both
figures—the face of the larger is unmistakably that of a bull—exclude the Bes
interpretation”), others were equally adamant that “there is simply nothing bo-
vine in these figures” (Uehlinger 1997: 145) and that indeed we do have Bes
represented here. For these scholars the animal characteristics are leonine, not
bovine.
Those affirming that the two standing figures are Bes or Bes-like include
the six scholars who have presented the most detailed analyses of the Kuntillet
ʿAjrud iconography: Beck (1982, 2012), Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 210–225,
240–241), Hadley (2000: 136–155), Schmidt (2016: 59–90, esp. 84–90; 2013),
and Ornan (2016).88 Even if they disagree with her conclusions, all scholars
defer to Beck’s expertise when it comes to her detailed study of the Kuntillet
ʿAjrud iconography. Beck (1982: 29–30; 2012: 168–169) acknowledges that
“there are numerous problematic details in the depiction of these [two standing]
figures” and that they are “unlike anything known so far in the Levant.” Yet her
conclusion is resolute: “There is no doubt that they represent the god Bes.”
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 218) express an equally strong assertion: “The icon-
ographic features (the head ornamentation that is probably a blossom and/
or feather crown; the grotesque, lion-like, grimacing face with protruding
ears; the beard or collar; the arms akimbo, turned outward and resting on the
hips; the crooked legs that are relatively short by comparison with the upper
body; the tail) and the formal characteristics (frontal representation) leave no
doubt that these are representations of Bes-type figures.” That Bes is commonly
associated with music would provide a context in which the seated lyre player
would make sense.89
As for there being two figures, because the male Bes is well documented with
breasts, the second figure to the right (illustration T in Figure 7.15) need not des-
ignate the less-attested Beset, the female version of Bes.90 In contrast, Schmidt
(2016: 59–62, 65–66, 71–73; 2013) concludes from the absence of a phallus,
the presence of nipple circles, and its smaller size—together with what he sees
as “coherent, integrated scenes”—that our artisan is certainly gender-marking
the Bes figure on the right as feminine (i.e., Beset). Yet this coherency has been
called into question by Ornan (2016), who sees the “transient pottery drawings”
as preliminary sketches in preparation for wall paintings. Ornan (2016: 17) even
suggests that the reason for having two Bes images might correlate with their
eventual destinations on two opposing door jambs, or that their differing size
and design might simply be two artistic trials.
For our present discussion, it is important to point out that lion imagery lies be-
hind the development and portrayal of the god Bes in his various manifestations,
as nicely argued by James Romano (1980) in his study of the origin of the Bes
image. Following Romano, Zevit (2001: 387) remarks how the various features
found in typical Bes images “originated as Bes evolved iconographically in Egypt
from a lion standing upright . . . into a more humanoid deity.”91 Similarly, Herman
te Velde (1999: 173) notes that Bes “was represented . . . more precisely as a lion-
man.” Strawn (2005: 107) argues that we have seals depicting Bes as “Lord of
the Lions” at ʿAtlit and Ashkelon. In critiquing Meshel’s notion that the figures
here are bovine, Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 217–218 n. 47; cf. Hadley 2000: 137;
Schmidt 2016: 86) argue that “bovines . . . are almost never portrayed frontally
on ancient Near Eastern two-dimensional artistic works.”92 After noting the ab-
sence of horns on our two figures, which we would expect to see if the creatures
were bovine, they conclude that “Bes figures have human or lion-like heads or
faces but never have bovine heads or faces.”
In short, there is considerable doubt about whether the standing figures are
bovine in nature. Most signs point to these being two Bes-like deities with prob-
able leonine features, though admittedly our drawings are crude.
Acknowledging the two standing figures to be Bes or Bes-like, many scholars
have abandoned Mordechai Gilula’s original theory that tied the two images to the
inscription and suggested that they represent Yahweh and the goddess Asherah.93
Yet some scholars hold to both a Bes interpretation and to the notion that Yahweh
and his consort Asherah are represented here. The most sophisticated of these
syntheses are those of Zevit (2001: 387–392) and Schmidt (2016).94 Though Bes is
of Egyptian origin, Zevit (2001: 388) notes the remarkable frequency with which
Bes amulets appear in the archaeological record of ancient Israel (cf. especially
the catalogues by Christian Herrmann). Because Bes was used syncretistically
with a variety of Egyptian deities, he could be viewed as “an icon expressing di-
vinity . . . and not necessarily the representation of any given deity.” Therefore, “in
the ‘Ajrud context, they signified, but did not necessarily represent a likeness of
YHWH.” Elaborating further, Zevit (2001: 392) concludes that “the big Bes was
comprehended as an icon for YHWH . . . and the little Bes either as a second icon
for YHWH in some other aspect . . . or for Asherata in some other guise.” Schmidt
(2016: 73, 84–90) argues that the two Bes figures form “a coherent scene” (see
description on p. 327): “they complement each other in their respective husband-
wife or ruler-consort positions.” For Schmidt, the inscription mentioning Yahweh
and his A/asherah would serve as “an inscribed caption in which case the respec-
tive illocutionary messages of text and figure were designed to mutually inform
and complement each other and to convey a divinely-endowed and convergent
aprotropaic driven semiotics: YHWH as Bes, through his mediatrix, or a female
mediator, Asherah as Beset, will provide protection.”
Schmidt is certainly correct to focus on the social context in which Bes
figurines and amulets were used. According to Veronica Wilson (1975: 83), “In
whatever guise, [Bes’s] function was mainly apotropaic.” It should be noted that
rows of Bes deities standing next to each other (similar to the two we have at
Kuntillet ʿAjrud) are attested (e.g., Altenmüller 1975: 721; Pinch 1994: 171).
This underscores the protective nature of Bes in safeguarding the perimeter of a
building (as did attendant lion statues in Egypt).95 All scholars acknowledge that
the numerous Bes amulets found throughout ancient Israel were apotropaic in
function. Yet Judith Hadley was one of the first to make the astute observation
that the Bes figurines at Kuntillet ʿAjrud fulfilled a protective function, “guarding
those that were inside from harm as they rested during their perilous journey.”96
Though the dating is much later, compare the Bes figures placed on top of column
capitals (Figure 7.16) and in the forecourt (Figure 7.17) of the temple dedicated
to Hathor at Dendera “to act as magical defenders” (Pinch 1994: 129).
Returning to Schmidt’s (and Zevit’s) thesis, there is no indication that a
figure of Yahweh (not to mention two) was ever used in an apotropaic func-
tion. Uehlinger (1997: 145) argues: “We can safely rule out the possibility of a
state god such as Yahweh being officially represented as a Bes-like figure.” Ornan
(2016: 20) concurs, and elaborates: “Bes retained his lesser divine rank and apo-
tropaic nature when appropriated into Levantine imagery and thus, his charac-
teristics are not fitting of a major deity such as YHWH . . . [M]‌ajor deities in the
Levant, Syria and Mesopotamia were very rarely portrayed as hybrids comprised
of theriomorphic and anthropomorphic features, as manifested by Bes.”
The social function of apotropaism is especially relevant when one considers
the fact that Judean writers (including biblical authors) were well aware of
amulets and incantation specialists (Lewis 2012). That the seventh-century BCE
Ketef Hinnom inscriptions were engraved as amulets is our primary example of
how some Judeans turned toward Yahweh via the recitation of “effective words”
(i.e., the divine name Yahweh and the so-called priestly blessing) to ward off evil.
Figure 7.16 The use of apotropaic Bes images on top of column capitals at the
Temple of Dendera.
Olaf Tausch. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dendera_R%C3%B6misches_Mammisi_
13.JPG.
Figure 7.17 A statue of Bes used apotropaically outside of the temple dedicated to
Hathor at Dendera.
Olaf Tausch. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dendera_Bes_01.JPG.
Other Judeans used a wide variety of amulets. Yet the gods represented by the
hundreds of amulets that have appeared in the archaeological record are never
Yahweh but rather are distinctly Egyptian (Bes, Isis, Ptah, Sekhmet, Udjet; cf.
Herrmann 1994, 2002, 2006). Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 350) even speak of “a
continued . . . and even increased fascination” with Egyptian amulets in the Iron
IIC period.
In conclusion, the Kuntillet ʿAjrud figurines cannot be used as evidence of
Yahweh being portrayed through bull imagery. The two standing figures are
best viewed as Bes or Bes-like figures, widely known throughout ancient Israel
for their apotropaic function and apart from any association with Yahweh.
Ornan (2016: 20) concludes: “Scholarly efforts to equate Bes images with
YHWH and/or YHWH and Ashera are to be rejected.”97 This is not to say
that the final compositional nature of the iconography (pottery drawings and
wall paintings) was uniform in its theology. Furthermore, there are distinct
royal themes that are only recently being emphasized with the work of Ornan
(2016). Considering the various inscriptions and iconography found on in var-
ious media, it seems that multiple composers98 (a number of them transient)
hedged their bets, so to speak, with some appealing for blessings from “Yahweh
[of Samaria and/or Teman] and his asherah,” while others sought military aid
from a divine warrior (El? Baal? Yahweh?),99 and yet others sought protection
from Egyptian Bes.100 A certain number of residents likely employed a combi-
nation of all three.
The Bull-Headed Warrior from Bethsaida

Our last bull figure is admittedly not likely to represent Yahweh, yet it serves two
purposes. First, it was found in a clear Iron Age context and in an installation (with
its bull stela, raised platform, water basin, incense cups, and four more stelae of
aniconic variety) that now represents the most elaborate and complete cultic gate
site in the southern Levant (Figure 5.63). Second, a detailed examination of this
bull figure should serve to disturb our sense of scholarly control if we think we have
exhausted all possibilities for Levantine bull deities with El, Baal, and Yahweh.
A basalt stela on which was carved a bull-headed figure was found in 1997
during the excavations at Bethsaida (the Iron Age capital of Geshur) on the
northern shore of the Sea of Galilee (Figure 7.18). The stela (45 in. [115 cm] high,
23 in. [59 cm] wide, and 12 in. [31 cm] thick), found in situ, quickly became the
subject of scholarly interest because of what were initially thought to be unique
features.101 The bull figure is portrayed with two large curved horns, what looks
like a stick figure’s body with a sword strapped to its side, and four small circles in
the shape of a rosette. The stela was part of a gate sanctuary that was destroyed in
the latter half of the eighth century BCE (Figure 5.63).
Figure 7.18 A bull-headed warrior found in situ at Bethsaida on a stela that formed
a part of a gate sanctuary.
That the god represented here is a bull-headed warrior (complete with

sword) immediately conjures descriptions of Hadad, Baal, and Yahweh as divine
warriors. (See Chapter Eight.) Smith (2002a: 83–84) mentioned the Bethsaida
stela in the context of his discussion of “the old northern tradition of bull iconog-
raphy for Yahweh.” Expectations for a Yahwistic connection could only increase
with the comments by the excavators that “tenth-century B.C.E. Bethsaida allied
itself with King David and his dynasty [and] (as a result Bethsaida absorbed many
Israelite cultural influences)” (emphasis mine).102 Absalom, when estranged from
his father, fled to “Geshur of Aram,” the birthplace of his mother, Maacah, one of
David’s queens. During his three-year exile there he is said to have made a vow
to Yahweh (before a divine image?) (2 Sam 15:8). And yet any attempt to tie all
these tidbits of information together to show that the Bethsaida stela presents
evidence of a northern tradition of Yahweh being represented by a bull image is
bound to fail.
From the very start a corrective was in place, as the excavators turned to art
historians from the Fribourg school to interpret the bull iconography. Monika
Bernett and Othmar Keel (1998; Keel 1998: 115–120) countered those scholars
who thought that the stela was devoted to the Syrian warrior god Hadad or Baal
by noting that the moon god is repeatedly associated with bull terminology in
Syria and Mesopotamia.103 In Bernett and Keel’s opinion, the Syrian warrior god
was more apt to be portrayed as standing on a bull, whereas the moon god was as-
sociated with the iconography of a bull’s head. In addition, Bernett and Keel dis-
pelled the notion that the moon god of South Anatolia and Syria was primarily a
peaceful deity (and thus a poor fit for the Bethsaida stela with its sword).
So an initial consensus was in place that the Bethsaida bull figure owed its
artistic heritage to Aramean rather than Phoenician-Canaanite influence and
depicted the worship of a lunar deity, most likely Śahr, the equivalent of Sin.
Subsequently, Ornan (2001: 2) wrote affirming Bernett and Keel’s overall argu-
ment, yet she provided the following caution: “As the bull is a frequent symbol
of the storm god in the ancient Near East in general and in the geographic area
where the stelae were found in particular, one should not rule out the pos-
sibility that both gods—moon and storm deities—were alluded to on these
monuments.”104 By developing her theory of “visual syncretism” through nu-
merous examples (see too Ornan 2006), she posits “a deliberate dualism . . . ac-
cording to which the features pertaining to moon imagery were oriented towards
the moon worshippers, while signifiers referring to the storm god were aimed at
the latter god’s devotees” (2001: 25). Noting that neither set of features precludes
the other, Ornan nonetheless favors the idea that we have at Bethsaida a storm
god with lunar features rather than a lunar god with storm attributes. If Ornan’s
theory holds up under further scrutiny, then one would have to give preference
to the Aramean god Hadad being represented by the bull stela at Bethsaida (to-
gether with the Aramean moon god Śahr), with a Yahweh/Śahr syncretism being
only a remote possibility.
Conclusion: Possible Bull Representations of Yahweh in Material Culture

As a balance to our textual analysis, we nominated four bull images from Iron Age
archaeological contexts (the Bull Site, Taanach, Kuntillet ʿAjrud, and Bethsaida)
that could help us flesh out (1) whether a bull was used as Yahweh’s attribute
animal and (2) whether we have Yahweh associated with bovine imagery, as he
clearly is with cherubim and leonine imagery. Our conclusion is mostly negative.
This is regrettable, as one would hope that here archaeology would complement
the textual record. Of the four possibilities, the Bes figures at Kuntillet ʿAjrud are
almost certainly not bovine images of Yahweh. As for the Taanach cult stand, it
would be much easier to see the quadruped as associated with Yahweh (it is cer-
tainly not an attribute animal) if it were a mature bull rather than a frisky calf
or colt. A view of the Bethsaida bull stela as representative of Yahweh has little
chance of being correct. That leaves only the exquisite Bull Site bull figure as a
possibility, if it does not represent El (our preference) or Baal.
Section II: The Iconography of Yahweh: Aniconic

and Abstract Traditions
The aniconic tradition has always been the subject of considerable reflection,
from the curiosity of the Roman historian Tacitus to the voluminous writings of
theologians wishing to probe the meanings of the first two commandments.105
Thanks primarily to the in-depth work of Mettinger (1995), scholars now dif-
ferentiate between types of aniconic traditions. In contrast to many previous
works lacking such precision, Mettinger (1995: 18–20) refined our definitions
of aniconism to distinguish between “de facto traditions” (indifference to icons,
mere absence of images, tolerant aniconism) and “programmatic traditions” (re-
pudiation of images, iconophobia, iconoclasm). He also introduced the terms
“material aniconism” (no anthropomorphic or theriomorphic icon of the deity
serving as the central cultic symbol) versus “empty space aniconism” (sacred
emptiness such as Yahweh invisibly seated on the cherubim).
Material Aniconism/Masseboth as Representations of Yahweh
We have detailed (pp. 169–196) how material aniconism was portrayed through
the use of a standing stone, what the Hebrew Bible refers to as a massebah (pl.
masseboth). There we looked at the best exemplars of standing stones being used
in sacred space, such as the sites of Shechem, the Bull Site, Hazor, Arad, Tel Dan,
and Khirbet Ataruz. It was concluded that, at a minimum, such conspicuous
standing stones constitute attention-focusing devices and are key determinants
of cult, as noted by Colin Renfrew (1985: 19–20; cf. Renfrew and Bahn 2000: 408–
409) and Ziony Zevit (2001: 81–82). Probing further, it was argued that such
stelae can focus attention to mark a past memorable experience with a deity or
deities (e.g., a theophany), to signify the place where cult (offerings, libations,
prayer) to a deity or deities took place, and/or to mark the ongoing presence of
the deity residing in (or symbolized by) a standing stone.
An archaeological discovery of an inscribed stela in 2008 may help the
modern reader with an analogy for how the ancients might conceive of a stone
that could mark both immanence and transcendence. At the end of the nine-
teenth century, German excavators found two large stelae (called nṣb, related
etymologically to Hebrew maṣṣēbâ) in secondary contexts from the region of
Samʾal (Zincirli) in southeast Turkey. Both statues were funerary in nature and
inscribed with eighth-century BCE Samʾalian Aramaic texts that mentioned
the wish for a deceased person’s post-mortem essence (nbš)106 to eat and drink
with the god Hadad in the afterlife (KAI 214.17, 21–22; cf. KAI 215.59; Lewis
2019: 359–371). In 2008 another inscribed stela (Figure 7.19) coming from the
same period was found at Zincirli in controlled excavations by the University of
Chicago.107 Surprisingly, it describes how the deceased person’s post-mortem es-
sence (nbš) was envisioned as continuing to dwell within the stela itself (bnṣb). By
analogy, if a deceased person’s non-material, ongoing presence could be thought
to reside in a physical stone (thereby localized in space and time), then so too
could a deity’s non-material presence be thought to reside in a massebah.108 Zevit
(2001: 257) describes masseboth phenomenologically as “either symbols evoking
a presence, or objects engorged by the power of presence, and hence for all prac-
tical purposes en-theosed in some way.”
Figure 7.19 An eighth-century BCE mortuary stela from Zincirli whose inscription
mentions that the deceased person’s “soul/essence” (nabš) was envisioned as
continuing to dwell in the stela itself.
Courtesy of the Neubauer Expedition to Zincirli of the University of Chicago.
What about Yahweh? Could his presence be thought to dwell in (or be marked
by) stone? Previously we focused on the possibility of El’s presence being marked
by standing stones, especially due to the explicit literary traditions about such
stones in the Bethel narratives (Gen 28:18, 22; 31:13; 35:6–15; cf. Gen 49:24).109
This fits well with what we know about the worship of El at Shechem as well as the
deity’s association with sacred space on a small scale (stones, altars, and trees, as
opposed to temples of ashlar masonry), which finds a direct correlate with clan
and family religion rather than the religion of the state.
The question of whether Yahweh was symbolized by standing stones is both
easy and hard to answer. The easy (superficial) answer from the stylus of the
author of Deuteronomy 16:22 strongly states that Yahweh hates (śānēʾ yhwh)
masseboth, and therefore injunctions are made against their erection (wĕlōʾ-
tāqîm lĕkā maṣṣēbâ). Such strong objections are echoed elsewhere—for ex-
ample, in the Holiness Code (Lev 26:1), and by authors/traditions that associated
masseboth with foreign gods (Exod 23:23–24; 34:11–14; Deut 7:5; 12:3; Jer 43:13;
cf. Ezek 26:11). Several deities were mentioned by name, including Baal (2 Kgs
3:2; 10:26–27) and seemingly Astarte, Chemosh, and Milcom (2 Kgs 23:13–14).
Reading between the lines, one can infer that segments of the ancient Israelite
population were indeed engaged in using masseboth in non-Yahwistic cultic
contexts, to the degree that they drew the ire of the writers just mentioned. The
monolatrous author of Exodus 34:14 writes that masseboth should be smashed
precisely because “Yahweh whose name is Jealous” (yhwh qannāʾ šĕmô) is “a
jealous god” (ʾēl qannāʾ hûʾ) who tolerates no rivals (lōʾ tištaḥăweh lĕʾēl ʾaḥēr).110
And yet what we know of the Deuteronomistic emphasis on the transcend-
ence of Yahweh (where Yahweh is localized in heaven with only his “Name”
resident in the Jerusalem Temple) makes us wonder whether the injunctions
against the masseboth are only due to fears of polytheism and/or syncretism. It
seems that even masseboth used in the service of Yahweh were deemed tainted
beyond legitimate use. As noted years ago by E. Stockton (1972: 18), “The high
places (presumably with their associated masseboth) which were destroyed by
Hezekiah and Josiah belonged to the Yahwistic cult. This is deduced from the
Assyrian taunts about Hezekiah’s reliance on [Yahweh] the God whose high
places he had destroyed (2 Ki. xviii:22) and from Josiah’s restraint against the
priests of the provincial high places (2 Ki. xxiii:8–9).” Indeed, Hezekiah’s de-
struction of the masseboth makes no mention of foreign gods (2 Kgs 18:4; cf.
too 1 Kgs 14:23). Thus one can only conclude that certain segments of Israelite
society were using masseboth in their worship of Yahweh just as they did with
foreign gods. Such adherents could have used the heritage of a legitimate use
of masseboth in the older El traditions as a counterweight to the injunctions
coming from Deuteronomic (Deut 16:22) and Priestly (Lev 16:22) hands. An ad-
ditional counterweight may have been a tradition such as the one preserved in 1
Samuel 7:12 where Yahweh is associated with “stone” imagery (i.e., the Ebenezer
stone = “Yahweh has helped us”), as was El when he was described as “the Stone
[ʾeben] of Israel” (Gen 49:24).111
Remarkably, we do have a single passage (but only one) that explicitly records
a positive tradition of Yahweh with masseboth.112 Isaiah 19:18–22 reads:
In that day there will be five cities in the land of Egypt speaking “the language
of Canaan” [śĕpat kĕnaʿan] and swearing allegiance to Yahweh of Hosts. . . . In
that day there will be an altar to Yahweh in the midst of the land of Egypt, and
a massebah to Yahweh at its border. They [lit. “it”] shall serve as a sign [ʾôt]
and a witness [ʿēd] to Yahweh of Hosts in the land of Egypt, so that when [the
Egyptians] cry out to Yahweh because of oppressors he will send them a savior,
and will defend and deliver them. And Yahweh will make himself known to
the Egyptians; and the Egyptians will know Yahweh in that day and worship
with sacrifice and oblation, and they will make vows to Yahweh and fulfill them.
Yahweh will first afflict Egypt and then heal; when they return to Yahweh, he
will respond to their entreaties and heal them.
The specifics of the historical context behind this passage (and its genre as a pos-
sible vaticinia ex eventu) need not detain us here, although a significant amount
of literature has been devoted to the presence of Yahwism in Egypt during the
times of King Jehoahaz (818–802 BCE), the Persian period (as evidenced by the
Elephantine papyri), and the time of the priests Onias III–IV from the Hellensitic
period.113 Suffice it to quote Hans Wildberger’s (1997: 274) summation that
“every attempt to arrive at a precise date for [Isaiah] 19:19 has come up short.”
Though the massebah in Isaiah 19:19 marks a border (cf. Gen 31:44–49),
Wildberger (1997: 275) is certainly correct when he writes that “the context
here would only allow one to identify the massebah as a specific reference to a
cultic object.” In addition, note how the massebah (along with the altar) serves
as “a sign [ʾôt] and a witness [ʿēd] to Yahweh of Hosts.”114 One could not ask for
more apt words to designate what we have referred to as a conspicuous stone
used as an attention-focusing device! Thus if we return to the six examples of
standing stones in the archaeological record (detailed with pictures in Chapter
Five, pp. 169–196), theoretically any one of these could have marked Yahweh’s
presence as easily as they could have marked the presence of El.
Other Abstract Traditions: From Sacred Stone

to Sacred Emptiness
Among their archaeological indicators of cultic ritual, Renfrew and Bahn

note that
the association with a deity or deities may be reflected in the use of a cult [= di-
vine] image, or a representation of the deity in abstract form (e.g., the Christian
Chi-Rho symbol). [My emphasis]115
The use of abstract symbols for ancient Near Eastern religions is well
documented.116 As we have just seen, abstract expressions can be conveyed
through the most physical of objects (standing stones). At the same time, abstract
thought (in every religious tradition) has produced “images” of divinity that go
beyond the use of physical objects and symbols. Scholars—including biblicists,
Assyriologists, and anthropologists—describing this type of presence often use
Rudolph Otto’s categories of fascinans and tremendum from his The Idea of the
Holy: An Inquiry into the Non-Rational Factor in the Idea of the Divine and Its
Relation to the Rational.117 For example, van der Toorn (1999: 363), commenting
on both Akkadian melammu and Hebrew kābôd, writes: “This glory is a lumi-
nosity which both frightens and fascinates; it is, in terms of Rudolph Otto, truly
numinous.” Similarly, we read from Benjamin Sommer’s (2009: 97; cf. 2001: 59)
treatment of the bodies of God:
[A]‌duality . . . results from the tension between two religious impulses, nei-
ther of which is confined to a particular period, place, or culture. One impulse
emphasizes what the theorist of religion Rudolph Otto called fascinans, the as-
pect of divinity that humans find alluring and appealing. This impulse produces
a desire to approach the divine, and hence it reflects a hope that God is locat-
able, even in a physical sense. . . . The other impulse is rooted in what Otto
calls the tremendum—the overwhelming, dangerous, and repelling aspects of
the divine. From this viewpoint, the divine realm must be a realm of absolute
freedom, and hence the divine cannot be confined to a single place and can
never be confidently located by humans.
Sommer here sounds very much like the Yale theologian-ethicist H. Richard
Niebuhr (1960: 120), who wrote of the difference between “visible and tangible”
objects of adoration, “of whose reality our senses give us assurance,” and objects
of adoration, which are “essences, ideas, concepts, or images which are accessible
only to abstract thought.”
Perhaps one could say that humans hunger for the visible, ever desiring to
picture the divine in material terms. Sculptors and painters both ancient and
modern have satisfied this desire, as the examples given here attest.118 Writers
use anthropomorphisms to dress their gods in human clothes, deeds, and actions
or theriomorphisms to describe superhuman power and virility. Yet for others,
divine essence goes beyond such crafting. For them, abstract ideas “exercise a
certain compulsion over the mind . . . known only by a kind of empathy or by an
intuition that outruns sense [perception].”119
To keep our treatment anchored to the ancient Near East, it is best to consider
briefly how other ancient writers used abstract images to depict the divine.120
I have no intention of unpacking the various and widespread (geographically
and chronologically) notions of “holiness,” “transcendence,” or “the sacred”
throughout the ancient Near East.121 For our purposes, three sample cases will
do for reorienting our thoughts away from our modern categories and adjusting
them to be more in line with how the ancients might have thought a god could
take up real residence via a non-material presence. Our sampling will include
(1) the use of melammu in Mesopotamia, especially in the Sargonid period,
(2) the Aten cult in Egypt, and (3) the Iron Age Ayn Dara temple in Syria. Without
any desire to make one-to-one comparisons (or be guilty of “parallelomania”),
we will then turn our attention to corresponding references to divine radiance,
light, and sacred emptiness in the Hebrew Bible. Attention must also be given to
how the ancients personified particular aspects of a deity that then serve as a sur-
rogate for the deity. Here scholars use the vocabulary of “hypostasis” to articulate
how such personifications can function as the “cultically available presence” of a
deity.122 In particular, in order to understand Deuteronomistic Name Theology,
we will examine whether the essence of a deity could be contained in his name to
such an extent that it could function hypostatically in an effective way, especially
as that name “resides” in the Jerusalem Temple.
The Use of Abstract Images in the Ancient Near East to Depict

the Divine: A Brief Glimpse
The Sumerologist Thorkild Jacobsen (1976: 3) wrote of “a unique experience

of confrontation with power not of this world” that Otto called “numinous”
and that was “basic to all religion—and also to ancient Mesopotamian reli-
gion.”123 In Jacobsen’s adaptation of Otto, this numinous power was “terrifying,
ranging from sheer demonic dread through awe to sublime majesty,” as well as
“fascinating, with irresistible attraction” (my emphasis). Jacobsen (1976: 5–6,
14) went on to note the “tendency to experience the numinous as immanent”
in Mesopotamian religion, especially with how “the fashioning of images of the
god sought and achieved his lasting presence.” At the same time, he used the
language of tremendum to describe the sacred space where the deity took up
residence:
Unlike a human dwelling . . . the temple was sacred. The ancient Mesopotamian
temple was profoundly awesome, sharing in the tremendum of the Numinous.
It carried “awesome aura” (ni) and awesome “nimbus” (me-lam). The temple
of Nusku in Nippur was a “temple laden with great awesome aura and angry
nimbus.” Also in Nippur was Enlil’s temple: “Ekur, the blue house, your (Enlil’s)
great seat, laden with awesomeness, its beams of awe and glory reach toward
heaven, its shadow lies upon all lands.” As it participated in the tremendum of
the Numinous, so also in its fascinosum and its mysterium. (Jacobsen 1976: 16;
my emphasis)
Thirty years later, the concept of melammu was studied in detail by Shawn
Aster.124 According to Aster (2006: 74), in the Sargonid period (starting in 720
BCE) melammu “acquires the meaning radiance . . . it can be used in a way that
is identical to girru (fire), birbirrū (luminosity), namrirrū (radiance), šarūru
(light), and šalummatu (radiance).” Nergal, for example is described as “fire,
wearing melammu” (girru lābiš melamme), and Ishtar of Arba’il as “clothed in
fire, bearing melammu” (girru litbušat melamme našâta) (Aster 2006: 75, 77).
The moon god Nanna’s melammu radiates luminosity; the sun god Shamash’s
melammu displays the brightness of sunshine (Aster 2006: 96–98). Above all,
when used of divinity125 melammu celebrates the god’s power, an unseen126
though irresistible force that overwhelms any enemy. Thus when an Assyrian
king went to battle, he was assured of victory because he was thought to embody
“the awe of the radiance (pulḫu melamme) of Aššur” that frightened enemies into
submission even from afar.127
Anthropomorphic and theriomorphic representations of deities in ancient
Egypt are ubiquitous. At the same time, Egypt presents a plethora of material for
exploring abstract, aniconic representations of divinity, especially with the deity
Amun and even more so with Aten (cf. Mettinger 1995: 49–56). Aten’s self-origin
is such an unknown mystery that it “cannot be captured by means of iconic rep-
resentation” (Assmann 1992: 165). Aten is “the one who constructed himself
with his own arms, the craftsman does not know him” (p3 qd sw ds·f mʿ·wy·f bw
rḫ sw ḥmw).128 Indeed, Aten never appears in the form of a statue; all that appears
is a sun disk with rays ending in human hands—a “concession to anthropomor-
phism” (Figure 7.20).129 Donald Redford (1984: 175) describes Akhenaten’s ico-
nography as “the most prominent act in a progressive move to rid concepts of
the divine . . . of all anthropomorphic and theriomorphic forms.” In Mettinger’s
(1995: 49) words, “The god’s parousia in light suppresses and supersedes all
forms of symbolic representation.”
Of note here is how the Aten cult of Akhenaten (1352–1336 BCE) used the
immaterial concept of light to depict the glorious essence and real presence of
divinity.130 Scholars (especially Assmann [1983, 1992]) have underscored how
Aten was “not just another form of the sun god, or the sun disk, but the living sun
best described as the light.”131 Note too John L. Foster’s articulation of how Aten
Figure 7.20 The Egyptian god Aten depicted as a sun disk with rays ending in
human hands extending down to Akhenaten, Nefertiti, and their children.
Kim Walton, taken at the Neues Museum, Berlin.
is “unseen” and at the same time a “visible incarnation” as the light of the sun
shines on the earth:
“Aten” is the name for the visible incarnation or manifestation of the unseen
godhead . . . light is pervasive in the Hymn [to Aten] . . . The physical attributes
of Aten are described by [abstract] words such as “lovely,” “gleaming,” or “daz-
zling.” [Aten] is the light of day, which bathes every object in creation with its
caressing and revealing rays . . . and everything is made visible by means of
Aten, who actually “drives away” the darkness of light. (Foster 1995: 1757)
Lastly, to showcase abstract thought via material culture, consider the Iron Age
temple at the site of Ayn Dara in northern Syria, discovered in 1955, excavated
in the 1980s (Abou-Assaf 1990), and, sadly, severely damaged in 2018 by Turkish
airstrikes. This temple has attracted the attention of Northwest Semitic scholars,
in particular those who used it to understand architectural features and sym-
bolism in the literary description of Solomon’s temple (Bloch-Smith 1994: 21, 23;
Monson 2000, 2006) and those who saw it as relevant to the study of aniconism
(Lewis 1998: 40; 2005a: 105–107; Mettinger 2006: 284).
At Ayn Dara we have one of the most fascinating and profound depictions of the
divine (Figures 7.21–22. Everything about its abstract (quasi-anthropomorphic)
portrayal is majestic. The deity (god or goddess?) was dramatized as simultane-
ously transcendent and immanent by artisans who made him/her disappear and
yet leave behind a trace of his/her presence.132 As can be seen from the plans of
the temple published by Ali Abou-Assaf (1990: Abb. 13–14) and John Monson
(2000: 23), four huge footprints (of bare feet) were carved into three large lime-
stone slabs that served as threshholds of the temple. That each of the footprints
measures approximately 3.2 ft. (0.97 m) in length (Figure 7.22) shows that the
imagined deity was portrayed as superhuman in size, with estimates (based on
the length of stride) of 65 ft. (19.8 m) tall.133
The layout of the footprints depicts the deity entering the temple and walking
back to the inner sanctum, where the statue of the deity would normally be
found. At the portico entrance to the temple (Figure 7.21) we find two footprints
represented side by side on the first stone slab, “as if some giant [deity] had
paused at the entryway before striding into the building” (Monson 2000: 27). As
one progresses forward, each of the next two limestone slabs has a single carved
footprint: first the left foot, followed by the right.
The first two stone slabs are adjacent (Figure 7.21). The length between the
second and third slabs (depicting the right leg stride of the deity) is about 30 ft.
(9.1 m). The ancient artisans are portraying the deity standing at the entrance
to the temple and then walking, right foot after the left, into the inner sanctum.
One knows the deity was (and is still?) present, not because a physical, anthropo-
morphic statue embodies the deity but from a type of sacred emptiness (i.e., the
footprints left behind). The intricate carving makes the viewer imagine that the
god left his/her impression in rock as humans do in sand. Such artistry evoked
feelings of intimacy and wonder about how the god was tangibly present and
yet also invisibly transcendent.
Resetting our Iconoclastic Clock
I chose these three positive examples from the ancient Near East deliberately in
order to reset our iconoclastic clock prior to turning to the Hebrew Bible, also a
product of the ancient Near East. Aniconism is regularly associated with icon-
oclasm (though their pairing is not always appropriate). Because iconoclasm
Figure 7.21 The Iron Age Syro-Hittite temple at Ayn Dara in northern Syria
showing a series of large footprints depicting the deity walking from the portico
entrance into the inner chambers. Two large side-by-side carved footprints depict
the deity standing still prior to striding into the inner sanctum, depicted with a
single left footprint followed by, farther in, a single right footprint.
Courtesy Kathryn Hooge Hom and Kim Walton.
Figure 7.22 A close-up of the left footprint (3.2 ft [0.97 m] long) carved into the
limestone threshold. The footprints depict a type of aniconic representation of
divinity.
involves the deliberate destruction of a culture’s own religious icons, we cannot

help but view it pejoratively—even more so if we think of the 2001 destruction of
the giant Buddhas of Bamyan by the ultra-iconoclastic Taliban of Afghanistan or
the numerous cultural atrocities of ISIS. The brutality of such acts should not be
minimized. And yet some depictions of the divine as “unseen” (dare we even say
some iconoclastic visions?) are born of poetry, artistry, and/or a philosophy that
prefers abstract thought as the best way to depict divine essence.
Lastly, it should also be underscored that the ancients certainly thought that
one could speak about a god’s “unseen” or “transcendent” presence. To do so only
enhanced the majesty and mystery of the divine. The examples we gave did not
resort to the language of the ineffable to describe divinity. “Ineffable” (so well
known via its later use with the name Yahweh) designates how adherents think
that divinity is incapable of being expressed (because of the god’s indescribable
nature) and/or unutterable in nature (e.g., not to be spoken of because of the risk
of misuse or irreverence). Rather, the poets strained the limits of language to de-
scribe the tremendum of divinity. They used text and material culture to celebrate
manifestations of divine glory.
The Hebrew Bible’s Use of Abstract Images to Depict the Divine
The Hebrew Bible uses many abstract images to depict the divine. It has even
been argued by grammarians that the use of the plural noun ʾĕlōhîm to designate
a singular deity may be due to the frequent use of grammatical plurals in Hebrew
to designate abstract concepts and especially those of intensity and quality.134
Despite the plethora of these abstract depictions, we will restrict the following
treatment to only the primary pictures—namely, those that echo common an-
cient Near Eastern themes such as radiance, fire, light, and sacred emptiness. The
aggregate of such multifaceted notions contributed to why certain individuals
advocated the unseen, aniconic portrayal of Yahweh and as a result to the ab-
sence of any divine images in the inner sanctum of the Jerusalem Temple.
Radiance and Fire
As with the use of melammu in Mesopotamia, chief among the abstract pictures
drawn of Yahweh was that (whatever his true essence was thought to be) his pres-
ence was manifested via radiance (kābôd) and fire (ʾēš).135 As the radiant Ishtar of
Arba’il could be poetically described as “clothed in fire, bearing melammu” (girru
litbušat melamme našâta), so too Yahweh’s “radiance” (kābôd) is “like a devouring
fire” (kĕʾēš ʾōkelet; Exod 24:17; Deut 4:24; 9:3; Isa 10:17). He is one who “is clothed
in glory and majesty, wrapped in a garment of light” (hôd wĕhādār lābāštā ʿōṭeh-
ʾôr kaśśalmâ; Ps 104:1–2), whose “radiance” (kābôd) is “encompassing brilliance”
(nōgah sābîb; Ezek 1:28; 10:4). As “the awe of the radiance [pulḫu melamme] of
Aššur” frightened enemies into submission even from afar, so too did “the terror
of Yahweh” (paḥad yhwh) cause the unrighteous to flee into caves “from the ra-
diance of his majesty” (mēhădar gĕʾônô) when “Yahweh rises to terrify the earth”
(bĕqûmô laʿărōṣ hāʾāreṣ; Isa 2:10, 19, 21).136
Divine Fire
The Use of Fire to Depict the Presence of Yahweh

The numinous quality of fire is one of the most (perhaps the most) enduring
of images used by the authors of the Hebrew Bible to depict divine presence. It
appears in every literary strand (i.e., Pentateuchal), in most literary genres, and
throughout every period. For example, the “pillar of fire” (ʿammûd ʾēš) motif as a
symbol of Yahweh’s presence during the Exodus wanderings (“to give them light,”
lĕhāʾîr lāhem) is articulated in both J/non-P (Exod 13:21–22; 14:24; Num 14:14)
and P (Num 9:15–16) literary strands, not to mention its use in Deuteronomy
1:33, in Psalm 78:14 (“with fiery light,” bĕʾôr ʾēš), and as late as Nehemiah (9:12,
19). Should we narrow our focus to divine presence in battle via fire, in addition
to a fiery Yahweh we would have a plethora of comparative material from else-
where in the ancient Near East and Greece from which to choose (see Weinfeld
1983: 131–140).
Surely the locus classicus for divine fire is Yahweh’s self-revelation, found in the
burning bush episode in Exodus 3:1–6, a section that traditionally has been seen
as a mixture of J and E literary strands.137 On a thematic level, Propp (1999: 36)
notes how fire as “the medium by which Yahweh appears on the terrestrial
plane” is a recurring theme that serves “to unify the Book of Exodus.” Similarly,
Greenberg (1969: 16–17) suggests that “it is possible to epitomize the entire story
of Exodus as the movement of the fiery manifestation of the divine presence.” In
Exodus 3:1–8 the divine revelation of Yahweh appears in a flame of fire (bĕlabbat-
ʾēš).138 Its qualities make it easy to understand why fire was chosen as a vehicle to
articulate the numinous. Yet what we have here goes beyond even the wonders of
natural fire. That the fire does not consume the bush (defying “nature’s laws and
all human experience”) lends a preternatural aspect to the divine encounter.139
The antiquity of this lore is underscored by a fragment of archaic poetry that
mentions Yahweh’s epithet as “He who dwells in the bush” (šōknî sĕneh; Deut
33:16).140
The use of fire to represent Yahweh appears in other memorable J/non-P
passages as well. Fire depicts the divine presence as a “flaming torch” (lappîd
ʾēš) moving between the cut animals in the Abrahamic covenant ceremony
in Genesis 15:17. Yahweh descends on Mt. Sinai in fire and smoke, “like the
smoke from a kiln” (yārad . . . yhwh bāʾēš . . . ʿăšānô kĕʿešen hakkibšān), in
J’s theophany in Exodus 19:18. The Priestly tradition uses distinctly different
vocabulary (which we will treat later), yet its description of the divine the-
ophany (i.e., the appearance of the radiance of Yahweh [marʾēh kĕbôd yhwh])
also emphasizes how its nature was akin to “devouring fire” (kĕʾēš ʾōkelet) on
the top of the mountain (Exod 24:17). So too the Deuteronomic traditions de-
scribe the mountain of divine revelation as “ablaze with fire” (bōʿēr bāʾēš; Deut
4:11; 9:15).
A survey of other theophanies in the Hebrew Bible reveals that fire together
with associated storm images are the norm for depicting the active presence of
Yahweh. In the storm god theophany found in Psalm 18 (//2 Sam 22), Yahweh
again descends (18:10 [Eng 18:9]; cf. Exod 19:18), but this time by “bowing the
heavens” (wayyēṭ šāmayim wayyērad; cf. Ps 144:5). With “fiery transcendent

anthropomorphisms” via “poetry of high antiquity”141 we read:
The earth heaved and quaked, wattigʿaš wattirʿaš hāʾāreṣ

foundations of mountains shook; ûmôsdê hārîm yirgāzû
they reeled, because his [anger] burned. wayyitgāʿăšû kî-ḥārâ lô
Smoke rose from his nostrils, ʿālâ ʿāšān bĕʾappô

fire from his mouth devouring; wĕʾēš-mippîw tōʾkēl
coals blazed forth from him . . . geḥālîm bāʿărû mimmennû . . .
He bowed the heavens and came down wayyēṭ šāmayim wayyērad

Dark clouds beneath his feet waʿărāpel taḥat raglāyw
He mounted the cherub and flew wayyirkab ʿal-kĕrûb wayyāʿōp

He flew on the wings of the wind . . . wayyēdeʾ ʿal-kanpê-rûaḥ . . .
Out of the brilliance before him minnōgah negdô

his clouds broke through, ʿābāyw ʿābĕrû
fiery hail142 and fiery coals. bārād wĕgaḥălê-ʾēš
Yahweh thundered from the heavens, wayyarʿēm baššāmayim yhwh

Elyon uttered his voice, wĕʿelyôn yittēn qōlô
fiery hail and fiery coals. bārād wĕgaḥălê-ʾēš
He loosed his arrows and scattered them; wayyišlaḥ ḥiṣṣāyw wayĕpîṣēm

he discharged lightning and terrified them. ûbĕrāqîm rāb wayĕhummēm143
(Ps 18:8–11, 13–15 [Eng 18:7–10, 12–14];
cf. 2 Sam 22:8–11, 13–15)
Notice the dramatic effect of the piling up of fiery images emanating from
Yahweh: fire (ʾēš), coals (geḥālîm), brilliance (nōgah), fiery hail (bārād), light-
ning (bĕrāqîm), and verbs of burning (ḥārâ), devouring (tōʾkēl), blazing (bāʿărû),
thundering (yarʿēm), and discharging (rāb). Isaiah 30:27–30 (also couched in
storm language) expresses similar “fiery transcendent anthropomorphism”
when it likens Yahweh’s tongue to “devouring fire” (lĕšônô kĕʾēš ʾōkālet) or
conveys Yahweh’s “majestic voice” (hôd qôlô)144 and “the descent of his arm”
(naḥat zĕrôʿô) through “devouring flames of fire” (lahab ʾēš ʾôkēlâ).145
By noting the presence of divine fire in storm theophanies we are not
suggesting that authors drew only upon tempests as sources of imagery. As
Delbert Hillers (1964) has noted, divine fire plays a key role in mythological
battles in ancient Near Eastern and classical traditions. In Hillers’ analysis of
Amos 7:4, Yahweh is portrayed by the prophet as “summoning a rain of fire”

(qōrēʾ lirbîb ʾēš) to consume the Great Deep (wattōʾkal ʾet-tĕhôm rabbâ).146 “The
text is thus to be understood as the prophet’s vision of the conflict of Yahweh with
the primordial monster of the deep, in which his weapon is lightning, or super-
natural fire” (Hillers 1964: 222).147 Surely each of these genres (storm theopha-
nies and combat myths) blurred lines of distinction in their use of fiery images to
depict the divine.
Fire representing the active presence of Yahweh is clearly seen in the famous
trial by ordeal on Mt. Carmel between Yahweh and Baal (and their respec-
tive prophets, with Elijah taking center stage) in 1 Kings 18. The agreed-upon
terms of the contest specifically state that “the god who answers via fire, he is
god” (hāʾĕlōhîm ʾăšer-yaʿăneh bāʾēš hûʾ hāʾĕlōhîm; 1 Kgs 18:24). According to the
Septuagint reading of 1 Kings 18:36 (which is preferable), Elijah cries out to the
heavens, “Answer me, O Yahweh, answer me this day in fire [en puri] so that these
people may know that you are Yahweh.”148 As one could have guessed from the
outset, Baal’s “voice” (qôl; a play on thunder?) never answers, whereas “the fire
of Yahweh” (ʾēš-yhwh) falls from the heavens. In dramatic fashion, the confla-
gration consumes not just the bull offering but the altar complex as well (1 Kgs
18:38). As Volkmar Fritz (2003: 193) concludes, “The climax has to be seen as a
self-revelation of Yahweh.”
A countertrend (that serves to prove the same point) is preserved later in the
Elijah narrative of 1 Kings 19. In this polemical narrative, the author states that
Yahweh is not made manifest via the traditional features that accompany a storm
theophany, even those found elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Exod 19:16–19;
20:18; Judg 5:4–5; 2 Sam 22:8–15//Ps 18:8–15 [Eng 18:7–14]; Ps 68:9; Hab 3:3–6).
According to 1 Kings 19:11–12, Yahweh was not in the great and mighty wind
(rûaḥ gĕdôlâ wĕḥāzāq), the earthquake (raʿaš), or the fire (ʾēš). The polemical na-
ture of this passage is easily seen, as it argues that Yahweh is not to be thought of as
akin to the storm god Baal (Jeremias 1965: 73–90; Cross 1973: 194; contra Cogan
2001: 457 n. 2). Reading between the lines (and with widespread support from
elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible), it is clear that—as much as the author advocates
otherwise—Yahweh was indeed thought by many to be a storm god whose active
presence was manifest via the travail of nature and especially via fire.149
From Fiery Accompaniment to Attendant Beings of Fire

As surely as there were those who viewed Yahweh as manifest in fire or by means
of fire, there were others who felt more comfortable keeping Yahweh’s essence
distinct from fire, which served as an agent of the deity’s will. Granted, here too
the lines of distinction are blurry. How much the average Judean was interested
in probing the so-called creator-creature difference is anyone’s guess.
Alongside the passages just discussed (where fire is more intimately asso-
ciated with the self-revelation of Yahweh) are other portions of Hebrew Bible
that clearly demonstrate that fire was thought to be an entity that serves God’s
purposes more than a mode of divine revelation. Thus we read in Psalm 97:
Yahweh is king! Let the earth exult!

Let the many isles rejoice!
Clouds and thick darkness enfold him;

righteousness and justice are the base of his throne.
Fire goes before him [ʾēš lĕpānāyw tēlēk]

burning his foes on every side [tĕlahēṭ sābîb ṣārāyw].
His lightnings lighten the world;

the earth sees and trembles.
The mountains melt like wax before Yahweh’s presence,

at the presence of the Lord of all the earth. (Ps 97:1–5)
Similarly, according to Isaiah 29:5–6, when “Yahweh of Armies” brings his divine
visitation (mēʿim yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt tippāqēd), he does so in an instant, with thunder,
earthquake, and loud roar (bĕraʿam ûbraʿaš wĕqôl gādôl)//with tumult, tempest,
and blaze of devouring fire (sûpâ ûsĕʿārâ wĕlahab ʾēš ʾôkēlâ). Such passages could
be replicated elsewhere, for many other poets picked up on the motif of how
“devouring fire preceded Yahweh” (ʾēš-lĕpānāyw tōʾkēl; Ps 50:3).
With the specific vocabulary of “fire going before Yahweh,” one wonders if fire
was ever thought to be a member of Yahweh’s divine entourage similar to Deber
and Reshep, mentioned in Habakkuk 3:5.
Before him went Pestilence, lĕpānāyw yēlek dāber

Plague followed close behind. yēṣēʾ rešep lĕraglāyw
Perhaps a hint is to be found in the archaic yet very difficult poem found in
Deuteronomy 33:2:150
Yahweh came from Sinai

He dawned from Seir . . .151
He beamed forth from Mt. Paran.
With him152 were myriads of holy ones [ribĕbōt qōdeš],

At/From his right hand fire flies forth [ʾēš dāt],
Yea, the consecrated [?]‌of troops [ḥōbēb153 ʿammîm].
Of the enigmatic ʾēš dāt (and its anachronistic pointing “fire of law”), Patrick
Miller (1964: 241) writes that it is “entirely unintelligible.” Frank Moore Cross
and David Freedman (1975: 72 n. 11; cf. Cross 1973: 101) write of “conjectures
[that] are almost as numerous as scholars”—to which they then add their own
ingenious conjectural reading. Scholars who try to salvage a reading from the
consonants of the Masoretic text (though with emendation) include S. R.
Driver’s (1895: 393) “burning fire” (ʾēš dāt ēš [yōqe]det) and Jeffrey Tigay’s
(1996: 320) “blazing fire” (ʾēš dāt ēš d[ōleqe]t).154 A breakthrough came with
Steiner (1996), who keeps the consonantal text as is but reads dāt as a contrac-
tion of an archaic verbal form *dāʾāt—thus producing the translation “from his
right, fire flew.”155 We have already documented the numerous occurrences of
fiery images emanating from Yahweh in Psalm 18//2 Samuel 22. What should
also be underscored is that the psalmist’s picture of Yawheh coming with fire also
involves him flying (yēdeʾ), with the same verb being used in Psalm 18:11 that
Steiner posits for Deuteronomy 33:2! (On the iconography of a god flying with
fire, see Figure 7.23.)
Perhaps mythopoeic layers of tradition lie behind the mythopoetic metaphors
we read in Psalm 104:4. Here Yahweh is described as
He who makes the winds his messengers, ʿōśeh malʾākāyw rûḥôt

fiery flames his ministers mĕšārtāyw ʾēš lōhēṭ
Hendel (1985) explores just such ideas in his analysis of “the flame of the ever-
whirling sword” (lahaṭ haḥereb hammithappeket) that guards the way to the tree
of life in Genesis 3:24.156 Building on the work of Miller (1965), Hendel cites
Phoenician inscriptions bearing the epithet “Reshep of the Arrow” (ršp ḥṣ)
and the mention of “a pair of fiery divine beings” wielding sharpened swords
at Ugarit.157 Hendel suggests that the “Flame” (lahaṭ) in Genesis 3:24, in sim-
ilar fashion, represents “an independent fiery being, a divine being in service to
Yahweh, in precisely the same mythological category as the cherubim.” Similarly,
it cannot just be a coincidence that Yahweh (who self-reveals by fire) is attended
by seraphim (śĕrāpîm), creatures whose name has an etymology (śrp = “to
burn”) that clearly has to do with their fiery nature (Isa 6:1–7).158 That they are
able to manipulate the burning coal (riṣpâ bĕmelqaḥayim) from the altar in the
Jerusalem Temple thus comes as no surprise (Isa 6:6).
The most prominent being that attends Yahweh and carries out his wishes is
the so-called Messenger/Angel of Yahweh, known in Hebrew as malʾak-Yahweh.
This enigmatic figure is depicted as human yet also quasi-divine in nature and
even a direct manifestation of Yahweh. For the present discussion, note the asso-
ciations of the malʾak-Yahweh with fire. In the burning bush episode, it is the
malʾak-Yahweh that appears “in a flame of fire” (bĕlabbat-ʾēš). In Judges 13:2–23
the appearance of the malʾak-Yahweh is cloaked in mystery, with his true identity
not immediately recognized (13:16). He is portrayed as a human (ʾîš) at the outset
and in the middle of the story (13:6, 8, 10–11). Yet because of his “extremely ter-
rifying” (nôrāʾ mĕʾōd) appearance, his mysterious lack of a name (13:6, 17–18),
and the supernatural events that follow, he is thought to be divine (ʾĕlōhîm) by
Manoah and his wife (13:21–22). The climactic event that causes them to think
they have seen the very presence of God (and thus are in danger of death) is the
malʾak-Yahweh’s ascent “in the very flame of the altar” (bĕlahab hammizbēaḥ).159
Manoah took the kid and the meal offering, and offered them upon the rock
to Yahweh, to him who works wonders. While Manoah and his wife looked
on, as the flames ascended from the altar toward heaven, the malʾak-Yahweh
ascended in the very flame of the altar (all while Manoah and his wife actually
looked on). They flung themselves on their faces to the ground. The malʾak-
Yahweh never appeared again to Manoah and his wife. Manoah then realized
that the being was the malʾak-Yahweh. Manoah exclaimed to his wife, “We shall
surely die, for we have seen God.”160 (Judg 13:19–22)
An older tradition that speaks of Yahweh fighting for his people (yhwh yillāḥēm
lākem/yhwh nilḥām lāhem; Exod 14:14, 25) is found in Exodus 14. Similar to the
fiery malʾak-Yahweh passages in Exodus 3:1–6 and Judges 13:19–22, this passage
strongly implies that the divine messenger (here malʾak hāʾĕlōhîm) who goes be-
fore the armies of Israel was equated with the well-known pillar of fire (Exod
14:19, 24). Propp (1999: 549), following H. Holzinger, “renders bĕʿammud [ʾēš]
(13:21[; cf. 14:24]) as ‘in the form of a pillar’—i.e., the pillar [of fire] is God or his
angelic manifestation” (italics Propp’s).
Yet another messenger of God, this time the prophet Elijah, also goes up in
flames, so to speak. Granted, nowhere is Elijah explicitly referred to as a “mes-
senger of Yahweh” (malʾak yhwh), as is the later prophet Haggai (Hag 1:13; cf. Mal
1:1; 3:1), yet 2 Chronicles 21:12 alludes to a tradition of Elijah sending a letter on
behalf of Yahweh to King Jehoram.161 According to 2 Kings 2:11–12, Elijah, at the
end of his earthly life, ascends to the heavens with “a chariot of fire and horses of
fire” (rekeb-ʾēš wĕsûsê ʾēš) that separate him from the earthbound Elisha (2 Kgs
2:11–12; cf. 2 Kgs 6:17).162 As noted by Fritz (2003: 235), “The chariot of fire has
to be interpreted as a divine vehicle, since fire usually signifies the manifestation
of divine presence.”
Hypostatic Fire? Hypostatic Anger?

We are forced to address whether fire was ever used hypostatically. In other
words, was fire personified to the point that it functioned as a surrogate for
Yahweh that might also act independently of Yahweh? Or are we working only
in the realm of figurative or metaphorical language, which we should not use to

reconstruct a pseudo-mythology that never existed in the minds of the ancients?
A parallel phenomenon may help us decide. McCarter (2008a) has inves-
tigated the hypostatic use of “anger” (ʾap) in the Hebrew Bible as set against
notions of divine rage within the Ugaritic corpus. The relevance of this mate-
rial for the portrayal of divine fire is obvious, for fire is the predominant image
used to express Yahweh’s wrath. E. Johnson (1974: 354, 358) has assembled the
pertinent data:
Although it was clearly connected originally with angry snorting, [ʾaph] often
expresses the idea of anger as “fire.” Of the 78 times ʾaph is used as a subject in
the [Hebrew Bible], it appears as the subject of charah, “to glow,” “to burn,” 54
times (in fact, the verb charah is used only with ʾaph as subject). The expression
charon ʾaph, “burning anger,” occurs 35 times, and chari ʾaph is found 6 times.
ʾaph is used as the subject of baʿar, “to burn,” and ʿashan, “to smoke,” twice each.
chemah, which is derived from yacham, to be hot,” is the word used most fre-
quently in parallelism with ʾaph (33 times, of which ʾaph appears in the first line
25 times). . . .
[The Hebrew Bible] speaks of the fire of Yahweh’s wrath (Ezk. 21:36[31];
22:21, 31; 38:19), or it says that the anger of Yahweh is like fire (Jer. 4:4; 21:12;
Nah. 1:6; Ps. 89:47[46]; Lam. 2:4).163 The anger of Yahweh can also be compared
with a blazing oven (Ps. 21:10[9]‌). Several passages state that Yahweh’s anger
burns, smokes, or is kindled (Isa. 30:27; Ps. 2:12; Jer. 7:20; Isa. 42:25; Jer. 44:6;
Dt. 29:19[20]; Ps. 74:1; 2 K. 22:13, 17).
McCarter (2008a: 86–91) discusses several passages (Exod 32:7–14; Ps 78:49–

50; Josh 7; 2 Sam 6:6–7; Num 11:31–33; Num 25:3–4; Num 22:20–22, 31–35; 2
Sam 24; 1 Chr 21) that are central to the developing notion that Yahweh’s anger
(ʾap) could function on an independent level. We will mention only two of them
here.164
He sent against them his burning anger [ḥărôn ʾappô]

rage [ʿebrâ] and execration [zaʿam] and distress [ṣārâ],
a band of evil messengers [malʾăkê rāʿîm].
He cleared a path for his anger [ʾappô].
He did not spare their lives from death.
He surrendered their lives to plague.165 (Ps 78:49–50)
As we saw with fire earlier (Ps 104:4; Exod 3:1–6; Judg 13:19–22), here
“burning anger” (ḥărôn ʾappô) and the other divine agents are called Yahweh’s
“messengers” (malʾăkîm). Yahweh’s anger, in nearly independent fashion,
marches down a path of destruction much as Yahweh’s fire advanced under di-
vine orders to engage enemies in other passages (Ps 97:3; Isa 29:5–6; Deut 33:2).
Commenting on Psalm 78:49–50, McCarter (2008a: 87) writes of “Yahweh’s
anger as a hypostatic or quasi-independent entity . . . something that can be
dispatched as an agent of destruction.” Johnson (1974: 359) concurs: “Here anger
is on its way to becoming an independent power separated from the divine sub-
ject, and its presence is evident in concrete acts.” Of these two scholars, McCarter
uses the more precise vocabulary: “quasi-independent.” Consider earlier in the
psalm, where the poet writes:
Yahweh heard and was infuriated [yitʿabbār]

Fire [ʾēš] burned against Jacob,
Anger [ʾap] flared up at Israel. (Ps 78:21; cf. 78:31)
This triplet with its splendid parallelism reveals how fire and anger (parallel
concepts) are of Yahweh and yet act as agents to accomplish his will.
A fully developed use of anger (ʾap) as a hypostasis of Yahweh appears in 2
Samuel 24 (//1 Chr 21). Every reader of 2 Samuel 24 comes away perplexed at
first glance. How can Yahweh’s kindled anger (wayyōsep ʾap-yhwh laḥărôt) incite
David to partake in actions later defined to be grave sin (ḥāṭāʾtî mĕʾōd; 2 Sam
24:10, 17) and for which David is then punished by Yahweh? The punishment
comes via Yahweh’s pestilence (deber; 2 Sam 24:15; cf. Hab 3:5) with a death toll of
seventy thousand! Moreover, Yahweh is then said to have “repented of [further]
‘evil’ ” (yinnāḥem yhwh ʾel-hārāʿâ), as he stayed the hand of the malʾak-Yahweh
that was poised to destroy Jerusalem (2 Sam 24:16). The passage is fascinating
for its allusion to Yahweh using multiple (and overlapping) agents of destruc-
tion: ʾap-yhwh, deber, and malʾak-Yahweh. The independent actions of the anger
of Yahweh and the malʾak-Yahweh are especially visible.
In McCarter’s (2008a: 91) words, “This apparently contradictory scenario
makes sense only if we understand that Yahweh’s anger is now a fully hypostasized
independent entity who acts independently of Yahweh himself.” What is espe-
cially conclusive is how 2 Samuel 24:1 was understood in later biblical tradition
(1 Chr 21:1). Again, McCarter: “It is especially noteworthy that the Chronicler
replaces ʾap-yhwh, ‘the anger of Yahweh,’ with śāṭān, ‘Satan,’ a substitution which,
though it resolves the conflict by imposing on the text the dualistic theology of
the Persian Period, nevertheless shows that the Chronicler understood the in-
dependence and potentially hostile status of Yahweh’s anger in the original.” The
use of the anger of Yahweh here is not unlike the lying spirit (rûaḥ šeqer) in 1
Kings 22:22.
Returning to the use of divine fire, it would be tempting to assert a similar
usage. Fire and anger are used as parallel concepts to a great degree. As Yahweh’s
anger could be construed as independent of Yahweh, so too could fire. The

examples include the fiery being in Genesis 3:24, “burning” seraphim in Isaiah
6:1–7, the malʾak-Yahweh’s ascent in flames (Judges 13:20), and fiery flames as
“ministers” (Ps 104:4), known especially for going before Yahweh as if part of a
divine entourage (Ps 97:3; Isa 29:5–6; Deut 33:2; Ps 78:49–50). Yet in the end we
are forced to conclude that we lack any clear-cut tradition for the use of Yahweh’s
fire as a fully hypostasized independent entity (which could act out of accord
with Yahweh’s will) as we have with anger in 1 Samuel 24. The most we could con-
fidently assert from our texts at hand would be to adapt McCarter’s vocabulary—
that the Hebrew Bible attests to fire as a “quasi-independent” entity.
Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic Views of Divine Fire

The presence of divine fire in the book of Deuteronomy as well as the
Deuteronomistic History has been referenced on several occasions. An archaic
tradition describes fire as being a part of Yahweh’s entourage in Deuteronomy
33:2 (admittedly a difficult text). Yet another tradition knows of some version
of the burning bush episode (Yahweh is “He who dwells in the bush” [šōknî
sĕneh]; Deut 33:16), while yet others describe mountain theophanies “ablaze
with fire” (bōʿēr bāʾēš; Deut 4:11; 9:15). The author of the introduction to
Deuteronomy (known as Moses’ first discourse) is aware of the “pillar of fire by
night” (ʿammûd ʾēš laylâ) tradition, yet references it in his version without any
hint of the pillar (bāʾēš laylâ; Deut 1:33), perhaps due to a visceral condemnation
of pillars of another kind (i.e., the masseboth; cf. Deut 7:5; 12:3; 16:22). As for the
Deuteronomistic History, we have seen the malʾak-Yahweh go from a cloaked
human to ascendant flames (Judg 13:2–23) in the Samson narrative, a story that
echoes the Gideon narrative’s malʾak-Yahweh. In Judges 6:19–24 we read yet
again of the malʾak-Yahweh (once cloaked?; cf. 6:22), together with a consuming
fire into which the malʾak-Yahweh seems to disappear (6:21). Gideon, like
Samson’s parents, has a potentially lethal encounter, having met the divine “face-
to-face” (pānîm ʾel-pānîm), only to be granted a dispensation of divine favor that
allows him to go on living (6:22–23).
Many of the other occurrences of fire in these literary corpora are unremark-
able. There are the expected (and numerous) references to Yahweh sending fire
to destroy enemy cities, military hardware (especially chariots), and foodstuffs.
The divine images of other (especially foreign) deities are burned by fire (Deut
7:5, 25; 12:3; 2 Kgs 19:18), as are other objects of any cult deemed illegitimate
(Deut 9:21; 2 Kgs 23:11). That Yahweh consumes his rivals via fire fits well with
the depiction of Yahweh as “a devouring fire, a jealous God” (ʾēš ʾōkĕlâ hûʾ ʾēl
qannāʾ; Deut 4:24; cf. 9:3).166
What is striking in the book of Deuteronomy is the repeated notion that
Yahweh revealed his presence via his voice (qôl)—that he spoke (yĕdabbēr) out of
the midst of fire (mittôk hāʾēš) (Deut 4:12, 15, 33, 36; 5:4, 19, 21, 23; 9:10; 10:4).167
The theophanies described in Deuteronomy are similar to those of J/non-P (Gen
15:17; Exod 19:18) as well as those of P (Exod 24:17) in that fire is a dominant
element. At the same time, Deuteronomy’s vocabulary is quite distinct. For this
tradition, the entire mountain is engulfed, “burning with fire to the heart of the
heavens” (hāhār bōʿēr bāʾēš ʿad-lēb haššāmayim; Deut 4:11; 9:15). We have seen
how qôl was used simultaneously to depict both Yahweh’s “thunder” as a storm
god and his anthropomorphic “voice” (Ps 18:8–15 [Eng 18:7–14]; Isa 30:27–
30). Yet whereas Psalm 18 emphasizes Yahweh’s qôl as “thunder” encompassed
by natural phenomena (earthquakes, smoke, fire, coals, clouds, hailstones) and
cosmic warfare (arrows//lightning), Deuteronomy emphasizes Yahweh’s qôl
as “voice” together with forms of communication: “the sound of words” (qôl
dĕbārîm), speaking (yĕdabbēr yhwh), hearing (šāmaʿ), and writing (kĕtubîm
bĕʾeṣbaʿ ʾĕlōhîm) (Deut 4:12, 15, 33, 36; 5:4, 19–23; 9:10; 10:4; 18:16). This re-
peated emphasis should not be missed. Here qôl is the voice of Yahweh more than
it is his thunder, and yet qôl retains its preternatural force in that it still emerges
“out of the midst of fire” (mittôk hāʾēš), evoking the non-P burning bush tradi-
tion (Exod 3:1–6).168 Should there be any doubt about the qôl being preternatu-
rally awesome, one need only notice that hearing “the divine voice out of fire” is
believed to be as lethal as any of the God sightings.
[Moses speaking:] Did any people ever hear the voice of a god speaking out of
the midst of a fire, as you have heard, and still live [wayyeḥî]? (Deut 4:33)
Yahweh spoke with you169 face-to-face at the mountain, out of the midst of the
fire. I stood between Yahweh and you at that time, to declare Yahweh’s word to
you; for you were afraid because of the fire [kî yĕrēʾtem mippĕnê hāʾēš], and you
did not ascend the mountain. . . .
These are the words Yahweh spoke to your whole assembly at the mountain
out of the midst of fire, the cloud, and the thick darkness, with a mighty voice
[qôl gādôl]. . . . When you heard the voice out of the darkness, while the moun-
tain was burning with fire . . . you said, “Incredibly, Yahweh our God has just
shown us his glory and greatness [kĕbōdô wĕʾet-godlô], and we have heard his
voice out of the midst of the fire; we have this day seen God speak with someone
and the person still live [rāʾînû kî-yĕdabbēr ʾĕlōhîm ʾet-hāʾādām wāḥāy]. So now,
why should we die [lāmmâ nāmût]? For this great fire [hāʾēš haggĕdōlâ] will con-
sume us; if we hear the voice of Yahweh our God any longer, we shall die [ʾim-
yōsĕpîm ʾănaḥnû lišmōaʿ ʾet-qôl yhwh ʾĕlōhênû ʿôd wāmātnû]. For who of all flesh
has ever heard the voice of the living God speaking out of the midst of fire, as we
have, and still lived [kî mî kol-bāśār ʾăšer šāmaʿ qôl ʾĕlōhîm ḥayyîm mĕdabbēr
mittôk-hāʾēš kāmōnû wayyeḥî]? (Deut 5:4–5, 19–23 [Eng 22–26])
Hendel (1997: 220–224) has drawn attention to the leitmotif of lethal God
sightings in biblical tradition, a concept that “is attested across biblical sources”
(cf. Exod 33:20; 19:21). According to Hendel (1997: 221–222), “The belief that
one cannot see God and live is best understood as a motif of Israelite folklore,
rooted in popular conceptions concerning purity and danger. That which is holy
is also dangerous, and that which is most holy is most dangerous. . . . The God-
sightings in the Bible that do not result in the viewer’s death are the exceptions
that prove the rule.” We have already remarked on two narratives where the
fiery malʾak-Yahweh (called “extremely terrifying” [nôrāʾ mĕʾōd] in Judg 13:6)
occasions viewers (Gideon, Manoah and his wife) to fear for their lives because
they have seen God. Isaiah feels “destroyed” (nidmêtî) from his viewing of the
flaming śĕrāpîm that attended Yahweh’s theophany (Isa 6:5). The real-life danger
and destruction associated with fire (hence the expression “devouring fire,” ʾēš
ʾōkelet) made it a most apt symbol to express the danger (i.e., Otto’s tremendum)
of seeing divinity.
With a fascinating twist, Deuteronomy 4– 5 reformulates the leitmotif
of lethal God sightings into a leitmotif of lethal God hearings.170 Themes of
hearing and seeing the divine (via voice and fire) are interwoven throughout
these passages.171 In Deuteronomy 4:36, Yahweh causes his voice to be heard
(hišmîʿăkā ʾet-qōlô) and his fire to be seen (herʾăkā ʾet-ʾiššô). When the leaders of
the people hear Yahweh’s fiery voice (kĕšomʿăkem ʾet-haqqôl) in Deuteronomy
5:20–21 (Eng 5:23–24), they conclude that Yahweh has shown them (herʾānû)
his glorious presence. The mixed metaphor is even made explicit: “We have
heard his voice [ʾet-qōlô šāmaʿnû] out of the midst of the fire; we have seen God
speak” [rāʾînû kî-yĕdabbēr ʾĕlōhîm].172 Later in the storyline we read of a re-
capitulation of the theme: “Let me not hear again the voice [lišmōaʿ ʾet-qôl] of
Yahweh my God, or see this great fire [hāʾēš haggĕdōlâ hazzōʾt lōʾ-ʾerʾeh] any
more, lest I die” (Deut 18:16).
It is as if the divine speech acquires a lethal tremendum when mediated
through fire. (Again, the episode of Yahweh appearing and speaking “in the fiery
flames of the burning bush” [bĕlabat-ʾēš mittôk hassĕneh . . . bōʿēr bāʾēš] in Exod
3:1–6 is paradigmatic.) Clearly it is the divine fire that is the lethal component,
for the Hebrew Bible records multiple instances of God speaking directly with
humans that did not result in fatalities. Moreover, as we are reminded from the
specific vocabulary of Deuteronomy 5:23 (Eng 5:26), the frightened humans
(who are made of “flesh” [bāśār]) lived in a world where “flesh” (bāśār) (of ani-
mals) was regularly burned with fire in cultic and non-cultic settings.
Lastly, note the telling use of the Hebrew root gdl in Deuteronomy 5:19, 21
(Eng 5:22, 24) and 18:16 to blend divine presence, voice, and fire. Yahweh’s “ma-
jestic Presence” (JPS) is described by the nouns “glory” and “greatness” (kĕbōdô
wĕʾet-godlô). The adjective is used to describe Yahweh’s great voice (qôl gādôl)
as well as his “great fire” (hāʾēš haggĕdōlâ). Blending these verses together, one
could render: Yahweh’s radiant majesty is made manifest in dangerously awe-
some fire out of which he speaks with majestic voice.
Divine Fire and the Aniconic Tradition

Before we leave this material, it is important to note how Deuteronomy 4–5 has
played a key role in how scholars have reconstructed the biblical prohibitions
of images, especially “programmatic aniconism in its uncompromising form”
(Mettinger 1997: 175).173 Deuteronomy 5:8 specifically rules: “You shall not
make for yourself a sculptured image [pesel], any likeness [kol-tĕmûnâ] of what
is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters below the earth”
(cf. Exod 20:4). Following key studies by Frank-Lothar Hossfeld (1982: 21–31),
Christoph Dohmen (1985: 236–277), and Timo Veijola (1996: 258–260), many
scholars view this as a late phenomenon.
In addition to dating the Deuteronomic aniconic tradition, scholars also parse
the precise way in which divine presence is articulated focusing on the following
key verses:
Then you came near and stood at the foot of the mountain. The mountain
burned with fire to the heart of heaven, dark with densest clouds. Then Yahweh
spoke to you out of the midst of the fire; you heard the sound of words [qôl
dĕbārîm], but saw no [concrete] form [tĕmûnâ]; there was only a voice (qôl). . . .
Be most careful, for your own sake—since you saw no [concrete] form [kol-
tĕmûnâ] on the day when Yahweh spoke to you at Horeb out of the midst of the
fire—not to act corruptly by making for yourselves a sculptured image in any
likeness whatever [pesel tĕmûnat kol-sāmel], the likeness [tabnît] of male or fe-
male. (Deut 4:11–12, 15–16)
These passages articulate a clear linkage. Given their experience of the blazing
mountainous theophany with its lack of “form” (tĕmûnâ), the people should re-
frain from making any concrete images of the divine. Because the voice was said
to come from the heavens (Deut 4:36), it was easy for some scholars to argue that
these passages advocated the transcendence of Yahweh, who was thought to re-
side in heaven alone. That Yahweh’s “name” took up residence in the Jerusalem
Temple seemed to forge an ironclad argument for the invisibility of Yahweh.
Thus Moshe Weinfeld wrote:
The commandments were heard from out of the midst of the fire that was upon
the mount, but they were uttered by the Deity from heaven. Deuteronomy has,
furthermore, taken care to shift the centre of gravity of the theophany from
the visual to the aural plane. . . . The book of Deuteronomy . . . cannot conceive
of the possibility of seeing the Divinity. The Israelites saw only “his great fire”
which symbolizes his essence and qualities. . . . God himself remains in his
heavenly abode. (Weinfeld 1972b: 207–208; emphasis mine)
Two decades later, Weinfeld would reiterate:
According to Deuteronomy, there was nothing to see: God revealed himself by

sounds of words only. This served for the author as the basis of the prohibi-
tion of physical representation of the Deity. . . . [T]‌he revelation at Sinai was
achieved without the appearance of the divine person, or the use of any image.
(Weinfeld 1991: 204–205; emphasis mine)
Weinfeld was followed by Stephen Geller (1996: 39), who speaks of “the exclu-
sively auditory rather than visual nature of the central event of revelation,”174 as
well as by Mettinger:
The Deuteronomistic theology is programmatically abstract: during the Sinai

theophany, Israel perceived no form (tĕmûnâ); she only heard the voice of her
God (Deut 4:12, 15). The Deuteronomistic preoccupation with God’s voice and
words represents an auditive, non-visual theme. (Mettinger 1982b: 46).
A ready challenge came from Ian Wilson’s (1995: 89–97) study of divine presence
in Deuteronomy, where he noted how these scholars have overstated the evidence.
According to Wilson (1995: 97), “Deuteronomy . . . envisage[s]‌the localization as
well as the transcendence of YHWH.” Visible phenomena are clearly referred to in
the mention of “fire,” “darkness,” “cloud,” and “gloom” (Deut 4:11, 5:20 [Eng 5:23];
Wilson 1995: 92–93). For Wilson, Deuteronomy makes no affirmation that it is
impossible to see Yahweh. “That the danger of hearing YHWH’s voice is presented
as a major emphasis . . . is certainly true . . . [yet] in addition to emphasizing the
danger associated with the voice (an aural phenomenon), [Deuteronomy] three
times mentions that associated with the fire (a visual one)” (Wilson 1995: 95–96).
Said otherwise, when Deuteronomy 4:12, 15 states that the people saw no form, it
means that they saw no concrete form or physical form, for fire is ethereal.
Our analysis agrees. Weinfeld’s misstep was to argue that “God revealed
himself by sounds of words only”—missing the dominant motif of the voice
emerging “from the midst of fire.” Mettinger is correct when he writes of “the
Deuteronomistic preoccupation with God’s voice and words,” yet such preoccu-
pation is not at the expense of fire. Indeed, as we have argued, it is the divine fire
(through which the voice is mediated) that constitutes the tremendum. The nu-
minous, heat-producing, and destructive nature of divine fire is what rendered
the voice lethal. Such a tradition is not novel. The non-Deuteronomic Exodus
20:15–16 (Eng 20:18–19) has the people begging Moses to speak to them after
experiencing terrifying (yīrĕʾû175 hāʿām wayyānuʿû) fiery phenomena (thunder,
lighting, smoke [qôlōt, lapîdim, hāhār ʿāšēn]): “You speak to us . . . but let not God
speak to us, lest we die” (ʾal-yĕdabbēr ʿimmānû ʾĕlōhîm pen-nāmût).
The earliest poets knew too well that “the voice of Yahweh splits off flames of
fire” (qôl-yhwh ḥōṣēb lahăbôt ʾēš).176 Wilson (1995: 65–66) sums up well: “There
is therefore a strong case for understanding YHWH’s speaking ‘out of the midst of
fire’ in terms of his own Presence within that fire.” Weinfeld’s note that “the Israelites
saw only ‘his great fire’ ” is clearly missing the forest for the trees. Deuteronomy 9:3
provides a fitting ending for our analysis. The verse is often translated “Know then
this day that Yahweh your God (he is the one who goes before you) [hûʾ-hāʿōbēr
lĕpānêkā]—a devouring fire is he [ʾēš ʾōkĕlâ hûʾ].” The emphasis of the Hebrew
(fronting the first “he” [hûʾ] but not the second, preferring ʾēš ʾōkĕlâ) begs for a
more powerful rendering: “Know then this day that it is Yahweh your God who
goes before you and he is none other than a devouring fire.”
The Impossibility of Crafting the Essence of Fire

Finally, understanding the essence of fire might help unpack the passages about
the people not producing a sculpted image (pesel tĕmûnat) or likeness (tabnît) of
anything rivaling Yahweh (Deut 4:11–12, 15–16). To these passages we should
add Deuteronomy 4:23–24:
Take heed to yourselves . . . lest you make a sculpted image in the form of an-
ything which the Yahweh your God has forbidden you. Because Yahweh your
God is a devouring fire, a jealous God [ʾēš ʾōkĕlâ hûʾ ʾēl qannāʾ].
The motif of divine jealousy is dominant. Yahweh will tolerate no rivals. Yet
if we strip away the Deuteronomistic (monotheistic) overlay, one wonders
whether those who prized the use of fire as an apt symbol for divinity advocated
aniconism for the obvious reason: ethereal fire cannot be sculpted without losing
its essence.177 Once concretized, fire cannot burn with intense heat, nor give off
incandescent light, nor instill the feeling of the numinous through flickering
flames. A stone or metal image of fire can be held in the hand. Tremendum, they
might have thought, cannot be so contained.
Divine Radiance
The Use of Radiance to Depict the Presence of Yahweh

As with numinous fire, the concept of gods being present via radiance is a pre-
vailing and enduring theme throughout the ancient Near East and in every
chronological period. Thus while certain authors made the radiance of Yahweh
a focal point (see especially the Priestly material), it would be a mistake to
think that they coined an original idea. Rather, as with numinous fire, the con-
cept of gods being radiant was forged with the very idea of divinity. Ornan
(2011: 259; cf. Winter 1994) suggests that the shimmering of precious metals
that were used as overlays on divine images correlates with textual notions of
divine radiance.
What do we mean by “radiance”? In short, we refer to that which the authors
of the Hebrew Bible tried to convey through words such as hôd, hādār, kābôd,
and nōgah, among others (cf. de Vries 2016: 61–70). No single English word is
capable of the wide range of meanings associated with these Hebrew concepts,
which include glory, majesty, brilliance, splendor, dignity, strength, and sover-
eignty.178 Even a brief glance at modern translations of these four Hebrew words
will reveal a variety of renderings. Our use of the word “radiance” as a catchall
term is heuristic and pragmatic. Different authors used these words variously,
yet their semantic overlap is considerable.179 Consider, for example, how the ex-
uberant psalmist can write of “the glorious splendor of the majesty” of Yahweh
(hădar kĕbôd hôdekā; Ps 145:5).
The Antiquity of Divine Radiance in Ancient Israelite Religion

The antiquity of divine radiance in Israelite religion can be seen from several
ancient (or archaizing) poems preserved in the Hebrew Bible. Examples include
Habakkuk 3:2–5, Deuteronomy 33:2, and Psalm 29 (cf. Ps 104:1–4). In addition,
we have kābôd traditions in prose that are distinct from and predate the “Glory of
Yahweh” (kābôd yhwh) traditions of the P source and the book of Ezekiel. These
earlier prose traditions include material in Exodus 33:17–23, a reference from
early Shilonite cult involving the Ark palladium, and a text from the eighth-
century BCE prophet Isaiah.
Divine Radiance in Early Poetry

Though Habakkuk 3 (as we find it preserved) was the work of “postexilic
editors . . . caught up in the apocalyptic fervor of their era,” Theodore Hiebert
(1986: 1) has argued that it was truly archaic in origin. Devoting an entire mon-
ograph to the poem, he concluded that “the original text, linguistic features, lit-
erary form, historical allusions, and religious motifs all suggest that this poem
was composed in the premonarchic era as a recitation of the victory of the di-
vine warrior over cosmic and earthly enemies.” Francis Andersen (2001: 260)
concurred: “It bears all the marks—or most of it does—of being an ancient
poem. Very ancient indeed, perhaps it is one of the oldest in the entire Hebrew
Bible.” An equally likely alternative is that our author is looking back with an
antiquarian interest to the lore of the distant past (Hab 3:2), as many other
authors were wont to do (e.g., Ps 44:2 [Eng 44:1]; 74:12–17; 77:12 [Eng 77:11];
143:5; Isa 51:9–10; Deut 4:32–34; 32:7; see Chapter Eight, pp. 442–448). Thus
to flavor his narrative he could be archaizing (cf. Andersen 2001: 329).
O Yahweh, I heard of your fame,

I was frightened [yārēʾtî], Yahweh, by your deeds . . .
Eloah came from Teman,

Qadosh [the Holy One] from Mt. Paran.
His glory [hôdô] covered the heavens,

His splendor [tĕhillātô]180 filled the earth
[His] radiance [nōgah] was like light [ʾôr].
He had horns/rays [coming out] from his hand

There he cloaked [?]‌his power
Before him went Pestilence [dāber],

Plague [rešep] marched at his feet . . .
Sun and moon stood exalted,

At the brilliance [ʾôr] of your flying arrows,
At the radiance [nōgah] of your lightning-like spear. (Hab 3:2a, 3–5, 11)
We will treat the use of this poem to depict the divine warrior elsewhere (see
Chapter Eight, pp. 451–452). Suffice it here to note how the march of the divine
warrior from Teman parallels other archaic passages that have Yahweh marching
from the same general region near Edom, Seir, and Midian (Judg 5:4–5; Deut
33:2; Ps 68:8–9, 18–19 [Eng 68:7–8, 17–18]). Of special note is the mention of
Yahweh of Teman in the late ninth-or early eighth-century BCE inscriptions
found at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, which is in the northeast Sinai Desert (see Chapter Six,
pp. 239–240, 279–282).
The radiance conveyed here by four overlapping terms (hôd, tĕhillâ, nōgah,
ʾôr) is that of Yahweh, as he is depicted as a divine warrior going to battle. The
war poem in Exodus 15:11 describes Yahweh as “terrible of radiance” (nôrāʾ
tĕhillōt). In 2 Kings 6:18 Yahweh strikes the Aramean army with “a blinding
light” (sanwērîm).181 While at first glance one recognizes sun imagery behind
such terms, it soon becomes clear that such language can be used of a god who
controls nature and is going to battle.182 In Habakkuk 3, note especially the pres-
ence of deber and rešep (known elsewhere as deities) serving as a military en-
tourage. The following verses (Hab 3:8–15) turn cosmic, with Yahweh’s anger
(ʾap) battling rivers (nĕhārîm) and sea (yām), a narrative with strong echoes of
combating the mythological Sea//River.183 Yahweh mounts his chariot and rides
to battle with bow and arrows in hand.
Note the similar use of sun imagery in a battle context in Deuteronomy 33:2
(already noted due to its use of divine fire):
Yahweh came from Sinai

He shone [zāraḥ] from Seir . . .184
He beamed forth [hôpîaʿ] from Mt. Paran.
With him185 were myriads of holy ones [ribĕbōt qōdeš],

At/From his right fire flies forth [ēš dāt].186
Yet another picture of Yahweh as a radiant (kābôd) warrior who was thought to
manifest his presence via storm theophanies is found in Psalm 29. The notion
that this passage is archaic and makes strong allusions to (or, some would say, is
even dependent upon) Canaanite mythology has been universally adopted fol-
lowing the groundbreaking work of Harold Louis Ginsberg in 1936.187
Ascribe to Yahweh, O divine beings [bĕnê ʾēlîm],

Ascribe to Yahweh glory and strength [kābôd wāʿōz],
Ascribe to Yahweh the glory [due] his name [kĕbôd šĕmô];
Bow down to Yahweh in the splendor of the sanctuary [hadrat-qōdeš].188
The voice of Yahweh is over the waters;

the god of glory [ʾēl-hakkābôd] thunders,
Yahweh [thunders] over many waters.
The voice of Yahweh—with power [kōaḥ],

The voice of Yahweh—with splendor [hādār],
The voice of Yahweh shatters the cedars . . .
The voice of Yahweh splits off flames of fire [qôl-yhwh ḥōṣēb lahăbôt ʾēš],189
The voice of Yahweh makes writhe the steppe,
Yahweh makes writhe the steppe of Qadesh . . .
In his temple, all say “Glory!” [kābôd]
Yahweh sat enthroned at the Deluge,

Yahweh sat enthroned as eternal king!
This poem repeatedly emphasizes the voice/thunder (qôl) of Yahweh (Ps 29:3–
5, 7–9) as well as his kābôd (Ps 29:1, 2, 3, 9).190 Yahweh is “the god of glory”
(ʾēl-hakkābôd), whose radiance is such that his sanctuary acquires splendor

(hadrat-qōdeš).191 Yahweh is to be ascribed glory by both divine beings and
humans. As a direct result of his glory, power, and splendor (as made manifest
via a stormy and fiery theophany), the people proclaim “Glory!” (kābôd) in the
temple. One cannot help but think of another ancient poem where “Yahweh of
Armies” (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt), “mighty in battle” (gibbôr milḥāmâ), was repeatedly
celebrated as the “King of Glory” (melek hakkābôd; Ps 24:7–10).192 Yet another
theophany of Yahweh as storm god and king is Psalm 97 (translated on p. 348).
After describing various meteorological phenomena (clouds, thick darkness,
fire, lightning), the psalmist proclaims: “All peoples see his glory [kābôd]” (Ps
97:6). As Mettinger (1982: 119) writes, “The word kābôd [in Ps 97:6] seems to
be used as a summary description of the theophany . . . that is, as a comprehen-
sive term for the royal apparel of God, which is composed of cloud, fire, and
lightning.”
Lastly, we need to mention Psalm 104, whose date is uncertain, with advocates
for both early and late settings. The exact date need not concern us here, nor
should we become preoccupied with the degree to which the poem was modeled
on (or influenced by) the Great Hymn to Aten, Enuma Elish, or even the Ugaritic
Baal Cycle.193 What is of note is how once again a poet thought of Yahweh as ma-
jestically radiant (“wrapped in light”) and described him a storm god riding on
the clouds with an entourage of wind and fire.
O Yahweh, my God, you are very great!

You clothed yourself with glory and majesty [hôd wĕhādār lābāštā],
You are he who wraps light as [your] robe [ʿōṭeh-ʾôr kaśśalmâ];
You are he who stretches out the heavens like a tent cloth,
Who fashions his rafters out of the waters;
He who makes the clouds his chariot [haśśām-ʿābîm rĕkûbô],

Rides on the wings of the wind [hamĕhallēk ʿal-kanpê-rûaḥ];
He who makes the winds his messengers [ʿōśeh malʾākāyw rûḥôt],

fiery flames his ministers [mĕšārtāyw ʾēš lōhēṭ]. (Ps 104:1–4)
Exodus 33:17–23: Moses’ Request to See the Divine Kābôd

At the outset, this fascinating story has Moses assuming that he (as a unique
leader shown divine “favor”) could actually see the kābôd of Yahweh.194 With re-
spect and boldness he requests to have Yahweh “allow him to see” (harʾēnî) the di-
vine presence. Yet one of the purposes of this tale in its present form is to have God
reply with multiple responses that we would frame as: “Not so fast. You know not
what you ask. It’s more complicated than you think. It’s not for everyone.”
And Yahweh said to Moses, “This very thing that you have asked, I will do be-
cause you have found favor in my sight, and I know you by name.” [Moses] said,
“Allow me to see your kābôd” [harʾēnî nāʾ ʾet-kĕbōdekā].
And [Yahweh] said, “I will make all my goodness [kol-ṭûbî] pass before
you, and I will proclaim the name ‘Yahweh’ before you [wĕqārāʾtî bĕšēm yhwh
lĕpānêkā]; and I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and I will show
mercy on whom I will show mercy.
“But,” [Yahweh] said, “you cannot see my face [lōʾ tûkal lirʾōt ʾet-pānāy]; for
no mortal can see me and live” [kî lōʾ-yirʾanî hāʾādām wāḥāy].
And Yahweh said, “Here is a place near me. Take your stand on the rock
[ṣûr]; and, as my glory [kĕbōdî] passes by, I will put you in a crevice of the rock,
and I will shield you with my hand [kappî] until I have passed by. Then I will
remove my hand [kappî], and you shall see my back [ʾăḥōrāy]; but my face
[pānay] must not be seen.”
As will become clear, the core of this pericope has none of P’s key earmarks and
certainly comes from what Cross (1973: 193) termed “archaic lore.” According
to Cross (1973: 166), “Exodus 33:17–23 is Yahwistic in its present form, and it is
very likely that the tradition is older.”195 Brevard Childs (1974: 595–597) too rec-
ognized “an earlier tradition” “lying behind the present form of the story.” Childs
astutely noted several reworkings of the original story where there are multiple
shifts in focus, including how “the revelation of God [comes to be] in terms of
his attributes rather than his appearance.” More recent scholarship (e.g., Billings
2004) also underscores the reworking of early tradents.196
At its core is Moses’ request to have an unmediated view of divine radiance,
which is denied because seeing the divine is lethal. As Childs notes, such a re-
quest is parallel to Moses’ appeal to know the essence of Yahweh’s Name in
Exodus 3:14.197 As Moses was indeed allowed to know the name Yahweh, so too
“a partial concession is made and for this reason the story was undoubtedly trea-
sured in a cycle which was related to Moses’s special office” (Childs: 1974: 595–
596). Of particular note is what seems to be yet another use of “transcendent
anthropomorphism,” where the full (and dangerous) nature of divine “ra-
diance” (kābôd) and “essence” (pānîm) is not seen but rather is shielded via
Yahweh’s “hand” (kap), resulting in Moses seeing only Yahweh’s “back’ (ʾāḥôr).
That God uses a part of himself (his hand) to shield Moses from him constitutes
a “strange paradox”—unless here we have a remnant of a hypostatic (i.e., inde-
pendently acting) kābôd similar to the hypostatic anger (ʾap) in 2 Samuel 24 (see
pp. 351–353).198
Divine Kābôd in Pre-Priestly Cultic Settings

In arguing that “the concept of the [divine] kābôd was [not] an invention of
the Jerusalem priesthood [found in the so-called P source],” Victor Hurowitz
(2007: 98–99) looks to the cultic settings of the Elide priesthood at Shiloh and
“the kābôd’s entry into the Temple of Solomon. . . in the (pre-Priestly) descrip-
tion of dedicating the Temple in 1 Kgs 8:10–11.” To these two references we could
also add the mention of kābôd in the commissioning of Isaiah that is portrayed as
taking place in the Jerusalem Temple.
The Absent Deity: ʾÎ-kābôd in 1 Samuel 4:19–22

Key traditions about the temple in Shiloh that antedated Solomon’s in Jerusalem
come down to us via the so-called Ark Narrative (1 Sam 2:12–17, 22–25; 4:1–7:1).199
Within the storyline of war with the Philistines, we find the following birth narrative:
Now [Eli’s] daughter-in-law, the wife of Phinehas, was pregnant and ready to
give birth.200 When she heard the report that the Ark of God [ʾărôn hāʾĕlōhîm]
was captured, and that her father-in-law and her husband were dead, her labor
suddenly began, and she crouched down and gave birth. As she lay dying, the
women attending her said, “Do not be afraid, for you have borne a son.” But
she did not respond or pay attention. She named the child Ichabod [ʾî-kābôd],
saying, “The glory was exiled from Israel!” [gālâ kābôd miyyiśrāʾēl] because the
Ark of God [ʾărôn hāʾĕlōhîm] had been captured and because of [the death of]
her father-in-law and her husband.201 And she said, “The glory was exiled from
Israel [gālâ kābôd miyyiśrāʾēl] when the Ark of God [ʾărôn hāʾĕlōhîm] was cap-
tured.” (1 Sam 4:19–22)
The details are few but focused. The woman went into premature labor when she
learned that the Ark of God was captured by the Philistines and that her husband
and father-in-law (the famous Shilohnite priest Eli) were dead. The author of this
brief episode highlights the capture of the Ark, twice fronting its taking before
referencing the death of the woman’s relatives (1 Sam 4:19, 21). The shorter (pre-
ferred) reading of why the child was so named (i.e., verse 22, as opposed to the
expansionist verse 21) has no mention of her relatives’ deaths. The woman’s lack
of response to her attendants is as if to say that “faced with the loss of the Ark she
can have no thought of herself ” (McCarter 1980a: 115). Indeed, even her own
tragic death from the complications of childbirth (cf. Gen 35:17–18) is of little
importance for the narrator’s Ark-centric focus.
Previously the author of our passage noted how the Philistines were
terrified (wayyirʾû happĕlištîm) because they interpreted the Ark as “God”
(or “gods”; ʾĕlōhîm) coming into their enemy’s camp (1 Sam 4:7–8).202 They
exclaimed: “Woe to us! Who can deliver us from the power of this mighty God
[or “these mighty gods”; hāʾĕlōhîm hāʾaddîrîm hāʾēlleh]? He is the same God [or
“these are the same gods”] who struck the Egyptians with every kind of scourge
and pestilence.”203
In 1 Samuel 4:21–22, the kābôd functions in the same way as ʾĕlōhîm did in
1 Samuel 4:7–8: it represents the very (here radiant) presence and power of the
deity—not unlike the radiant melammu of Aššur, whose unseen presence in battle
frightened enemies (see p. 339, n. 127). From the woman’s perspective, the god
(whom she knew as Yahweh) who once moved into the Israelite camp is now
exiled and residing in the Philistine camp. The name Ichabod (ʾî-kābôd) is the
central reason for the telling (and preservation) of this birth narrative. As noted
by McCarter (1980a: 116), ʾî-kābôd “means, ‘Where is (the) Glory?’ or ‘Alas (for
the) Glory!’ [and] belongs to a distinctive group of names referring to lamentation
for an absent deity.” As McCarter goes on to note, the clearest example of this is the
name Jezebel (ʾî-zebel), which means “Where is the Prince [i.e., the Phoenician
Baʿl-Haddu]?” Here the Ugaritic text KTU 1.6.4.4–5 is most instructive. After
Baʿlu descends into the gullet of the god Death (Motu) and is mourned as dead
by the gods ʾIlu and ʿAnatu, we read (in a dream sequence of ʾIlu’s) of the lament:
ʾiy ʾalʾiyn bʿl Where is Mighty Baʿlu?

ʾiy zbl bʿl ʾarṣ Where is the Prince, Lord of the Earth?
Such a thesis is supported further when the Ark Narrative is situated against the
ancient Near Eastern practice of capturing divine images in battle and exiling
them.204 In other words, this birth narrative gives further evidence that the word
kābôd was used to express the very presence (and, for the Elide priesthood, lack
of presence) of the deity Yahweh.205
Divine Kābôd in 1 Kings 8:10–11

1 Kings 8:10–11 presents a challenge to interpreters, and not because of the
words and their meaning, for they are clear enough. During the dedication of
Solomon’s temple, the Ark is carried “into the inner sanctuary of the Temple, into
the most holy place” (ʾel-dĕbîr habbayit ʾel-qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm) by the priests (1
Kgs 8:6). We then read:
When the priests emerged from the sanctuary, a cloud [ʿānān] filled [mālēʾ]
the temple of Yahweh so that the priests were not able to stand to minister be-
cause of the cloud [ʿānān]; for the kābôd of Yahweh filled [mālēʾ] the temple of
Yahweh. (1 Kgs 8:10–11)
Overall, 1 Kings 8 is filled with key Deuteronomistic teachings, from its erec-
tion of the central sanctuary in Jerusalem to its strong emphasis on the so-called
Name Theology, in which divine presence is localized via Yahweh’s šēm (1 Kgs
8:16, 17, 19, 20, 29, 33, 35, 42–44, 48). With this in mind, the vocabulary of 1
Kings 8:10–11 seems at first glance strikingly out of place. A comparison with
Priestly vocabulary (e.g., the mention of the ʿānān and the kābôd Yahweh filling
sacred space in Exodus 40:34–35) has led many scholars to see the hand of a
Priestly editor at work.206 Thus Gary Knoppers’ (1995a: 230; 2000: 372) sum-
mary represents the situation well: “Virtually all scholars recognize the presence
of both a preexilic source and some priestly editing in 1 Kgs 8:1–13.”
Without minimizing the substantial source-critical puzzle before us, a more
fruitful avenue of exploration is to see how 1 Kings 8:10–11 functions rhetori-
cally for the Deuteronomist. Here Knoppers (1995a: 240; 2000: 382) has written
insightfully: “The transfer of the ark to the temple appears not as a revolution but
as the culmination of one era and the beginning of another. . . . The consecra-
tion of a central sanctuary . . . becomes the point of a new departure in Israelite
history. The temple, not the ark, is now the central, unifying cultic institution in
Israelite life. The temple thus encompasses and supersedes the previous cultic
symbol.” In like manner, one could assert that the Deuteronomist’s new emphasis
on divine presence via God’s name (šēm) encompasses and supersedes the pre-
vious radiant model of divine presence known from archaic lore far older than P
(see the earlier discussion of Hab 3:2–5; Deut 33:2; Ps 29; Exod 33:17–23; 1 Sam
4:19–22).
While the use of older kābôd language may indeed fit the Deuteronomist’s
rhetorical purpose, we should expect him to say precious little about how “ra-
diance” depicts divine presence. Previously the Deuteronomistic History spoke
of Yahweh bestowing kābôd on Solomon as an incomparable royal prerogative
(1 Kgs 3:13). In 1 Kings 8:1–12 we hear of the Ark and its divine glory for the
last time with its transfer to Jerusalem. Though the language of 1 Kings 8:12
is not specific (i.e., mentioning the sun [so LXX] and not kābôd), perhaps one
could speculate and say that for the Deuteronomist, divine “radiance” should re-
side in the heavens, with the temple encased in darkness (ʿărāpel). Perhaps the
Deuteronomistic tradition had a fear of the physical Ark being captured once
again (even though the Philistine story ended with the Ark being victorious),
and thus it turned to a different type of aniconic representation of divine pres-
ence. But we are getting ahead of ourselves. The P source has much more to say
about the radiant presence (kābôd) of Yahweh.
Divine Kābôd in Isaiah 6:1–5

The theme of “glory” can be seen throughout the book of Isaiah, and the
remarks here cannot begin to trace the development of kābôd from its use by
the eighth-century BCE prophet Isaiah ben Amoz to its use in post-exilic escha-
tology (cf. Williamson 1999). Instead, we will focus on one key Isaianic passage
that can give us insight into how the prophet envisioned divine presence in the
Jerusalem Temple.
The description of Isaiah’s commissioning in Isaiah 6:1–5 is firmly fixed in the
eighth century BCE. Williamson (2007: 123) notes how it “is recognized to be
Isaianic by even the most rigorous of minimalists.” Wildberger (1991: 256) boldly
asserts that “Isaiah 6 bears all the marks of authenticity; it is a report about a gen-
uine experience and must have been composed or dictated by Isaiah himself.”
Because Isaiah 6 serves as a prelude to 7:1–8:15, most scholars date it around the
time of the Syro-Ephraimite war (734–733 BCE) and the second western cam-
paign of the Neo-Assyrian king Tiglath-Pileser III.
In the year of King Uzziah’s death, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and
exalted; and the edges of his garment filled the temple. Above him were at-
tendant seraphim; each had six wings: with two he would cover his face, and
with two he would cover his feet, and with two he would fly. One would call
to the other: “Holy, holy, holy is Yahweh of Hosts; the whole earth is full of his
glory [kābôd].”
The doorposts of the threshold shook [wayyānuʿû] at the voice [qôl] of the
one who called, while the House kept filling with smoke [yimmālēʾ ʿāšān]. Then
I cried, “Woe is me! I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell among
a people of unclean lips; Yet my own eyes have seen the King, Yahweh of Hosts!”
(Isa 6:1–5)
Various themes found in this passage have been mentioned in the texts discussed
previously, and later we will read of Ezekiel’s version of winged creatures
attending Yahweh’s kābôd. The danger implied in the prophet’s seeing Yahweh
(Isa 6:5) resonates with the lethal God sightings we have already noted. In Exodus
40:35 and 1 Kings 8:11 we saw how the kābôd Yahweh filled (mālēʾ) the tabernacle
(miškān) and the Jerusalem Temple (bêt yhwh), respectively. Yet here Isaiah has
smoke filling the temple (habbayit yimmālēʾ ʿāšān), while the kābôd fills the en-
tire earth (mĕlōʾ kol-hāʾāreṣ kĕbôdô). The vocabulary of such praise sounds litur-
gical, and Hugh Williamson (2007: 133–134), following Friedhelm Hartenstein,
is right to point to the nearly identical vocabulary in Numbers 14:21 and Psalm
72:19 (wĕyimmālēʾ kĕbôdô ʾet-kol hāʾāreṣ), not to mention “the recasting of the
same formula as an eschatological wish in Hab 2:14” (cf. Isa 11:9). Williamson
concludes that the use of such identical language “indicates that it had a wider
currency in ancient Israel” and likely had “deep roots in the cult tradition.” More
loosely, one could compare Isaiah 6:4’s quaking of the thresholds from the sound
(qôl) of the fiery seraphim to Psalm 29’s thunder and fire (esp. qôl-yhwh ḥōṣēb
lahăbôt ʾēš in Ps 29:7), where kābôd is ascribed to Yahweh, the god of glory (ʾēl-
hakkābôd), by gods (bĕnê ʾēlîm) and humans alike.
Yet more on target is Wildberger (1991: 268), who claims that “there is no mis-
taking the fact that the thought world of Psalm 24 is in the background as Isaiah
formulates the description of how he experienced his call.” Psalm 24 is also litur-
gical.207 Its call for purity (nĕqî kappayim ûbar-lēbāb) in the sanctuary (mĕqôm
qodšô; Ps 24:3–4) resonates with Isaiah’s desire to have his unclean lips (ṭĕmēʾ-
śĕpātayim) purified as he too stands on ground made holy by Yahweh (qādôš
qādôš qādôš).208 The royal focus of Psalm 24, repeatedly envisioning the entry
of Yahweh as “the king of glory” (melek hakkābôd), resonates with Isaiah’s seeing
Yahweh as King (melek). Both texts refer to Yahweh as “Yahweh of Armies”
(yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt). Finally, Psalm 24:1’s mention of Yahweh’s sovereignty over “the
earth and its fullness” (la-yhwh hāʾāreṣ ûmĕlôʾâ) echoes Isaiah’s sentiment that
“the whole earth is full of Yahweh’s kābôd” (mĕlōʾ kol-hāʾāreṣ kĕbôdô).
Before we leave Isaiah 6, we need to note a possible allusion to the
Mesopotamian notion of melammu. Many scholars have argued that Isaiah
was well versed in the “official rhetoric” of Assyrian kings.209 In Isaiah 8:7 (also
coming from the days of the Syro-Ephraimite war in 734–733 BCE) we read
of how Yahweh will bring “the King of Assyria and all his glory” (melek ʾaššûr
wĕʾet-kol-kĕbôdô) against the Syrian king Rezin and the Israelite king Pekah.
Williamson has astutely suggested that with this phrase Isaiah may be making a
wordplay on the well-known Assyrian military theology of melammu.210 In this
line of thinking, the Assyrian king is assured of victory because he wields the “the
awe of the radiance [pulḫu melamme] of Aššur” against any foe.211 (Indeed, the
ideological narratives presented in text and iconography edit out any notion of
Assyrian casualties in battle.)212 Yet more than wordplay is going on. Again in
Isaiah 10:5–19, the king of Assyria (even with Aššur’s melammu) is moved by
Yahweh like a chess piece to his ultimate demise. Glory (“the Light of Israel will
be fire”) is fighting glory (cf. esp. 10:16–19 and the occurrence of kābôd in 10:16,
18). Moreover, by using Isaiah 6:3 as an introduction to this material, Isaiah
underscores that Yahweh’s worldwide kābôd overpowers even that of Aššur.
In conclusion, it is clear that Isaiah 6:1–5, an eighth-century BCE text, joins 1
Samuel 4:21–22 and 1 Kings 8:10–11 in describing the presence of Yahweh via his
kābôd in a cultic setting prior to P’s description. According to Isaiah 6:3, the di-
vine kābôd certainly filled every recess of the temple and beyond. Yet there is no
mention of cloud (ʿānān) coverings nor divine “abiding” (šākan) in either a tent of
meeting (ʾōhel môʿēd) or a tabernacle (miškān). For these images we now turn to P.
The Kābôd Yahweh in P

The “Glory of Yahweh” (kābôd yhwh) in the Priestly source as well as in the book
of the prophet Ezekiel is one of the most notable phrases designating divine
presence in the Hebrew Bible. As a result, the secondary literature on the topic is
overwhelming and will not be treated here in any detail.213 The literary context
within which we find P’s “Glory of Yahweh” material is extremely complex and
has challenged interpreters from the medieval period to the modern era. Source-
critical scholars might be on the same page with regard to how all of these texts
are from P, yet they are not of one accord with how P has blended sacred space
traditions of tent (ʾōhel môʿēd), tabernacle (miškan), and Jerusalem Temple.214
Yet we should not miss the forest for the trees. What should be underscored is
that there are two distinct groups of material. One of these deals with crisis events
during the wandering experiences (especially the “murmuring” traditions),
while the other deals with Sinai and the cult (see Mettinger 1982b: 80ff., fol-
lowing Rendtorff 1963). Moreover, with regard to the latter, P’s four primary
passages about the kābôd Yahweh (Exod 24:15–18; 29:43–46; 40:34–38; Lev 9:1–
24) reveal a well-defined narrative arc.
P’s Narrative Arc: The Appearance of the Kābôd Yahweh

At the outset of the story arc we find the kābôd Yahweh enveloped in a cloud as it
is “dwelling” (yiškōn) “like a devouring/consuming fire” (kĕʾēš ʾōkelet) on the top
of Mt. Sinai (Exod 24:16–17). Moses is privileged to ascend the mountain and
experience divine communication (wayyiqrāʾ ʾel-mōšeh). Moses presumably sees
the divine fire (as did the people of Israel) and is even allowed to enter the cloud
(24:17–18). By the time we get to the end of Exodus 29, the mountaintop abode
has been exchanged for the tent of meeting (ʾōhel môʿēd), where God promises
to meet and speak to the people (ʾiwwāʿēd . . . lĕdabēr; Exod 29:42). Proper cultic
actions are laid out previously in the chapter, yet ultimately it will be the kābôd
Yahweh that serves to sanctify both space and personnel (29:43–44). God’s
promise to “dwell” (wĕšākantî) with his people is characterized as being the very
reason for their liberation from Egypt (lĕšoknî bĕtôkām; 29:45–46). Arriving at
the end of the book of Exodus, we find tent and tabernacle fused (“the tabernacle
of the tent of meeting” [miškan ʾōhel môʿēd]; 40:2), fulfilling an earlier desire by
Yahweh to have the people make a “dwelling” (miškan) in which the deity could
“dwell” (šākantî; 25:8). After Moses finishes the work on the new tabernacle, we
read of a recapitulation and updating of the earlier theophany. Now the cloud
covers the tent of meeting (ʾōhel môʿēd), while the kābôd Yahweh fills the newly
completed tabernacle (miškan; 40:34). This time Moses is unable to enter the
clouded tent because it houses the divine presence.
The final episode of the narrative arc is found in Leviticus 9, where we read of
the commencement of the high priesthood of Aaron, who is assisted by his two
sons in rendering proper cult within sacred space. This inauguration fulfills as
it recapitulates the earlier promise of Yahweh to sanctify his chosen religious
officiants (Exod 29:44). Moses, as preeminent orchestrator of events, directs
Aaron and his sons in their duties with the promise to the people that “today
Yahweh will appear to you” (yhwh nirʾâ ʾălêkem). Of special note is how the
promise is repeated with the language “the Glory of Yahweh will appear to you”
(wĕyērāʾ ʾălêkem kĕbôd yhwh), underscoring the identity of the two (Lev 9:4, 6).
After Aaron and his sons carry out their sacred duties (especially blood ma-
nipulation) on behalf of the people, Aaron joins Moses in entering the tent of
meeting, for what purpose we know not. Upon their exit, the kābôd Yahweh
appears to all the people (wayyērāʾ kĕbôd-yhwh ʾel-kol-hāʿām; Lev 9:23). The
tremendum of divine fire (which we remember from the very start of the story
arc as the “consuming fire” [kĕʾēš ʾōkelet] on Mt. Sinai) is then made manifest
as it consumes (tōʾkal) the offerings on the altar. Jacob Milgrom (1991: 574) has
underscored the relevance of this material:
The importance of the theophany in the newly consecrated Tabernacle cannot

be exaggerated. It renders the Tabernacle the equivalent of Mount Sinai. . . . P,
in effect, regards the theophany at the Tabernacle as more important than JE’s
theophany at Sinai.215 The equivalence of the Tabernacle to Sinai is an essential,
indeed indispensable, axiom of P. The Tabernacle, in effect, becomes a portable
Sinai, an assurance of the permanent presence of the deity in Israel’s midst.
It is little wonder then to read of the appropriate response by the people—to cry
out in joy (and/or awe?) and to fall on their faces, a response to divine fire attested
elsewhere (cf. Judg 13:20; 1 Kgs 18:38–39; Ezek 1:28; 2 Chr 7:3).
From Fascinans to Tremendum: Nadab, Abihu, and Lethal Fire

Milgrom is correct. With the appearance of the kābôd Yahweh via fire in Leviticus
9:23–24 we have reached the apex. Yet it seems that another summit now comes
into view, and in a most curious way.
Leviticus 9 is not the end of our narrative arc. It is preparatory for Leviticus
10:1–3. Three times in Leviticus 9 we read of the appearance of Yahweh/kābôd
Yahweh (Lev 9:4, 6, 23) that culminates in the divine “consuming” fire. (As we
will see, Lev 10:2–3 also makes Yahweh’s kābôd manifest in “consuming” fire.)
Moses’ declaration that “today” Yahweh (or kābôd Yahweh) “will appear to you
[pl.]” is directed to the people, but only as they bring their offerings, which are
then presented to Yahweh by the three priests (Aaron and his two sons, Nadab
and Abihu). These three are, after all, the priesthood that Yahweh had promised
to sanctify in Exodus 29:44.
The reader’s every inclination at this stage is to affirm the legitimacy of Nadab
and Abihu’s priesthood. Indeed, archaic lore (i.e., the JE epic material in Exod
24:9–11) tells the story of how Nadab and Abihu were among the chosen few
allowed to see the God of Israel in radiant appearance (a privilege elsewhere
given only to the blessed elite).216 Not only did they behold God, but they also ate
and drank (with him) (wayyeḥĕzû ʾet-hāʾĕlōhîm wayyōʾkĕlû wayyištû).
But then we are shocked to read:
Now Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, each took his firepan, put fire in it, and
laid incense on it; and they offered foreign/illicit fire [ʾēš zārâ] before Yahweh,
such as he had not commanded them. Then fire came forth from the presence of
Yahweh and consumed [tōʾkal] them. Thus they died before [due to?] Yahweh.
Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what Yahweh meant when he said: ‘Through
those near to me [i.e., the priests], I will manifest holiness [ʾeqqādēš]; Before
all the people I will manifest kābôd [ʾekkābēd].’ ” And Aaron was silent. (Lev
10:1–3)
Once again Yahweh’s “consuming fire” (kĕʾēš ʾōkelet) is operative, yet here con-
suming (tōʾkal) priests rather than offerings—and in some way Yahweh’s action
is related to making manifest his kābôd. For years speculation has abounded as
to the precise reason for Nadab and Abihu’s death. The text describes the two as
offering “foreign fire” (ʾēš zārâ) that was unauthorized (ʾăšer lōʾ ṣiwwāh ʾōtām).217
Suffice it to say that here we have a popular story at odds with the archaic lore of
Exodus 24:9–11. Nadab and Abihu here are lessons of divine danger, not blessed
guests at a divine meal.
The meaning of P’s expression ʾekkābēd bĕ-(“I will manifest kābôd through
X”) is clear, for P uses it three other times in Exodus 14: in verses 4 and 17–18 (cf.
too Ezek 28:22). In these passages, Yahweh manifests his kābôd (i.e., his awesome
presence, power, and majesty) through achieving victory “over Pharaoh, over
all his force, over his chariotry, and over his horsemen” (ʾikkābĕdâ bĕparʿōh
ûbĕkol-ḥêlô bĕrikbô ûbĕpārāšāyw). In addition, we have the immediate context
where our passage parallels Lev 9:24a. In Andreas Ruwe’s (2003: 72) analysis, we
have here “a decidedly twofold or two-phase manifestation of the kābôd Yahweh,”
for “both appearances of the godly fire parallel each other since both cases are
phrased identically (wattēṣēʾ ʾēš millipnê yhwh wattōʾkal; Lev 9:24a//Lev 10:2).”
In Leviticus 10:3, Moses, the grand orchestrator and interpreter, defines for
Aaron how this episode was meant to be understood: Yahweh via the lethality of
his divine fire makes his kābôd manifest through the deaths of Nadab and Abihu,
much as he manifests his holiness through priests (i.e., “those near to him”).
Priests, through their separate status and their cultic actions, exhibit the distinc-
tion between the sacred and the profane. In other words, Yahweh shows how he
is sacred (i.e., separate or “other”) through the nature and actions of the priests
(whom he himself has sanctified for such office; Exod 29:44). Accordingly,
through the deaths of Nadab and Abihu (themselves priests but here violating
their sacred office) Yahweh also manifests his sacred kābôd-ness—that is, his
awesome presence, power, and majesty. The visible presence used to exhibit such
tremendum is that of fire, a divine image with the longest and most enduring of
legacies.
Sommer (2009: 120) is right on target when he adopts Otto’s vocabulary to de-
scribe Leviticus 10:1–3:
The manifestation [of the kābôd Yahweh] takes the form of incineration. This
verse points toward the chaotic side of the holy. The erection of the tabernacle
is an attempt at domesticating what the theorist of religion Rudolph Otto called
the tremendum, the overwhelming, dangerous, and repelling aspect of the di-
vine. . . . [P]‌recisely at the moment in which the domestication of the kabod
climaxes and specifically among those who have direct access to that divine
presence, it becomes brutally clear that holiness cannot be contained.
The lethal nature of Yahweh’s kābôd (here made “brutally clear”) underlies the
various passages in P’s narrative arc that we have already explored. Again and
again P focuses on the presence of the cloud (ʿānān), for it is the cloud that is
able to shield against the lethal presence of deity. When the deaths of Nadab and
Abihu are briefly revisited in the preface of the Yom Kippur ritual (Lev 16:1–2),
they serve as a warning for their father, Aaron, who must carry out his duties pre-
cisely “lest he die” (yāmût).218
The second group of kābôd Yahweh traditions (those associated with crisis
events and the “murmuring” motif during the wandering experience) also re-
veal a lethal divine presence. In Numbers 14, the people’s murmuring and desire
to return to Egypt are portrayed as rebellion (timĕrōdû; 14:9) and as despising
Yahweh (yĕnaʾăṣunî; 14:11). In response, when the kābôd Yahweh appears to
all the people at the tent of meeting, Yahweh says he “will strike the people with
pestilence and disinherit them” (ʾakkennû baddeber wĕʾôrišennû; 14:12). Moses
then intercedes, referring to Yahweh’s presence in cloud and fire and following
this with an appeal against killing (hēmatâ) and slaughtering (yišḥāṭēm) the
people (14:14–16).
By far the most famous story in this group of kābôd Yahweh passages is the
rebellion led by Korah found in Numbers 16:1–35; 17:1–15 [= Eng 16:1–50].219
After the stage is set, the kābôd Yahweh again appears at the tent of meeting, with
Yahweh giving notice that he is about to “annihilate [Korah and his followers]
in an instant” (ʾakalleh ʾōtām kĕrāgaʿ; Num 16:19–21). The subsequent destruc-
tion entails “the earth opening up its mouth and swallowing them” together with
“fire emerging from Yahweh” (ʾēš yāṣĕʾâ mēʾēt yhwh) that consumed (watōʾkal)
250 men offering incense (Num 16:32, 35). Yahweh is a “devouring fire” indeed!
Remarkably, after such a climax, the story continues. The motif of murmuring
immediately returns; this time the complaining is about the killing just witnessed.
Again the kābôd Yahweh appears at the tent of meeting, with Yahweh again threat-
ening “to annihilate the rebels in an instant” (Num 17:7–10 [= Eng 16:42–45).
Moses instructs Aaron to make atonement for the people, “for wrath [qeṣep] has
gone forth from Yahweh, the plague has begun” (cf. the earlier discussion on di-
vine anger). Aaron does as directed, standing “between the dead and the living”
until the plague stops, but only after the deaths of 14,700 additional people.
The Kābôd Yahweh in Ezekiel

Although associated with P by many scholars, and with the Zion-Sabaoth the-
ology by others (esp. Mettinger 1982b: 97–115), Ezekiel’s dramatic description
of the kābôd Yahweh as preternatural, intense radiance is like no other por-
trayal.220 The expression “kĕbôd Yahweh” appears ten times in the book (1:28;
3:12, 23; 10:4 [twice], 18; 11:23; 43:4–5; 44:4), with a similar expression, kĕbôd
ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl, occurring five times (Ezek 8:4; 9:3; 10:19; 11:22; 43:2). The most
riveting description of the kābôd Yahweh is found in the opening scene. In
Daniel Block’s (1997: 108) words, “Everything about the vision [in Ezek 1] is in
the superlative mode.” The attention-grabbing start of what Ezekiel experiences
(Ezek 1:4) sets the stage for the fantastic cherubim creatures and chariot throne
that follow (Ezek 1:5–25), culminating in Ezekiel seeing the very presence
(kābôd) of deity (Ezek 1:26–28).
Suddenly I saw a stormy wind blowing in from the north [made up of] a tre-
mendous cloud [ʿānān gādôl], fire flashing back and forth [ʾēš mitlaqqaḥat], and
surrounded by radiance [nōgah]. Out of it—out of the fire—appeared some-
thing that looked like white-hot light [ḥašmal].221 (Ezek 1:4)
While one’s first impulse might be to envision storm theophanies, based on

the mention of wind and cloud (and there is certainly some of that here and
in what follows), the dominant motif is one of fiery radiance, conveyed by the
words ʾēš, nōgah, and ḥašmal. The emphasis on brilliant (even metallic), fiery
radiance continues in the description of the four living creatures (ḥayyôt, later
termed kĕrubîm) and the chariot throne vision that follows, not to mention the
climactic appearance of Yahweh via his kābôd. A startling number of words are
used. Mention is made of “burnished bronze” (nĕḥōšet qālāl; 1:7), “burning coals
of fire” (gaḥălê-ʾēš bōʿărôt; 1:13), “torches” (lappidîm; 1:13), “radiant fire” (nōgah
lāʾēš; 1:13), “lightning issued from fire” (min-hāʾēš yôṣēʾ bārāq; 1:13), “darting
sparks [?]‌” (rāṣôʾ wāšôb kĕmarʾēh habbāzāq; 1:14), “gleaming of chrysolite” (kĕʿên
taršîš; 1:16), “terrifyingly radiant” (gōbah wĕyirʾâ; 1:18);222 “awe-inspiring gleam
of crystal” (kĕʿên haqqeraḥ hannôrāʾ; 1:22), “sapphire” (sappîr; 1:26), “white-hot
light” (ʿên ḥašmal; 1:27), “fire” (ʾēš; 1:27 [twice]), “radiance” (nōgah; 1:27, 28),
“rainbow” (qešet; 1:28), and “glory” (kābôd; 1:28).
Even words that do not at first glance seem to evoke images of radiance con-
tribute to the overwhelming image. Christoph Uehlinger and Susanne Müller
Trufaut (2001: 159–160) analyzed galgal (Ezek 10:2, 6, 13; traditionally trans-
lated simply as “wheelwork”) based on Pierre Grelot’s 1998 study and ad-
ditional Mesopotamian iconography. They conclude that “galgal may refer
to some cosmic halo, a system of brilliance and lightning related to celestial
bodies . . . [T]‌he whole system of moving circles [the four wheels in Ezek 10:12–
13] . . . i.e., the overall system of stars and planets moving according to principles
of spatial and temporal circularity . . . is viewed as a mysterious source of fire,
lightning and shining brilliance.”
The additional kābôd passages add even more data to this already impres-
sive accumulation. The figure (man?)223 in Ezekiel 8:2 has “the appearance of
fire” (kĕmarʾēh-ʾēš), with fire below his loins and “brightness, like white-hot
light,” above (zōhar kĕʿên haḥašmalâ). In chapter 10, the court is full of “the ra-
diance of the glory of Yahweh” (nōgah kĕbôd yhwh; 10:4), and “burning coals”
(gaḥălê-ʾēš) are taken from the “wheelwork” (galgal). Near the end of the book,
as a result of the return of the kābôd Yahweh, “the earth shone with his glory”
(hāʾāreṣ hēʾîrâ mikkĕbōdô; 43:2). In short, Aster’s (2006: 407–428) conclusion
that “in the book of Ezekiel . . . kebod YHWH is consistently a radiant phenom-
enon” with distinct parallels to the Mesopotamian concept of melammu is well
grounded.
Understanding Ezekiel’s preoccupation with depicting Yahweh’s theophany
with such multifaceted radiant imagery helps us interpret the climactic scene in
Ezekiel 1:26–28.
Above the firmament over [the kĕrubîm’s] heads there was the likeness [dĕmût]
of a throne, in appearance like [kĕmarʾēh] sapphire; and seated above the like-
ness [dĕmût] of the throne was a likeness [dĕmût] similar to the appearance
[kĕmarʾēh] of a human being [ʾādām]. And upward from what had the appear-
ance of his loins [kĕmarʾēh motnāyw] I saw as it were white-hot light [kĕʿên
ḥašmal], like the appearance of fire [kĕmarʾēh-ʾēš] enclosed round about; and
downward from what had the appearance of his loins [kĕmarʾēh motnāyw] I saw
as it were the appearance of fire [kĕmarʾēh-ʾēš], and there was radiance [nōgah]
round about him. Like the appearance of the rainbow [kĕmarʾēh haqqešet] that
is in the cloud on a rainy day, such was the appearance of the radiance [marʾēh
hannōgah] round about. Such was the appearance [marʾeh] of the likeness
[dĕmût] of the Glory [kābôd] of Yahweh. When I saw [the kābôd Yahweh], I fell
upon my face, and I heard the voice of one speaking.
Because of the prophet’s use of the words “human being” (ʾādām) and “loins”
(motnayîm), it is common to read comments about how Ezekiel’s portrayal
of divinity is “thoroughly” and “extraordinarily anthropomorphic [in] na-

ture” (Sommer 2009: 7, 227 n. 83) or “blatantly anthropomorphic” (Hurowitz
2007: 99). Weinfeld (1972b: 201) writes that the “most singular feature [of
Ezekiel’s theophany] is the anthropomorphic imagery.” Israel Knohl (1995: 129
n. 16) juxtaposes Ezekiel over against P, whose “description of the Presence
(kbwd) of God . . . lacks all human dimension.” Years ago Julian Morgenstern
(1914: 45) was of a similar opinion: “We find P [in contrast to Ezekiel] no longer
picturing the kebhod Jahwe in human form.” Such comments are true, but only
to a degree. Based on several of the passages we have already dealt with, I would
frame and nuance the discussion quite differently.
Clearly, P does not use human terms (ʾādām, ʾîš [?]‌, motnayîm, yād) to de-
scribe Yahweh (and his kābôd), as does Ezekiel (1:26–27; 8:2–3). In light of the
prevalent and consistent anthropomorphic language used of Yahweh throughout
the Hebrew Bible (see pp. 288–290), P’s reticence is conspicuous and remark-
able.224 Ezekiel’s use of anthropomorphic language for the divine then is not ex-
traordinary, but rather is following the norm—unless one would not expect such
from the hands of Ezekiel the priest (Ezek 1:3).
Three Avenues to Unpack Ezekiel’s Vision

Yet clearly Ezekiel’s vision of the divine has no mere mortal in mind despite his
use of ʾādām and motnayîm. Human bodies are not made of fire and radiant bril-
liance; neither can they fly on the wings of cherubim. What then are we to make
of Ezekiel’s use of human imagery? Three avenues of research prove helpful in
unpacking Ezekiel’s specific usage of anthropomorphic language: (1) the rele-
vance of Mesopotamian iconography, (2) the Hebrew Bible’s long-standing tra-
dition of “fiery transcendent anthropomorphisms,” and (3) the distinct rhetoric
of circumvention used in Ezekiel 1:26–28.
Given Ezekiel’s setting in Mesopotamia, one would have thought that the
region’s rich iconographic traditions would have been an obvious resource for
commentators when it came to unpacking the images found in Ezekiel 1.225
Yet only recently has this been attempted, and in certain circles such compar-
ative study is still minimized.226 As noted by several scholars, the depiction of
the storm god Aššur with radiant melammu and fire from the time of the ninth-
century BCE king Tukulti-Ninurta II (Figure 7.23) provides an apt analogy for
the visual symbols found in Ezekiel 1:26–28.227 The winged god is anthropomor-
phic from the waist up, with taut bow in hand. Most importantly, he is encircled
with flames together with wavy lines depicting a radiance of some kind. There
is little wonder that scholars have described this as perhaps our best example of
melammu (a radiant supernatural force) being depicted in art. Though Ezekiel
the priest/prophet is no worshipper of Aššur (indeed, cf. his harsh words against
non-Yahwistic forms of religion throughout the book), he certainly could have
Figure 7.23 A depiction of the Mesopotamian storm god Aššur with radiant
melammu and fire from the time of the ninth-century BCE King Tukulti-Ninurta II.
From Hugo Gressman, Altorientalische Texte und Bilder zum Alten Testament (Berlin: de Gruyter,
1927), tafel CXXXIII, 333, “Assur in den Regenwolken.”
adapted Mesopotamian artistic motifs for his literary portrayal of the kābôd
Yahweh. Needless to say, Ezekiel no more thought of Yahweh as a mere man than
did Aššur’s artists envision their majestic deity as being a simple mortal. Radiant
deities—though anthropomorphic at a glance—can manifest their power and
majesty by flying through the air engulfed in fire.
The tradition of Yahweh appearing along with and/or via fiery human form is
of long standing, what I have referred to (adapting Hendel’s vocabulary) as “fiery
transcendent anthropomorphisms.” Ezekiel’s depiction of Yahweh with human
terms along with fiery and radiant imagery should be understood within this en-
during tradition. As early as Psalm 18 (//2 Sam 22), we read of a terror-inspiring
theophany with smoke arising from Yahweh’s nostrils and devouring fire blazing
from his mouth. His voice as thunder rends the heavens. (See p. 346.) As did
Aššur, Yahweh let loose his arrows as he discharged his lighting (yišlaḥ ḥiṣṣāyw//
bĕrāqîm; Ps 18:15 [Eng 18:14]; 2 Sam 22:15). Yahweh is drawn with the most
human of terms (nostrils, mouth, voice, [arms] drawing a bow), yet at the same
time the psalmist uses multiple fiery images (fire, coals, brilliance, hailstones,
lightning) to sketch a radiant (nōgah) god who transcends the human plane. As
with Aššur, Yahweh was airborne, riding on the wings of the wind (yāʿōp/yēdeʾ228
ʿal-kanpê-rûaḥ), and like Ezekiel’s depiction (but unlike Aššur), Yahweh was
mounted on a cherub (yirkab ʿal-kĕrûb; Ps 18:11 [Eng 18:10]).229
A similar mixture of the anthropomorphic with the fiery appears in Isaiah
30:27–33 (see pp. 346, 387).230 With literary flair, the poet directs his words
against Aššur. The Assyrians, who knew the terror of Aššur’s melammu fighting
on their behalf, are now to be stricken by Yahweh’s terror, bringing about Aššur’s
demise (yēḥat ʾaššûr; Isa 30:31). Once again Yahweh’s portrait is drawn to appear
human, with mention of his nostrils, lips, tongue, breath, voice, and arm (ʾappô,
śĕpātāyw, lĕšônô, rûḥô, qôlô, zĕrôʿô, nišmat yhwh), yet at the same time coupled
with burning (bōʿēr), devouring fire (ʾēš ʾōkālet), thunder (qôl), and flames of fire
(lahab ʾēš ʾôkēlâ). Yahweh is human-like and yet far beyond human in terms of
his fiery manifestation.
Also appropriate for the background to Ezekiel 1:26–28 are the stories of di-
vine presence within the malʾak-Yahweh traditions, especially the one we find
in Judges 13:2–23. As noted on pp. 349–350, Yahweh (via the malʾak-Yahweh)
appears repeatedly as a “human” (ʾîš; Judg 13:6, 8, 10–11) in this story, but
clues abound as to its preternatural essence. This “human” entity is described
by Manoah’s wife as being “extremely terrifying” (nôrāʾ mĕʾōd) in appearance—
one who knows the future and promises the (miraculous?) birth of a dedicated
(Nazirite) child who turns out to be none other than the super-strong Samson.
The “human” of Judges 13:18 is shrouded in divine mystery, for he does not re-
veal his name, which he describes as “wonderful” (*pilʾî), an adjective whose re-
lated nouns are used almost exclusively to describe God’s mighty acts (Conrad
2001: 540–545). Eventually the divine/preternatural nature of this “human” is
revealed as he ascends in fire from the altar. Thus once again we have a figure who
manifests humanity yet whose fiery essence provides the climax of the story. In
this instance, the human-divine figure causes Manoah and his wife to wonder
why they were not killed, for when they encountered this human-figure-turned-
fire, they “had actually seen God” (môt nāmût kî ʾĕlōhîm rāʾînû).
Lastly, we must remind ourselves again of how Moses, because of his spe-
cial favor, was allowed to see “human” body parts of Yahweh: his back (ʾāḥôr)
and hand (kap) (Exod 33:17–23). In contrast to the passages we have already
examined, there is no explicit mention of fire in this passage, yet the divine body
language does take place in the context of Yahweh showing Moses a part of his
kābôd. The radiance associated with kābôd, as we have demonstrated, can be
described with fire, clouds, storms, brilliance, light, and so on, so it is hard to un-
pack the precise way in which Yahweh would have “passed by” Moses—although
seemingly it was airborne. (In J’s account in Exodus 34:6, Yahweh’s “passing by”
happens after he comes down in a cloud.) The potential lethality of the encounter
(Exod 33:20) and Yahweh’s shielding of Moses from this danger could designate
that fire was a part of the kābôd theophany, as fire is the most frequent lethal
divine agent used elsewhere. Again, this passage, like the three previous, exhibits
a tradition of Yahweh appearing as part “human” and yet so much more. The
author of Exodus 33:17–23, especially with his warning in Exodus 33:20, would
assert that any notion of reducing Yahweh down to the human level (even with
his accommodating vocabulary of ʾāḥôr and kap) would fall far short of encapsu-
lating the tremendum of divinity.
To judge from these four narratives (Ps 18//2 Sam 22; Isa 30; Judg 13; and
Exod 33), we must conclude that such stories were well known. When Ezekiel
described Yahweh as being a “human” and yet so much more than human, it
must have sounded fantastic indeed to his audience. Yahweh’s “humanness” was
absorbed in fire (kĕmarʾēh-ʾēš) from his loins both upward and downward, to-
gether with encircling radiance (nōgah)—not to mention the ḥašmal substance.
The language must have sounded surreal, yet such a depiction was not out of
character from what they had previously heard about Yahweh’s “fiery tran-
scendent anthropomorphisms.”
A third avenue of unpacking Ezekiel 1:26–28 is to study its specific rhetoric of
circumvention. Ezekiel desires to express his claim that he actually witnessed the
very presence (kābôd) of Yahweh at the river Chebar. Ezekiel is not claiming that he
saw Yahweh manifesting his “glory” via deeds in human history. Rather, Ezekiel is
claiming (using the language of theophany and kābôd) that he has joined the select
few who have actually seen the very presence of the divine. Most remarkably, Ezekiel
does not state (as others have in the past) that his experience was potentially lethal
and that he was blessed to live to tell the story. This is key for our interpretation.
As noted on pp. 289–290, close attention to the rhetoric of Ezekiel 1:26–28
reveals that the author went out of his way to use three terms of circumven-
tion (marʾeh, dĕmût, ʿên) to avoid explicitly describing the presence of deity.
That these three “buffer terms” (Greenberg 1983: 53) occur fourteen times in
just three verses is intentional. Through their use the author is able to sketch, by
analogy, the “human” form of Yahweh that is at the same time beyond human in
its majesty and otherness. Ezekiel “signifies unwillingness to commit oneself to
the substantial identity of the seen with the compared” (Greenberg 1983: 53).
This is especially true when he approaches words for “human” before which he
uses double qualifiers. Ezekiel 1:26 reads: “Seated above the likeness [dĕmût]
of a throne was a likeness [dĕmût] similar to the appearance [kĕmarʾeh] of a
human being [ʾādām].” Similarly, Ezekiel 8:2 has “I looked and there was a like-
ness [dĕmût] similar to the appearance [kĕmarʾeh] of a man [ʾîš].”231 The prophet
concludes his vision with a triple qualification. Rather than saying that he “saw
God face-to-face,” Ezekiel uses exceptional restraint: “Such was the appearance
[marʾeh] of the likeness [dĕmût] of the Glory [kăbôd] of Yahweh.”
It bears repeating that Ezekiel is doing just what we would expect from a Judean
priest: differentiating the Most Sacred from the profane. There is no doubt that
Ezekiel’s (sacred) “man” of radiant fire should be differentiated from an ordinary

(profane) human being of flesh and bone. Yet Ezekiel does not cry out in his pro-
fane state “Woe is me!” as does Isaiah in his encounter with the Most Holy (Isa
6:5). Nor does Ezekiel mediate the theophany by cloaking “extremely terrifying”
(nôrāʾ mĕʾōd), “wondrous” (pilʾî), and fiery divinity via a human-looking malʾāk
figure (Judges 13). Ezekiel chooses here not to emphasize (as does P) a cloud cov-
ering that shields onlookers against lethal danger (but cf. Ezek 10:4) nor how (as
does JE/non-P) the very hand of God protects the prophet from Yahweh’s kābôd
(Exod 33:22). Rather, Ezekiel uses the concealment and shielding of language.
By using his buffer terms and comparisons by analogy, he keeps the (lethal) di-
vine at a safe distance. One explicit term that is here (and missing or implied
in the other lethal divine sighting passages) is the medium of revelation being
“visions” (marʾôt ʾĕlōhîm; Ezek 1:1; 8:3). Perhaps this too added an extra layer of
protection.
In conclusion, it is shortsighted to reduce this grandest of the kābôd theoph-
anies, as do scholars who use language similar to Weinfeld’s (1992: 201) to say
that the “most singular feature [of Ezekiel’s theophany] is the anthropomorphic
imagery.” Rather, the radiant, fiery picture Ezekiel paints of the kābôd Yahweh is
one of fascinans and tremendum.
Divine “Name”
The Use of the Divine “Name” (Šēm) to Depict the Presence of Yahweh
So far we have depicted how various authors of the Hebrew Bible have used the
concepts of fire and radiance (with emphasis on kābôd) to describe the presence of
divinity. Such abstract concepts do not lend themselves to iconographic portrayal
(though, as we saw with the melammu of Aššur, attempts were made). A wide va-
riety of writers of the Hebrew Bible went beyond physical objects to craft divinity
through ethereal images and exquisite words specifically chosen to describe that
which fascinates and frightens. This vocabulary includes ʾēš, ʾēš ʾōkelet, bĕʾôr ʾēš,
bĕlabbat-ʾēš, lappîd ʾēš, gaḥălê-ʾēš, śĕrāpîm, malʾak-Yahweh, ʾap, qôl mittôk hāʾēš,
kābôd, pānîm, nōgah, hôd, hādār, paḥad, gĕʾôn, nôrāʾ mĕʾōd, pilʾî, and kĕrubîm.
Note that even this lengthy list does not include the many images associated with
Yahweh’s storm theophanies, not to mention a host of meteorological and astro-
nomical terms as well as Ezekiel’s gleaming gems and shining metals.
A radical departure from these streams of tradition is found in what has come
to be called the Name Theology, associated with the book of Deuteronomy and
the Deuteronomistic History. The discussion focuses on terminology that has
Yahweh saying that he will reside in sacred space through the presence of his name
(šēm). The formulaic phrase that has received the most attention states that
the privileged sanctuary is marked as “the place where Yahweh, your God, will
choose to cause his name to dwell” (hammāqôm ʾăšer-yibḥar yhwh ʾĕlōhêkem bô
lĕšakkēn šĕmô šām; Deut 12:11; 14:23; 16:2, 6, 11; 26:2; cf. Jer 7:12; Ezra 6:12;
Neh 1:9). Related phrases include (1) the place where Yahweh chooses “to put his
name there” (hammāqôm ʾăšer-yibḥar yhwh lāśûm ʾet-šĕmô šām; e.g., Deut 12:5);
(2) the place in which Yahweh’s Name will “be there” (ʾel-hammāqôm ʾăšer yihyeh
šĕmî šām; e.g., 1 Kgs 8:29); (3) “building a house for the Name of Yahweh” (libnôt
bayit lĕšēm yhwh; e.g.,1 Kgs 5:19 [Eng 5:5]); and (4) “calling the Name over the
place” (kî-šimkā niqrāʾ ʿal-habbayit; e.g., 1 Kgs 8:43).232
Where Yahweh’s Name dwells constitutes sacred space. Indeed, according to
this tradition, it is the only legitimate sacred space, a central site where cult should
take place. Accordingly, it is the place where burnt offerings, sacrifices, tithes,
contributions, votive offerings, free will offerings, and the firstlings of herds and
flocks were to be brought to Yahweh (Deut 12:5–6, 11, 13–14; 26:2–4). In addi-
tion, this chosen place was intended to be festive, a place where households were
“to eat before Yahweh” (ʾăkaltem-šām lipnê yhwh) and “celebrate” (ûśĕmaḥtem)
their blessings (Deut 12:7, 12, 18). The question at hand is whether the name
(šēm) of Yahweh represents divine presence, and if so, how.
Four Key Tenets of Traditional Name Theology

As traditionally understood by scholars, the Name Theology embraced the fol-
lowing four tenets:
1. It was occasioned by the cognitive dissonance that resulted from the na-
tional tragedies of 597 and 586 BCE.
2. Its abstract notions were reactionary in nature, arguing against former
expressions of worship (i.e., JE/non-P) that were thought to be too imma-
nent and too anthropomorphic, or against the Zion-Sabaoth traditions.
3. It had Jerusalem solely in mind as the chosen place.
4. While the Name of Yahweh resides in the Jerusalem Temple, Yahweh’s true
self abides (transcendently) in heaven alone.
Tenets give the impression of uniform and widespread solidarity. Richter

(2002: 9) even comments on the “profound impact that this interpretive par-
adigm has had on the field of biblical studies.” Yet numerous critiques have
modified this traditional portrayal in significant ways. Already in 1969 S. Dean
McBride would write that “the shape of the biblical [Name Theology] tradi-
tion . . . is more disparate than has generally been recognized.” The subsequent
decades of scholarship have proven that the topic is even more complicated.233
Yet for the sake of argument, the discussion that follows will be structured
around these four convictions.
The First Tenet

The ancient Near East (including ancient Israel) was filled to the brim with
notions of how deities were embodied by their names and lived in their
temples. Whatever the understandings of these concepts were throughout an-
cient Israel’s past, leading scholars understand the occasion for articulating the
Name Theology to be the national catastrophes of 597 and 586 BCE. According
to Mettinger (1982b: 60–61), “The events of 597 [where the Babylonians ‘pene-
trated into the House itself '] fueled the development of the notion of the Name
in the Temple.” He elaborates: “The fully developed Name theology first appears
after the devastation of the Temple [in 586 BCE]. Accordingly, the Name the-
ology may be regarded as a device for resolving the cognitive dissonance which
arose when the established tenets of the Zion-Sabaoth theology [Yahweh of Hosts
enthroned upon the cherubim] were confronted with harsh reality.” Elsewhere,
Mettinger (1998: 1) argues that these “historical events provoked an existential
crisis of national scope.”
Granted, Mettinger’s (1982b: 60) reconstruction (which is chosen here as just
one representative of traditional Name Theology scholars) is based on his pref-
erence “to date the first edition of the D-work to the time of the Exile.” Those
scholars (including the present writer) who would point to earlier editions of the
Deuteronomistic History (especially during the reign of Josiah) would see this
presupposition as a substantial flaw. Mettinger (1982b: 56), for all his emphasis
on the events of 597 and 586 BCE, is nonetheless wise to underscore that “the
Name theology that we have found in the D-Work . . . in all likelihood . . . had an-
cient roots.” Here he has in mind similar phraseology in the Amarna letters (EA
287.60–61; 288.5–7) as well as pre-Deuteronomistic passages including J/non-
P theophanies (e.g., Exod 34:5–6; cf. Ps 29:2), malʾāk traditions (Exod 23:20–
21), the “old altar law” of Exodus 20:24, and kābôd traditions in JE/non-P (Exod
33:19).234 Such conclusions resonate with other assessments such as McBride’s
(1969: 51) that the “Name Theology must have been rooted in the early traditions
of Israel.” Exodus 20:24, with its reference to making offerings “in every place”
(bĕkol-hammāqôm) where Yahweh causes his name to be remembered (ʾăšer
ʾazkîr ʾet-šĕmî), is especially fascinating, for it lacks any notion of the central-
ization of worship, a hallmark of Deuteronomistic teachings. More recently,
Na’aman (2011b: 310) uses the mention of “the Name of El” (šm ʾl) in the ninth-
/eighth-century BCE Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster inscription 4.2 to argue that “the
roots of biblical name theology may be sought in the Kingdom of Israel of the
eighth century, if not earlier.”
The Second Tenet

Whatever the historical occasion (if ever such could be demonstrated), the second
traditional tenet of understanding Name Theology asserts that it is reactionary
along theological lines. Here Gerhard von Rad (one of the most influential of
the Name Theology architects) is the perfect spokesman.235 Von Rad (1953: 37–
44; 1966a: 103–124) was of the opinion that northern Ark versus southern tent
traditions could help unpack the D and P positions, respectively, on divine pres-
ence, including the former’s Name Theology and the latter’s kābôd theology.
Suffice it here to say that von Rad’s reconstruction was “open to serious question”
(McBride 1969: 30). Yet von Rad’s influence was long-lasting when he asserted
that “the Deuteronomic theologumenon of the name of Jahweh clearly holds a
polemic[al] element, or, to put it better, is a theological corrective . . . replacing the
old crude idea of Jahweh’s presence” (von Rad 1953: 38–39). Von Rad (1962: 184)
wrote elsewhere that Deuteronomy is “obviously attacking the older and more
popular idea of Jahweh’s immediate presence at the place of worship.”
Yet when it comes to immanence and anthropomorphism used of Yahweh, the
Hebrew Bible is replete with examples. Such notions are not found in just early
material, and they are hardly “crude.” Thus other analysts would see the Name
Theology as a corrective directed in another direction. Mettinger (1982b: 60)
argues forcefully that the Name Theology “functions polemically against the
Zion-Sabaoth traditions.” Given the events of 597 and 586 BCE, it was much easier
to avoid speaking of a powerful Yahweh sitting enthroned in a violated and/or
destroyed Jerusalem Temple. Instead, for Mettinger (1998: 8), “emphasis shifted
to God’s transcendence,” where Yahweh was “relocated to the heavens above.” But
what is at issue here is the nature of Yahweh’s presence and whether his locale was
only in the heavens (see the upcoming discussion of the fourth tenet).
The Third Tenet

The single sanctuary that is “chosen” to house Yahweh’s Name has almost uni-
versally been seen to be Jerusalem, with prominent advocates being Martin
Noth, Josef Schreiner, R. E. Clements, and S. Dean McBride.236 This is not to
say that other northern locales (e.g., Shechem, Bethel) have not been advo-
cated in the past and especially by those who emphasize the northern origins of
Deuteronomy’s Ur-tradition.237 Key to settling on Jerusalem has been McBride’s
(1969: 46, 198–204) study of the use of the verb bḥr (“to choose”) and how it was
employed to express the divine election of both the Davidic lineage and Zion.
When bḥr is used in the Name Theology formula, “it is never explicitly associated
with a sanctuary other than the Jerusalem Temple” (McBride 1969: 198).
At the same time, McBride (1969: 197) argues that “there is no substantial
reason to suppose that the Name Theology [per se] had a Jerusalem provenance.”
Here once again, one is forced to consider the data mentioned in our discussion
of the first tenet, especially Exodus 20:24. Thus McBride (1969: 209) concludes
that the final formula (“the place where Yahweh, your God, will choose to cause
his name to dwell”) presents us with “a synthetic construction” where the Name
Theology “in origin had nothing whatsoever to do with a singular or a centralized

Yahwistic cultus” yet came to embody “the election terminology of Jerusalem.”
Before we leave this section, it is important to mention the use of the Name
Theology as it is applied to Shiloh in Jeremiah 7:12. In his famous “temple
oracles” (Lundbom 1999: 458), the prophet warns those who hold fast to the in-
violability of Jerusalem to consider their past history. “Just go to my place that
was in Shiloh, where I made my name dwell at first [mĕqômî ʾăšer bĕšîlô ʾăšer
šikkantî šĕmî šām bāriʾšônâ] and see what I did to it because of the wickedness
of my people Israel.” As noted by McBride (1969: 47), this is “the only biblical
passage which explicitly associates Name Theology with a shrine other than the
one in Jerusalem.” This passage has been dismissed as secondary, the result of
the close connection between the authors and editors of the Deuteronomistic
material and the book of Jeremiah, and/or the rhetoric of the prophet making
an “ironic comparison, not engaging in tradition historical speculation.”238 Yet
we should not dismiss this material, especially when it is taken along with other
venerable passages that use Yahweh’s Name to designate his presence. The rhet-
oric of Jeremiah’s “carefully wrought discourse” against the Jerusalem Temple
(the “named” house of Yahweh [7:14]) would lose all its effectual power were
there no solid tradition of Yahweh’s Name once residing at Shiloh.239 In addition,
Jeremiah’s connection to Anathoth (Jer 1:1) would have made it likely (according
to Lundbom 1999: 468) that he would “have learned about Shiloh’s destruction
firsthand,” for “Shiloh’s traditions were doubtless preserved in Anathoth, which
lay only a short distance to the south and which carried on the Shiloh priestly
line through Abiathar (1 Kgs 2:26–27).” In the end it is preferable to side with
Mettinger (1982b: 132) when he concludes that Jer 7:12 (together with 2 Sam 6:2
and the name Samuel) yields “evidence that God’s Name was the object of special
veneration, and . . . may have played an important role in Shiloh, where the Ark
for a time made its home.”
Lastly, Sandra Richter (2002) has presented a dramatic challenge to traditional
Name Theology (see the next section). If Richter’s analysis holds true, then one
should consider how Richter (2007) also argues that the earliest locale for the
placing of Yahweh’s Name may have been at Mt. Ebal. Following an observation
first made by A. C. Welch in 1924, Richter (2007: 350 n. 23) notes “the incon-
gruity of a book supposedly focused on the centralization of worship in Jerusalem
portraying Moses [in Deut 27:1–8] commanding the Israelites to perform sacri-
fice and worship at Mt. Ebal” (emphasis Richter’s). Probing further, Richter asks a
most insightful question: “Who would try to legitimize a cult site at Ebal?”
The Fourth Tenet

The fourth tenet of Name Theology scholarship is by far the most controversial
and the one subject to the most revision in the days since the Name Theology
paradigm was first crafted. We will consider four views with regard to how
the placing of the Name functioned to designate divine presence: (1) that the
Name is only a symbol or marker of divine presence that functions to direct at-
tention toward Yahweh’s true and only abode, the heavenly realm; (2) that in a
mysterious way, the Name functioned as a marker of the practical presence of
Yahweh, who was also thought to be (simultaneously) in the heavens; (3) that
the Name functioned in a hypostatic way (or semi-hypostatic way) to represent
Yahweh; and (4) Richter’s bold claim that placing Yahweh’s Name marked his
ownership and hegemony thus undermining all the tenets of traditional Name
Theology.
Option 1. A dominant understanding of the Name Theology for many scholars
is grounded in the mention of Yahweh’s lack of “form” (tĕmûnâ) in Deuteronomy
4:11–12, 15–16 (studied on pp. 356–358) mixed with the repeated emphasis in 1
Kings 8 that Yahweh hears prayers from his location in heaven (1 Kgs 8:22, 30,
32, 34, 36, 39, 43, 45, 49, [54]). Indeed, four of these references (1 Kgs 8:30, 39, 43,
49) explicitly call heaven Yahweh’s “dwelling place” (mĕqôm/mĕkôn šibtĕkā). As if
to make the matter even clearer, 1 Kings 8:27 asks rhetorically:
But will God really dwell on earth? Even heaven and the highest heavens cannot
contain you; how much less this house that I have built!
From this aggregate of data, scholars conclude that such texts “emphasize that
God dwells in heaven and nowhere else” (Sommer 2009: 62). According to
Clements (1965b: 91), the Deuteronomistic Historian “fully and firmly rejected”
“all who believed that Yahweh dwelt on Mount Zion in his temple . . . Yahweh is
not a God who can be said to dwell anywhere on earth, but his only abode is in
heaven.” To again use Mettinger’s (1998: 8) language, “emphasis shifted to God’s
transcendence” where Yahweh was “relocated to the heavens above.”
As a result, and with Solomon’s prayer in 1 Kings 8:23–53 serving as the de-
finitive statement, “no longer does the temple symbolize the land to provide
a link between the natural and supernatural words. . . . Instead it is a house of
prayer” (Clements 1965b: 91). Similarly, Mettinger (1998: 6) writes: “God dwells
in heaven [alone] and the temple becomes a house of prayer.”
Yet such a view seems strained and overly restrictive. We have already noted
(pp. 357–358) the insightful critique of Wilson (1995: 97) that Deuteronomy
envisions “the localization as well as the transcendence of YHWH.” While there
is no concrete “form” (as in a divine statue of precious metal), there is nonethe-
less the localization of deity on earth through fire and other ethereal images.
Deuteronomy 4:36 explicitly refers to the presence of Yahweh both in heaven
and on earth via “his great fire” that the people are indeed allowed to see (wĕʿal-
hāʾāreṣ herʾăkā ʾet-ʾiššô haggĕdôlâ).240 We need also to remember the older
traditions that inform what we have in Deuteronomy, such as laws of warfare

and notions of Yahweh going before the people in battle (e.g., Deut 1:30; 20:4;
31:6 and 23:15 [Eng 23:14]).241 Here Yahweh is described as “the one who mar-
ches with you to fight for you against your enemies” (yhwh ʾĕlōhêkem hahōlēk
ʿimmākem lĕhillāḥēm lākem ʿim-ʾōyĕbêkem) and as “the one who walks in the
midst of your camp” (yhwh ʾĕlōhêkā mithallēk bĕqereb maḥănekā).242
Moreover, past interpretations of 1 Kings 8 have been unduly narrow and
overly privileged.243 Those verses mentioning Yahweh’s presence in heaven have
been emphasized, while those that specifically mention the localized presence
of divinity (e.g., the Ark in 1 Kgs 8:5–9 and the kābôd in 1 Kgs 8:10–11) have
been minimized or ignored. Of particular note are the cultic observances that
coincide with the localized presence. Specific mention is made of the sacrifice of
sheep and oxen in great (even exaggerated) quantities by Solomon and all Israel
both at the beginning (8:5) and end of the chapter (8:62). In 1 Kings 8:62 these
sacrifices are done “before Yahweh.”244 In short, if 1 Kings 8 is treated as a whole,
then—as with Deuteronomy 12 (cf. 12:5–6, 11, 13–14; 26:2–4)—the place where
Yahweh’s Name dwells constitutes sacred space, and as such was a place of cultic
activity. It would make little sense in the context of ancient Near Eastern temple
economies to have such cultic activity if the Jerusalem Temple was envisioned as
only a “forwarding station” for prayer.
The only way in which we could imagine 1 Kings 8 as not localizing Yahweh
both on earth and in heaven would be if we separated Solomon’s prayer and its
Name Theology from its present context and dated them to the exilic period,
when the Temple is destroyed. Yet Knoppers (2000; 1995a) has argued deci-
sively that there is “substantial literary evidence” for the unity of 1 Kings 8,
which functions much better in a late pre-exilic context (“the time in which the
Deuteronomist likely wrote his work”) to legitimize the Jerusalem Temple.245
Knoppers (2000: 370) argues: “Rather than indicating a devaluation or demy-
thologization of the Temple, the Solomonic blessings, invocations, and petitions
expand the Temple’s role in Israelite life.”246
Thus in our opinion, this option is the weakest of the positions (so too
Hundley 2009: 551). It is preferable to consider the way in which the Name of
Yahweh functioned to mark the real presence of Yahweh on earth (along with his
presence in heaven). Options 2 and 3 address just such a notion.
Option 2. This option, according to Hundley (2009: 553), argues that “the
presence of YHWH’s name in the temple expresses God’s practical yet ineffable
presence. . . . [T]‌he name does not ensure physical presence [but] it does ensure
practical presence.” Emphasizing the covenantal context of the various name for-
mulae, Hundley adds that “the Deuteronomist’s use of the name attaches YHWH
to the temple so that his power, character, actions and reputation are intimately
connected with it and the people who worship in it.”
The Deuteronomistic Name tradition could indeed be reacting (in accord

with the second tenet) against the conceptual matrix of Zion-Sabaoth traditions
and yet not necessarily because of the “catastrophe of exile” (in contrast to the
first tenet). According to Mettinger (1982b: 24–28), the Zion-Sabaoth tradi-
tion emphasized two key aspects: Yahweh Sabaoth is depicted as king (e.g., Ps
24:7–10), and Yahweh is invisibly enthroned on the cherubim in the Jerusalem
Temple (Ps 46:5–8 [Eng 46:4–7]; Ps 76:3 [Eng 76:2]; Jer 8:19). This results in a
dual conception of divinity. This portrayal of Yahweh, according to Mettinger
(1982b: 25), “is simultaneously both aniconic (i.e., without icon) and anthropo-
morphic . . . No divine image reposes on the cherubim throne [and yet] God
reigns there invisibly like a king in his palace.”
The Deuteronomistic Name Theology could be emphasizing the second aspect
(Yahweh’s presence in the Jerusalem Temple) yet without the anthropomorphic
problem that is inherent with the notion of a king sitting on throne. While the
Name Theology might be termed “mysterious” (Hundley 2009: 552–554), it is not
overly so. By choosing Yahweh’s Name to depict his essence and active, abiding
presence, the Deuteronomistic tradition is simply choosing one abstract expres-
sion over other abstract ideas (e.g., invisibility, kābôd radiance). If 1 Kings 8 with
its frequent Name Theology (1 Kgs 8:16–20, 29, 41–44, 48) is a unified whole, then
the Deuteronomist is even more adept as he sews his new (and supersessionist)
religious ideas into the folds of older Ark (1 Kgs 8:5–9) and kābôd (1 Kgs 8:10–
11) traditions. Once again, Knoppers (2000: 393; 1995a: 251) comments: “Even
as [the Deuteronomist’s] dedication of the temple inaugurates a new era in Israel’s
history, it begins and ends with cultic institutions of the Sinaitic era.”
Option 3. The third option is a nuanced variant of the second option. It too
underscores that Yahweh was present in a very real way in the Jerusalem Temple
via the presence of his name. What it adds to the discussion is how divine names
can function hypostatically.
McBride (1969) articulated the most nuanced and best-researched defense of
this position, which he grounded in the study of the Hebrew Bible’s ancient Near
Eastern context.247 The tendency in the ancient Near East to personify and then
deify temples and related cultic objects is well known. McCarter (1987: 147–148)
points to the deity Bethel as one of the best examples.248 McBride (1969: 130)
stresses that there was also “a tendency to personify in greater and lesser degree
the epithets, functions, attributes and qualities of high gods.” In turn, “the var-
ious facets of a god . . . were themselves often portrayed as semi-independent dei-
ties.” In other words, we are dealing with the hypostasization of a deity. The noun
“hypostasis” is well known from Greek authors (cf. Liddell and Scott 1996: s.v.
“hypostasis”), philosophy, and Christian theology to designate the essential na-
ture, essence, or underlying reality of a substance.
McBride defined it as follows:
Specifically, by “hypostasis” is meant a quality, epithet, attribute, manifestation

or the like of a deity which through a process of personification and differentia-
tion has become distinct (if not fully independent) divine being in its own right.
(McBride 1969: 5)
This is not the place to discuss the various types of hypostatic representations
of deities.249 Suffice it here to note that names of deities were used hypostati-
cally, with the best Northwest Semitic examples being ʿAthtartu-Name-of-Baʿlu
from Ugarit, “the Name of El” (šm ʾl) at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, the deity ʾăšîmāʾ men-
tioned in 2 Kings 17:30 (cf. Cogan 1999), and Eshem-Bethel from Elephantine
(cf. McCarter 1987: 147).250 In addition, there are a large number of Northwest
Semitic examples where the noun “name” functions as the theophoric element in
onomastica.
Such Northwest Semitic examples are relevant for setting the backdrop of
Deuteronomistic Name Theology. Other biblical texts fill in additional back-
ground. The best example of a hypostatic use of “the Name of Yahweh” in the
Hebrew Bible is found in Isaiah 30:27–33:
The Name of Yahweh [šēm-yhwh] comes from afar,

In blazing wrath . . .
His tongue like a devouring fire,
His breath like a raging torrent . . .
In raging wrath,
In a devouring blaze of fire,
In tempest, and rainstorm, and hailstones.
Truly, at the thunder of Yahweh
Assyria will be seized with terror,
As [Yahweh] smites with [his] staff. (Isa 30:27–28a, 30b–31)
In many ways, the process of hypostasization is most understandable when one

considers the many instances where the Name of Yahweh is used in parallel to
Yahweh. To cite just one such passage, consider Psalm 20:
May Yahweh answer you in the day of trouble!

May the Name of the God of Jacob protect you! . . .
May we shout for joy over your victory,

arrayed by [military] standards in the Name of our God! . . .
They [call] on chariots, they [call] on horses;

but we invoke the Name of Yahweh our God: . . .
“O Yahweh, grant victory!”

May the King answer us in the day of our invocation. (Ps 20:2, 6, 8,
10 [= Eng 20:1, 5, 7, 9])
Applying the phenomenon of hypostasization to the Name Theology results in

the following nuanced understanding. The “personified” Name of Yahweh (due
to its semi-independent nature) can “dwell” in the Jerusalem Temple, while at
the same time Yahweh can reside in heaven. Because it is distinct (and semi-
independent), the Name can reside in the temple apart from Yahweh in heaven,
and yet because it still captures the “essential nature” or “essence” of Yahweh, its
use avoids any charge of bifurcation of Yahweh. Or, using the words from option
2, the Name of Yahweh can in a real hypostatic way represent the practical pres-
ence of the deity, who can simultaneously reside in heaven.
Note that by personifying an abstract concept such as a “name,” the
Deuteronomistic tradition can once again avoid the anthropomorphism of the
deity that characterized the Yahweh Sabaoth traditions. The notion of a “name
dwelling” is qualitatively different from the picture of a king sitting on a throne.
Moreover, because the Name is associated with the divine warrior and Ark
traditions, the Deuteronomists are again able to weave their new portrayal into
the fabric of ancient Israel’s past lore.
To see this, one needs to consider how divine names were thought to contain
“effectual power” that could be accessed in the here and now if properly invoked
(Lewis 2011). For the present discussion, notice how the divine name Yahweh is
particularly associated with the use of the Ark as a war palladium. In 2 Samuel
6:1–2 we find the following description that includes a performative utterance:
David assembled all the elite troops of Israel—thirty thousands—and [he] and
the entire army that was with him went to Baalah to bring up from there the
Holy Ark over which the [following] name was invoked [ʾăšer-niqrāʾ šēm]:
The Name: “Yahweh of Armies, He Who Is Seated upon the Cherubim”
[šēm: yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt yōšēb hakkĕrubîm]251
Consider also how the divine name functions in “ritual warfare,” as articulated
in the “Song of the Ark” found in Numbers 10:35–36. The following words were
pronounced when the Ark set out to battle and then returned from battle:
Arise,252 O Yahweh,
May your enemies be scattered;
May your adversaries flee before you . . .
Return, O Yahweh, [with] the myriads
[El with] the thousands of Israel.253
If we wed these Ark traditions with Jeremiah 7:12’s mention of Shiloh being
the first place where Yahweh “made his Name dwell,” then perhaps one could
posit that military contexts formed part of the backdrop of the developing Name
Theology. Consider here the popular story of David battling Goliath:
Then David said to the Philistine, “You come against me with sword, spear
and scimitar; but I come against you with the Name of Yahweh of Armies
[bĕšēm yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt], the God of the ranks of Israel, whom you have defied.” (1
Sam 17:45)
In many respects, 1 Samuel 17:45 is like the Name Theology (and contrary to
the Yahweh Sabaoth traditions) in how it avoids anthropomorphic details about
Yahweh going to battle. It is not Yahweh of Armies (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt) who goes to
battle like “a man of war” (ʾîš milḥāmâ) (so Exod 15:3), but rather “the Name
of Yahweh of Armies” that achieves victory (and without sword and spear, ac-
cording to 1 Sam 17:47).254 In an analogous way, just as the divine warrior was
thought to return to and reside in his temple after victory, so the Name Theology
has the Name of Yahweh residing in his chosen sanctuary.255
We might also add here a fragment of epic tradition. According to McBride
(1969: 208), in Exodus 23:20–22 (classically assigned to the E literary strand) “we
find Yahweh’s ‘name’ functioning as a semi-hypostasis, embodied in the figure of
the divine malʾāk.” In this passage, Yahweh says:
“I am sending [my] malʾāk before you, to guard you on the way and to bring
you to the place that I have prepared. Give heed to him and listen to his voice.
Do not rebel against him, for he will not pardon your offenses; for my name
is in him [kî šĕmî bĕqirbô]. But if you listen attentively to his voice and do all
that I say, then I will be an enemy to your enemies and an adversary to your
adversaries.”
This passage should be paired with Exodus 33:2–3, which again shows how the
semi-independent malʾāk serves as a barrier against lethal divinity:
“I will send [my] malʾāk before you, and I will drive out the Canaanites, the
Amorites, the Hittites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites. [Go up to] a
land flowing with milk and honey; but I will not go up in your midst [bĕqirbĕkā],
lest I consume you [pen-ʾăkelkā] on the way, for you are a stiff-necked people.”
As we saw elsewhere with Yahweh being portrayed with the language of “con-
suming fire” (ʾēš ʾōkelet), here Yahweh’s lethality is “consuming” (ʾăkelkā). As
we saw earlier (especially in Judges 13), here the malʾāk figure is used once again
to depict divine presence in a way that shields people from the danger of a direct
encounter with divinity.
In summary, we should ask how the “hypostatic theory” ties in with the Name
Theology’s additional emphasis on Yahweh residing in heaven. It would seem that
while Yahweh dwells in heaven, from which he answers prayers (1 Kgs 8: [22], 30,
32, 34, 36, 39, 43, 45, 49, [54]), on earth his hypostatic name (representing le-
thal power in battle and otherwise) resides in the temple with the Ark, the war
palladium. Deuteronomistic Name Theology rejects the throne image and its
anthropomorphism but embraces an aniconic name that nonetheless contains ef-
fective power and especially in the contexts of battles that are fought on earth, not
heaven.256
Option 4. The final view with regard to how the placing of the Name func-
tioned to designate divine presence is that of Richter. Richter’s study on Name
Theology is so impressive that even her critics call it “a high-profile contribution”
that “stands head and shoulders above much that is being published in the disci-
pline of Hebrew Bible” (Mettinger 2003: 753). As with the third option, Richter
grounds her new insights by situating the Name Theology phraseology within the
context of the ancient Near East, in particular cognate expressions in Akkadian.
After examining Akkadian cognate expressions for the Hebrew lĕšakkēn
šĕmô šām and lāśûm šĕmô šām, Richter concludes that the idiom and usage are
so close that the two Hebrew phrases must be, respectively, a loan adaptation
and a calque of the Akkadian. The basic meaning of the Akkadian šuma šakānu,
occurring especially on royal monumental inscriptions, is “to place one’s inscrip-
tion upon a monument in order to claim that monument as one’s own and to
commemorate one’s great deeds” (Richter 2002: 183, 204). Extended meanings
of placing one’s name include claiming territory and acquiring fame. Of special
note, argues Richter (2002: 203), is the presence of such idiomatic expressions
in the first-millennium Levantine monumental tradition, with particular atten-
tion being assigned to the ninth-century BCE inscription from Tell Fakhariyah.
This text is particularly noteworthy because it is a rare bilingual example that can
show Akkadian and Old Aramaic counterparts.257
Thus, according to Richter (2002: 205, 217), the Deuteronomist tradition is
“not generating a new idiom” but rather adopting Akkadian vocabulary “to em-
phasize the sovereignty and fame of Yhwh by right of conquest. As had the great
kings and heroes of Mesopotamian history and legend, Yhwh states that he has
‘placed his name’ in the Promised Land. The king has captured this new territory;
he has claimed it as his own.”
According to Richter, then, the simple transitive meaning of the Hebrew
lĕšakkēn šĕmô šām (“to place his name there”) is to be preferred over the D
factitive translation (“to cause his name to dwell”). As a result, there is no
Deuteronomistic Name Theology with the divine name dwelling in the temple
to represent Yahweh’s presence. According to Richter (2002: 216), the scholarly

construction of a Name Theology “simply cannot be defended.” “The deutero-
nomic idiom used in Deuteronomy and the D[euteronomistic] H[istory], out-
side of a Kings 8 and 2 Kgs 23:27 . . . [has] nothing to do with a reinterpretation of
the mode of divine presence at the cult site.”
For all of Richter’s many insights, significant problems remain. The biggest
drawback of Richter’s study is its lack of any discussion of how cultic observ-
ance was understood by the Deuteronomist under her scenario.258 If there is
no representation of the deity (even an aniconic symbol or the “practical pres-
ence” of a hypostatic name) residing in the Jerusalem Temple, then how does cult
take place? Where does one bring offerings “before Yahweh”? Why would the
Deuteronomistic tradition concentrate so much effort on centralizing worship
to a sacred locale if no cult could take place because there was no deity present
to receive it? Would the space absent a deity still be sacred enough for the pur-
pose of sacrifice and pilgrimage? (How often was pilgrimage made and offerings
brought to monumental stelae in the ancient Near East commemorating a deity’s
ownership and hegemony?)
Moreover, John van Seters (2003a) has astutely noted how the idiom of
“building a house for the name of Yahweh” (libnôt bayit lĕšēm yhwh) “was created
by [the Deuteronomist] as the equivalent of lĕšakkēn šĕmô šām, and yet it is not
directly dependent upon any foreign usage and cannot be explained by Richter’s
metaphorical use.” Richter (2002: 71) did address one such passage (2 Sam 7:13)
in her monograph and nicely noted (based on 2 Sam 7:26) how such a house
could be built to increase the reputation of Yahweh, a notion that would coin-
cide with her revised understanding. Yet where her analysis breaks down is with
a passage such as 1 Kings 3:2 (on which she fails to comment): “The people were
sacrificing the high places because no house had yet been built for the name of
Yahweh.” Here it is clear that the temple that was built for the Name was thought
to be a place of sacrifice, not just commemoration.
Richter’s theory then would fall under the same critique as that leveled at op-
tion 1, where the temple was reduced to a place of prayer only. Indeed, Richter
would have an even harder time responding, for she does not hold to an exilic
date for the Deuteronomist, as does Mettinger (Richter 2002: 5–7). Hurowitz has
challenged Richter on precisely these grounds:
Without Name Theology, the Temple on earth will be rendered completely void
of divine presence, serving at most as a forwarding station for prayer and per-
iscope into the true divine essence above. Is it reasonable to assume that even
reformers such as the Deuteronomists could deviate so far from the ancient
Near Eastern norm as to devoid the highly esteemed place of worship of all
vestiges of its original essence as a house of God? (Hurowitz 2004–2005)
Conclusion: The Use of the Divine “Name” (Šēm) to Depict the

Presence of Yahweh
As was hinted at the outset, little remains of the four traditional tenets that made
up the systematic Name Theology of past generations. The revised Name Theology
presented here affirms the following: (1) Name Theology adherents were working
within long-standing traditions that were in place well before the events of 597
and 586 BCE. In addition, we side with those scholars who argue for pre-exilic
editions of the Deuteronomistic History that included Name Theology. (2) Name
Theology was indeed reactionary in that it did not choose the rich vocabulary of
“radiance” to describe divine presence (yet cf. 1 Kgs 8:10–11). For that matter,
it even avoids completely any reference to divine fire (cf. Deut 4:36)!259 Nor
was it comfortable with the anthropomorphism of divinity implied by Yahweh
marching forth to battle, walking in the camp, or sitting as a king on a throne. At
the same time, as represented by 1 Kings 8 (if 1 Kgs 8:5, 10–11 are not secondary),
it is preferable to envision the Name Theology as representing a parallel stream
of tradition that incorporated, rejected, and supplemented the particulars of al-
ternative modes of divine presence. (3) While Jerusalem eventually comes to be
understood as the chosen place where Yahweh has his name dwell, references to
different, earlier understandings are noteworthy. These included various locales
where Yahweh’s presence would be manifest via his name (Exod 20:24) and es-
pecially the use of Name Theology with regard to Shiloh (Jer 7:12). (4) As to the
way in which Yahweh was present through his name in the Jerusalem Temple,
the preference here is to reject both options (1 and 4) that reduced the temple to
a mere house of prayer. The phenomenon of temples being understood as houses
where deities reside is ubiquitous throughout the entire ancient Near East, of
which ancient Israel was a part. The temple economies associated with such an
understanding and the core nature of sacred space as a place of sacrifice and pil-
grimage demand the presence of divinity. The most likely avenue to unpack Name
Theology is to understand the effective power of divine names and the way in
which they could function hypostatically as the practical presence of the deity.
Sacred Emptiness and Archaeological Correlates
If seeing is believing, then not seeing may be even more so. Where our eyes can no
longer penetrate, or can barely distinguish the outlines of things, sight gives way to
insight. (Mack 2007: 208)260
Modern worshippers (especially in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) are so ac-

customed to worshipping an invisible God that little thought is given to how rev-
olutionary the idea was in its original ancient Near Eastern context. Elsewhere
throughout the ancient Near East, images of the deity (or deities) were the focal
point of religious ritual performance. The greatest of care was taken in the pro-
duction of such images, including the selection of the artisans, the precious
materials used, the place of manufacture, and the manner by which the images
were “quickened,” “birthed,” and/or consecrated for ritual use. Elaborate atten-
tion was given to how images of the divine then functioned in the cult.
In this context, to come across the sacred emptiness of the Jerusalem Temple is
striking. As we have noted, many abstract ideas (some complementary and some ex-
clusionary) vied for attention as to how best to conceptualize a deity who did not take
up residence through an anthropomorphic divine image made of precious metal or
even a standing stone as in the Arad temple. The Yahweh-Sabaoth traditions per-
ceived Yahweh to be invisibly enthroned on cherubim, and the Name Theology ar-
ticulated a cultically available presence that was nonetheless unseen. Other Judean
theologians argued not for invisibility but for the ethereal images of radiance and fire
that they thought better captured the fascinans and tremendum of Yahweh.
It is nearly impossible to suggest archaeological correlates for such abstract
expressions, and there is no possibility of exploring the material culture of the
Jerusalem Temple. (Yet scholars [e.g., Monson (2006), Dever (2006)] have tried
to correlate the literary description of the Jerusalem Temple in the Hebrew Bible
with what we know of other Iron Age temples in the Levant that are attested in
the archaeological record.) Many have addressed sacred space from both archae-
ological and literary perspectives. Thus our discussion here will remain brief.
The impact of the Iron Age Ayn Dara temple in neighboring Syria needs to
be weighed in any discussion of sacred emptiness in the Levant. See the discus-
sion and pictures on pp. 340–343 (Figures 7.21–7.22). The abstract artisans here
depicted a transcendent, enormous unseen deity who was nonetheless imma-
nent, as evidenced by the footprints he/she left behind (cf. Ezek 43:7; Ps 77:20
[Eng 77:19]). Studies in materiality help us to understand the power of such art
in sacred space to reinforce (repeatedly over time) its message of both transcend-
ence and immanence to any person with access to the temple.
Such an artistic rendering provides a strong corrective to any who would sug-
gest that the religious ideas of the Iron Age Levant were narrow, small-minded,
or conceptually primitive. Some scholars who advocate that there must have
been an anthropomorphic image of Yahweh in the Jerusalem Temple flirt with
such notions, downplaying any historical reality behind the various aniconic/ab-
stract streams of tradition. A priori, there should not be any barrier to assuming
that Judean sculptors (especially those employing Phoenician artisans) were ca-
pable of similar abstract representation. In other words, the representation of an
invisible yet colossal deity in the Iron Age Ayn Dara temple makes the portrayal
of a larger-than-life Yahweh invisibly seated on a cherubim throne roughly 17
ft. (5.2 m) high (Figure 7.24) worth considering as a historical reality and not
Figure 7.24 According to biblical tradition, Yahweh is invisibly enthroned on two

large cherubim in Solomon’s Temple.
Image from T. N. D. Mettinger, In Search of God, © Fortress Press. Reproduced by permission.
the mere musings of literary religion. Bloch-Smith (1994: 21), who also notes
the relevance of the Ayn Dara temple, writes: “A god of cosmic size is omnipo-
tent, omnipresent, and reigns for eternity. The immense cherubim throne in the
[Jerusalem] Temple dĕbîr, 10 cubits high and 10 cubits wide (ca. 5.3 by 5.3 m),
attests to the Israelites’ vision of their god as superhuman in size.”261
Pragmatic Focal Points: Ark and Cherubim

In our discussion regarding the lack of an anthropomorphic image of Yahweh in
the Jerusalem Temple, we noted two astute questions raised by Niehr: how would
Yahweh have been perceived as being vitally present in the Jerusalem Temple, and
how would actual temple ritual have worked without a divine image? We have
sketched the various ways in which abstract traditions envisioned Yahweh’s pres-
ence. What remains is Niehr’s second query, the actual practice of ritual. In other
words, most sacred spaces have a focal point of some kind riveting the actions
(and eyes) of participants to what is most important. Even aniconic traditions
have such focal points. Modern examples include the qibla pointer or mihrab
niche in a mosque that indicates the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca and hence
the direction Muslims should face when praying. In the center of most Jewish
synagogues one finds an elevated platform known as the bimah that directs one’s
eyes to the reading of the Torah. In Roman Catholic churches the raised altar is
the focal point, as it is the place where reside the bread and wine that undergo the
process of transubstantiation.
According to the Yahweh-Sabaoth traditions, the focal points for the Jerusalem
Temple were the Ark and the cherubim.262 These metonymic representations
were sanctioned, with no hint of polemic ever being recorded against their le-
gitimacy.263 As noted by Cross (1998: 91), “the portable Ark with its cherubim
became the ‘centerpiece’ usurping the place of the divine image of Canaanite
temples.” Na’aman (1999a: 410–411; 2006a: 329) comments in similar fashion
and notes the role of the Ark as an attention-focusing device:
Like the divine image in other ancient Near Eastern civilizations, the ark was a
focal point of the divine presence. It was carried into battle in accordance with
the idea that God marches in front of His people, just as standards of gods were
taken to battle by other Near Eastern nations. . . . The great sanctity attached to
the ark in biblical historiography and the psalms was because it was the most
sacred object of YHWH that was taken out of the temple and shown in public.
Although the Cherubim throne was located inside the Holy of Holies and was
seen only by a few priests of high rank, the ark was taken out for festivals and
wars and was seen by the people.
Knoppers (2004: 591–592) notes the “tremendous reverence for the Ark” as well
as “the association between the Ark and Yhwh’s presence that led the Israelites to
bring the Ark into battle. . . thinking that the ancient palladium’s power would
ensure victory . . . [T]‌he Ark is associated with lethal power.” Traditions about
the Ark as Yahweh’s effective presence in war are attested in the early cult at
Shiloh (1 Sam 4:3–4). We have already noted (pp. 364–365) how the Hebrew
Bible portrays the terror of the Philistines, who interpreted the Ark as “God” (or
“gods,” ʾĕlōhîm) coming into the camp (1 Sam 4:7–8). As to its association with
divine lethality, one need only read the tragic story of the well-intentioned Uzzah
in 2 Samuel 6:6–7 (//1 Chr 13:9–10).264
As for cultic contexts, Mettinger (1982b: 19) remarks how the Ark “no doubt
possessed a numinous aura.” Hillers (1968: 48) has noted that “there seems to be
a general agreement that the ark was carried in recurring cultic processions, into
Jerusalem and into the temple.”265 One of the key building blocks for establishing
this consensus was Sigmund Mowinckel’s hypothesis about the enthronement
festival of Yahweh that has since undergone harsh criticism.266 Nevertheless, it
is clear that one need not embrace Mowinckel’s enthronement hypothesis to see
how the Ark was used in procession as a focal point that directed attention to
Yahweh’s presence. This is especially evident in Numbers 10:35–36, Psalm 132, 2
Samuel 6, and Psalm 24 (cf. too Ps 47:6 [Eng 47:5]; 68:1).
The oldest Ark tradition seems to be preserved in the ritual warfare of
Numbers 10:35–36, the “Song of the Ark” (see translation on p. 388). It is clear
that the Ark stands for Yahweh (either as a pedestal for the invisible deity or as a
representational emblem of the deity). It is addressed as such as it proceeds forth
to battle and returns. With similar language Psalm 132:8 proclaims:
Advance O Yahweh to/from267 your resting place,

You and your powerful Ark.
Cross (1973: 94) views these words as an “allusion to the processional of the Ark
when Yahweh first took up his abode on Zion.” It is not a coincidence that these
words are quoted in later tradition by the Chronicler as he describes Solomon’s
prayer to Yahweh as he enters into the temple (2 Chr 6:41). Hans-Joachim Kraus
(1989: 481) concurs: “Psalm 132 is clearly dominated by the entry of Yahweh and
the election of the sanctuary.” We are reminded here of “entry rituals” elsewhere
in the ancient Near East where divine images were carried in procession into
royal palaces and sanctuaries (see Chapter Five, pp. 136–138). Such actions were
often carried out as a part of the royal cult.
When the Ark was initially brought to Jerusalem (2 Samuel 6), David danced
and sacrificed before it. Such actions were repeatedly described as being done
“before Yahweh” (2 Sam 6:5, 14, 16–17, 21). While Psalm 24 makes no explicit
mention of the Ark, scholars universally view its liturgy of divine entry into the
temple (“Who is this King of Glory?” [melek hakkābôd]) as involving the Ark.268
Cross views Psalm 24:7–10 as “a tenth-century B.C. liturgical fragment,” an “an-
tiphonal liturgy . . . (that) had its origin in the procession of the Ark to the sanc-
tuary at its founding, celebrated annually in the cult of Solomon and perhaps
even of David.”269 Kraus (1988: 312, 316) agrees that Psalm 24 (“that reflects
events of the time of David”) “involves a cultic antiphonal song, a liturgical cer-
emonial, which doubtlessly is connected with an entrance of the holy ark to the
temple in Jerusalem.”
Thus, in addition to being a focal point of divine presence in battle and cultic
contexts, the Ark also played a symbolic role of divine presence for royal legiti-
mation. Baruch Halpern (2001: 334–335) has noted the prestige that accords to
Solomon in 1 Kings 8 as he invites Yahweh (via the Ark) to a sacrificial “banquet”
at the consecration of the Jerusalem Temple (1 Kgs 8:5, 62–64). This is analogous,
says Halpern, to how Aššurnasirpal II received prestige when he invited his state
god Aššur and “the gods of all the land” (presumably via their cult statues) to his
elaborate sacrificial banquet when he consecrated his palace at Nimrud (ancient

Kalhu/Calah).270 “The purpose” of both banquets, complete with large numbers
inflating the amount of sacrifices, was “to invite the presence of the chief god into
the king’s monumental construction.”
While documenting the actual Ark may be the fascination of Hollywood
productions and sensationalized documentaries about its presence in Ethiopia,
readers will find no coverage of it in any respectable archaeological reference
work. This doesn’t mean that scholars have kept silent about describing parallel
phenomena of similar-sized chests and carrying poles, with examples from Egypt
being mentioned most often (e.g., Kitchen 1993: 125*; cf. Zobel 1974: 367–368;
Seow 1992: 388).
The importance of the cherubim is reflected in Zevit’s (2001: 316) comment
that the cherub was “the icon most closely associated with YHWH.” The majesty
of these creatures has caused scholars to refer to them by terminology other than
“cherubim” (e.g., Propp [2006: 386] prefers “griffin”) lest readers conjure images
of cute, plump winged toddlers from the canvas of Raphael’s Sistine Madonna
or his The Vision of Ezekiel. The Hebrew Bible attests to varying conceptions of
these mysterious, hybrid winged beings (cf. Wood 2008). Yet despite different
portrayals, it is safe to say that wherever cherubim appear, attention is focused.
We have remarked on the attention-grabbing start of Ezekiel’s vision, with its
fantastic cherubim creatures (Ezek 1:5–25), which leads to seeing the very pres-
ence (kābôd) of deity (Ezek 1:26–28).
The J (or non-P) literary source found in Genesis 3:24 describes how Yahweh
stationed the cherubim along with “the flame of the ever-whirling sword” (on
which see p. 349) to guard (lišmōr) the way to the tree of life. This is one of the few
explicit references to the guarding function of the cherubim, a striking absence
when one considers the frequent mention of winged composite beasts (so-called
Mischwesen) that acted as guardians in the ancient Near East (cf. the aladlammu
discussion that follows).271 The P source has an altogether different under-
standing that associates paired cherubim with the tabernacle (Exod 25:18–22;
37:7–9). Here they are made of hammered (?) gold and are of the same approxi-
mate size as the Ark of the Testimony (ʾărōn hāʿēdut) on top of which they were
fixed (i.e., 2.5 cubits [about 42 in. (106 cm)] long, 1.5 cubits [25 in. (63 cm)] wide,
and 1.5 cubits [25 in. (63 cm)] high [cf. Exod 25:10; 37:1]). What they lack in size,
they make up in symbolism. According to this P material, the cherubim are in-
timately tied to the “atonement dais” or “mercy seat” (i.e., the kappōret, “cover”)
atop the Ark, where Yahweh promises “to meet” (wĕnôʿadtî) with the priestly
representative (Exod 25:22). Hence the tabernacle (miškān) is called the “Tent
of Meeting” (ʾōhel môʿēd). There is a curious reference in Exodus 25:20 (cf. 1 Kgs
8:7) to the cherubim functioning “to shelter” or “to shield” “over the kappōret
cover” with their wings (sōkĕkîm bĕkanpêhem ʿal-hakkappōret). Perhaps this is
elliptical for shielding (the priest) from the danger of divine lethality as the two
parties met at the kappōret.
The most imposing examples of cherubim are the paired colossal beasts in the
Jerusalem Temple. According to 1 Kings 6:19–28, they were majestic in beauty
(gold overlay) and sheer size, and were located (like P’s cherubim) in the inner-
most sanctuary (dĕbîr, bĕtôk habbayit happĕnîmî; 1 Kgs 6:23, 27; bĕbêt-qōdeš
haqqŏdāšîm; 2 Chr 3:8–10). Each was 10 cubits (approx. 15–17 ft. [4.6–5.2 m])
high, and their combined wingspan was 20 cubits (approx. 30–34 ft. [9.2–10.4
m]). In terms of the dimensions of the innermost shrine, their wings reached
from one wall to the other (1 Kgs 6:20, 23–27; 2 Chr 3:8–13).
In presentations large (1 Kgs 6) and small (Exod 25, 37), the cherubim are un-
mistakable focal points. Their importance is reinforced further by their replica-
tion on the furnishings of the sanctuary, including repetitive cherubim scenes on
fabric (Exod 26:1, 31; 36:8, 35; 2 Chr 3:14), on carvings (1 Kgs 6:29, 32, 35; Ezek
41:18–20; 2 Chr 3:7), and on metalwork (1 Kgs 7:29, 36). (Figure 7.25 represents
a cherub/sphinx carved in ivory from ninth-century BCE Hazor.) Granted, the
Figure 7.25 A cherub/sphinx carved on an ivory plaque from ninth-century

BCE Hazor.
number of viewers of the cherubim in the inner sanctum was severely restricted;
only elite priests could see them, thanks to the gradations of holiness found in
the Temple complex, where the holier the space, the more restricted the access.
The sheer size of the cherubim in 1 Kings 6 evoked divine wonder similar to
how viewers (ancient and modern) were/are awed at first glimpse of a hybrid
Neo-Assyrian aladlammu (a human-headed winged bull) that can stand 16 ft.
(4.9 m) high. (Well-known examples are at the Louvre [Figure 7.26], the British
Museum, the Oriental Institute Museum, and the Metropolitan Museum of
Art.)272 Zevit (2001: 317) also notes these sculptures (sometimes referred to as
lamassu figures), pointing out how their precise form and function (especially
their guardian and apotropaic uses) keep them distinct from cherubim. Alice
Wood (2008: 155) argues the contrary position. It is worth noting that cher-
ubim do have guarding functions (Gen 3:24). The physical arrangement of the
two colossal cherubim in 1 Kings 6:23–28 may have served symbolically to guard
Yahweh’s throne. Notice too should be made of how the consensus regarding the
Figure 7.26 A hybrid Neo-Assyrian human-headed, winged bull called aladlammu

or lamassu.
Marie-Lan Nguyen, taken at the Louvre. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Human_
headed_winged_bull_Louvre_AO19859.jpg.
etymology of Hebrew kĕrubîm points to a relationship with the Akkadian cognate

kāribu (“one who gives adoration”), a term used of the Neo-Assyrian monumental
guardian sculptures.273 Be that as it may, our point here is that the existence of
extant aladlammu (lamassu) sculptures can serve heuristically to help us imagine
the wonder of seeing the monumental cherubim that have not been preserved for
us.274 Both would have created a sense of respect, fear, mystery, and wonder be-
cause of their size and their mixed (i.e., unearthly) form. We have already noted
the connection between large size and divinity (see pp. 393–394). As for physical
form, Meyers (1992b: 900) has remarked how the appearance of the cherubim
“made them apt symbols for divine presence, since deities moved where humans
could not and were something other than either animals or humans.”
Yet the wonder does not stop here. While the cherubim of the tabernacle and
Temple are stationary, others are in motion, as one could have surmised from
their wings. (Ezek 1:15–21 adds omnidirectional wheels.)275 Poetic lore describes
Yahweh as a storm god riding on the clouds, similar to Ugaritic Baʿlu (cf. Ps 68:5
[Eng 68:4]), with the following imagery:
[Yahweh] bent the heavens and came down,

A storm cloud under his feet.
He rode [yirkab] a cherub and flew,
He soared on the wings of the wind.276 (Ps 18:10–11//2 Sam 22:10–11)
For a poetic focal point, note how the movement of the cherubim in Ezekiel’s
vision fixes and holds the prophet’s attention, as does the thunderous sound of
their wings, which is likened to “the voice of El Shadday when he speaks” (Ezek
1:4–26; 10:1–5).
As for a functional focal point, according to Numbers 7:89 the voice of
Yahweh was thought to speak “from between the two cherubim.” When King
Hezekiah receives the disturbing communiqué from the rab-šāqēh, he goes up to
the temple of Yahweh to pray. He spreads out the letter “before Yahweh,” whom
he then addresses as “O Yahweh [of Armies], God of Israel, who is enthroned
[above] the cherubim” (yhwh [ṣĕbāʾôt] ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl yōšēb hakkĕrubîm; 2 Kgs
19:15; Isa 37:16). The Psalmist begs entry into the sanctuary, where Yahweh and
his mighty Ark reside, in order to bow down in worship at the divine footstool
(ništaḥăweh lahădōm raglāyw; Ps 132:7–8).
Such phrases denoting Yahweh’s enthronement point to how some traditions
envisioned the cherubim as representing a throne, a prominent focal point in
almost every royal setting. Following Mettinger, we have noted (p. 386) how the
Zion-Sabaoth tradition depicts Yahweh Sabaoth as king (e.g., Ps 24:7–10) and as
invisibly enthroned on the cherubim in the Jerusalem Temple (Ps 46:5–8 [Eng
46:4–7]; 76:3 [Eng 76:2]; Jer 8:19). The fullest articulation of the divine name
Yahweh Sebaoth is “Yahweh of Armies who sits [enthroned on/between] the

cherubim” (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt yōšēb hakkĕrubîm; 1 Sam 4:4; 2 Sam 6:2; 2 Kgs 19:15; Isa
37:16; cf. Ps 80:2 [Eng 80:1]; 99:1). Most scholars, such as McCarter (1980a: 103–
104), note the use of cherubim as an essential part of Canaanite royal iconog-
raphy. McCarter concludes: “Yahweh is conceived of as a seated monarch flanked
by a pair of sphinx-like creatures.” That the Ark (located underneath the cher-
ubim) was thought by some to designate Yahweh’s footstool (1 Chr 28:2; cf. Ps
99:5; 132:7–8; Lam 2:1) also supports the notion of a cherubim throne. Lastly,
though Ezekiel places most of his emphasis on divine radiance (kābôd), he none-
theless mentions that he saw “the likeness of a throne” (dĕmût kissē’ on which
Yahweh’s fiery person sat (Ezek 1:26; 10:1).
Deities sitting on thrones placed on the top of majestic animals (including
Mischwesen) are known elsewhere, such as in the portrayal of Ishtar/Mullissu in
Figure 7.27, Figure 7.28, and Figure 8.2.277 If such data were not enough, several
Figure 7.27 The deity Mulissu/Ishtar seated on a star-lined throne placed atop a
Mischwesen creature.
Adrien de Longpérier, Choix de monuments antiques pour servir à l’histoire de l’art en Orient et
en Occident; Texte explicative Musée du Louvre (Paris: L. Guérin, 1868–1874), planche bronzes
babyloniens I no. 4.
Figure 7.28 Maltai rock relief depicting the deity Mulissu/Ishtar, whose throne is
placed atop a majestic animal.
V. Place, Ninive et l’Assyrie, vol. 3 (Paris: Imprimierie impériale, 1867), pl. 45.
scholars have shown how iconography can help us envision precisely the imagery
of a royal cherubim throne where the king is physically seated on cherubim.278
Consider the two examples shown in Figure 7.29 and Figure 7.30, which depict
the tenth-century BCE Phoenician king Ahiram of Byblos as he is depicted on
his sarcophagus and an unknown ruler who is portrayed enthroned on an ivory
plaque from Late Bronze Age II Megiddo.279 From Iron Age IIA Hazor we have
a scarab of an anthropomorphic figure on a cherubim throne (Figure 7.31; Keel
2012a: 568–570; Ben-Tor 2016: 164, fig. 117). For an unprovenanced example of
Figure 7.29 The tenth-century BCE Phoenician king Ahiram enthroned on a
cherub/sphinx throne as depicted on his sarcophagus.
Figure 7.30 An unknown ruler seated on a cherub/sphinx throne from an ivory

plaque from Late Bronze Age II Megiddo.
Figure 7.31 A scarab from Iron Age IIA Hazor depicting an anthropomorphic
figure on a cherub throne.
Courtesy of the Selz Foundation Hazor Excavations in Memory of Yigael Yadin
Figure 7.32 An unprovenanced example of a ruler on a winged and wheeled throne

as depicted on a silver drachma from the Persian period.
Wikimedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:YHD_coins.jpg.
a ruler on a winged and wheeled throne from the Persian period, see Figure 7.32.
Edelman (1996b: 190, 225, fig. 2) suggests that this figure (on a silver drachma)
may even depict Yahweh (as does Niehr [1997: 81]).280
At the same time, there are traditions that avoided placing Yahweh on a throne
because it would suggest anthropomorphic qualities of the deity. An example of
this tendency in material culture may be illustrated by a late ninth-/early eighth-
century fragmentary seal impression on a bulla from the city of David. As described
by Keel (2012b: 331–332, fig. 95) and Ornan (2019), here we have the depiction of
an empty throne together with two winged discs, well-known symbols associated
elsewhere with divinity (Ornan 2005b). Keel (2012b: 332) suggests that the image
“may represent the divine symbol in the Debir (dĕbīr) of the Jerusalem temple in
the 9th cent. B.C.E.” Ornan (2019: 207) cautions that the bulla “was found out-
side of the Temple precinct” and thus does “not necessarily, then, reflect the com-
plete actual cultic paraphernalia kept within the Jerusalem shrine.” Nonetheless,
she too argues that “the throne is to be considered as the seat of Yahweh.” The an-
cient artisans are here “alluding to Yahweh, who is not presented through his (con-
ceived) anthropomorphic image” (Ornan 2019: 206–207).
For examples of this tendency in literature, we noted in particular the
Deuteronomistic Name Theology’s rejection of throne imagery, with special
notice of how it is the Name of Yahweh that goes forth to battle (1 Sam 17:45;
cf. Isa 30:27–30) rather than a striding warrior with mace in hand (see pp. 387,
389). Propp (2006: 519) has pointed out how “striking” it is that “when 1 Kgs
6:23–28; 8:7; 1 Chr 28:18; 2 Chr 3:10–13; 5:7–8 describe the Griffins [i.e., the
cherubim], the term kissēʾ ‘throne’ never appears.” Propp goes on to note the
Deuteronomist’s “ambivalence toward monarchy and its trappings (Deut 17:14–
20; 1 Sam 8),” which denies Yahweh “some of the accoutrements of royalty.” Yet
because the Deuteronomistic History is such a complexly woven document, it
begs further nuancing.281 DtrH does indeed incorporate notions of Yahweh on
a throne, such as in Micaiah’s vision in 1 Kings 22 (cf. Isa 6:1; Ezek 1:26). Here
the prophet sees “Yahweh sitting on a throne [yhwh yōšēb ʿal-kisʾô] and all the
host of heaven standing on his right hand and on his left hand” (1 Kgs 22:19). It
seems more apt to argue that it is adherents of the Name Theology in particular
who have a problem placing Yahweh on a royal throne. Propp (2006: 390) also
argues (contra Haran 1959: 35; 1978: 251–254) that the description of the cher-
ubim in “Exodus 25 does not describe a throne. There is no seat, no armrests, no
footstool.” If Propp is correct, then this would fit nicely with P’s similar desire to
avoid anthropomorphizing the deity.
Pragmatic Focal Points: Fire and Glory

Fire is such a dominant image for expressing divine presence that our treat-
ment (see pp. 344–358) has but scratched the surface. Additional references are
ubiquitous. For example, we read of the prophet Isaiah being purified of his sin
by divine fire from the altar (Isa 6:5–7; cf. Mal 3:2–3). Elsewhere in a judgment
context, it is said that Yahweh, “the Light of Israel,” will become a fire, the Holy
One a flame (wĕhāyâ ʾôr-yiśrāʾēl lĕʾēš ûqĕdôšô lĕlehābâ; Isa 10:17). The prophet
Zechariah describes an unheard-of defense strategy where Jerusalem will be
unwalled—for Yahweh “will be a wall of fire encircling her” (waʾănî ʾehyeh-lâ
ḥômat ʾēš sābîb; Zech 2:9 [Eng 2:5]). As Carol Meyers and Eric Meyers (1987: 157)
have observed, “The metaphorical depiction of Yahweh as a ‘wall of fire’ transfers
the security and autonomy implied by a wall to the presence of Yahweh.”
Yet even the most beautiful metaphors are less satisfying for pragmatists who
desire a focal point for worship. There is no need to articulate the obvious way
in which real fire (combining fascinans and tremendum) would have served
as an attention-focusing device. The texts we have documented are filled with
references to people turning aside to see the fire of a theophany or trembling in
fear of a consuming fire that they interpreted as lethal divine presence.
As far as a practical presence within sacred space, one need only think of the
various lamps within the tabernacle and the Jerusalem Temple (1 Kgs 7:49),
some of which seem to have been lit perpetually (Exod 27:20–21).282 The large
golden lampstand (Exod 25:31–40; 37:17–24) associated with the tabernacle (yet
not Solomon’s Temple; cf. Meyers 1979) occasions Propp (2006: 512) to write
of how “light betokens Yahweh’s presence and his favor . . . The idea of a light
shining within the otherwise obscure outer chamber is a perfect symbol for
‘Yahweh, my lamp . . . who illumines my dark’ (2 Sam 22:29; cf. Ps 18:29).” This
may very well be true; yet one cannot ignore that having fire in the dark recesses
of the sanctuary could be purely functional in nature. Perhaps a better symbol
for divinity is the kindling of fires for sacrifices. Such ritual performance would
remind adherents of how Yahweh from ages past appeared in fiery theophanies.
The presence of holy priests wearing sacred garments (cf. Lev 6:2–6 [Eng 6:9–
13]) while they manipulated fire would have underscored differences between
the sacred and the profane, with fire a symbol of the former. Of particular note
are the ʿōlâ, or “burnt offerings” (which “go up” to Yahweh). These offerings were
completely burned and hence of no benefit for humans.283 Their theocentric na-
ture focused attention on the deity rather than on priests or donors who might
have looked to obtain a share of the meat.
Yet there seems to be even more going on conceptually with the ʿōlâ offering.
According to Exodus 29:41–45, the “continual burnt offering by fire to Yahweh”
(ʾiššeh leyhwh ʿōlat tāmîd) was linked to Yahweh’s promise to dwell among
the people of Israel as their God (wĕšākantî bĕtôk bĕnê yiśrāʾēl wĕhāyîtî lāhem
lēʾlōhîm). Another P passage unpacks this further. As with Exodus 29, Leviticus
6 emphasizes that there should be an “ever-burning fire” (ʾēš tāmîd) on the altar
(Lev 6:2, 5–6 [Eng Lev 6:9, 12–13]). Richard Friedman (2001: 329–330), who
notes the emphatic writing regarding “an ever-burning fire” (ʾēš tāmîd) “that will
not go out” (lōʾ tikbeh) [Lev 6:6 [Eng 6:12]), underscores how this unquenchable
fire is “reminiscent of the account in Exodus of Moses’ encounter with YHWH
at a bush that burns without being consumed” (hassĕneh bōʿēr bāʾēš wĕhassĕneh
ʾênennû ʾukkāl; Exod 3:2). Furthermore, Milgrom (1991: 389) points out the
importance of Leviticus 9:24, where “the sacrifices [specifically the ʿōlâ and the
ḥălābîm] offered up at the inauguration of the public cult were consumed mirac-
ulously by a divine fire, and it is this fire which is not allowed to die out.” (One
could compare Judg 13:16–20, where the preternatural malʾak-Yahweh miracu-
lously ascends in the fire of the ʿōlâ offering.) If Friedman and Milgrom are cor-
rect, then the perpetual fire symbolizes (and acts as an attention-focusing device
for) the ongoing presence of Yahweh within sacred space.284 Moreover, especially
for the P tradition, which strongly avoids anthropomorphizing Yahweh, fire can
represent God in an awe-inspiring and numinous way without any of the limi-
tations of human imagery. After all, the symbolism of a royal throne for Yahweh
resonates only if one views kingship as a favorable institution, and such was cer-
tainly not always the case for how the priesthood saw Israelite and Judean kings.
Articulating how an abstract concept such as “radiance” (kābôd) might have
a physical counterpoint that served as a focal point for ritual seems nearly im-
possible. This is certainly the case for Ezekiel’s mystical vision. Yet repeatedly, ra-
diant (kābôd) imagery is linked to the Ark (e.g., 1 Sam 4:19–22; 1 Kgs 8:6, 11; Ps
24:7–10) and the cherubim (e.g., Isa 6:1–5; cf. Ezek 9:3; 10:4, 18; 11:22; Sir 49:8;
Heb 9:5) as well as to fire (e.g., Exod 24:17; Lev 9:23–24; Deut 5:21 [Eng 5:24]; Isa
10:16; 2 Chr 7:1, 3; Zech 2:5). Thus the presence of these three tangible symbols
within sacred space could also have conveyed divine radiance. That the inner
sanctum of the Jerusalem Temple was covered in gold may have also created a
visual spectacle in which viewers felt that they were seeing the gleaming cham-
bers where a radiant Yahweh must reside—even though they didn’t see him.285
Pragmatic Focal Points: Name and Invisibility

Yahweh taking up his residence via his hypostatic Name is such an abstract ex-
pression of divine presence that it is hard to imagine how it would have served as
a focal point—unless the name Yahweh was carved in a central location in a way
that conveyed his habitation. Here we can only speculate. Studies in materiality
reveal that a person’s inscribed name on a stela can represent his personhood
and presence such that the name can even become a recipient of cult.286 Our best
example here is the eighth-century BCE Katumuwa inscription that explicitly
mentions the post-mortem essence (nbš) of the deceased who is named on the
stela inhabiting the stone itself and receiving regular offerings. See pp. 333–334,
where it is suggested that such inhabiting can be used analogously to explore di-
vinity inhabiting betyls (“houses of God”).
As for materiality and divinity, Alice Mandell and Jeremy Smoak (2016: 241–
242) stress “the importance of the repeated references to the divine name Yahweh
in the [tomb] inscriptions” at Khirbet Beit Lei. Emphasizing “the importance of
the placement of the divine name into the ritual space,” they argue that “the au-
thority of the inscriptions . . . materially link the divine name [Yahweh] with the
physical space of the tomb.”287 Can such materiality perspectives inform our un-
derstanding of Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic Name Theology? In some ways,
this brings us back to Richter’s insight that the placing of a name can mark own-
ership and hegemony. While this is true, it does not go far enough. As we have
argued, the D factitive translation of the idiom lĕšakkēn šĕmô šām (“to cause his
name to dwell”) requires the name to inhabit the space—and (because the space
is sacred) in such a way that it can be a recipient of cult.
The Name that was thought to be Yahweh’s practical presence is intimately tied
up with the presence of the Ark. The Temple as the place (māqôm) of Yahweh’s
Name is also “the place of the Ark” (māqôm lāʾārôn; 1 Kgs 8:16–21). Thus the
Ark itself could represent a focal point for those who advocated Name Theology.
Some scholars who discuss the presence of the Ark in Deuteronomistic Name
Theology demote it to a mere receptacle for the two tablets of stone that make
up the Decalogue (1 Kgs 8:9). According to Mettinger (1982b: 50), “The Ark also
doubled as a storage chest . . . the old numinous role of the Ark as the footstool
of the present God gives way to the more prosaic job of storing the tablets of the
Law (Deut 10:1–5; 1 Kgs 8:9, 21).” Yet close attention to the wording in 1 Kings
8:9, 21 shows that the author is emphasizing not just the two tablets but also the
context in which “Yahweh made a covenant . . . when he brought them out of the
land of Egypt.” The part of the Decalogue that emphasizes this liberating role
is at the very beginning, where the divine name is prominent: “I am Yahweh,
your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt” (Exod 20:2; Deut 5:6). Van
Seters (2003a: 872) drives the logic home: “The idiom (lĕšakkēn šĕmô šām) and
its Dtr modifications refer to the building of a house for the ark in which are the
two tablets of the Decalogue on which is inscribed the name of the deity. All of
the usages [of the idiom] fit this understanding of the written name of the deity
deposited in the Temple” (emphasis mine).
In short, perhaps the answer to our probing for a pragmatic focal point
is remarkably simple: Yahweh’s Name was literally inscribed somewhere in
the Jerusalem Temple (likely on the Ark itself or on its enclosed sacred texts,
as Van Seters suggests). Materially, within such sacred space, Yahweh’s Name
represented his personhood and presence such that it could be a recipient of cult.
Invisibility as a focal point works only if gifted artisans such as the sculptors
at Ayn Dara can create a sense of the deity being in residence without actually
being there. Once again we marvel at Ayn Dara’s enormous footprints that rep-
resent an invisible deity through concrete representation. Biblical traditions
leave us with only metaphorical descriptions of how the temple is “the place of
Yahweh’s throne and the soles of his feet” (mĕqôm kapôt raglay; Ezek 43:7). In
light of kābôd theology, Isaiah 60:13 intriguingly describes Yahweh’s sanctuary
as where the divinity “makes the place of his feet glorious” (mĕqôm miqdāšî
ûmĕqôm raglay ʾăkabbēd). Contrarily, the Psalmist (Ps 77:20 [Eng 77:19]) strips
away even the metaphor when he asserts that Yahweh’s trek through the sea left
unseen footprints (wĕʿiqqĕbôtêkā lōʾ nōdāʿû)!
As for the Jerusalem Temple, the most we can assert from our literary
references is that its artisans with their large cherubim throne were attempting
something similar to Ayn Dara’s sacred emptiness.288 By building such a huge
edifice (upon which no mere human could ever sit) they awakened believers’
imaginations, leading them to conclude that only a supersized, superhuman
being (i.e., only a god like Yahweh) could ever fill such a seat. Without having
archaeological remains of the Jerusalem Temple, we can proceed no further in
unpacking such literary references with material culture.289 Though the notion
of Yahweh being invisible is linked most strongly to the Jerusalem Temple and
antecedent Ark traditions (especially at the sanctuary in Shiloh), scholars have
sought to document “empty space aniconism” elsewhere in ancient Israel, no-
tably at Kuntillet ʿAjrud and Tell Taanach. Yet each of these examples, to which
we now turn, is problematic.
The Archaeology of Empty-Space Aniconism?

The inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud that mention “Yahweh and his asherah”
have already been discussed (see pp. 236–240), as has the iconography of its
standing figures (see pp. 325–330). Two basic conclusions emerged from a close
examination of this material: (1) the exclusive use of masculine singular verbs
underscored Yahweh as the primary/sole agent of blessing despite the mention of
“his asherah,” and (2) if the standing figures on Pithos A are linked to the god Bes
and thus used apotropaically, then they are unlikely to represent Yahweh.
Conclusions about Pithos A at Kuntillet ʿAjrud (its inscriptions and iconog-
raphy) have impacted how Pithos B is to be viewed, particularly its “procession”
scene of worshippers with upraised hands (Figure 7.33). This is especially so in
a thesis by Schmidt (2002; 2016: 68–70, 89–90), who argues that shared artistic
techniques reveal an essential unity between the two central scenes of Pithos
A (see Figure 7.15 on p. 325) and Pithos B. According to Schmidt, the layouts of
both the scenes and the inscriptions of the two pithoi mirror each other. With
this in mind, Schmidt (2002: 114) claims:
Pithos B contains the artistic rendering of what has been referred to as empty
space aniconism. . . . The parallels shared by these two scenes [i.e., those of
Pithos A and Pithos B] . . . strongly suggest that the empty space in the pithos
Figure 7.33 A scene of worshippers with upraised hands on Pithos B from Kuntillet
ʿAjrud.
B scene is demarcated as sacred space where the divine presence was visually
imagined by the viewer. The divine images most readily called to mind would be
those immediately accessible on the pithos A scene.
In other words, because of “the deliberate omission of the two Bes-like fig-
ures” in the scene on Pithos B, “it is very likely that [its] inscription ‘writ in the
sky’ presupposes the empty space aniconic presence of two deities [i.e., Yahweh
and Asherah]” (Schmidt 2002: 121, his emphasis).
The hurdles that would have to be overcome to embrace such an argument
are high. While the tradition of empty space aniconism is firmly in place in
the Jerusalem Temple, it is only understood to be functional (philosophically
and pragmatically) there within the frameworks of Ark, kābôd, and Name
Theologies. How easy would it be to transfer such abstract understandings to
a hill site overlooking Wadi Quraiya without the symbolic architecture of the
golden inner sanctum of the Jerusalem Temple with its resident Ark (containing
Yahweh’s Name) and majestic cherubim? Moreover, we have no mention of

the goddess Asherah being portrayed through empty space aniconism. As we
have seen (p. 327), Ornan argues against the theory that Kuntillet ʿAjrud’s ico-
nography represents coherently integrated scenes. Lastly, doubts about whether
Yahweh is even represented on Pithos A would undermine any notion of his in-
visible presence on Pithos B.
While Schmidt’s theory has won few followers, the same cannot be said about
a popular proposal by Taylor that an invisible Yahweh is represented on the
Taanach cult stand discovered in 1968 (hereafter “the 1968 Taanach cult stand” to
distinguish it from the one found at the same site in 1902). Tell Taanach is located
on the southwest side of the Jezreel plain southeast of Megiddo. In biblical tra-
dition Taanach is known as being a place where Deborah and Barak fought the
Canaanites (Judg 5:19) as well as being one of Solomon’s administrative districts
(1 Kgs 4:12). The 1968 Taanach cult stand (Figure 7.34) has been discussed with
Figure 7.34 A much discussed and debated cult stand from Taanach (discovered
in 1968).
42312681665/in/album-72157698086736974.
reference to the sphinx motif that appears in register three (see pp. 315–317)
as well as the identity of the quadruped in register one (see pp. 323–325). (The
registers are counted from the top down.)
Taylor (1993: 30; 1994) has suggested that the empty space in tier three of the
1968 Taanach cult stand “is an iconographic representation of Yahweh of Hosts,
the unseen God who resides among the cherubim, the earliest ‘representation’
of Yahweh known in the archaeological record.” Taylor’s argument is based on
symmetry, specifically the idea that tiers two and four correspond to the god-
dess Asherah while tiers one and three reflect the god Yahweh.290 Suffice it here
to note that Taylor, with good reason, assumes that the goddess is represented
by the naked female between the lions on tier four and by the symbolic tree be-
tween the two ibexes on tier two (and yet cf. this motif on the male deity from
Hazor depicted in Figure 5.37). Taylor then argues that Yahweh, as a solar deity,
is represented by the winged sun disk on tier one, noting the mention of horses
being dedicated to the sun at the entrance to the temple of Yahweh in 2 Kings
23:11. With this foundation in place, Taylor (1993: 33) presents the following
logic: “Since the same deity (Asherah) is represented on alternate tiers two and
four, one naturally expects the pattern of alternation to continue through the
representation of the same deity (Yahweh) on the other pair of alternate tiers,
one and three” (cf. Figure 7.35). Tier three has two cherubim creatures, and
Taylor can then easily suggest that the empty space between them represents
“Yahweh Sebaoth who sits [invisibly between] the Cherubim” (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt
yōšēb hakkĕrubîm).
Though popular, Taylor’s ingenious thesis is not without its critics. Those
scholars who argue that the quadruped on tier one is bovine rather than equine
would take away the key linkage to 2 Kings 23:11. Even if the animal is equine,
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 157–160) argue that the horses are more likely to be
associated with Anat-Astarte (cf. Cornelius 2004: 40–45, 117–123), the cher-
ubim with guardians, and the solar disk with the heavens. Smith (2014a: 208)
adds another complication in seeing the naked goddess in register four as ʿAštart,
not Asherah.
Yet the biggest hurdle for Taylor’s argument would seem to be how almost
every cult stand has fenestrations (i.e., stylistic openings). Thus it is extremely
hard to argue against the notion that the fenestration on tier three may be merely
conventional, serving artistic and perhaps functional purposes.291 Consider the
number of additional fenestrations on the sides of the 1968 Taanach cult stand
(Figure 7.36) and especially the two rectangular fenestrations on its undeco-
rated back (Figure 7.37). These are hardly symbolic of divinity, as they would be
out of view.292 The 1902 Taanach cult stand (Figure 7.38) with its many parallels
(e.g., lion, sphinx, and flanking ibex motifs) also has three clearly demarcated
fenestrations. Zevit (2001: 323), who adopts Taylor’s thesis in part, admits that
Figure 7.35 The top and third registers of one of the cult stands from Taanach
(discovered in 1968) depicting an animal (equine? bovine?) under a winged sun disk
in the former and an empty space between two cherubim in the latter.
Figure 7.36 The side of the cult stand from Taanach (discovered in 1968) showing
multiple fenestrations around the bodies of the lions and the cherubim.
Figure 7.37 The back of the cult stand from Taanach (discovered in 1968) showing
two rectangle fenestrations on its otherwise undecorated back.
From R. Hestrin, “The Cult Stand from Ta’anach and Its Religious Background,” in Phoenicia and the
East Mediterranean in the First Millennium B.C., edited by E. Lipinski (Leuven: Uitgeverij Peeters,
Figure 7.38 Another cult stand from Taanach (discovered in 1902) with multiple
fenestrations.
Courtesy Ziony Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches
(London: Continuum, 2001), 318, fig. 4.8.
Taylor’s “argument from silence would allow for the implicit presence of three
or four deities here,” a very tough sell. The more cult stands that are brought into
the discussion, the more unlikely is the thesis that the fenestration on tier three
of the 1968 Taanach cult stand is an attempt to represent empty space aniconism.
Consider the following sampling from Tell Revov (Figure 7.39), Ai (Figure 7.40),
Beth Shean (Figure 7.41), and Megiddo (Figure 7.42), to which many more could
be added. Indeed, it would be rare not to have fenestrations.
One could also bring in here the same critique used against Schmidt’s thesis.
The types of empty space aniconism that were used for Yahweh were embedded
in complex and abstract systems of thought that were inseparable from the
Jerusalem Temple. While cult stands can represent model shrines, to ask the
1968 Taanach cult stand to bear the weight of the complex symbol set of the
Jerusalem Temple (at least the symbol set of the Ark, kābôd, and Name theolo-
gies) would be a stretch. As noted by Mettinger, who is hesitant to adopt Taylor’s
thesis, the empty space could reflect a temple entrance (so Hestrin as well as Keel
and Uehlinger) or a place where an object of some sort was set (so Weippert).293
Or, again, it could be merely stylistic.
Figure 7.39 An Iron Age II cult stand with fenestrations from Tell Revov.
Figure 7.40 A cult stand with fenestrations from Ai.

43217373371/in/album-72157698086736974.
Figure 7.41 A cult stand with fenestrations from Beth Shean.
42498529894/in/album-72157698086736974.
Figure 7.42 A cult stand with fenestration from Megiddo.

Conclusion
Any attempt to describe the iconography of the god Yahweh will necessarily be
unwieldy given the long span of time during which Yahwism is attested, the nu-
merous geographic locales of cultic activity, and the nature of our source mate-
rial (textual and archaeological). This chapter has attempted to provide a sketch
to orient the reader to a much wider debate. Section I treated anthropomorphic
and theriomorphic traditions, while Section II dealt with aniconic and abstract
representations.
The Iconography of Yahweh: Anthropomorphic Traditions
Anthropomorphism is a necessity for depicting the divine. Humans (ancient and

modern) naturally default to what they know of themselves and their world to
find vocabulary to describe divinity. Thus to find anthropomorphic language
used of Yahweh should not come as any surprise, surely not to any reader of
the Hebrew Bible. Page after page of the biblical text attests to how Yahweh was
described through human imagery, although within certain limits—for example,
there is no description of Yahweh’s genitalia, no representation of sordid ac-
tivity, nor any portrayal of a death scene with a lifeless body. Yahweh is ever “the
living God” (ʾēl ḥay; cf. ḥay yhwh).294 At the same time, to understand how cer-
tain traditions (e.g., the Priestly Source, the Zion Sabaoth traditions, kābôd the-
ology, Deuteronomistic Name Theology) struggled with and even fully rejected
portraying Yahweh anthropomorphically is key to understanding formative
tradents within ancient Israelite religion, tradents that impact how God is often
portrayed in later Judaism, Christianity, and even Islam.295
These two polar portrayals (one using anthropomorphisms lavishly, the other
finding such usage uncomfortable or even anathema) are both text-based. Here
the nature of the Hebrew Bible presents substantive challenges. Does the overall
picture of Yahweh drawn in the Hebrew Bible adequately present the viewpoints
of the general population that lived in ancient Israel for hundreds of years? Or
is this picture narrow, expressing only the views of certain elite groups whose
writings have been preserved? Might others in society have begged to differ?
To achieve a fuller picture of how Yahweh was represented physically in ancient
Israel, the literary portrayal of Yahweh in the Hebrew Bible must be juxtaposed
with the archaeological record. Moreover, the ancient Near Eastern context
within which Israel was a part must be brought to bear. The pervasive practice
of representing deities physically (and especially through anthropomorphic stat-
uary) sets the bar extremely high should one try to prove that a culture such as
ancient Israel traveled a different path.
Looking to material culture to document divine images is not as easy as one

might assume. What are the essential characteristics that any object would need
to have to be marked for divinity? The ideal criteria (presented in Chapter Five,
p. 142) would include accompanying inscriptional identification, precious
metals, a secure cultic find spot (sacred architecture together with an assem-
blage of cultic objects), and markers of divinity such as horns, hairdo, insignia,
or a symbolic animal. With these criteria satisfied, one would then have to de-
termine what specific markers would designate the deity Yahweh as opposed to
other Levantine male deities (e.g., Athtar, Baal, Baal Hammon, Bethel, Chemosh,
Dagan, El, Elyon, Eshmun, Gad, Hadad, Horon, Melqart, Milcom, Molek, Mot,
Qadosh, Qaus, Reshep, Shamash, Yahweh, Yam, and Yarikh).
Over the years, scholars have nominated four candidates for possible an-
thropomorphic representations of Yahweh in material culture. These include
a bronze seated figurine from Hazor (Figure 5.6), a stick figure from Gezer
(Figures 5.7, 5.8), a terra-cotta vessel published in 1993 by Jeremias (Figure 7.6),
and a geometric pair from Jerusalem (Figure 7.7). None of these comes close
to being a representation of Yahweh. The striking fact is that we have a notable
absence of male divine figures from Iron Age Israel and Judah. Multiple reasons
were explored to explain this lack, from economic arguments (bronze images
were made but melted for reuse) to sacred burials. Given the presence of fe-
male divine images in the archaeological record, one cannot rely solely on these
arguments. It seems reasonable then to posit that ideological reasons also con-
tributed to the lack of any Yahweh images. Yet any prohibition against making
an image of Yahweh, such as the biblical Bilderverbot, surely resulted from
people doing just that (cf. Dohmen 1987). Thus while the total absence of any
definitive anthropomorphic image of Yahweh found in clear Iron Age context
remains striking, it would nonetheless not be surprising if one did turn up in a
future excavation.
The Iconography of Yahweh: Theriomorphic Traditions
The theriomorphic representation of Yahweh (i.e., Yahweh being represented

via animal form) is another matter, and one that has been debated at length. As
with anthropomorphic language used of divinity, any reader of ancient Near
Eastern literature will hardly be surprised to see a god being described with an-
imal imagery, especially remembering that we are dealing with agrarian cultures.
According to the biblical text, the Jerusalem Temple complex was filled with an-
imal decorations such as the bulls that adorned the Molten Sea and the wheeled
cultic stands. As for archaeology, the two cult stands from Tell Taanach come
readily to mind with their multiple lions, cherubim, and paired ibexes.
The three clearest literary candidates of theriomorphic imagery used of

Yahweh all have to do with bulls. (There are no clear examples of lion epithets
used of Yahweh.) One is the epithet “the Mighty One of Jacob,” used formerly
of El and later applied to Yahweh. Likewise, the second example takes the tradi-
tion of El bringing Israel out of Egypt “like the horns of wild ox” and applies it
to Yahweh. The third and most famous literary reference is Jeroboam’s making
of bull images that cannot be separated from the literary traditions of Aaron
doing likewise. To judge from the eighth-century BCE prophet Hosea, a tra-
dition about “the bull of Samaria” (if he had Jeroboam’s in mind) was known
for more than a hundred years. The prevailing opinion among scholars is that
Jeroboam was a master strategist who engaged in a type of competitive aniconic
theology against the cult of the Jerusalem Temple. Whereas the latter chose to
enthrone Yahweh invisibly upon cherubim, Jeroboam, so the theory goes, set
Yahweh upon a bull image that served as a pedestal. The prevalent iconography
of storm deities riding upon bulls (cf. Chapter Five, Figures 5.23–5.28) adds con-
siderable weight to this theory. In contrast to the critiques leveled against using
Figure 7.33 (Kuntillet ʿAjrud) and Figures 7.34–7.37 (the 1968 Taanach cult
stand) to represent Yahweh invisibly, the substantial sacred complex at Tel Dan
could have been a place where Jeroboam replicated symbol sets analogous to
those of the Jerusalem Temple to underscore an aniconic Yahweh upon his bull.
A different option would be that Jeroboam was not depicting any type of empty
space aniconism but rather simply setting up divine bull images of Yahweh (or,
less likely, of some other deity such as El or Baal).
Turning to the archaeological record, we discussed three serious candidates
that have been suggested to depict Yahweh theriomorphically. Two of the three
possibilities (the quadruped on the top register of the 1968 Taanach cult stand
and the tallest standing figure at Kuntillet ʿAjrud on Pithos A) are the subject
of intense debate. A strong case could be made that these two artifacts are the
most-discussed physical items when it comes to unpacking ancient Israelite
religion. The reason for such intense interest is precisely what the present
chapter addresses: the iconography of divinity. The 1968 Taanach cult stand
(Figures 7.34-7.37) immediately piques the interest of historians of religion with
its artistic motifs of winged sun disk, sphinxes, lions, and caprids flanking a tree.
That this stand has a close counterpart (Figure 7.38, discovered much earlier, in
1902) from the same site is quite remarkable. The winged disk conjures images
of solar religion. Though this disk more properly designates the divine emblem
in the top register, discussion has concentrated on identifying the species of the
quadruped underneath and to what degree it represents (or is associated with)
Yahweh. Even drawing on the expert opinion of zoologists, scholars have not
come to a consensus as to whether the animal is a horse or a bull. Some scholars
advocating the former link the animal to Yahweh through an explicit reference
to horses being located at the entrance to the temple of Yahweh (2 Kings 23:11),
while others prefer either the goddess Aštart or Anat. Those who see the animal
as a bull have their choice of Baal or Yahweh (with literary examples lending sup-
port). The youth of the animal (be it a horse or a bull) led us to question its suit-
ability for symbolizing Yahweh if we are correct in applying Fleming’s (1999a)
research on how senior/creator deities (and thus Yahweh) are not portrayed as
offsprings. If Yahweh is represented on this cult stand, it is more likely to be the
sun disk that portrays his divinity, with the animal serving as the beast upon
which he is mounted.
While there is no consensus on the species of the standing figures at Kuntillet
ʿAjrud (bovine or leonine), there is a consensus that we are dealing with either
Bes images or Bes-like images. The historical development of Bes reveals his leo-
nine heritage, and thus the scales are tipped decidedly in this direction—unless
the Kuntillet ʿAjrud artist decided to break with convention. Be that as it may,
two important factors help us resolve whether we do have Yahweh portrayed
here via theriomorphic form. Each of these factors turns out to be negative. The
first is the lingering doubt about whether the inscription mentioning “Yahweh
and his asherah” should serve as a diagnostic key if the inscription predated the
drawings, as seems likely. Without the inscription, would anyone have labeled
the standing figures as being Yahweh and his consort? Second, Bes images have
a widely seen (both chronologically and geographically) apotropaic function.
Though hundreds of amulets in the shape of deities have been found in ancient
Israel, there is no evidence of any of them being linked to an apotropaic power of
Yahweh. Thus it is more reasonable to view the two standing figures at Kuntillet
ʿAjrud as Bes or Bes-like images serving a protective function for the site and
with no clear association with Yahweh.
What this leaves us with is one clear candidate for an example of Yahweh being
represented theriomorphically: the exquisite bronze bull figure from the Bull Site
(Figure 5.70). The features and craftsmanship of this figurine were discussed in
Chapter Five (pp. 200, 202). Though its final identification remains uncertain
due to the lack of any accompanying inscription or other indicator of divine
identity, its workmanship is superb. Most interpreters speak of its ritual function.
The deities most often mentioned (because of their bull symbolism elsewhere)
are El, Baal, and Yahweh.
The Iconography of Yahweh: Aniconic Traditions
Section II of this chapter dealt with the question of how Yahweh might have
been represented by those who preferred aniconic and abstract portrayals. We
followed the lead of Mettinger in defining different types of aniconism. Material
aniconism has the deity represented by standing stones rather than anthropo-
morphic or theriomorphic statues. Another type involves sacred emptiness, with
traditions that favor the use of abstract images to portray the deity. At the same
time, these traditions include pragmatic attention-focusing devices to rivet eyes
and actions on the sacred during cultic activity.
The rich array of relevant standing stones for ancient Israelite religion was
treated in detail on pp. 169–196 and 333–336. One cannot miss the dramatic way
in which such monoliths focused attention on what ancient architects deemed
central within sacred space. Precisely what (or whom) such stones signified is
a matter of debate, yet their religious character is hard to miss. The occurrence
of a single stone in six of our sacred spaces (Shechem, the Bull Site, Hazor Area
B, Hazor Area A, Arad, and Khirbet Ataruz) led us to conclude that they most
likely marked a type of monolatrous worship. Regrettably, without any inscrip-
tional evidence it is impossible to determine the identity of the deity associated
with such standing stones. Literary traditions underscore El’s associations with
such masseboth (see pp. 169–196). The present chapter reveals that Yahweh too
had such associations (see pp. 333–336). Many of our examples must be inferred
from pejorative texts that critiqued or outlawed such activity. Yet one remarkable
passage includes a positive reference to “a massebah to Yahweh” alongside “an
altar to Yahweh” (Isa 19:18–22).
The Iconography of Yahweh: Abstract Traditions
Abstract portrayals of divinity are attested throughout the ancient Near East,
and thus it is not surprising that we find similar representations in the religion
of ancient Israel, which, despite its particulars, was fully a part of this world.
Following the lead of scholars such as van der Toorn, Jacobsen, and Sommer, we
utilized the vocabulary of Rudolph Otto to describe how abstract representations
were far better suited to convey both the fascinans and the tremendum of divinity.
In other words, a variety of authors of the Hebrew Bible used abstract pictures to
describe how Yahweh was irresistibly fascinating and awesome (the allure of the
ultimately Sacred) as well as frighteningly dangerous if not lethal.
The various authors employing these abstract descriptions (e.g., Zion-Sabaoth
traditions, Ark ideology, kābôd theologies, Deuteronomic/ Deuteronomistic
Name Theologies) had decidedly distinct ideas about how Yahweh should be
represented. That the Hebrew Bible is bound today as a single volume should not
obscure the fact that within its pages are philosophically distinct systems of ab-
stract thought as to how best to represent Yahweh. Yet despite their differences,
in the aggregate these views are unified in one respect: they constitute a long-
standing and substantial turn away from the dominant ancient Near Eastern
tradition of having an anthropomorphic (or theriomorphic) divine image as the

focal point of ritual activity.
The analysis in this chapter has surveyed four abstract ways (via fire, “radi-
ance,” name, and invisibility) in which Yahweh was portrayed in the Hebrew
Bible. Fire, with its numinous and ethereal qualities, was repeatedly chosen
by a wide variety of authors of the Hebrew Bible as a way to describe the self-
revelation of Yahweh on earth. For such poets, fire was not just a natural phe-
nomenon (producing intense heat and giving off incandescent light) over which
they cooked their food or by which they set enemy camps to ruin. Nor was it
only an agent used by Yahweh against his adversaries. Rather, the essence of
fire contained enough mystery that (when combined with the right preternat-
ural setting) it was thought to manifest the Almighty. Thus we read of a burning
bush that is divinely set ablaze, so that the plant (i.e., the fuel source) is (contrary
to experience) not consumed. Elsewhere, the fire of Yahweh falls from heaven
in dramatic fashion to answer Elijah’s “proof of divinity” contest. Fire appears
on mountaintop theophanies, and as a flaming torch to represent a divine cov-
enant partner. A curious twist is that some of these fiery theophanies combined
fire with anthropomorphic imagery, such that Yahweh’s mouth breathed fire and
his nostrils snorted smoke. This larger-than-life cosmic motif was termed “fiery
transcendent anthropomorphism” (building on Hendel’s terminology).
A parallel phenomenon personified fire to the degree that it could march at
the vanguard of Yahweh’s battle forces or serve as a guardian at the Garden of
Eden. A mysterious “messenger” of Yahweh (or Yahweh himself?) turns out to
be no mere mortal when his “extremely terrifying” “human” appearance turns
into flames rising from the altar. Such stories make one question whether fire
was ever used hypostatically (as was Yahweh’s anger) and especially as an inde-
pendent agent. Yet from our extant data, the most we can say is that at times fire
was understood to be a “quasi-independent” entity.
Lastly, this section explored the lethality of divine fire, a leitmotif in the book
of Deuteronomy. Previous analysis of divine representation in this book was
excessively narrow, as it emphasized that Yahweh manifested his presence “by
words only.” The vital importance of God speaking should not be minimized.
Nonetheless, the voice of Yahweh was lethal (similar to lethal God sightings) pre-
cisely because it spoke “out of the midst of fire.”
The second abstract representation of divinity was broadly defined as “radi-
ance,” with the Hebrew kābôd serving as a catchall term for the sake of discussion.
Yet the lexical stock (e.g., hôd, hādār, kābôd and nōgah) for such notions revealed
a rich heritage that cannot be tightly confined. Theologies of divine “radiance”
are normally thought to be the exclusive domain of the Priestly Source together
with Ezekiel’s particular nuancing. Yet the discussion noted how concepts of di-
vine “radiance” were attested throughout the ancient Near East (e.g., Akkadian
melammu) and were known in the oldest lore from ancient Israel. Moreover, the
concept of a divine kābôd within pre-Priestly cultic settings was well known and
thus hardly the invention of the Jerusalem priesthood. In addition, the ways in
which the divine kābôd intersected with fire and Ark traditions exhibited the
interweaving of various streams of tradition.
When we examined P’s kābôd theology for divine presence, we were treated to
the work of a literary architect. P, often the presenter of consummate structure,
described the appearance and development of kābôd as divine presence through
an intentional narrative arc (from Exodus 29 to Leviticus 9). The kābôd Yahweh
that at first dwelt on Mt. Sinai enveloped in a cloud (“like a consuming fire”)
found its eventual resting place in a newly constructed tabernacle with newly
ordained priestly officiants (Aaron and his two sons, Nadab and Abihu). The
“consuming” fire of the kābôd manifested its physical presence by “consuming”
the offerings on the newly constructed altar. Such an apex, as Milgrom pointed
out, rendered the tabernacle the functional equivalent to the theophany on Mt.
Sinai. Yet it was argued that P’s intent was to continue his narrative arc through
Leviticus 10:1–3 in order to demonstrate how Yahweh’s kābôd also contained
what Otto termed the tremendum. The accessible Yahweh (via the tabernacle
cult) was nonetheless still the God of holy danger. This lethal “consuming” side
of the divine kābôd was made manifest through the deaths of Nadab and Abihu.
P also underscored the lethal nature of the divine kābôd through his telling of the
rebellion of the sons of Korah, their subsequent destruction, and the aftermath of
the plague that followed.
Ezekiel’s portrayal of divine radiance is like no other in the Hebrew Bible.
Though he too focused his attention on the word kābôd, it was shown how his
theophanic narrative was filled with multifaceted radiant imagery. In contrast to
P, who avoided anthropomorphic language, Ezekiel did indeed use human vo-
cabulary for the divine. Yet it was argued that it is a mistake to conclude that
Ezekiel was “thoroughly” anthropomorphic, for his human language is in re-
ality not very human at all. His divine “man” is a man of fire and flies on the
wings of the cherubim. Thus his “human” kābôd Yahweh is, in the end, so much
more than human. He is a preternatural “human,” not unlike the “human” mes-
senger who ascends in fire in Judges 13. To characterize Ezekiel’s kābôd as only
“anthropomorphic” would be to miss the obvious thrust of his radiance-filled
narrative. Not to be missed in unpacking Ezekiel’s vision is the strong influ-
ence of Mesopotamian iconography, the enduring biblical tradition of “fiery
transcendent anthropomorphisms,” and the prophet’s unique rhetoric of
circumvention.
The third way in which biblical authors tapped into abstract ideas to depict
Yahweh was through the Deuteronomic/ Deuteronomistic Name Theology.
Though the Name Theology is known for its four primary tenets, it was
demonstrated that today there are few scholars who affirm them without qualifi-
cation. At the heart of the Name Theology is an anti-anthropomorphic ideology
that has Yahweh residing in heaven while at the same time manifesting his pres-
ence in the Jerusalem Temple through his Name. Rather than seeing the Temple
as a mere forwarding station for prayer, our analysis sided with those scholars
who argue that the Name was indeed a practical presence. To understand this,
we looked again (building especially on the work of McBride) at how an attribute
of a deity can function hypostatically (or semi-hypostatically). Certain biblical
passages (especially Isa 30:27–33) remove all doubt about how Yahweh’s Name
is portrayed as a semi-independent entity that is at the same time fully represen-
tative of the deity. In short, the Name of Yahweh captures his “essential nature,”
yet in a way that avoids the human limitations of other traditions (such as those
of Zion Sabaoth ideology) that place Yahweh on a throne. In addition, the Name
contains effectual power, and especially so in military contexts. This notion ties
the Deuteronomistic Name Theology into older traditions of ritual and mythic
warfare.
Pragmatic Focal Points and Archaeological Correlates
Now we turn to a conceptual question raised at the outset of this chapter. If the
abstract traditions in Israel did indeed part ways with the broad ancient Near
Eastern practice of erecting anthropomorphic statues in the inner sanctum, then
how did cult in the Jerusalem Temple actually work? In other words, what focal
points were used within ritual contexts to direct attention to what was deemed
most worthwhile in sacred space? What do our texts tell us, and are there any ar-
chaeological correlates that coincide with these literary traditions?
Methodologically, the sacred emptiness of the Iron Age temple at Ayn Dara,
Syria, was offered as a corrective to misperceptions and prejudices of the past
that relegated the artistic visions and capabilities of Levantine sculptors to back-
water status. In our discussion that followed, the Ark and the cherubim (large
and small) were described as the preferred “attention-focusing devices” in the
Jerusalem Temple. No archaeological correlates exist for the Ark. The large cher-
ubim are analogous to the huge human-headed winged bulls (aladlammu or
lamassu) so prevalent throughout the Neo-Assyrian empire. On a smaller scale,
we noted several examples of Levantine rulers sitting “enthroned between the
cherubim”—that is, sitting on their thrones, which were constructed with two
side panels decorated with carvings of sphinxes.
Though ethereal and numinous in nature, the practical presence of real fire
within the temple certainly served to focus attention on divinity. This is espe-
cially so with regard to the holy nature of sacrificial fire and, in particular, the
“continual” fire of burnt offerings (ʾiššeh leyhwh ʿōlat tāmîd). There is good
reason to associate such perpetual fire with the perceived ongoing presence of
Yahweh within sacred space. To judge from our narrative descriptions, physical
counterpoints helping to convey the “radiant” presence of Yahweh may have been
found in the Ark, the cherubim, and fire. In other words, the literary descriptions
of Yahweh’s kābôd were woven together with these three physical images that
were located within sacred space.
The notion of Yahweh residing in the Jerusalem Temple via his Name or via his
invisible essence on a throne is even more abstract. Yet it was suggested that even
here there may have been pragmatic focal points. Once again the Ark could have
functioned in such a role, in that it contained (according to the Deuteronomistic
traditions) the two tablets of the Decalogue on which Yahweh’s sacred Name was
inscribed. We are at a loss when it comes to understanding the portrayal of divine
invisibility apart from the literary descriptions of the huge size of the empty cher-
ubim throne. The large Ayn Dara footprints (representing a deity of enormous
size, though invisible) may serve as an analogy to what was behind the portrayal
of the majestic guardian beasts on which an invisible Yahweh was imagined
to sit. There is a slim possibility that an invisible Yahweh was portrayed on the
Taanach cult stand discovered in 1968. Yet stylistic reasons for the empty space
on tier three of this stand are just as likely, so we cannot support this suggestion
with any confidence.
A Final Note
It is only proper as we conclude this chapter to note how the various parties re-
sponsible for the final representations of divinity that are found in the Hebrew
Bible chose to weave together the various colored strands into the tapestry we
have before us. When traditions were at odds with each other (e.g., anthropo-
morphic notions vs. anti-anthropomorphic notions), both were included as
authors tried to describe the “God of Being” who was yahwēh.296 (How does a
sculptor craft “being”?) I would note that such multifaceted (conflicting and
complementary) portrayals of divinity as we have documented in this chapter
continued to be handed down both within subsequent Judaism and within
nascent Christianity. Perhaps then we should use the various streams of tradi-
tion within the Hebrew Bible as windows into the history of perennial intellec-
tual thought. Sommer (2009: 97) advocates something similar when he writes
forcefully that scholars of the Hebrew Bible have been guilty of “historicist re-
ductionism” by failing to “understand a religious text as manifesting religious
intuitions that are essentially timeless.”297
8
The Characterization of the Deity Yahweh
Part One: Yahweh as Warrior and Family God
Introduction
As noted at the beginning of Chapter Six, the writers and editors of what has
come down to us in the Hebrew Bible presented a view of the deity Yahweh fully
in line with the El traditions they inherited. One need look no further than the
Priestly Tradition’s assertion that Yahweh was indeed a later manifestation of the
god El Shadday (Exod 6:2–3). The Bible does not record factional El and Yahweh
parties at odds with each other. We read of no narratives where El officiants
wrestle the control of cult away from Yahwistic priests or vice versa. The ono-
mastic record’s “equating names” reveal that El and Yahweh could be thought of
as one.1 At the same time, it is patently clear that historical, sociological, and cul-
tural changes led to portraying Yahweh in ways that would transform Israelite El
religion. What follows articulates some of these dramatic changes.
Though the traditions that have come down to us in the Hebrew Bible have
wedded El and Yahweh traditions, in Chapter Four we posited (with cautions
about the precarious nature of the enterprise) that our extant El traditions lacked
certain characteristics that were associated with Yahweh. These included the
following:
• Israelite El is not portrayed as a combat deity who slays cosmic creatures the
likes of Leviathan and Yam, nor an agrarian deity who battles the forces of
Death (Mot).
• Israelite El is not portrayed as a storm deity who uses the voice of lightning
to manifest his nature.2
• Apart from Habakkuk 3:3, Israelite El’s origin is rarely said to have been
from the lands south/southeast of the Dead Sea (Seir, Teman, Paran,
Midian), although some traditions localize him in the vicinity (e.g., El-Roi
at Beer Lahai Roi “between Qadesh and Bered,” El at Kuntillet ʿAjrud).
• Israelite El is not portrayed as a national deity whose worship is entwined
with the support of a royal hierarchy.
• The narratives about El do not exhibit the intolerance that comes to charac-
terize later Yahwism.
Thus it makes sense to start with these characteristics in our investigation of how
Yahweh was portrayed. Mark Smith (2001b: 146; 2017: 42–43) suggests that “the
original profile of Yahweh may be permanently lost.” When we then consider the
mere 5 percent of the data that we have (cf. the Propp Principle on pp. 66–67),
we face considerable uncertainty. Yet at least we can sketch certain diagnostic
features that have a higher probability of being on the right track.
Yahweh was portrayed in many different ways. Given space restraints, our
treatment must be selective. The three chapters that follow will look at five of the
primary ways in which the ancients characterized Yahweh. This chapter will jux-
tapose Yahweh as divine warrior with Yahweh the compassionate god of family
religion. Chapter Nine will examine Yahweh as king and as judge. Chapter Ten
will consider Yahweh as the holy one. Though these five portrayals do not come
close to exhausting Yahwistic divinity, they do provide cultural, historical, social,
and ritual windows into the various military-mythic, familial, royal, legal, and
cultic understandings of Yahweh.
Section I: Yahweh as Divine Warrior
Setting the Stage
The Ancient Near Eastern Culture of Warrior Gods

When compared to El, Yahweh is strikingly militaristic. We need not posit a spe-
cific historical setting (e.g., an exodus from Egyptian slavery) or sociological set-
ting (e.g., the collapse of the Late Bronze Age) to underscore how the ancients at
all times felt the need to believe in a warrior deity who could protect their liveli-
hood. Such a belief was a constant throughout the ancient Near East geograph-
ically and chronologically. Texts and iconography reveal that divine warriors
were present in every pantheon from ancient Mesopotamia (Tishpak, Ninurta,
Marduk, Aššur, Ishkur/Adad/Hadad, Inanna/Ishtar) to Egypt (Amun-Re, Seth,
Baal, Reshep), from Anatolia (Teshub, the sun goddess of Arinna) to Syria (Ba‘lu,
Hadad, Rashpu, ‘Anatu, ‘Athtartu), from Phoenicia (Baal, Reshep, Astarte) to
Israel and Judah (Yahweh, Baal, Reshep), from Moab (Chemosh) to Edom (Qos)
and beyond. Universally, people thought that their warrior god fought the battles
that kept them safe (unless of course they felt that they had fallen out of divine
favor).3
It was not only the Israelites who embraced the notion of a god who went be-
fore his people fighting on their behalf. Yahweh says to King Jehoshaphat and
his people: “Fear not! Be not dismayed at this great multitude. For the battle is
not yours but God’s” (2 Chr 20:15). So too the gods of the nations were viewed as
fighting for their people. Even at the well-fortified Late Bronze Age city of Ugarit
The Characterization of the Deity Yahweh 429
we come across a prayer whose stated purpose is clear: “Whenever a strong one
attacks your gate, a warrior your walls . . .” (k gr ʿz ṯǵrkm qrd ḥmytkm). The solu-
tion is similarly transparent: “You shall lift your eyes to Baʿlu” (ʿnkm lbʿl tšʾun)
and petition him (with a vow of offerings) to “drive the strong one from our
gate, the warrior from our walls” (y bʿlm hm tdy ʿz l ṯǵrn y qrd [l] ḥmytny; KTU
1.119.26′–29′).4 We have already noted how Assyrian kings were assured of vic-
tory because they wielded “the awe of the radiance [pulḫu melamme] of the god
Aššur” against any foe.5
Consider the amount of information we can glean about divine warrior men-
tality from even a single text. In a mid-ninth-century BCE Moabite display text
King Mesha recounts his battles with Israel under the Omrides (KAI 181; see
Figure 6.4). In it he gives clear witness to his understanding of divine warfare. In
first-person discourse he speaks of his god Chemosh, who “saved me from all the
[enemy] kings and caused me to gloat over all my enemies” (ky hšʿny mkl hmlkn
wky hrʾny bkl śnʾy; Mesha stela, line 4). Granted, there were dark days when the
Israelite king Omri had the upper hand, yet Mesha’s theology understood that
this too revealed the sovereignty of Chemosh, who allowed such oppression be-
cause he was “angry with his land” (ky [y]ʾnp kmš bʾ[r]ṣh; line 5). When the king
went to war, it was under divine command. Twice we read of the king receiving a
personal imperative to “go and seize” (wyʾmr ly kmš lk ʾḥz; line 14) or to “go down
and fight” the enemy ([wy]ʾmr ly kmš rd hltḥm; line 32). When King Mesha was
victorious, he would relate that it was his god “who drove out [the enemy king]
before me” (wygrš kmš m[pny]; line 19). It was Chemosh who “restored” (wyšb;
line 9, cf. line 33) cities held in foreign hands back to his people. It is thus not sur-
prising to read King Mesha say that the towns he captured ultimately “belonged
to Chemosh and Moab” (hqr ryt lkmš; line 12),6 or that he was devoting (hḥrmth;
line 17) the war booty to his god using the same technical vocabulary (ḥrm) as
that which designates booty in biblical holy war (ḥērem).7 Of special note is how
the enemy’s cultic paraphernalia was “dragged before Chemosh” (wʾsḥb . . . lpny
kmš; lines 12–13, 18).8
In short, the presence of divine warriors is ubiquitous in the ancient Near
East—the very ancient Near East that included Israel and Judah, whose holy war
traditions have come down to us in the Hebrew Bible and are echoed in Iron Age
epigraphic sources.9
Yahweh as Divine Warrior

In contrast to most modern sensibilities, in Iron Age Israel going to war was con-
sidered holy activity.10 Troops “consecrated themselves for war” (qaddĕšû ʿālêhā
milḥāmâ; Jer 6:4). In ancient Israelite religion, it was the god Yahweh (and not
the god El) who repeatedly led troops into battle. Yahweh was assigned several
battle-related titles: “Yahweh is a man of war” (yhwh ʾîš milḥāmâ; Exod 15:3;
cf. Isa 42:13), “Yahweh, mighty in battle” (yhwh gibbôr milḥāmâ; Ps 24:8), and
“Yahweh of Armies” (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt; e.g., Ps 24:10).11 The battle cry of Yahweh
marching to battle is heard in Numbers 10:35:
Arise, O Yahweh, may your enemies be scattered;

May your adversaries flee before you.12
Moses proclaimed that “Yahweh will fight for you!” (yhwh yillāḥēm lākem), and the
deity’s heroic actions in war were gathered into collections such as “the Scroll of the
Wars of Yahweh” (sēper milḥămōt yhwh; Num 21:14). While this specific collection
has not been preserved, it is likely that it would have contained epic poems similar
to what we find in Exodus 15:1–18, 21; Numbers 10:35–36; Deuteronomy 33:2;
Judges 5:3–5; Psalm 29; Psalm 68; and Habakkuk 3:3–15. The concept of Yahweh
as divine warrior also played a significant role in Judean royal cult, as we will see.
Divine Warriors on a Cosmic Scale
The holiness (qdš) of divine war (i.e., that which made it “other,” operating on a
plane beyond human reality) was grounded in cosmic warfare of old. Holy war
was birthed in the world of the gods, echoing from the legendary past. Bards
told tales set in remote antiquity13 of how a super-endowed deity was able to
vanquish gods and other preternatural beasts (especially unearthly composite
figures, or Mischwesen) on a cosmic scale.14 Myths of divine heroism quickened
human imagination. Warrior gods were larger than life; they possessed such
battle prowess that they were able to succeed against insurmountable odds and
supernatural foes. Humans were captivated by such alluring tales, while under-
standably terrified by the window that such stories gave them into the awesome
power a god could harness (see Otto’s fascinans and tremendum). Little wonder
they responded with proper cult and desperate supplication.15
The Ancient Near Eastern Backdrop of Cosmic Warfare

The character of Yahweh as a divine warrior fighting on a cosmic scale is best un-
derstood within its ancient Near Eastern setting. Divine combat myths (known
in German as Chaoskampf traditions) have a long pedigree and are well attested
in a wide variety of texts.16 Mesopotamian iconography provides a rich docu-
mentation of mythological scenes such as the visual narrative found in Figure 8.1,
where a divine warrior (Ninurta? Adad?) is fighting a Mischwesen monster
(Asakku? Anzu?). This ninth-century BCE monumental stone relief from the
main entrance to the Neo-Assyrian king Aššurnasirpal II’s temple to the god
Ninurta at Kalhu (modern Nimrud) depicts a warrior god (notice his horned
Figure 8.1 A divine warrior fighting a Mischwesen monster from Aššurnasirpal II’s
temple to the god Ninurta at Kalhu (modern Nimrud).
Courtesy Vles1. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chaos_Monster_and_Sun_God.png.
crown) wielding stylized lightning bolts in each hand with sword and scimitar at
the ready. A similar depiction is found in Figure 8.2, yet with a bow and arrow as
the weapon of choice. His foe, a beast with leonine and bird features, aggressively
bares his claws and fangs, though the stance of the two figures reveals that it is the
god (also winged) who is in rapid pursuit.17
Using mythology even older than the famous tale of Enuma Elish,
Mesopotamian bards told tales of the warrior god Tishpak, the chief god of
Eshnunna (Tell Asmar) and prototype of the more well-known Marduk. At the
outset of our best-preserved text celebrating Tishpak as a divine warrior (CT
13.33–34) we hear of distraught cities crying out in distress, seemingly (though
the text is broken) because of the presence of a monstrous dragon creature whose
dimensions are of true mythic proportions:18
Fifty “miles” is his length,

One “mile” [his width],
Six cubits his mouth,

Twelve cubits [his . . .];
Twelve cubits is the circumference of [his] ea[rs];
Figure 8.2 A divine warrior fighting a Mischwesen monster from a Neo-Assyrian

cylinder seal.
Courtesy the Trustees of the British Museum.
At sixty cubits he [can snatch] birds;19

In water nine cubits deep he drags [ ]‌;
He raises his tail, he [sweeps the sky]. (CT 13.33–34:8–13)
In a scene reminiscent of divine combat myths elsewhere, the pantheon despairs

at the mere description of the opposing beast.20 The gods fearfully ask who will
slay the dragon and deliver the land, offering kingship to such a victor.
All the gods of heaven [were afraid(?)].

In heaven the gods bowed down before [Sin],
And [they gra]sped Sin’s [robe] by its hem:
“Who will go and [slay] the raging dragon,

[And] deliver the wide land [ ]‌
And exercise kingship [ ]‌?” (CT 13.33–34:14–19)
A divine spokesman charges the hero Tishpak with the challenge, repeating the
words of the cowering gods.
“Go, Tishpak, sl[ay] the raging dragon,

And deliver the wide land [ ]‌,
And exercise kingship [ ]‌.”21 (CT 13.33–34:20–22)
Tishpak at first refuses to fight the dragon, evidently claiming that he is not fa-
miliar with his adversary’s features, capabilities, or modus operandi. The text
then breaks off, before what is perhaps another description of the monster’s
actions. After presumably being instructed in the art of warfare by a deity,
Tishpak engages in a cosmic battle with the dragon. The battle scene involves
the storm language of stirred-up clouds, lightning, a violent tempest, and the
“cylinder seal of his life/throat,” which Thorkild Jacobsen took to represent
thunder.22 The dragon’s size is such that when he is slain his blood flows for three
years and three months, day and night.
He [Tishpak] burst open the clouds [and made] a violent storm,

The seal of his life/throat [ ]‌before him,
He shot [at him] and [slew] the raging dragon.
For three years [and] three months, day and [night]

The blood of the raging dragon flowed [ ]‌. (CT 13.33–34: Reverse 5–9)
Preternatural Dragons
Of special note is the description of the dragon in the story. I have noted elsewhere
how “many battle stories, divine and human, ancient and modern, use a standard
technique: the greater the foe, the greater the victory. Combat myths go to great
lengths to build up the strength of the negative protagonist so that greater glory can
then be accorded to he who is able to vanquish such a warrior” (Lewis 2008b: 92).
Such is especially true of mythic battles, where the imagination of poets can run free.
In the text cited at the end of the previous section the dragon is no ordinary serpent,
as seen by his designation as a MUŠ[bašmu], a term used for mythological creatures
(e.g., one of Tiamat’s warriors), even the constellation Hydra. He exhibits animal
characteristics (ears, tail, catching birds) in addition to specifically serpentine char-
acteristics (fifty “miles” long, travels through water). A parallel fragment from KAR
623 describes another bašmu dragon with huge eyes whose feet24 take strides twenty
“miles” long. He devours fish, birds, wild asses, and even humans. Yet the most as-
tonishing aspect of the dragon that Tishpak battles is his description in our text as
a “raging” (cf. Akk labābu) composite creature with serpentine and leonine char-
acteristics (cf. the use of the word labbu, “lion”). Various iconographic depictions
of Mischwesen help us better understand the fantastic portrait that the Tishpak
myth was trying to sketch. While I make no claims of one-to-one correspond-
ence between the following figures and our text, consider the iconography of com-
posite beasts that blend leonine and serpentine features (Figures 8.3, 8.4, 8.5, 8.6),
seven-headed dragons (Figures 8.7, 8.8), and a seven-headed serpent (Figure
8.9).25 The seven-headed dragon is especially associated with Ninurta, who hung
such a beast as a hunting trophy on his chariot and whose mace “has seven heads
like a serpent wreaking carnage” (cf. Figure 8.10).26
Figure 8.3 Fantastic creatures with lion heads and serpentine necks from an Uruk
cylinder seal impression.
After Henri Frankfort, Cylinder Seals (London: Macmillan and Co., 1939), plate IVd. Drawing by
Theodore J. Lewis.
Figure 8.4 Composite beasts with leonine and serpentine features (Uruk).
Photo from William Hayes Ward, Cylinders and Other Oriental Seals in the Library of J. Pierpont
Morgan (New York, 1909), plate XX, #137.
Figure 8.5 Composite beasts with leonine and serpentine features (Uruk).
y
Figure 8.6 Composite beasts with griffin heads, bull bodies, and serpentine necks
(Late Uruk–Incipient Jemdet Nasr).
© RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY.
Figure 8.7 An engraved shell plaque depicting a god battling a seven-headed

monster.
Figure 8.8 A warrior deity piercing a seven-headed dragon from Tell Asmar.
Figure 8.9 An unknown individual holding two heads that he cut off from a seven-
headed serpent (Early Dynastic III, Tell Asmar).
Figure 8.10 A mace head depicting a seven-headed serpent (Early Dynastic).

Enuma Elish: The Exaltation of Marduk Through Cosmic Warfare

The well-known Babylonian creation story Enuma Elish27 likewise describes the
warrior god Marduk28 engaged in a battle of mythic proportions with Tiamat
(the personified primeval Sea)29 and her brood of monstrous Mischwesen. In
contrast to the Tishpak myth (or at least what we have preserved of it), Enuma
Elish goes to great lengths to celebrate the awesome nature of both participants.
Once again, the features of the antagonist are articulated to evoke fear and dra-
matic suspense. A refrain (repeated four times to heighten the drama) describes
Tiamat and her fantastic army:
Tiamat has convened an assembly, furious with rage . . .
Angry, scheming, never lying down night and day,

Making warfare, rumbling, raging,
Convening in assembly, that they might start hostilities.
Mother Hubur, who can form anything,

Added countless invincible weapons,
Gave birth to monster serpents,
Pointed of fang, with merciless incisors [?]‌,

She filled their bodies with venom for blood,
Fierce dragons she clad with glories,

Causing them to bear aura like gods, [saying]
“Whoever sees them shall collapse from weakness!

Wherever their bodies make onslaught
They shall not turn back!”
She deployed serpents, dragons, and hairy hero-men,

Lion monsters, lion men, scorpion men,
Mighty demons, fish men, bull men,
Bearing unsparing arms, fearing no battle.30
The divine warrior Marduk is more than equal to the challenge. Unlike Tishpak,
Marduk shows no hesitation to go to battle, as we would expect from his descrip-
tion at the outset of the story:
Marduk suckled at the breasts of goddesses,

The attendant who raised him endowed him well with glories.
His body was splendid, fiery his glance,

He was a hero at birth, he was a mighty one from the beginning! . . .
His members were fashioned with cunning beyond comprehension,

Impossible to conceive, too difficult to visualize:
Fourfold his vision, fourfold his hearing,

When he moved his lips a fire broke out.
Formidable his fourfold perception,

And his eyes, in like number, saw in every direction.
He was the tallest of the gods, surpassing in form,

His limbs enormous, he was surpassing at birth . . .
He wore [on his body] the aura [labiš melammē] of ten gods . . .
Fifty glories were heaped upon him.31
The gods endowed Marduk with “unopposable weaponry” and then charged him to
“go, cut off the life of Tiamat.” Having “filled/covered his body in fiery flames” (nablu
muštaḫmiṭu zumrušu umtalli), the champion went forth with bow and arrow, mace
and thunderbolts, and a net with which to enmesh Tiamat. Deploying the Four
Winds and raising the Deluge, “his great weapon,” Marduk mounted his chariot and
set his face toward the raging Tiamat, making sure to have a magic spell at the ready.
For all the buildup of protagonist and antagonist, the battle proper is remark-
ably brief, with fast-paced action:
Tiamat and Marduk, sage of the gods, drew close for battle,
They locked in single combat, joining for the fray.
The Lord spread out his net, encircled her,

The ill wind he had held behind him he released in her face.
Tiamat opened her mouth to swallow,

He thrust in the ill wind so she could not close her lips.
The raging winds bloated her belly,

Her insides were stopped up, she gaped her mouth wide.
He shot off the arrow, it broke open her belly,

It cut to her innards, it pierced the heart.
He subdued her and snuffed out her life,

He flung down her carcass, he took his stand upon it.32
As for Tiamat’s army, “they trembled, terrified, they ran in all directions.” And thus
the victory was won and with it the crowning of Marduk (prearranged in an agree-
ment) as sovereign over all the gods. Indeed, though Enuma Elish is frequently
referred to as the Babylonian tale of creation, it is more fittingly “the exaltation of
Marduk.”33
Ugarit: The Exaltation of Baʿlu and ʿAnatu Through Cosmic Warfare

Turning to the Levant, we find similar Chaoskampf mythologies used to elevate
the prominence of deities and their cult.34 As noted in Chapter Six, p. 266, we
have a clear reference to Adad, the Lord of Aleppo, wielding weapons in his defeat
of Tiamat. That Adad let King Zimri-Lim use these very weapons underscores
the political and social dimensions of such mythology. It should be emphasized
that we are not arguing for a meta-narrative in which every ancient Near Eastern
culture adopted a singular story about cosmic warfare and the elevation of its
gods. Each culture wove its stories in culturally specific ways. One need only look
at how the artisans in the citadel of Aleppo chose to picture their storm god, the
Lord of Aleppo—n ot in battle with a Mischwesen monster but rather riding on a
chariot being pulled by a bull (Figure 5.29).
As has been widely acknowledged, the Ugaritic Baʿlu myth (commonly re-
ferred to as the Baal Cycle) “had a long prehistory among the Amorite peoples,”
utilizing “poetic conventions . . . surely descended from the old Amorite poetic
traditions” (Pardee 1997c: 241; cf. Durand 1993; Bordreuil and Pardee 1993). As
a composition, it is extraordinary. Representing “one of the classics of ancient
literature” (Smith 1994b: xxii), it “constitutes, by its length and relative com-
pleteness, the most important literary work preserved from those produced by
the West Semitic peoples in the second millennium BCE” (Pardee 1997c: 241).
The Baʿlu myth contains two stories of divine combat, the first against the deity
Yammu (the personified Sea), the second against the god Motu (personified
Death). Only the first will be considered here. As with Tiamat in Enuma Elish,
the Sea described in the Baʿlu myth is no mere body of water. Rather, Yammu/Sea
is a cosmic foe whose allomorph is a multiple-headed dragon creature (who pre-
sumably lives in the Sea) named both Litanu and Tunnanu.
A quartet of gods is associated with bringing about the defeat of Yammu.
Baʿlu certainly takes center stage in the epic tale named after him. Yet un-
like Enuma Elish’s effusive description of Marduk from the outset of its tale
(see pp. 438–439), here there is no lengthy buildup celebrating Baʿlu’s battle
prowess. In stark contrast, in the Baʿlu myth, ʾIlu, the patriarch of the pan-
theon, is more than willing to hand Baʿlu over, declaring: “Baʿlu is your slave
O Yammu /Baʿlu is your slave O River /The Son of Dagan your captive” (KTU
1.2.1.36–37).
Thus it is that Baʿlu must rise to the occasion. He is assisted by the artisan god
Kotharu-wa-Hasisu, who crafts two weapons that he renders effective through
incantations.35 Dramatic suspense is added when the first weapon (with the name
Driver) proves ineffective. Champions like Yammu are not so easily defeated.
The [first] weapon dances in Baʿlu’s hand,

Like a raptor in his fingers.
It strikes Prince Sea on the shoulders,

Judge River on the chest.
[But] Sea is strong, he does not collapse.

His joints do not buckle.
His body does not slump.36 (KTU 1.2.4.15–18)
A reengagement with Baʿlu wielding a second mace by the name of Expeller

proves victorious:
The [second] weapon dances in Baʿlu’s hand,

Like a raptor in his fingers.
It strikes Prince Sea on the head,

Judge River between the eyes.
Sea collapses,
He falls to the ground.
His joints buckle,
His body slumps.37
Baʿlu grabs Yammu and sets about dismembering [him],

He sets about finishing Judge River off.38 (KTU 1.2.4.23–27)
The goddess ʿAthtartu now comes to Baʿlu’s side and, similar to when Kotharu-
wa-Hasisu used incantations to render the weapons effective, she hexes Yammu
to assist in the defeat.39
By Name, ʿAthtartu hexes [Yammu] [with the following words]:

“Scatter/dry up [Yammu], O Mighty [Baʿlu],
Scatter/dry up [Yammu], O Rider of the Clouds.”
“Indeed, Prince [Yammu] is our captive,
Ruler Naharu is our captive.” (KTU 1.2.4.28–30)
ʿAthtartu’s proclamation of Yammu being taken captive is a splendid poetic

reversal of the earlier prospects for Baʿlu when ʾIlu agreed to his captivity
(KTU 1.2.1.36–37; Smith 1994b: 357). At this crucial juncture our text breaks
off ! Enough is preserved that we are certain that Baʿlu is finally victorious in
scattering Yammu (ybṯnn ʾalʾiyn bʿl), resulting in the proclamation that
Yammu is surely dead!

[Baʿlu reigns!]
Indeed, he rules! (KTU 1.2.4.34–35)
ʿAnatu, the third deity who assists Baʿlu, is the most riveting of deities; at
Ugarit, her lore was unmatched for its vivid intensity. Her battle exploits in-
clude cutting off the heads and hands of her enemies, affixing them to her back
and waist, and then plunging back into the bloody gore because her lust for
battle remains unsated (KTU 1.3.2.5–20; 1.13.5–6). When news arrives that an
enemy has risen against her brother Baʿlu, she brags of her battle prowess with
the following claim:
Surely I have smitten Yammu [Sea], the Beloved of ʾIlu

Surely I finished off Naharu [River], the Great God,
Surely I bound Tunnanu [the dragon] and destroyed him.
I have smitten the Twisting Serpent [bṯn ʿqltn],

The Powerful One with seven heads. (KTU 1.3.3.38–42)40
These words placed on ʿAnatu’s lips closely echo a description later in the story
where the god Motu (Death) speaks of Baʿlu:
When you smote Litanu [ltn], the Fleeing Serpent [bṯn brḥ],
When you finished off the Twisting Serpent [bṯn ʿqltn],
The Powerful One with seven heads . . . (KTU 1.5.1.1–3)41
Another Ugaritic text (KTU 1.83) rehearses a goddess’s victory over the Yammu/
Tunnanu dragon creature, yet it is not explicit with regard to the identity of the
goddess. The author could have either ʿAnatu or ʿAthtartu in mind as he writes:
She sets a muzzle on Tunnanu

She binds him on the heights of Lebanon [with the following words]:
“Parched, may you be dried up/scattered, O Yammu,
with tumultuous terror, O Naharu,
May you not see, lo, may you be scorched/churned.” (KTU 1.83.8–14)42
In summary, the northwestern Levant, like its Mesopotamian neighbors to

the east, had its own rich traditions of warrior gods (male and female) fighting
cosmic battles against a personified Sea and a mythological seven-headed dragon
creature. The pervasiveness of this motif both chronologically and geographi-
cally should not be missed. Such ubiquity sets the context for Iron Age Israel,
where we would expect a similar scenario.
Yahweh as Divine Warrior on a Cosmic Scale
The mythopoeic and mythopoetic traditions that made up the lore of Israelite reli-
gion over hundreds of years used the power of cosmic warfare to exalt Yahweh. Like
its neighbors, ancient Israel found such stories to be captivating for articulating the
prowess of their god. Such literary genres proved to be the perfect vehicles to artic-
ulate the alluring nature of Yahweh and to command the respect, fear, and rever-
ence that he was due (cf. again Otto’s categories of fascinans and tremendum).
Within Israelite religion we find the same pervasiveness of our motif both
chronologically and geographically. The earliest and latest of traditions, northern
and southern—they all employ the vehicle of Yahweh as a warrior fighting (1) on
a cosmic scale (the likes of Yam, Leviathan, Rahab, the Tannin-dragon, and Mot),
and (2) on the historical plane (fighting synergistically with Israelite troops and
fighting alone). Each of these will be addressed in turn.
Ever since Hermann Gunkel’s 1895 Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und
Endzeit, scholars have discussed the so-called Chaoskampf traditions found
within the pages of the Hebrew Bible.43 The discovery of the Ugaritic texts
(starting in 1929) added even more fuel to the exploration of such mythpoeic
traditions in ancient Israel. Though dragon-slaying is a widespread and aged
motif in the ancient Near East and certainly a part of the oldest biblical lore, as we
will see, the most explicit biblical narratives regarding dragon-slaying like that
practiced by Marduk, Baʿlu, and ʿAnatu come from later texts. Psalm 74 likely
emerged during the early exilic period, with its references to the thorough de-
struction of the Jerusalem Temple (Ps 74:3, 7).44 Yet our poet fixes his gaze on the
ancient past, a time in remote antiquity when Yahweh as a “king of old” (melek
miqqedem) provided deliverance. The reference to Yahweh as king in conjunc-
tion with the cosmic warfare that follows is not a coincidence. As noted by John
Day (1985: 19), Psalm 74 together with Ps 93 and Ps 29 “explicitly associate the
Chaoskampf with Yahweh’s kingship, just as the Ugaritic Baal myth connects
Baal’s victory over Yam with his enthronement and Enuma Elish links Marduk’s
kingship with his overcoming of Tiamat.”45
Psalm 74 is the most explicit biblical text when it comes to describing the
multiple-headed dragon that Yahweh vanquishes:
O Yahweh,46 my king from of old,

The one who enacts deliverance throughout the land;
It was you [ʾattâ] who divided Sea [yām] by your might,
You who smashed the heads of the dragons [rāʾšê tannînîm] in the waters;
It was you [ʾattâ] who crushed the heads of Leviathan [rāʾšê liwyātān],
You who left him as food for the denizens of the desert;
It was you [ʾattâ] who cleaved open spring and torrent,
It was you [ʾattâ] who dried up the ever-flowing rivers [nahărôt ʾêtān].
The day is yours, the night too;
It was you [ʾattâ] who ordained moon and sun,
It was you [ʾattâ] who fixed all the bounds of the earth;
Summer and winter—it was you [ʾattâ] who formed them. (Ps 74:12–17)
The stylistic repetition of ʾattâ (“It was you [O Yahweh] who . . .”) seven times is a
dramatic literary vehicle. With it our poet reminds Yahweh of his powerful past
juxtaposed against his inactivity in the present. His plea is for a god who is re-
nowned for defeating the most powerful of preternatural enemies to act against
human adversaries who are “wild beasts” (ḥayyat; Ps 74:19) in their own right.
Our poet does not explicitly enumerate the heads of the preternatural dragon
creature as seven, yet the motif is so dominant in text and iconography that
surely he had seven in mind.47 Note how the four Hebrew terms for the dragon
and the water in which he resides (yām, nahărôt, tannin, liwyātān) are direct
cognates with those we find at Late Bronze Age Ugarit (ym, nhr, tnn, ltn). Thus
Day’s (1985: 4) argument that “the immediate background of the Old Testament
allusions to the sea monster is not Babylonian but Canaanite” is well founded.48
The linkage of the combat myth to creation (Ps 74:16–17) also resonates with
what we know of comparable ancient Near Eastern traditions. Note too how the
combat material of Psalm 74:12–17 is linked to the destruction of the Jerusalem
Temple earlier in the psalm (74:1–11). Combat myths in the comparative ma-
terial resulted in the construction of a temple in honor of Marduk and Baʿlu.
Marvin Tate (building on the work of Lelièvre and Day) notes that “it would
be inappropriate for a divine king to allow his house, a house which was right-
fully his because of his victories over the Sea, and the sea-monsters, to be so
ill-treated.”49
Another exilic text that reminisces about ancient times is found in Isaiah
51:9–10. As with Psalm 74, the context is a communal lament whereby the cur-
rent inactivity of Yahweh results in an urgent plea for him to rouse himself into
action as he did in “the days of old” (yĕmê qedem//dōrôt ʿôlāmîm).
Awake, awake, clothe yourself with strength,

O arm of Yahweh!
Awake, as in days of old,
As in the distant past!
Was it not you who hewed Rahab in pieces,50

who pierced the Dragon [tannîn]?
Was it not you who dried up the Sea [yām],
the waters of the great deep [tĕhôm rabbâ]?
Who made the depths of the sea
a way for the redeemed to traverse?
So those ransomed by Yahweh will return,

and come to Zion with joyful shouting;
crowned with everlasting joy;
they will obtain joy and gladness,

while sorrow and sighing will flee away.51 (Isa 51:9–11)
Our poet recalls the former ages, by which he means the exodus from Egypt.
Using this backdrop, he envisions a new exodus, this time from Babylon to
Jerusalem (cf. yĕmê-ʿôlām in Isa 63:11–12).52 He combines the various words for
the cosmic Sea (yām and tĕhôm, the latter cognate with Akkadian Tiamat) and
the dragon (tannîn) with yet another word, Rahab (rahab), a double entendre
that can designate a dragon as well as Egypt as the traditional enemy.53 The
verbs for the actions directed against the dragon—hewing (maḥṣebet), smiting
(mōḥeṣet according to the variant in 1QIsaa), and piercing (mĕḥôlelet)—describe
a battle scene equal to that depicted in the iconography discussed earlier (hewing
in Figures 8.7 and 8.9, piercing in Figure 8.8).
Turning our focus to wisdom literature, more specifically to the book of Job,
we see how authors of other genres also utilized the widespread Chaoskampf
motif. Indeed, the author of the book of Job has a remarkably large number of
references to Yahweh as a divine warrior on a cosmic scale. This might come as a
surprise to readers who have thought of wisdom literature as void of traditional
deliverance themes (e.g., the exodus) and/or salvation motifs that are found in
non-wisdom books.54
While this absence of traditional motifs may be true of the Book of Proverbs
and Qohelet, it is certainly not true when it comes to the book of Job’s concen-
tration on the divine combat myth (Job 3:8; 7:12; 9:8, 13; 26:12–13; 40:9–41:26
[Eng 40:9–41:34]; cf. 38:8–11).55 Day (2000: 100) notes two reasons for this: (1)
the connection of Chaoskampf myths to the theme of creation (see Ps 74:16–17)
and (2) how the author of the book of Job “clearly saw a parallel between Job’s
argument with God and the conflict between the dragon/sea and God.” In partic-
ular, Day points to Job 7:12, where the suffering Job laments: “Am I Sea [yām] or
the Dragon [tannîn], that you station a siege guard against me?”56 Regardless of
why such traditions resonate for our Joban author, the motif of Yahweh as cosmic
warrior is pervasive:
By his power, [Yahweh] quelled the Sea [yām],

By his skill, he smote Rahab [rāhab].
By his wind, the heavens . . . ,
His hand pierced the Fleeing Serpent [nāḥāš bārîaḥ].57 (Job 26:12–13)58
Of the other Joban passages, the author’s prefatory remarks to the Behemoth/
Leviathan pericope in Job 40:9–41:26 (Eng 40:9–41:34) are most telling. In a pas-
sage without precedent, Yahweh surprisingly challenges Job to be a god—to clothe
himself with divine radiance (hôd wĕhādār tilbāš; 40:10), to unleash his wrath
(ʾap), and to achieve victory such that Yahweh himself would praise him (wĕgam-
ʾănî ʾôdekā; 40:14)!59 The lengthy description that follows accentuates that the
human Job simply cannot do what Yahweh can in subjugating and defeating
Behemoth and Leviathan. The point is clear: preternatural Mischwesen—
especially a fire-breathing dragon (41:10–13 [Eng 41:18–21]) like Leviathan—are
of such a cosmic nature that only a god can bring about their defeat. To refine the
point further, even divine beings (ʾēlîm) cower in fear (41:17 [Eng 41:25]) before
such an invincible dragon, who knows not fear and can stir up the abyss (41:22–24
[Eng 41:30–32]). Yahweh alone can rule him (41:25–26 [Eng 41:33–34]).60
Lastly in this brief overview, consider the way in which the Chaoskampf motif
appears in apocalyptic (and proto-apocalyptic) literature. Here Isaiah 27:1 is our
parade example:
On that day Yahweh will punish—

With his harsh, great and strong sword—
Leviathan [liwyātān], the Fleeing Serpent [nāḥāš bāriaḥ],
Leviathan, the Twisting Serpent [nāḥāš ʿăqallātôn];
He will kill the Dragon [tannîn] that is in the Sea [yām].61 (Isa 27:1)
The five different references for the preternatural beast(s) in this verse resonate
with those found in earlier biblical texts and the much older alphabetic cunei-
form texts from Late Bronze Age Ugarit—with even the Twisting Serpent (nāḥāš
ʿăqallātôn) making an appearance (cf. bṯn ʿqltn in KTU 1.3.3.38–42 and KTU
1.5.1.1–3). Here they function eschatologically. The slayings of Sea and the
dragon function not to establish the rule of Yahweh as the divine warrior among
competing gods (Marduk, Baʿlu, ʿAnatu), not to rouse Yahweh to action in light
of his perceived inactivity, and not to juxtapose the greatness of divine omnipo-
tence against the smallness of Joban pronouncements. In Isaiah 27:1 the divine
battle lies in the distant future (bayyôm hahûʾ), not the distant past (yĕmê qedem//
dōrôt ʿôlāmîm). Yet this final battle in the eschaton recapitulates the cosmogonic
victory of primeval times, even at the creation of the world (the so-called Urzeit
wird Endzeit motif). Thus Joseph Blenkinsopp writes that “the scribe has in mind
the final overcoming of evil as a metahistorical and metaphysical force.” What
is noteworthy is what Blenkinsopp has called the “durability” of these ancient
Chaoskampf motifs—here in a proto-apocalyptic text and later still in Jewish and
Christian apocalyptic literature.62
Searching for Archaic Lore in Israelite Religion

The texts discussed here (the majority of them late) demonstrate the enduring
theme of Yahweh engaged in cosmic warfare, a theme that was employed across
a variety of literary genres and one that was central to Judean identity formation.
If one of these Judean authors was asked to describe how he came to know such
lore, he would not have pulled a written copy of Enuma Elish or the Baʿlu Cycle
from an archive, though cuneiform texts are attested in the land of Canaan/Israel
from the Middle Bronze Age to the Iron Age.63 He likely would have pointed to
lore from “the days of old” (yĕmê qedem//dōrôt ʿôlāmîm) handed down orally
across the generations:64
Remember the days of old [yĕmôt ʿôlām],

Consider the years of generations long ago [šĕnôt dôr-wādôr];
Ask your father [ʾābîkā], he will tell you;
your elders [zĕqēnêkā], they will inform you. (Deut 32:7)
Yet other exhortations to remember “bygone days” (yāmîm riʾšōnîm) date the
memory of effective divine warfare to the days of creation (min-hayyôm ʾăšer bārāʾ
ʾĕlōhîm ʾādām ʿal-hāʾāreṣ; Deut 4:32–34; cf. the disputation speech in Isa 40:21–24).
Wisdom traditions, like what we find in the book of Job, held that the
understandings of one’s ancestors that accrued over time were qualitatively dif-
ferent from those that could be acquired in a single, transitory life. Such col-
lective knowledge had a didactic authority that was able to instruct the present
ephemeral generation, those who are “but of yesterday.”65
Indeed, inquire of bygone generations [lĕdōr rîšôn],

Ascertain the insights of their fathers [ʾăbôtām];
For we are but of yesterday and know nothing,

Our days on earth are but a shadow.
Will they not teach you and tell you,

Utter words out of their understanding? (Job 8:8–10)
Such aged lore regularly focused on God’s actions, whether with regard to the-
odicy (in Job’s case) or (for the author of Psalm 44) God’s military victories:
We have heard with our own ears, O Yahweh,66

Our fathers [ăbôtênû] have told us
Of the [military] deeds you executed back in their days,

in the days of old [bîmê qedem]. (Ps 44:2 [Eng 44:1])
In turn, such oral traditions were to be passed on to future generations with, ac-
cording to another psalmist, song being a primary medium:67
Give thanks to Yahweh! Invoke him by name!

Proclaim his deeds among the peoples.
Sing to him, make music to him!
Tell of all his wondrous acts. (Ps 105:1–2)
Yet in emphasizing orality and performance, one should not forget written
narratives and how they too would have served cultural and educational
purposes. Accounts of Yahweh’s warfare were collected in written form (sēper
milḥămōt yhwh; Num 21:14), probably early. No longer do scholars envision a
linear evolution in which an exclusively oral society becomes exclusively literate.
In Robert Miller’s (2011: 121) words, “Oral and written literatures were simulta-
neously part of ancient Israel for the entire time of the Hebrew Bible’s composi-
tion. . . . There was an interplay of oral and written composition and performance
throughout Israel’s history.” David Carr (2007: 41; 2011: 36) also emphasizes
“ongoing oral-written education” as a much better model for understanding the
transmission process. The textual data that we have at our disposal are “the distil-
late of a transmission-historical process, shaped to varying extents by the exigen-
cies of memory and performance.” Dobbs-Allsopp (2015: 110) also emphasizes
that we are dealing with “a textuality forged at the interface with orality . . . [T]‌he
traditional techniques and tropes of orality remain critical to the production and
successful reception of poetry. . . . [B]iblical poems, even once written down, are
decidedly more oral and aural than not.”
As for precise dating, a historian is at a loss when it comes to tracing mythic
lore handed down from ages past. By definition, such stories are of a timeless,
unknown origin. The oldest remnants of Chaoskampf tales in the Hebrew Bible
can be found embedded in passages like Psalm 29, Exodus 15, Psalms 29, 68, 89,
93, and the archaic (or archaizing) Habakkuk 3.68 It is likely that literature such as
Psalm 29 used the power and imagery of such traditions intentionally as part of
anti-Baal propaganda (Pardee 2005: 158) that likely dated very early.
The Divine Battle at the Sea and with Sea

The preservation of certain memories over others is telling. With respect to
Yahweh’s actions as a divine warrior, no event captured the ancient Israelite im-
agination as much as the exodus from Egypt and Yahweh’s victory at the sea over
Pharaoh’s armies. The lengthiest poetic account is found in Exodus 15:1–18, an
archaically flavored passage that is often considered one of the grandest poems in
the entire Hebrew Bible.69
While our epic poet focuses on Yahweh as “a man of war” who marches out to do
battle with Pharaoh at the sea, he nonetheless embraces the divine warrior on a fa-
milial level. Our lyric poet exalts Yahweh both as his personal god (zeh ʾēlî) and as his
ancestral god (ʾĕlōhê ʾābî) who acts redemptively on behalf of his clan (ʿam) (Exod
15:2, 13, 16).70 Divine care is expressed as “loving” (ḥesed), together with the im-
agery of a shepherd guiding his flock to pasture (nēhaltā . . .ʾel-nawēh) (Exod 15:13).
As for the cosmic battle, it is recast such that the battle is no longer with a
preternatural Sea but at the sea. It is still cosmic in that a god is fighting with
such tremendum (cf. neʾdārî, ʾaddîrîm, neʾdār, nôrāʾ) that humans and gods alike
respond with fear (Exod 15:6, 10–11). In particular, the expression “terrible of
radiance,” nôrāʾ tĕhillōt, reminds one of the terrifying melammu of the Neo-
Assyrian god Aššur in battle.71
Let me sing/Sing to Yahweh, (1) ʾāšîrâ/šîrû72 leyhwh

For he is highly exalted; kî-gāʾōh gāʾâ
Horse and charioteer sûs wĕrōkĕbô73
He cast into the sea. rāmâ bayyām
Yah[weh] is my might and stronghold, (2) ʿozzî wĕzimrāt yâ

May he be my salvation. yĕhî-lî lîšûʿâ74
This is my god whom I exalt, zeh ʾēlî wĕʾanwēhû

The god of my father whom I glorify. ʾĕlōhê ʾābî waʾărōmĕmenhû
Yahweh is a man of war, (3) yhwh ʾîš milḥāmâ

Yahweh is his name yhwh šĕmô
The chariots of Pharaoh and his army (4) markĕbōt parʿōh wĕḥêlô
He has cast into the sea. yārâ bayyām
His choice troops ûmibḥar šālišāyw

Were drowned in the Sea of Reeds.75 ṭubbĕʿû bĕyam-sûp
The abyss covered them, (5) tĕhōmōt yĕkasĕyumû

They sank into the depths like stone. yārĕdû bimĕṣôlōt kĕmô-ʾāben
Your right hand, Yahweh, (6) yĕmînkā yhwh

terrible in strength; neʾdārî bakkōaḥ
Your right hand, Yahweh, yĕmînkā yhwh

Shattered the enemy. tirʿaṣ ʾôyēb
With your massive cresting76 (7) ûbĕrōb gĕʾônkā

You crushed your foes tahărōs qāmêkā
You sent forth your fury tĕšallaḥ ḥărōnĕkā

It consumed them like straw.77 yōʾkĕlēmô kaqqaš
At the blast of your nostrils (8) ûbĕrûaḥ ʾappêkā

Waters were laid bare;78 neʿermû mayim
Sheets of water stood like a wall,79 niṣṣĕbû kĕmô-nēd nōzĕlîm
The abyss congealed in the heart of the sea . . . qāpĕʾû tĕhōmōt bĕleb-yām . . .
You blew with your breath, (10) nāšaptā bĕrûḥăkā

Sea covered them. kissāmô yām
They sank like a lead weight ṣālălû kaʿôperet
In dreadful waters. bĕmayim ʾaddîrîm
Who is like you among the gods, Yahweh? (11) mî-kāmōkâ bāʾēlim yhwh
Who is like you, feared in holiness? mî kāmōkâ neʾdār baqqōdeš80
81
Terrible of radiance, worker of wonder. nôrāʾ tĕhillōt ʿōśēh peleʾ
You extended your right hand, (12) nāṭîtā yĕmînĕkā

The underworld swallowed them.82 tiblāʿēmô ʾāreṣ
(Exod 15:1–12)
Just because the battle is no longer with Sea but rather at the sea does not mean
that we are dealing with just any battle or with just any body of water. Yahweh
is described as a striding warrior with upraised right hand (Exod 15:6, 12; cf.
Figures 7.1, 7.2, 7.3). Archery imagery is likely behind the verb rāmâ in Exodus
15:1 (cf. esp. Hab 3:9, 11). Multiple watery forces (the sea, the abyss, the depths,
cresting waves, the dreadful waters), wind (personified as divine breath), and
even the underworld serve as the military agents by which Yahweh crushes his
foe (Exod 15:7). In addition, the divine arsenal includes Yahweh’s anger (ḥărōn,
ʾap; Exod 15:7–8) and perhaps even the divine name.83
Psalm 77:17–21 (Eng 77:16–20), like Isaiah 51:9–11, is another late snippet
of a once larger poem that recalls God’s “wonders of old” (miqqedem pilʾekā).
Such wonders are exemplified foremost by “the [military] actions of Yah[weh]”
(maʿallê-yâ) at the sea (Ps 77:12 [Eng 77:11]). There is no doubt that the poet is
referencing the exodus saga, as he mentions Yahweh guiding his people “together
with the agency of Moses and Aaron” (Ps 77:21 [Eng 77:20]).
The battle at the sea is poetically depicted through four watery terms: mayim,
tĕhōmôt, yām, and mayim rabbîm. Yahweh’s arsenal (clouds, rain, thunder, lightning,
whirlwind) is befitting a storm god. Yahweh marches through the sea (bayyām)
of Exodus fame, yet the gravitas of this historic march is heightened through the
anthropomorphization of the sea. The Waters see Yahweh’s battle march and are
terrified.
When the Waters saw you, O Yahweh, rāʾûkā mayim yhwh84

When the Waters saw you, they were afraid! rāʾûkā mayim yāḥîlû
Even the Abyss trembled! . . . ʾap yirgĕzû tĕhōmôt
Your march [O Yahweh] was through the sea, bayyām darkekā

Your path through the mighty waters, ûšĕbîlĕkā85 bĕmayim rabbîm
Your footprints were unmarked!86 wĕʿiqqĕbôtêkā lōʾ nōdāʿû
(Ps 77:17, 20 [Eng 77:16, 19])
Similarly, Psalm 114:3, 5 has Sea “looking” (elliptically at Yahweh as a divine warrior
marching to battle [cf. 114:7]) and fleeing in fear. One could compare this description
to the flight of Tiamat’s army after they encounter the mighty Marduk. When we add
all such passages together (Exod 15:11, Ps 77:17 [Eng 77:16], Ps 89:8–9 [Eng 89:7–8],
and Ps 114:3, 5), it is clear that it is not just humans who were thought to experience
tremendum when faced with the lethal presence of Yahweh in battle dress.87
Yet another anthropomorphized battle is described in the archaic/archaizing
Habakkuk 3.88 According to Habakkuk 3:2, the author had heard of Yahweh’s
military actions in the distant past and found such knowledge quite frightening
(yārēʾtî yhwh pāʿālĕkā). Habakkuk 3:8–15 (a structural unit based on its repeti-
tive water vocabulary) portrays Yahweh as a charioteer armed for battle with bow
and arrows as well as a spear (3:8–9, 11). We enter the story midstream. One can
only guess at the plotline that led our poet to cry out:
Were you angry with the rivers [nĕhārîm], O Yahweh,

Was your wrath against the rivers [nĕhārîm],
Did you rage against the sea [bayyām],
When you drove your steeds,

Your victorious chariots?
You laid bare your bow,

. . . [your] shafts . . .89
Torrents of water [zerem mayim] swept by,

The abyss [tĕhôm] gave forth its voice . . .
At the brilliance of your flying arrows,

At the radiance of your lightning-like spear . . .
You smote the head of the wicked one90

slashing, head to foot.
With his own spear you pierced [nāqabtā] [his] head,91

When his warriors stormed out to scatter us . . .
You trampled the sea [bayyām] with your horses,

You parched the many waters [mayim rabbîm].92 (Hab 3:8–11, 13b–15)
Francis Andersen (2001: 316) notes “the fusion of the mythological and the his-
torical,” with “the historical focus on the crossing of the Reed Sea.” The hostile
“nations” mentioned within the poem (3:12–14, 16) are for Andersen (2001: 334)
“universal, potentially eschatological,” whereas for Day (1985: 105) they point to-
ward the Babylonians. Where Andersen (2001: 317) sees “only an echo” of the
original mythological tale behind Habakkuk 3:8, Theodore Hiebert (1986: 6–7,
23) asserts that the formulaic pair yām//nāhār-m (which he renders as singular,
following Albright) constitutes “the waters of chaos, Yahweh’s cosmic foe . . . an
enduring reflection of the ancient name of the dragon of chaos.” Indeed, for
Hiebert (1986: 108), “the enemy is a cosmic one. It is the ancient dragon of chaos,
River//Sea.” Nonetheless, Hiebert too agrees that we have a “blending of the
cosmic and historical realms,” and the “cosmic battle is recited to celebrate God’s
victory in earthly wars.”
Finally we come to the prose account of the victory at the sea in Exodus 13:21–
14:22, a composite text of several sources (JE/non-P and P plus additions) that
often serves as a classic example of how independent accounts were woven to-
gether.93 The conflated text emphasizes Moses’ agency to a greater degree than
any of the other exodus accounts previously mentioned. In the battle scenes, it is
his “outstretched hand over the sea” (Exod 14:16, 21, 26–27) that is emphasized
rather than Yahweh’s right hand (cf. the threefold use of yāmîn in Exod 15:6, 12).94
The people put their faith in Moses as well as in Yahweh (14:31). Similarly, the
account here devotes a surprising amount of attention to describing Pharaoh’s
military might, especially his “choice” chariotry (14:7, 9, 17–18, 23, 25–26, 28),
with no description of Yahweh as a charioteer with weapons at the ready (cf.
Hab 3:8–11, 15). Nonetheless, these two highlighted humans reinforce the con-
sistent theme of Yahweh as the divine warrior par excellence. The emphasis on
Pharaoh’s military prowess illustrates once again the notion that the greater the
foe, the greater the victor; the greater the odds, the greater the victory (cf. p. 433).
Though Moses’ outstretched “hand” (yād) is highlighted throughout the battle
scenes, it is clearly Yahweh’s empowerment that renders it effective. The con-
cluding line makes this explicit: “Israel saw ‘the great hand’ [hayyād haggĕdōlâ]
that Yahweh wielded against the Egyptians” (14:31).95 Yahweh is the one who
provides deliverance (√yšʿ; 14:13, 30); Yahweh is the one who does the actual
fighting (√lḥm; 14:14, 25)—“panicking” (14:24) the Egyptian army and “shaking
them out” (14:27) into the sea.96 It is Yahweh who drives back the sea, drying it
up and cleaving its waters using the agency of a mighty wind (14:21) that only a
god can control.
Not to be missed are other signs of divine activity, such as the “messenger of
God” figure (malʾak hāʾĕlōhîm) portrayed in Exodus 14:19a as Yahweh’s military
leader protecting the front and rear flanks of the army (cf. Isa 52:12). With nearly
identical language (suggesting a conflation of two variants), Exodus 14:19b
describes a flanking “cloud pillar” (ʿammûd heʿānān) that is coupled earlier in the
account with the “fire pillar” (ʿammûd ʾēš; Exod 13:21). The use of fire as symbol
of divine presence (and of a destructive nature) was discussed in Chapter Seven,
pp. 344–358. Most commentators view the two pillars as a single apparition des-
ignating divine presence.97 While this famous pillar has been used to guide the
way for Israel to travel (Exod 13:21), here is it militaristic. Indeed, it is the locale
from which Yahweh “looks down” (yašqēp) on the Egyptian army just prior to
bringing about their panic (Exod 14:24).
Apart from a brief reference to impairing chariot wheels, our text does
not flesh out the precise mode of Yahweh’s fighting or the means by which he
brought about the Egyptians’ terror. Yet it should be underscored that “fear” is
a bracketing motif in the narrative. Due to the Egyptians’ pursuit, the people of
Israel are in “great fear” (wayyîrʾû mĕʾōd; 14:10) at the outset of the story and
cry out (in fear) to Moses. Moses tells them to “fear not” (ʾal-tîrāʾû; 14:13), only
to then cry out (in fear) himself to Yahweh.98 After Yahweh terrifies (yāhom;
Exod 14:24) the Egyptians, they flee (in fear), but are vanquished nonetheless.
As a result of Yahweh’s awe-inspiring deliverance, the people then rightly direct
their fear toward Yahweh (wayyîrʾû hāʿām ʾet-yhwh; 14:31), in whom they put
their faith.
As for the divine mechanism, the associations here between a God on high
and fire remind one of traditions elsewhere of a militant Yahweh flying through
the sky (Deut 33:2), even “bowing the heavens and descending” as he routs his
enemies (Ps 18:8–11, 13–15 [Eng 18:7–10, 12–14]//2 Sam 22:8–11, 13–15). The
notion of a Yahwistic theophany causing terror (yāhom; Exod 14:24) among
enemy troops is also found in Ps 18:15//2 Sam 22:15, where a thundering Yahweh
lets loose his arrows/lightning as he terrifies (yĕḥummēm/yāhom) his foes (so too
Ps 144:5–6).99
Yahweh as Cosmic Warrior and Royal Legitimization

When we contextualize Yahwistic Chaoskampf traditions within their broader
ancient Near Eastern setting, it is logical to posit that the description of Yahweh’s
cosmic warfare was tied to concepts of royal supremacy from the outset. It is thus
not surprising that the cosmic poem in Exodus 15 ends with Yahweh reigning
eternally (15:18).100 Nor is it surprising that such mythology was appropriated
for legitimizing Judean royalty.101
As we have noted, the primary motif running through the Chaoskampf

traditions about Tishpak in Eshnunna, Marduk in Babylon, and Baʿlu at Ugarit
was divine supremacy, and such preeminence was articulated via the language of
royalty.102 Moreover, in the telling of such myths of divine exaltation—with the
Marduk story being our best example—it was the other gods of the pantheon who
assign royal supremacy to the victor of the cosmic battle. This widespread motif
surely forms a backdrop to Psalm 29, where we read of “divine beings” (bĕnê ʾēlîm)
according Yahweh the divine apparel of radiance and strength (kābôd wāʿōz) be-
cause of his victory over the chaotic waters (mayim rabbîm, mabbûl) over which
he sits enthroned as eternal king (wayyēšeb yhwh melek lĕʿôlām).103 Psalm 97
echoes similar notions in having “all gods bow down before Yahweh” (97:7), a
storm god who reigns as king (yhwh mālāk; 97:1) and whose “royal apparel . . . is
composed of cloud, fire and lightning” (Mettinger 1982: 119; cf. Ps 97:2–6).
We have already noted how the biblical text that is most explicit in its language
of a multiple-headed dragon addresses Yahweh as a king whose cosmic victories
were fought in the distant past (melek miqqedem; Ps 74:12). Archaic passages such
as Psalm 29 and Exodus 15 underscore this age-old tradition, as do Psalm 89 and
Psalm 93. Frank Moore Cross (1973: 135) grouped Psalm 89:6–19 (Eng 89:5–18)
and Psalm 93:1–4 together as examples of psalms coming from the early royal cult
(“probably of the tenth century B.C.”) whose “language is purely mythic, with no
reference to the historical event at the Reed Sea remembered in Israelite tradition.”
In contrast to Psalm 29—whose echoes of mythopoeic tradition resound with
a time when the gods “gave” (hābû) Yahweh the divine trappings of radiance and
strength (kābôd wāʿōz)—the poet of Psalm 93 asserts (using a reflexive hitʾazzār
in 93:1) that Yahweh clothed himself with grandeur and strength (gēʾût/ʿōz). Of
particular note is the verb used for “robing/clothing” (lābēš), whose Akkadian
cognate (labiš) is also used of the gods being “clothed” with divine traits such as
melammu radiance and puluḫtu awe.104
Yahweh is king, yhwh mālāk

Robed in grandeur; gēʾût lābēš
Yahweh has robed himself, lābēš yhwh
Girded himself with strength. ʿōz hitʾazzār
The world is established; ʾap-tikkôn tēbēl

it cannot be shaken. bal-timmôṭ
Your throne is established from of old; nākôn kisʾăkā mēʾāz

since the distant past You have existed. mēʿôlām ʾāttâ
[Back then] the rivers had lifted up, O Yahweh, nāśĕʾû nĕhārôt yhwh
the rivers had lifted up their thunder, nāśĕʾû nĕhārôt qôlām

the rivers had lifted up their roaring. yiśĕʾû105 nĕhārôt dokyām
Mightier than the thunder of the chaotic waters, miqqōlôt mayim rabbîm
Mightier than the breakers of the sea ʾaddîrîm mišbĕrê-yām
Was/is Yahweh, mighty on high. ʾaddîr bammārôm yhwh.
(Ps 93:1–4)
Through use of the root kwn, the poet of Psalm 93 weds the establishment and
permanence of Yahweh’s throne to the establishment and permanence of the
world itself. As for the two expressions (mēʾāz//mēʿôlām) designating remote an-
tiquity in Psalm 93:2, Hans-Joachim Kraus (1989: 234) poses the probing ques-
tion: “What [actually] happened in primeval time?” Kraus (building on the work
of Gunkel) finds his answer in the following verse, which depicts “the waters of
chaos revolt[ing] against their creator God” and where “conceptions of the myth
concerning the battle against dragons and chaos come through.” Once again we
find multiple terms for the chaotic waters (nĕhārôt, mayim rabbîm, yām) that
resonate with the Chaoskampf texts noted earlier, both at Ugarit and elsewhere in
the Hebrew Bible.
Psalm 89 is one of the most complex poems in the Psalter. It may provide a
clue that divine cosmic warfare appeared early in the history of ancient Israel,
as it is linked to the legitimization of David and his dynasty to follow. Scholars
are divided as to whether Psalm 89:6–19 (Eng 89:5–18) constitutes an archaic
hymn (some even dating it to the tenth century BCE) reused by a later poet or
a composition that is integral to a unified lament.106 In its final form and func-
tioning as a whole, Psalm 89 constitutes a late lament occasioned by the military
weakness and failure of a reigning (unnamed) Davidic king. The poet makes
the accusation that Yahweh is culpable for not sustaining the king in battle and
bringing down his throne (89:41–45 [Eng 88:40–44])—charges predicated on
steadfast promises that Yahweh had sworn to David and his lineage in the dis-
tant past (hāriʾšōnîm; 89:20–38, 50 [Eng 89:19–37, 49]). As a result, the royal
“servant” and “anointed” of Yahweh has become the object of scorn (89:51–52
[Eng 89:50–51]).107
As part of his rhetoric, the poet starts by extolling Yahweh as a militant god
(yhwh ʾĕlōhê ṣĕbāʾôt), known for his incomparable power (mî-kāmôkā ḥăsîn yâ),
who is greatly feared (naʿărāṣ rabbâ//nôrāʾ) in the divine assembly (Ps 89:6–9
[Eng 89:5–8]).108 As proof, the poet articulates Yahweh’s cosmic victory:
The heavens praise your wonders, O Yahweh,

Your faithfulness too in the assembly of holy beings,
For who in the skies can equal Yahweh,

Can compare with Yahweh among the divine beings?
A god greatly dreaded in the council of holy beings,109

Held in awe by all around him?
O Yahweh, god of armies,

Who is mighty like you, O Yah?
It is you [ʾattâ] who rules the raging of the sea/Sea [yām],110

When its waves surge, it is you [ʾattâ] who calm them.
It was you [ʾattâ] who crushed Rahab as a carcass,111
With your powerful arm you scattered your enemies.
The heavens are yours, the earth too;

The world and all it holds—112
It was you [ʾattâ] who established them.
North and south—113

It was you [ʾattâ] who created them,
Tabor and Hermon joyfully shout in your name.
Yours is an arm endowed with might,

Your hand is strong;
your right hand raised high.
Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne,

Loyalty and fidelity go before you . . .
Indeed! Yahweh is our shield, or: Our shield belongs to Yahweh,

The Holy One of Israel our King! or: Our king to the Holy One of Israel.114
(Ps 89:6–19 [Eng 89:5–18])
The section that follows, Psalm 89:20–38 (Eng 89:19–37), builds on the opening
of the poem in representing one of the Hebrew Bible’s strongest articulations of
Judean royal ideology. The psalmist has Yahweh (speaking in first-person dis-
course) proclaim that he took a covenant oath to secure an enduring dynasty
for David, his chosen servant (Ps 89:4–5 [Eng 89:3–4]//89:29–30, 35–38 [Eng
89:28–29, 34–37]). As Psalm 93 wedded the establishment and permanence of
Yahweh’s throne to the establishment and permanance of the world itself, so here
the permanence of David’s throne is as firm as the sun and moon.
David is described with grand terms: a warrior (gibbôr) upon whom Yahweh
has conferred strength, a chosen hero from the army (bāḥûr mēʿām) whom
Yahweh has exalted. He is a divine servant whom Yahweh has consecrated for
battle (89:20–21 [Eng 89:19–20]). He is unstoppable in war for one undeniable
reason: Yahweh’s empowerment.
Of old,115 you spoke in a [prophetic] vision,

to your faithful one [David] you said:116
“I [Yahweh] have conferred power [ʿēzer]117 on a warrior,

I have exalted a chosen [warrior] from the army.
I have found David my servant,

With my holy oil I have consecrated him [for battle],118
My hand will be permanently with him,

Yes, my arm will strengthen him.
No enemy will attack him,

No wicked one will violate him;119
I will crush his foes before him,

I will strike down those who hate him.
My faithfulness and steadfast fidelity will be with him,

By my name120 will his horn be exalted.” (Ps 89:20–25 [Eng 89:19–24])
A bold military climax then sounds in Psalm 89:26 (Eng 89:25):
I [Yahweh] will set his hand on Sea, wĕśamtî bayyām yādô

His right hand on River. bannĕhārôt yĕmînô
Though the tradition coming down to us in the MT has demoted the pre-
ternatural, chaotic waters to natural entities (the sea//the rivers), it is clear
that the original lore would have made no sense if one envisioned David’s mil-
itary power being exercised against mere bodies of water. The scene is not
one of military troops traversing watery locations in an ancient counterpart
to Washington crossing the Delaware. The climax of Yahweh’s empowerment
of David is that the deity allows him victory over the cosmic sea, a battle only
gods can fight. It may not be a coincidence that Yahweh also exalts David’s
horn (qeren), a common symbol of divinity. Granted, David is not being
deified (discussed later). The poet clearly prefers the notion of the king being
the adopted firstborn son of God (bĕkôr; Ps 89:28 [Eng 89:27]; cf. Ps 2:7; 2
Sam 7:14). Nonetheless, David as king is extra-human in that he is given the
status of “most high” with respect to earthly kings (ʿelyôn lĕmalkê-ʾāreṣ) in
Psalm 89:28 (Eng 89:27), a datum certainly not lost on those who knew the
traditions that celebrated Yahweh ʿElyon as the “great king over all the earth”
(melek gādôl ʿal-kol-hāʾāreṣ; Ps 47:3 [Eng 47:2]).121 Compare too Psalm 21:6
(Eng 21:5), where Yahweh endows the king with divine radiance (kābôd, hôd,
hādār).122
Once again, an ancient Near Eastern perspective can help us understand the
way in which David is being divinely empowered for cosmic warfare. The outset
of this pericope claims that Yahweh’s elevation of David was revealed via prophetic
intermediation (ḥāzôn; Ps 89:20 [Eng 89:19]); this resonates with other biblical
accounts (e.g., 2 Sam 7:4–17; 23:1–7). Thanks to cognate material (especially Mari
and Neo-Assyrian texts), we learn of the ubiquitous presence of prophetic inter-
mediation for legitimating monarchs.123 For example, the military success of the
Neo-Assyrian king Esarhaddon was ensured by the gods, who constantly sent
oracles promising that they would annihilate his foes.124 Earlier still is the pro-
phetic revelation to the Mari king Zimri-Lim where Adad of Aleppo asserted (via
the apilu Abiya) that thanks to his weapons the king would never meet his equal:
I [Adad] restored you [Zimri-Lim] to the th[rone of your father’s house], and
the weapons with which I fought Sea I handed you [kakkī ša itti têmtim amtaḫṣu
addinakkum]. I anointed you with the oil of my luminosity, nobody will offer
resistance to you.125
Just as this prophetic text from Mari references Chaoskampf traditions to under-
score Zimri-Lim’s prowess in battle, so Psalm 89:26 (Eng 89:25) echoes similar
legitimization for David.126 The notion of mortals being divinely empowered is
nothing new, as we have seen with Moses’ outstretched hand being Yahweh’s in-
corporeal hand in action and with Moses’ rod being at the same time the deity’s
rod.127 Ezekiel 30:24–25 will even have Nebuchadnezzar wielding Yahweh’s sword,
and Isaiah 10:5 will turn Assyria into the rod itself. Yet the reference to battling
Sea//River in Psalm 89:26 (Eng 89:25) neatly ties the legitimization of Davidic
royal ideology to the Chaoskampf traditions mentioned earlier in the poem (Ps
89:6–19 [Eng 89:5–18]; cf. esp. Dumortier 1972). Compare too the poem in 2
Samuel 22:35//Psalm 18:35 that has David praising Yahweh for training his hands
for war (mĕlammēd yāday lammilḥāmâ) such that he is skilled at archery.
Before leaving the connection between Chaoskampf traditions and Judean
royal ideology, we need to revisit Psalm 24. In the discussion in Chapter Seven,
p. 396, it was noted that this poem is likely a liturgy of divine entry into the temple
via the Ark. Because the ritual was located in Jerusalem and celebrated divine
kingship, it is likely that it was associated with the royal cult. Cross (1973: 91–
99) has gone further to suggest that Psalm 24:7–10 is a liturgical fragment that
reenacts Yahweh’s Chaoskampf victory, which culminated in the warrior god’s
enthronement “in his newly built (cosmic) temple,” in a way similar to what we
find in the Ugaritic Baʿlu myth and Enuma Elish.
Lift up your heads, O gates śĕʾû šĕʿārîm rāʾšêkem

Lift yourselves up, O ancient doors! hinnāśĕʾû pitḥê ʿôlām
The King of Radiance enters! yābôʾ melek hakkābôd

Who is this Radiant King? mî zeh melek hakkābôd
Yahweh mighty and valiant! yhwh ʿizzûz wĕgibbôr

Yahweh valiant in war! yhwh gibbôr milḥāmâ
Lift up your heads, O gates śĕʾû šĕʿārîm rāʾšêkem

Lift yourselves up, O ancient doors! śĕʾû [hinnāśĕʾû?] pitḥê ʿôlām
The King of Radiance enters! yābôʾ melek hakkābôd

Who is this Radiant King? mî hûʾ zeh melek hakkābôd
Yahweh of Armies yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt

He is the Radiant King! hûʾ melek hakkābôd
(Ps 24:7–10)
Of special note is the commandment given to the personified temple gates to lift
their heads, an “odd” and “bizarre” metaphor according to Cross (1973: 97–99).
Cross suggests that what we have here is a demythologized command that was
once addressed to the divine council as they hailed the return of their warrior
king from battle. In support Cross notes the nearly identical wording found in
the Ugaritic Baʿlu myth. There the gods of the divine assembly were panicked
at the advent of chaotic Yammu, and they bowed their heads on their knees in
fear (KTU 1.2.1.20–24).128 Baʿlu the warrior (and eventual victor over Yammu)
rebuked them for so doing and commanded them: “Lift up your heads, O gods!”
(šʾu ʾilm rʾaštkm; KTU 1.2.1.27).129
If Cross is correct, we would have another remnant of mythopoeic Canaanite
lore residing here in mythopoetic dress. The artistry of the author is not to be
missed. Even as our poet reduces the gods to animate objects (cf. Deut 7:12–13;
28:4, 18, 51), he at the same time exalts Yahweh’s “radiance” (kābôd), an attribute
that our divine king achieved through war (gibbôr milḥāmâ).130 To judge from
the similar kābôd terminology in Psalm 29 (itself filled with Canaanite mythic
combat and concluding with divine kingship), the war our poet has in mind was
certainly cosmic.131 Lastly, if the entry ritual of Psalm 24:7–10 did indeed form a
part of the royal cult, then we have yet another example of the prestige of the di-
vine king’s Chaoskampf mythology rubbing off on the human king. (See Chapter
Nine on Yahweh as king.)
Yahweh Swallows up Death Forever (Isaiah 25:8)

As we have demonstrated, biblical authors used Canaanite Chaoskampf traditions
in various ways. Yet there was one biblical poet who stands out for providing a
unique twist. This author of the so-called Isaianic Apocalypse (Isa 24–27) is very
conversant with Chaoskampf traditions. We have already looked at his artistry in
describing Yahweh’s eschatological victory over the creature who churns the sea
(Isa 27:1; see p. 446).
To set the backdrop, one needs to look briefly at a negative protagonist we have
glossed over in our survey of chaotic waters and the seven-headed dragons that
lived therein. At Late Bronze Age Ugarit, the Baʿlu myth’s final episode climaxed
with the god Motu (Death) swallowing Baʿlu and with him the forces of nature.
Sterility reigned until Baʿlu achieved final victory (together with a dissection
of Motu by the goddess ʿAnatu). The depiction of the monster Motu has him
wielding two scepters that befit the god of death:
In one hand a scepter of bereavement, bdh ḫṭ tkl

In the other hand a scepter of widowhood. bdh ḫṭ ʾulmn
(KTU 1.23.8–9)132
As death comes to all, so Motu’s appetite is insatiable; he ravenously eats with

both his hands (bkl<ʾa>t ydy ʾilḥm; KTU 1.5.1.19–20).
When Baʿlu sends messengers to Motu he instructs them about the danger
of getting to close to Motu “lest he put you in his mouth like a lamb, crush you
like a kid in his jaws” (KTU 1.4.8.17–20). Later in the story we find a descrip-
tion of Baʿlu’s descent into the very throat of Death, whose voracious appetite is
described in graphic detail:
[One lip to the e]arth [underworld?],

one lip to heaven, [špt lʾa]rṣ špt lšmm
[Motu] [stretches out his] tongue to the stars. [yʾark l]šn lkbkbm
Baʿlu enters his innards, yʿrb bʿl bkbdh
He descends into his mouth . . . bph yrd . . .
(KTU 1.5.2.2–4)133
In the Hebrew Bible it is hard to deny the presence of a personified Death, māwet/
môt (cf. Lewis 1992b). The vocabulary used to describe ravenous Death’s (and
Sheol’s) insatiable appetite in Habakkuk 2:5, Job 18:13–14, and Isaiah 5:4 is re-
markably reminiscent of Motu’s greedy appetite in KTU 1.5.1.19–20; 1.5.2.2–4.134
In light of the descriptions of Mot’s (and Sheol’s) voracious hunger, which include im-
agery of swallowing victims whole, it is quite significant to find Yahweh swallowing
Death/Mot (billaʿ hammāwet) in Isaiah 25:8.135 Our gifted poet turns the mytholog-
ical tables with the turn of a phrase: he who swallows now becomes swallowed. Lastly,
this once-and-for-all victory (billaʿ hammāwet lāneṣaḥ) provides a discernible con-
trast with the recurrent conflict that we read in the agrarian Baʿlu myth.
Using a theoretical approach, one could again employ Rudolph Otto’s cate-
gories of fascinans and tremendum to describe the human fascination with
and overwhelming fear of death, especially personified and/or mythologized
Death.136 Even the mighty god Baʿlu is afraid of Motu (KTU 1.5.2.6–7). In con-
trast, even though biblical poets describe Death as “the King of Terrors” (melek
ballāhôt; Job 18:14), Yahweh never stands in fear of him.137
Yahweh as Divine Warrior in Non-Cosmic Battles
The Hebrew Bible gives ample evidence of Yahweh being perceived as a di-
vine warrior not only wresting victory from chaotic and cosmic forces but also
triumphing in the human arena. Explicitly or implicitly (but mostly explicitly),
Yahweh is the empowering force behind almost every military victory mentioned
in the Bible—from Abraham’s battle against the four eastern kings (Gen 14:19–
20) to Zechariah’s apocalyptic war “on that [future] day” when “Yahweh will go
forth and fight against nations as when he fights on a day of battle” (Zech 14:1–
21). When we read accounts of humans in battle without any mention of Yahweh,
typically the humans suffer defeat (e.g., 1 Sam 31:1–13; 2 Sam 1:17–27; contrast
2 Sam 5:17–25). For biblical authors, the Sennacheribs of the world—even with
their myriads of troops—are no match for Yahweh (Isa 37:36//2 Kgs 19:35).
There is no need to rehearse the self-evident ways in which Yahweh is
portrayed as a divine warrior affecting human battles. Yet it should be noted
that these military stories are nuanced in two different ways. Some streams of
tradition have Yahweh commanding, authorizing, and empowering human
efforts in war, even giving tactical orders. Other streams of tradition stress the
efficacy of Yahweh alone. These traditions emphasize divine power to the exclu-
sion of human efforts. Human agency is not needed nor desired. The necessity
of human military endeavors is to be replaced by a trust in Yahweh alone as the
warrior who will bring victory. These differing streams of tradition are age-old,
as shown by two of our earliest texts. Exodus 15 demonstrates how “the victory
was total—and totally Yahweh’s. . . . Israel contributed nothing then or later.”138 In
contrast, the Israelite combatants in Judges 5:2, 9 “offered themselves willingly”
to fight, coming “to the assistance of Yahweh among [his] mighty warriors.”139
The Deuteronomist twice proclaims how David fights Yahweh’s battles (1 Sam
18:17; 25:28).
The Synergism of Human and Divine War (Ḥērem Warfare)

The streams of tradition that describe Yahweh as a warrior deity who commands
military endeavors by his followers is best known through the various texts
describing ḥērem warfare, often described as “holy war.”140 Ḥērem warfare is
cultic warfare in that it has to do with the utter destruction of an enemy at the
behest of a deity to whom all booty is consecrated (or “devoted”). The cultic
character of war is demonstrated throughout the Hebrew Bible. I will restrict
my treatment, for the most part, to military narratives or codes in the book of
Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History.141
That ḥērem warfare was thought to constitute sacral activity is supported by the
broader Near Eastern context.142 At Late Bronze Age Ugarit, ḫrm warfare is as-
sociated with the goddess ʿAnatu (KTU 1.13.3–7), the most capable of warriors,
whose other battles include Chaoskampf traditions as well as extreme bloodlet-
ting (KTU 1.3.2.3–41).143 It is not a happenstance that the warrior judge Shamgar
is called “son of Anat” (either a patronymic or an honorific military title)144 in
Judges 3:31 and 5:6, nor that ʿAnat’s name is also found on three inscribed bronze
arrowheads.145 Closer chronologically and geographically is the ninth-century
BCE Mesha stela (see Figure 6.4). Here, as with the biblical material, ḥērem war-
fare is undertaken at the behest of the deity, in this case Chemosh. The utter de-
struction is described in words that dovetail with biblical ḥērem traditions (only
here the Moabite king has the Israelite locale of Nebo in his crosshairs):
Chemosh said to me: “Go! Seize Nebo against Israel.” [So] I went at night and
fought against it from the break of dawn until midd[ay]. I s[ei]zed it and killed
all [of it]: 7,000 [men, bo]ys, women, [girl]s, and female slaves, because I had
devoted it [hḥrmth] to Ashtar-Chemosh. I took the [ve]ssels of Yahweh, and
I drag[ged] them [as booty] before Chemosh. (Mesha Inscription lines 14–18)146
In 2007, Lauren Monroe reanalyzed the Sabaean text RES 3945 and argued for
its relevance to biblical ḥērem warfare. This text mentions the devoting the city of
Nashan to the ḥrm by burning (cf. lines 7, 16), as a consecration for the national
Sabaean moon god Almaqah. Another early Sabaean text, DAI Ṣirwāḥ 2005-50,
also describes the complete ḥrm destruction of multiple cities by fire.147
From the biblical data (which are buttressed by extra-biblical support) we see
how these wars were thought to be sacred activities. Yahweh the divine warrior is
fully involved in working synergistically with Israelite troops who have “boots on
the ground” at every stage. The commander of Yahweh’s army (śar-ṣĕbāʾ-yhwh)
arrives with drawn sword prior to the famous battle at Jericho (Josh 5:13–15).
Yahweh then gives tactical (and ritual) orders to Joshua and his army, an army
that includes seven priests (kōhănîm) who appear repeatedly in the narrative
as central actors (Josh 6:4, 6, 8, 9, 12, 13, 16). Indeed, the priests bear Israel’s
paramount weapon, the Ark of Yahweh, and it is their horn blast that is tied
to bringing down the city walls (cf. Num 10:9; 2 Chr 13:14–15). The ritualistic
seven days of the battle culminating in a sevenfold circuit (Josh 6:15) can repre-
sent “the sacred time of a military campaign undertaken by divine command”
(Fleming 1999b: 213; Klingbeil 2007: 168–169). Yahweh is present in battle from
beginning to end, either explicitly (through mention of the commander and
the Ark)148 or implicitly (the miraculous power that fells the city walls). Joshua
proclaims to the army prior to their victory shout that “Yahweh has given you
the city” (Josh 6:16). After the walls come crumbling down through no physical
effort, the human army, working synergistically with Yahweh, takes the city and
then engages in carrying out the ḥērem (Josh 6:20–21). As for the booty of pre-
cious metals, it is “consecrated to Yahweh” (qōdeš hûʾ layhwh) and taken into “the
treasury of the sanctuary of Yahweh” (ʾôṣar bêt-yhwh; Josh 6:24; cf. 6:19; 2 Sam
8:11).149 Similar accounts of exclusive reservation and consecration of booty
occur in other ḥērem texts, including the so-called private ḥērem mentioned in
Leviticus 27:28–29:
But of all that anyone owns, be it a person or animal or field of his holding,
everything that a person declares as ḥērem for Yahweh [ḥērem ʾăšer yaḥărim ʾîš
layhwh], it cannot be sold or redeemed; every ḥērem is totally consecrated [lit.
“holy of holies”] to Yahweh [qōdeš-qodāšîm hûʾ layhwh].150
The cultic character of Yahwistic wars can be fleshed out further. When we look
to material culture, the fortress temple at Arad is our best-preserved example
of a Yahwistic sanctuary serving the needs of the military, especially between
the ninth and eighth centuries BCE.151 In addition to the inner sanctum with its
standing stones (see Chapter Five, pp. 183–187), we also have two nearby incense
stands, a sacrificial altar made of unhewn fieldstones (cf. Exod 20:22 [Eng 20:25];
Deut 27:5–6), various votive objects, and two bowls with inscriptions referring
either to a priesthood (reading q-k, an abbreviation for q[ōdeš] k[ōhănîm], “holy
objects of priests”) or to their sacred character (reading q-š, an abbreviation for
qdš, “holy”).152
As for additional textual material, ancient Near Eastern prophetic texts as

well as many biblical accounts (e.g., 1 Sam 30:7–8, Judg 6:36–40; 7:13; 18:5; 20:9;
20:27–28; 1 Kgs 22:5ff.) give evidence of how divination and oracles (priestly
and prophetic) were sought to determine whether one should go to battle in
the first place.153 Priests are described as presenting an exhortation of divine as-
sistance at the outset of the campaign (Deut 20:1–4), and elsewhere troops are
charged to “consecrate themselves for war” (hitqaddāšû, Josh 3:5; qaddĕšû ʿālêhā
milḥāmâ, Jer 6:4; cf. Joel 4:9 [Eng 3:9]). Weapons were rubbed with oil for func-
tionality but perhaps also for cultic anointing (2 Sam 1:21; Isa 21:5; cf. 1 Sam
21:6, 10 [Eng 21:5. 9]).154 The military encampment itself was required to adhere
to purity laws precisely because “Yahweh your God walks about in your camp”
(kî yhwh ʾĕlōhêkā mithallēk bĕqereb maḥănekā), a reference to Yahweh being
embedded with the troops as they march to battle (Deut 20:4; 23:15 [Eng 23:14]).
Thus the camp must be holy (qādôš) lest God see any indecency and turn away
(Deut 23:15 [Eng 23:14]). Additional codes of conduct require leaving the camp
after nocturnal emissions and some degree of sexual abstinence during times of
war (Deut 23:11–12; 1 Sam 21:6 [Eng 21:5], 2 Sam 11:11), and in certain cases
abstaining from tonsure rituals (Judg 5:2; cf. Judg 13–16).155 Lastly, though ac-
counts are rare, after battles military hardware could be placed in sanctuaries for
commemoration and/or veneration (1 Sam 21:10 [Eng 21:9]; 1 Sam 31:10).
Not to be forgotten are the stories of warrior judges who were thought to
be “clothed” (lābēš; Judg 6:34) with the vitalizing force (rûaḥ) of Yahweh. For
Samson, the rûaḥ of Yahweh “rushed upon” (√ṣlḥ) him in such a way as to em-
power him with extraordinary strength (Judg 14:6, 19; 15:14). A “rushing spirit”
will also grip Saul, then later leave him and descend upon David (1 Sam 10:6, 10;
11:6; 16:13–14).156 Given the cultic nature of holy war, it comes as no surprise to
read stories of war in conjunction with the building of cult places (Josh 8:30–31;
Mesha Inscription, line 3; RES 3945, line 16)157 or of war combined with inter-
cessory prayer, fasting, and sacrifice (e.g., Judg 20:26; 1 Sam 7:5–11; 13:9, 12).
Minimizing Human Involvement: The Ideology of the Underdog

Judean writers would be the first to assure us that the victories resulting from
these synergistic battles were achieved by Yahweh. Throughout our stories, the
divine empowerment of human troops is described explicitly and implicitly. Yet
other streams of tradition wanted to erase all doubt about the efficacy of Yahweh
and his direct action by either minimizing human involvement or erasing it al-
together. And once again, such ideology is attested from our earliest texts (e.g.,
Exod 15) to our latest texts (e.g., Zech 4:6), especially including (proto-)apoca-
lyptic literature (Ezek 38–39; Zech 14:1–5; Dan 7:13–14).
The most famous story that describes the limiting of human troops in order
to emphasize divine victory comes again from the Deuteronomistic History.
The tale found in Judges 7 is famous for twice reducing the number of Gideon’s
military forces (from 32,000 to 10,000, and then to 300) that were to face the
already overwhelming 135,000 Midianite troops (Judg 8:10). The reason
given is explicit: “lest Israel claim for themselves the glory [yitpāʾēr] due to
[Yahweh]” by asserting that they achieved military victory through their own
machinations (Judg 7:2). With the odds set outlandishly against them (450 to 1),
only Yahweh could receive the glory. A similar notion is found elsewhere in
the Deuteronomistic History when we read of Jonathan instructing his armor
bearer that “nothing can hinder Yahweh from a military conquest, by many or
by few” (mĕʿāṭ; 1 Sam 14:6). To prove the point, the narrative has the two lonely
underdogs defeat ten times as many Philistine solders.158 The panic (ḥărādâ) that
results throughout the Philistine garrison—together with the earth quaking—
is divinely caused (ḥerĕdat ʾĕlōhîm; 1 Sam 14:15). P. Kyle McCarter (1980a: 239)
notes how such a tradition lived on in the history of the Maccabees, where we
“read almost like a midrash” the following comment: “And Judas [Maccabaeus]
said: ‘It is easy for many to be overpowered by a few; nor is it different before
Heaven to save by many or by few! For not on the size of the army does victory in
battle depend: rather it is from Heaven that strength comes!’ ” (1 Macc 3:18–19).
As for Yahweh supporting the lone underdog, no story was more popular than
that of courageous David with his sling going up against the heavily armed giant
Goliath.
Then David said to the Philistine, “You come against me with sword, spear and
scimitar; but I come against you with the Name of Yahweh of Armies,159 the God
of the ranks of Israel, whom you have defied. This day Yahweh will deliver you into
my hand . . . that all the earth may know that there is a god in Israel, and that this
whole assembly may know that it is not by sword or spear that Yahweh gives vic-
tory! For the battle is Yahweh’s and he will hand you over to us.” (1 Sam 17:45–47)
McCarter (1980a: 297) notes the symbolism of the story—how “David, small,
apparently defenseless, with none of the bearing or equipment of a trained sol-
dier,” is “the perfect personification of the tiny nation of Judah.” David, of course,
strikes down the mighty Goliath and cuts off his head (1 Sam 17:46, 50–51).160
Nonetheless, Millard Lind (1980: 106), writing from a pacifist tradition, argues
that David’s speech here “states well the theology of Israelite warfare . . . Although
Israel fought, Yahweh did not save with, by, or through Israel’s sword or spear.”
Such notions are echoed in Psalm 44:4 (Eng 44:3) and in the divine speech to
Zerubbabel: “Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the Yahweh of
Armies” (Zech 4:6). The enduring legacy of such teaching, providing hope for the
marginalized as it warns against relying on humans alone, can be illustrated by
the choice of Zechariah 4:6 for the Haftarah for the First Shabbat of Hanukkah.
Here the rabbis were intentional about minimizing the role of Maccabean mili-
tary activism in deference to divine deliverance.161
Yahweh Alone in Battle

For yet other true believers, it was not enough to say that underdog Israel—
with Yahweh’s divine assistance—came through the toughest of battles despite
overwhelming odds. Instead they emphasized traditions such as those we find
in Exodus 14:14 (Yahweh fighting at the Reed Sea) or 2 Chronicles 20:15–17
(Yahweh speaking to King Jehoshaphat) that underscore that Yahweh’s people
need only sit still (√ḥrš) and watch as Yahweh fights on their behalf.
Fear not, and be not dismayed at this great multitude; for the battle is not
yours but God’s [kî lōʾ lākem hammilḥāmâ kî lēʾlōhîm]. . . . You will not need
to fight in this battle [lōʾ lākem lĕhillāḥēm]; take your position, stand still, and
see the victory of the Yahweh on your behalf, O Judah and Jerusalem. (2 Chr
20:15–17)
Nissinen (2008: 185, 189) has shown how similar notions can be found in the
Neo-Assyrian inscriptions of Esarhaddon and Aššurbanipal, where the god-
dess Ishtar admonishes the kings to trust in her ability to fight wars on their be-
half: “Do not trust in humans! Lift up your eyes and focus on me! I am Ishtar of
Arbela.”162
2 Kings 6:15–23 records a poignant story in which the prophet Elisha tells his
fearful attendant that he need not be afraid of the overwhelming Aramean army
surrounding the city, as Yahweh has so many invisible (preternatural) troops
lining the hills that the numbers are actually in their favor (2 Kgs 6:16). That the
lowly servant ultimately “sees” the heavenly host whereas the powerful enemy is
subdued through being “blinded” is a literary gem.
The prophet Isaiah consistently argued that Judah should not join inter-
national coalitions that trust in military hardware rather than divine provi-
dence (e.g., Isa 7; 19–20; 30:1–7; 31:1–3). The ruling Judean monarchs both
accepted and rejected such advice. During the Syro-Ephraimite war (ca. 733
BCE), King Ahaz did not join the anti-Assyrian coalition, aligning himself in-
stead with Tiglath-Pileser III rather than embracing Isaiah’s theocentric ide-
alism. And initially King Hezekiah kept a policy of compliance with Assyria.
For example, in 714 BCE he did not join the revolt by the Philistines (under
King Azuri of Ashdod) and the Egyptians (under the Cushite Shabaka), per-
haps because of Isaiah’s advice (Isa 20:6). Yet Hezekiah, the realist, did join
an anti-Assyrian alliance after the death of Sargon II in 705 BCE. By so
doing he brought upon Judah the wrath and visitation of King Sennacherib,
whose punishing western campaign in the Levant in 701 BCE is well known,
especially from the archaeological remains of the destruction of Lachish and

its portrayal in iconography. Hezekiah’s humiliating acquiescence is known
from biblical and Assyrian sources, as is the substantial amount of tribute he
was forced to pay.163
We will never know what actually happened in 701 BCE when, according
to biblical tradition, Sennacherib turned away from Judah.164 Scholars have
suggested that his retreat was the result of a plague or a disease among his troops,
and/or the security preparations of Hezekiah. The biblical portrayal of the de-
feat of Sennacherib’s armies (in 2 Kgs 19:32–38 and Isa 37:33–38) has Yahweh
proclaim that he “will defend Jerusalem to save it” and that Sennacherib would
not shoot a single arrow. The defeat itself is described as a miraculous killing of
Assyrian troops via the malʾak-Yahweh. As Nahum Sarna (1999: 50) aptly notes,
“By definition, miracles are outside the historians’ ken.”
The Zion Traditions: The Inviolability of Zion/Jerusalem

Scholars have looked to these events of 701 BCE as a backdrop to what they have
termed “the inviolability of Jerusalem,” the notion that Jerusalem is unassailable
by even the mightiest army thanks to divine presence and protection. Micah,
a strong critic, provides us with the poetic sound bite that encapsulates such
thinking:
Is not Yahweh in our midst; hălôʾ yhwh bĕqirbēnû

Disaster will not overtake us. lōʾ-tābôʾ ʿālênû rāʿâ
Such an ideology is found in certain Zion hymns (e.g., Ps 46, 48, 76) and various
Isaianic traditions (Isa 10:27b–34; 14:24–27, 32; 17:12–14; 28:16; 29:1–7; 30:27–
33; 31:1–8; 33:17–24).165 Other voices strongly dissent (Mic 3:12; Jer 26:17–19;
Isa 1:21–26; 5:14; 10:5–11). The Judean traditions that fostered the notion of
Jerusalem’s inviolability blended notions of Yahweh alone fighting on behalf of
his people with the unique status of Zion/Jerusalem as “the city of God” (Ps 46:5;
48:2, 9; 76:3 [Eng 46:4; 48:1, 8; 76:2]). Zion was the city of Yahweh of Armies, the
city of the great king (Ps 48:3, 9 [Eng 48:2, 8]). It was his beautiful, holy mountain
(Ps 48:2–3 [Eng 48:1–2]); it was “the joy of all the earth” (Ps 48:3 [Eng 48:2]) that
Yahweh loved (Ps 78:68). Zion was Yahweh’s holy dwelling place (Ps 46:5; 76:3
[Eng 46:4; 76:2]). It was the abode that Yahweh himself founded securely, stone by
stone (ʾeben ʾeben), such that it was “exceedingly firm” (mûsād mûssād; Isa 14:32;
28:16).
Nonetheless, the threat (real and perceived) posed by “the nations” was a con-
siderable one, especially during the Neo-Assyrian empire and in subsequent
days leading to the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem. The threat lived on into
later apocalyptic thought, when multiple authors recast preexisting hymns about
the inviolability of Jerusalem. The poet of Isaiah 17:12–13a (who yields no clear
historical indicators)166 describes the palpable threat as follows:
Ah, the roar of many peoples

Who roar as does the sea,
The raging of nations who rage
As the raging of mighty waters—
Nations raging like many waters rage!
Yet the Zion traditions were more than equal to the challenge, asserting that
Yahweh was in the midst of Jerusalem (Ps 46:6, 8, 12 [Eng 46:5, 7, 11]) as her
helper (Ps 46:2, 6 [Eng 46:1, 5]), her refuge (Ps 46:2, 8, 12; 48:4 [Eng 46:1, 7, 11;
48:3]), and her strength (Ps 46:2 [Eng 46:1]). At one point Isaiah 31:4–5 declares
that Yahweh of Armies will descend to wage war upon Mt. Zion, hovering like a
bird to shield, deliver, protect, and rescue Jerusalem (cf. Deut 32:11). Yet another
image has Yahweh possessing a fire and oven in Zion (Isa 31:9). While this im-
agery could echo the notion of Yahweh taking up residence in Jerusalem, Hans
Wildberger (2002: 228) rightly notes the consuming nature of divine fire (see
Chapter Seven, pp. 353, 369–371, 424).
As for the battle proper, the Zion traditions have Yahweh acting alone. Any
mention of human initiative is disparaged as non-belief (Isa 31:1–2; cf. 30:15–
16). When there is mention of a sword, the poet accentuates that it was not
wielded by a human (Isa 31:8). The Isaianic Zion traditions make use of several
visual images, from Yahweh as a logger felling trees (Isa 10:33–34; cf. 37:24) to
Yahweh as a lion fighting on Mt. Zion (Isa 31:4).167 Chief among the portraits
is Yahweh as storm god who comes with thunder, earthquakes, whirlwinds,
tempests, downpours, hailstones, and raging torrents combined with blazing
wrath and devouring fire (Isa 29:6; 30:27–33; cf. 17:12–13).168 Yahweh forcibly
disarms the nations (Ps 46:10; 76:4–7 [Eng 46:9; 76:3–6]) and puts a stop to wars
throughout the earth (Ps 46:10 [Eng 46:9]; cf. Isa 2:4; 11:6–9).169
Due to the “very present” (nimṣāʾ mĕʾōd) divine assistance, Judah is to fear
not, to simply relax (harpû) in the knowledge of Yahweh’s military prowess (Ps
46:2–3, 11 [Eng 46:1–2, 10]).170 Isaiah 30:15 has Yahweh admonishing his people
with counterintuitive words:
By returning [to Yahweh] and quietness will you be delivered,

in quietness and trust [in Yahweh] lies your strength.171
Appropriately, when “terrifying” Yahweh rises to execute judgment and girds

himself with fury, the land is “quieted” with fright (Ps 76:8–11 [Eng 76:7–10]).
The once aggressive nations are now panic-stricken and take flight (Ps 48:6–7
[Eng 48:5–6]; Isa 17:13). At Yahweh’s blast (gaʿărâ), even the most stouthearted
soldiers lie stunned (together with their horses) as if in a sleepy stupor, unable to
even use (lit. “find”) their hands (Ps 76:6–7 [Eng 76:5–6]).172
It is little wonder then that such potent rhetoric led to the notion that Zion
“shall not be moved” (Ps 46:6 [Eng 46:5]), especially when reinforced by the his-
torical realities of Sennacherib’s departure from what had looked like the sure
defeat of Jerusalem. Psalm 48:9 [Eng 48:8]) says as much: “The likes of what we
heard we have now witnessed in the city of Yahweh of Armies, in the city of our
god. Yahweh has established [will establish] it forever!”173 The psalmist goes on
to urge the reader to engage in an empirical tallying to prove his case by walking
around Zion and counting its many towers, ramparts, and citadels (Ps 48:13–
14 [Eng 48:12–13]; cf. 48:4 [Eng 48:3]) that had not fallen to the enemy (e.g.,
Sennacherib) despite overwhelming odds. The psalmist’s faith-based conclusion
lived on (again using Micah’s encapsulation):
Is not Yahweh in our midst, hălôʾ yhwh bĕqirbēnû

Disaster will not overtake us. lōʾ-tābôʾ ʿālênû rāʿâ
Obviously, the “inviolability of Jerusalem” ideology came crashing to the ground

with the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 586 BCE. At that time, prophets
like Ezekiel presented a theodicy to depict Yahweh’s willful departure ahead
of the destruction together with a narrative of how a polluted temple could no
longer house its protective holy deity. Yet it should be noted that even prior to
the destruction of Jerusalem, there were already voices articulating that the elec-
tion of Zion was no guarantee of security if the people of God were unfaithful in
seeking holiness and justice (e.g., Isa 1:16–20; Mic 3:9–12; Jer 7:1–15; 26:4–6).
Lastly, just because Yahweh battles the nations by himself in the Zion traditions,
with no hint of a human Davidide wielding Yahweh’s power (contrast Ps 89:26
[Eng 89:25]), it does not mean that such hymns had no relation to royal power.
Miller (2010: 228–229) argues that Zion’s symbolic connection to Yahweh’s king-
ship (Ps 48:3 [Eng 48:2]; 84:4 [Eng 84:3]) “consequently raises human kingship to
symbolic dimensions.” The symbolic universes of the Zion traditions “establish
power and order to keep chaos at bay” in such a way as to “support the established
political and cultic hierarchies as immutable institutions” (Miller 2010: 230–233).
Apocalyptic Battles
Where the notion of “divine providence alone in battle” finds its fullest expression
is in (proto-)apocalyptic thought. Here there is no synergistic fighting whereby
Yahweh empowers his human troops on the ground. In these texts, marginalized
and oppressed peoples place no hope in an earthly fighting force. Poets yearn for
divine intervention where Yahweh alone “rends the heavens and comes down”
such that “mountains quake at His presence” (Isa 64:1). It is Yahweh alone who
can shake the earth, darken the sun, and turn the moon to blood with the ad-
vent of his “greatly terrifying day” (yôm-yhwh nôrāʾ mĕʾōd/yôm yhwh haggādôl
wĕhannôrāʾ; Joel 2:10–11; 3:3–4 [Eng 2:30–31])
The apocalyptic narrative in Ezekiel 38–39 is filled with military hardware,
but only belonging to the enemies against whom Yahweh fights. There is de-
tailed mention of the enemy’s military strategies (Ezek 38:11–13) as well as their
armies, horses, horsemen, armor, and wide variety of weapons (Ezek 38:4, 15;
39:3). Indeed, their weapons are so numerous that upon their defeat they will
serve as Israel’s fuel source for seven years (Ezek 39:9–10)! In stark contrast,
the only mention of Israel has the people dwelling quietly and securely without
the need for walls, bars, and gates (haššōqĕṭîm yōšĕbê lābeṭaḥ; 38:8, 11, 14; cf.
Zech 2:4–5). Not a single word is needed to depict Israel’s military hardware
or even their defense system because this is solely Yahweh’s war. Yahweh’s ar-
senal includes his wrath, sword (terror?), torrential rains, hailstones, fire, and
brimstone (38:18, 21–22).174 With the language of a hand-to-hand combatant,
Yahweh declares about Gog: “I will strike your bow from your left hand//I will
make your arrows drop out of your right hand” (Ezek 39:3). Such chaotic battles
against the nations, cast into the eschatological future, are well known (e.g., Jer
25:31; Isa 66:15–16) and provided fertile ground for recapitulating the age-old
Chaoskampf scenes, as noted in the description of Isaiah 27:1 (see p. 446).
War and Peace
Let us end this short military survey with two polar views on divine warfare and
its aftermath—one of bloodletting, the other of inspirational peacemaking. The
former comes from two passages in Third Isaiah (Isa 59; 63:1–6) where the poet
twice emphasizes the lack of human agency in fighting evil such that Yahweh’s
own arm must achieve military victory (Isa 59:16; 63:5).175 In Blenkinsopp’s
(2003: 250) words, “The author has definitely abandoned the expectations placed
on Cyrus in Isa 40–48.” What we have here “marks a turning away from the his-
torical arena . . . [coming] a step closer to embracing an apocalyptic world view.”
The broader context describes people rushing to evil as they shed innocent
blood (Isa 59:3, 7). “Justice is turned back//righteousness stands at a distance//
for truth stumbles in the public square//uprightness finds no entry” (59:14). In
response Yahweh the warrior directly intervenes by putting on his armor, which
consists of righteousness as a coat of mail and triumph as a helmet. Yet he is also
clothed in garments of nāqām (retribution/vengeance) and fury (bigdê nāqām//
mĕʿîl qinʾâ; Isa 59:17).176 In his return from battle, marching from Edom, Yahweh
is radiant in attire (hādûr bilĕbûšô).177 Shockingly, in one of the Hebrew Bible’s

most vivid portrayals, his garments are turned red, stained with blood (Isa 63:1–
3; cf. Isa 34:2–10; Deut 32:41–42). This dramatic depiction has been compared
to ʿAnatu’s bloodletting frenzy or the obligation of blood revenge associated
with tribal groups.178 In a passage where overall “blood is the dominant motif ”
(Blenkinsopp 2003: 250), Yahweh declares:
My own arm wrought me the victory,

My fury—it upheld me.
I trampled peoples in my anger,

I made them drunk with my fury,
I hurled their lifeblood to the ground.
Condemnation oracles such as what we find in Nahum 3:1–18 (against “the bloody
city” of Nineveh) reveal that such raw, militant language against one’s enemies
stirred the hearts of the oppressed who suffered from heinous violence.179 Using
agrarian images, Micah 4:11–13 commands Daughter Zion to “arise and thresh”
the nations whom Yahweh has gathered as sheaves. Pulverizing with her “iron horn
and bronze hooves,” she will present ḥērem booty to Yahweh. Joel 4:9–16 (Eng 3:9–
16) is similarly militant, deploying troops to a war of such proportions that even
agricultural implements (plow tips and pruning tools) will be beaten into swords
and spears.180 The result—the harvesting of the nations via a sickle during the
Day of Yahweh—remains the same. Such prophetic speech does not stand alone.
A wide variety of literary genres were employed to give voice to the emotions of
the oppressed, including imprecations (e.g., Ps 137:7–9, Ps 79:10–12, Obad 11–16),
curses (cf. 1 Sam 14:24), curse rituals (Deut 27:19), sympathetic magic (Jer 51:59–
64), and execrations texts (cf. Jer 19:1–11; Amos 1:2–2:16).
A Different Type of Rhetoric: Swords into Plowshares

Lest we forget in examining the pervasive portrayals of Yahweh as divine war-
rior, ancient Israel had (and preserved) a plurality of voices. Remarkably, we
even come across juxtaposed similes saying in a single breath that Yahweh is both
“like a warrior” and “like a woman giving birth” (Isa 42:13–14). The portrayal
of Yahweh as a compassionate family god will be explored shortly. Yet already
within the prophetic speeches of Isaiah and Micah we come across a different
type of rhetoric, that of disarmament. The power of this rhetoric (opposed to
the rhetoric of power) has lived beyond the Iron Age to appear inscribed at
the United Nations Headquarters in New York City and incarnated within the
nearby bronze sculpture by Evgeniy Vuchetich.181
Rather than using agrarian images of threshing and harvesting one’s foes, the
famous “plowshares” passage presents the most idyllic of scenarios. That the
nearly identical poem is found twice (Isa 2:2–4//Mic 4:1–3) attests to its popu-
larity, as does the fact that a later author played off its themes (Joel 4:9–16 [Eng
3:9–16]).182
In the latter days to come,

The mount of Yahweh’s temple shall be established
above the mountains; it will tower above the hills.
All the nations will stream to it,

Many peoples shall go and say:
“Come, let us go up to the mount of Yahweh,

To the temple of the God of Jacob;
That He may teach us of His ways,

that we may walk in His paths.”
For instruction shall issue from Zion,

Yahweh’s word from Jerusalem.
Thus [Yahweh] will judge [šāpaṭ] among the nations

arbitrate [hôkîaḥ] for the many peoples;
They shall beat their swords into plowshares,

their spears into pruning hooks:
Nation shall not take up sword against nation;

They shall never learn of war any more.
As noted by John Willis (1997: 296), “Yahweh’s ultimate concern here is the
well-being of the nations.” Contrast, for example, the treatment of the foreign
nations in Micah 4:11–13, where they are gathered, threshed, and pulverized,
to that in Isaiah 2:2–4, where (having made pilgrimage) the foreign nations
are nurtured, being “taught the right way to live by God.”183 The utopian vision
described here has the nations disarming themselves. Whereas elsewhere the
nations were forcibly disarmed by Yahweh, here they voluntarily decide to turn
their weapons into agrarian implements.184 Disarmament brings about inter-
national peace, which in turn renders the study of military tactics needless.
Hugh Williamson (2006: 185) writes that this disarmament “is presented as
the natural consequence of the nations seeking, receiving and acting upon God’s
instruction and arbitration.” At the same time, it should be pointed out that even
this passage continues to underscore Yahweh’s prowess as a divine warrior, in
that the biblical root špṭ (used of Yahweh “judging” the nations in Isa 2:4//Mic
4:3) often connotes military action.185
Section II: Yahweh the Compassionate and Family Religion
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

and before you were born I consecrated you.
—Jeremiah 1:5
Grandma, all the same, burned a candle on the anniversary of Mr.

Lausch’s death, threw a lump of dough on the coals when she was
baking, as a kind of offering, had incantations over baby teeth and
stunts against the evil eye. It was kitchen religion and had nothing to
do with the giant God of the Creation who had turned back the waters
and exploded Gomorrah, but it was on the side of religion at that.
—Bellow 1953: 10–11
Setting the Stage
As the previous section detailed, Yahweh’s militaristic nature is strikingly dif-

ferent from the benevolent El traditions articulated in Chapter Four. Yet it
would be a grave mistake to conclude that Yahweh was not a family deity but
El was. It would skew our evidence to suggest that Yahweh was known solely
for having sword in hand and being void of compassion—or that sociologically
he was a state/national deity worshipped within hierarchical structures without
any connection to the household religion of average Judeans. The exact oppo-
site is true: Yahweh was viewed as the most intimate of deities. Thus the prophet
Jeremiah could poetically describe Yahweh as forming him in his mother’s
womb. As we will demonstrate, yet other prophets will pick up on Yahweh’s ma-
ternal nature, a tradition dating back to old El lore (cf. Deut 32:6, 18; Chapter
Four, pp. 110–111). Research over the past decade has asserted that family re-
ligion was central to the religious expression of Iron Age Israel and Judah, and
as important as the elite religion of king, priest, and prophet.186 Avraham Faust
(2019: 1) argues “that cultic activity in temples was the exception rather than the
norm and that typical Israelite cult was practiced in the household and in other,
non-temple settings.”
Once again it is helpful to situate our discussion in the context of the an-
cient Near East, especially using Levantine traditions.187 The Late Bronze Age
religion at Ugarit can serve as a cultural backdrop, even with its differing so-
ciological, political, and theological factors. Kings, high-ranking officials, elite
merchants, and priests shared certain familial concerns with commoners. All
alike petitioned the gods for personal health and prosperity; for safe births, fit
children, and sturdy livestock; for snakebite remedies and sexual potency; for
good weather, adequate water, and abundant crops. The overlap between elite
and non-elite religious concerns was likely quite large. Yet elite religion was oc-
cupied more with obtaining, securing, and bequeathing power (e.g., the throne,
the temple economy) via divine and human diplomacy than with the transitions
of life (birth, marriage, death) that characterized the religion practiced in the
common household.188
Viewing the Gods as Family at Late Bronze Age Ugarit

Language of the family (father, mother, husband, wife, son, daughter, brother,
sister, in-law) permeates the Ugaritic pantheon at every turn. Baʿlu, for example,
is described as the son of Dagan, the father to three daughters (Pidray, Tallay,
and Arsay), and the brother of ʿAnatu if not also her husband.189 Baʿlu invites his
brothers//his kinsmen//the seventy sons of the mother goddess ʾAthiratu to a
family feast in his house (built by permission of his father, ʾIlu, through the inter-
vention of ʾAthiratu, ʾIlu’s wife; KTU 1.4.6.38–59).
According to Mark Smith (2001b: 54–60), building on J. David Schloen’s
(2001) significant work on the patrimonial household:
The notion of the family [in the Ugaritic pantheon provides] a cohesive vi-
sion of religious reality. . . . It is evident from the language of family rela-
tions that the model of the patriarchal household is central to the Ugaritic
texts’ presentation of divinity. . . . Equally fundamental to the family unit is
the language of parentage. . . . The social metaphors for chief deities over-
whelmingly reflected the patriarchal experience in households non-royal
and royal alike.
Though family language is attested throughout the pantheon, a brief look at the
two most prominent family deities (ʾIlu and ʾAthiratu) will serve to illustrate the
point. As detailed in Chapters Four and Five, ʾIlu was portrayed in text and ico-
nography with gray hair and beard, apt depictions for “the father of years” who
was understood to be “father” to gods and humans alike. In a text celebrating
his prowess, women cry out to him, “Father, father,” “Mother, mother” (ʾad ʾad//
ʾum ʾum; KTU 1.23.32–33).190 In this same text, he impregnates women who cry
out to him as “husband, husband” (mt mt) and bear him two children, the gods
Šaḥru and Šalimu (see pp. 77–78).
ʾIlu is known for his benevolence (lṭpn ʾil d pʾid), especially regarding the
granting of children. In response to a request from Baʿlu, ʾIlu blesses Danilu with
a son in the tale of Aqhatu. In the story of Kirta, ʾIlu blesses the king (himself the
Figure 8.11 An ivory panel from LB Ugarit showing a winged goddess with bull’s
horns and a Hathor-style headdress surmounted by a disk. She is suckling two
(royal?) individuals.
Photo from J. Gachet-Bizollon, “Le panneau de lit en ivoire de la cour III du palais royal d’Ougarit,”
Syria 78 (2001): 29, fig. 7, pl. 2/H. Reproduced by permission of Institut français du Proche-Orient
and Mission archéologique de Ras Shamra–Ougarit.
“son of ʾIlu”) with a wife and children (KTU 1.14.1.26ff; 1.15.2.12ff). The same
story also tells of ʾIlu’s beneficence in healing an ailing Kirta on the verge of death
(KTU 1.16.5.10ff).191 Time and time again Ilimilku, the famous scribe of this
text, underscores that ʾIlu is the divine parent of the king.
The goddess ʾAthiratu was referred to as the mother of seventy minor gods,
who were characterized as her “sons” (šbʿm bn ʾaṯrt; KTU 1.4.6.46). She suckles
newborn gods in KTU 1.23.24, 59, 61.192 Iconography such as the ivory panel of
a winged goddess suckling two (royal?) individuals (Figure 8.11) may lend sup-
port to her nurturing role, although this relief is uninscribed and thus it is un-
clear which goddess is represented. Because ʾAthiratu is Queen Mother, she can
be approached by royalty such as King Kirta, who makes a vow to offer her gifts
of silver and gold in exchange for her assistance (along with father ʾIlu’s aid earlier
in the story) in obtaining Hurraya as his wife (KTU 1.14.4.34–43).193 Elsewhere
ʾAthiratu, “the Great One” (rbt), is described as approachable as she goes about
common domestic chores. Her activities are remarkable for their non-elite
character. Every Ugaritic woman could fully relate to ʾAthiratu’s working with
a spindle, washing laundry, and setting pots over fire and coals (KTU 1.4.2.2–
11).194 Thus, even though ʾAthiratu’s maternal nature is primarily focused on gods
and royal children, non-elites would have felt a special affinity for her, much as
Catholic parishioners hold Mary to be their mother even though her royal status
is that of Theotokos.195
Onomastics, Blessings, Inviting the Gods into One’s Home

Onomastic evidence gives us yet another window into how the gods were per-
ceived. The theophoric elements attested in Ugaritic personal names are filled
with familial and other intimate terms (e.g., “father,” “mother,” “ancestor,”
“brother,” “lover,” friend,” “benevolent,” etc.).196 Letters, though formulaic in
nature, nonetheless reveal petitioners looking to caring gods to guard the well-
being of their loved ones, to grant them favor, and to satiate them with old age.197
Consider too how the gods of one’s family could be included in greeting formulas
as the givers of blessings:
Peace be upon you.

May the gods of the land of Tibat
and the gods of the lands of Ugarit,
and all the gods of our family [dingir-meš bīt ab[ini]],
keep you in good health,
and give you favor
and satiate you with old age
before the gods of [our] family [dingir-meš bīt ab[ini]]—forever.198
On the literary level, the poignant story of Aqhatu (KTU 1.17–1.19) is filled
with references to family religion. At the center of the story is a legendary pa-
triarch named Danilu, known for defending the claims and needs of widows
and orphans (KTU 1.17.5.4–8). Day after day Danilu presents food and drink
offerings to the gods, motivated by his longing for a son. The god Baʿlu compas-
sionately intercedes on the childless Danilu’s behalf with the benevolent ʾIlu (ʾil d
pʾid), the father of humanity. ʾIlu grants his request, blessing Danilu and his wife
with conception, recognized as a divine gift in this text and elsewhere at Ugarit
(KTU 1.15.2.16–28; KTU 1.24.5–7) just as much as Judeans recognized it in their
traditions (e.g., Genesis 16:11; Isaiah 7:14).
Divine visitation follows. The Kathiratu (goddesses of conception and wed-
lock) come to Danilu’s house.199 There he holds a six-day feast in their honor that
includes the slaughtering of an ox (KTU 1.17.2.24–38). Note the simple fact that
the feast is held in the home. No pilgrimage to a temple (with a specialized priest-
hood and cult) is necessary for family religion. The divine can be immanent in
daily life and daily surroundings. Because the gods too have families who eat,
drink, and sleep in houses (bêtu), it is proper for a petitioner to show them hospi-
tality in his own house (bêtu). While the occasion (divinely inspired conception)
is indeed special, the notion of having gods over for dinner is itself unremark-
able; for family religion, it is understood. Indeed, later in the narrative we hear of
a second feast in Danilu’s home arranged for a visit by Kotharu-wa-Hasisu, the
artisan deity. Whereas Danilu served the first feast, his wife, Danataya, is the cen-
tral character in the second, preparing a lamb for Kotharu-wa-Hasisu. She “dines
and wines the gods, serves and honors them” (KTU 1.17.5.21–31).200
Viewing Yahweh as Divine Parent
Yahwistic religion in Iron Age Israel and Judah resonates with the cultural world
of its northern Late Bronze Age neighbors, as it too envisions Yahweh as a di-
vine parent. As the male ʾIlu could be described as both “father and mother” (ʾad
ʾad//ʾum ʾum; KTU 1.23.32–33) in his role as procreator, so too the male Yahweh
is described with both fatherly and motherly aspects as a merism denoting his
parentage. This is not to assert that all things are equal when it comes to divine
parentage, for the constraints of Yahwistic religion are considerable. For ex-
ample, while we have the expression “sons of God” well attested in the Hebrew
Bible (e.g., Gen 6:2), nowhere in the Hebrew Bible is Yahweh called “the fa-
ther of the gods.” And even though Yahweh is intimately present in domestic
space, no descriptions tell of his banqueting on a splendid household meal
such as the ones Danilu and Danataya offered to the Kathiratu goddesses and
Kotharu-wa-Hasisu.201
The notion that gods are parents of humans is tied to their role as creators.
We already noted in Chapter Four, pp. 110–111, how the El tradition in
Deuteronomy 32 combines fatherly creation with motherly birthing (Deut 32:6,
18). When describing Yahweh as a creator/potter, Isaiah 45:9–12 juxtaposes the
images of a begetting father and a mother in labor (Isa 45:10). The author of the
book of Job writes similarly of Yahweh when he puts the following words on his
lips in the context of creation:
Has the rain a father?

or who begot the drops of dew?
From whose womb came forth ice?

Who gave birth to the frost of heaven? (Job 38:28–29)
In contrast to some commentators, the answer to the first of these four rhetorical
questions is affirmative. Yahweh as parent and procreator is indeed the father
of rain (cf. Job 5:10; 12:15; 26:8; 28:25–26; 36:27–28) and “breather” of ice (Job
37:10). He is at the same time the mother from whose womb creation emerges (as
will be discussed later). Such figurative language is well within reason (cf. again
Deut 32:6, 18), and Job 38 consistently emphasizes Yahweh’s acts as creator.202
In addition to the context of creation, the language of the divine parent is
expressed in contexts of caregivers of helpless children (and by extension caring
for the oppressed). Such a core idea lived on in later traditions such as the
Thanksgiving Hymns at Qumran:
My father did not know me, my mother abandoned me unto you. For you are a
father to all the [son]s of your truth. You rejoice over them as a [mother] who
is compassionate [mrḥmt] with her nursing child, as a nurse [ʾwmn]203 you care
for all your creatures in [your] bosom. (1QHodayota, xvii, 35–36)
As with Ugaritic ʾIlu, the language of god as father and mother should not be
used to extrapolate an androgynous or hermaphrodite character for Yahweh,
who, like ʾIlu, is a male deity. Cognate expressions from the ancient Near East
can help clarify the use of such metaphors, as Jeffrey Tigay (1996: 307) and
Erhard Gerstenberger (1996a: 5) have already argued. Hittite prayers and
hymns to the male sun god (dUTU) and to the male storm/vegetation god
Telepinu refer to the god as the “father [and] mother to all the lands” as well as
the “father [and] mother” of the orphaned, the bereaved, the oppressed, and the
widowed.204 Egyptian tomb inscriptions describing personal piety tell of how
“God is a father and mother to him who takes him into his heart,”205 and crea-
tion hymns call both male and female deities (especially Amun-Re and Neith)
“father of fathers, mother of mothers.”206 A Neo-Assyrian hymn to the male
moon god Sin includes an eightfold praise to “Father Nanna” that continues to
also praise him as
Womb that gives birth to everything,

which dwells in a holy habitation with living creatures,
Begetter, merciful in his disposing,
who holds in his hand the life of the whole land . . .
O progenitor of the land . . . O father begetter of gods and men . . .
Father begetter, who looks favorably upon all living creatures . . .207
Such father and mother language was not restricted to male deities. The Neo-
Assyrian king Esarhaddon receives the following oracles of encouragement from
the goddess Ishtar:
I am Ishtar of [Arbela] . . .
I am your great midwife;
I am your excellent wet nurse.
I am your father and mother.

I raised you between my wings.208
Rulers adopted similar familial language in order to promote their benevolence

to their subjects, whom they treated (so they said) as compassionately as a parent
would his child. Thus the late ninth-century BCE Kulamuwa inscription found at
Zincirli reads: “To some I was a father, and to some I was a mother, and to some
I was a brother.”209 Rulers could be godlike in their parentage of their people.
Thus the bilingual Phoenician-Hieroglyphic Luwian Karatepe inscription from
the late eighth/early seventh century BCE has Azitawada proclaim that “Baal
made me a father and a mother to the Danunians.”210 One could also examine
birth narratives, which, as Hennie Marsman (2003: 16) has argued, were mostly
told from the male perspective (the male to whom the child was born) with little
or no notice of the mother actually giving birth. In short, the fact that male gods
such ʾIlu, Yahweh, Shamash, Telepinu, and Sin were referred to as “father and
mother” is a descriptor of their role as divine parent, not any assertion of an-
drogyny. Where we do have anthropomorphic iconography attested (cf. ʾIlu,
Shamash, Sin) these gods are male, never female.
Viewing Yahweh as Father

The fatherhood of male gods is so common in the ancient Near East that tracing
the concept in each culture would be an overwhelming task. Similarly, the
Fatherhood of God has become such a dominant motif in history (from Qumran,
the New Testament, and rabbinic literature to the present), in philosophy and
theology (from Philo, Origen, and Athanasius to the present), and in cultural
criticism (especially feminist literature) that surveying its contours could also
overwhelm the researcher.211 Suffice it here to keep our focus narrowly on an-
cient Israel as viewed through the Hebrew Bible and onomastic evidence.
The Hebrew Bible’s literary references to divine fatherhood concentrate on
Israel as God’s firstborn son and thus serves the larger purpose of legitimizing the
election of Israel over all other nations (cf. Deut 32:8–9). Surprisingly, there are
only eighteen explicit references to God as father in the literary texts.212 Yet we
know from onomastica that the concept was prevalent in ancient Israel. Where
Jeaneane Fowler (1988) has used such names to articulate the general nature
of how God was perceived, Rainer Albertz (1978: 49–77; Albertz and Schmitt
2012: 245) has concentrated on their sociological dimension, concluding that
“the personal names of the Hebrew Bible do not reflect the Israelite religion in
any general way; instead, they specifically attest the personal piety of Israelite and
Judean families.”
Personal Names Attesting to God as Divine Father

The following catalog of names emphasizes the ubiquitous way in which God was
viewed as the divine father who assisted his worshippers in manifold ways.213 In
the Hebrew Bible we have the following personal names attested mostly of men
but also of women: ʾAbiʾel, “[My divine] Father is El/god,” ʾAbiʾasaph, “[My di-
vine] Father has gathered,” ʾAbibaʿal, “[My divine] Father is Baal/lord,” ʾAbigayil,
“[My divine] Father is [my] rejoicing,” ʾAbidan, “[My divine] Father has judged,”
ʾAbihayil, “[My divine] Father is fear,” ʾAbyadaʿ/ʾAbidaʿ, “[My divine] Father has
acknowledged [me],” ʾAbiyah[u]‌, “[My divine] Father is Yah[weh],” ʾAbihuʾ, “He
is [my divine] Father,” ʾAbihud, “[My divine] Father is glory,” ʾAbiḥayil, “[My di-
vine] Father is strength,” ʾAbiṭub, “[My divine] Father is goodness,” ʾAbiṭal, “[My
divine] Father is dew,” ʾAbimelek, “[My divine] Father is king,” ʾAbinadab, “[My
divine] Father has proved himself generous,” ʾAbinoʿam, “[My divine] Father is
kind,” ʾEbyasaph, “The [divine] Father has added,” ʾAbiʿezer, “[My divine] Father
is help,” ʾAbiram, “[My divine] Father is high, exalted,” ʾAbishag, “[My divine]
father is[?],” ʾAbishuʿa, “[My divine] Father is salvation,” ʾAbishur, “[My divine]
Father is a [protecting] wall,” ʾAbshalom/ʾAbishalom, “[My divine] Father is sal-
vation,” ʾEbyatar, “The [divine] Father is rich, gives generously,” ʾAbner, “The [di-
vine] Father is light,” ʾAbram/ʾAbraham, “The [divine] Father is exalted,” ʾAḥʾab,
“The [divine] brother is a [divine] Father,” Yoʾab, “Yahweh is [divine] Father.”
Several of these names are also found attested in the epigraphic record.214 In
addition, inscriptional sources add the following Hebrew divine father names to
our repertoire: ʾAb, “[the one of the divine] Father,” ʾAbiḥay,” [My divine] Father
is alive,” ʾAšʾab, “The [divine] Father has given,” and Yehoʾab, “Yahweh is [divine]
Father.” Non-Hebrew divine father names attested epigraphically include ʾAbyaqi,
“[My divine] Father is [my] protector [?]‌” (Aramaic), ʾAbishuri, “[My divine]
Father is my [protecting] wall” (Aramaic), ʾAbiḥay, “[My divine] Father is alive”
(Ammonite), ʾAbidiššeʾ “[My divine] Father has caused to thrive[?]” (Ammonite),
and ʾAbišillem, “[My divine] Father has replaced” (Phoenician).215
El as Father and Yahweh as Father

As for the Hebrew Bible’s literary references to divine fatherhood (particularly of
Israel, God’s firstborn son), it is clear that biblical traditions wove the notion of
El as Father and Yahweh as Father into a single garment. We do not have at our
disposal the mechanisms by which this weaving happened, yet the process was
certainly facilitated by the ability of the word ʾl to designate the common noun
“god.” For example, the epithet ʾēl raḥûm, “a compassionate god,” was used in
Deuteronomy 4:31 to describe Yahweh, who will not forget the covenant of the
fathers. Yahweh was often described as being “a compassionate and gracious god
[ʾēl raḥûm wĕḥannûn], slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love and faithful-
ness” (Exod 34:6 and Ps 86:15; cf. Ps 103:8; 145:8; Jon 4:2; Neh 9:31).216 Similarly,
Yahweh is referred to as ʾl ḥnn, “God/El the compassionate,” in the sixth-century
BCE Khirbet Beit Lei inscription (Cross 1970: 302). Personal names showing
how El/God and Yahweh were looked to for favor are well attested in the on-
omastic evidence in the Hebrew Bible and the epigraphic record (ḥnnʾl, ʾlḥnn,
ḥnnyh, and yhwḥnn).
Both El and Yahweh traditions used the language of fatherhood alongside
God’s creation of humankind. Previously we looked at the way in which these
two motifs were combined in the El tradition in Deuteronomy 32:6b, and it bears
repeating:
Is not he your father, who created you hălôʾ-hûʾ ʾābîkā qānekā

Who made you and brought you into existence? hûʾ ʿāśĕkā wayĕkōnĕnekā
Similar juxtapositions of divine fatherhood and creation can be found in Malachi

2:10 (“Have we not all one father? Has not one God created us?”) as well as within
the Isaianic traditions. Here we have several references to Yahweh as father and
creator, with special emphasis on the way in which he fashioned Israel, his child,
like a potter (√yṣr):
O Yahweh, you are our Father;

We are the clay, and you are our Potter;
We are all the work of thy hand. (Isa 64:7 [Eng 64:8]; cf. Isa 43:1–7; 45:9–12)217
Yahweh as Caring Father

In addition to begetting his children, Yahweh is also described as rearing his chil-
dren (Isa 1:2), caring for them, and nurturing them in the most compassionate of
ways. Hosea 11 paints our fullest picture:218
When Israel was a child, I loved him [ʾōhăbēhû],

Out of Egypt I called my son . . .
I was the one who taught Ephraim to walk,

taking them by the arms/up in my arms219
. . . I healed them.
I drew them with cords of human [kindness],

with the bands of love [ʾahăbâ],
I was to them as one who eases the yoke on their jaws,
I bent down to them that I might feed them.220 (Hosea 11:1, 3–4)
The portrait here is of Yahweh as a tender, caring parent who loves Israel, his
young child. Yahweh, the patient father (Yahweh as mother will be discussed
later), teaches his youthful son to walk, either holding his hand as he takes his
first precarious steps or taking him up in his arms. Yahweh the father heals his
child’s injuries, eases his suffering, and stoops to provide him nourishment.
Such notions of fatherly care were also utilized by the psalmist, who wrote:
As a father has compassion for his children,

so Yahweh has compassion for those who fear him. (Psalm 103:13)
At the same time, the mention of Israel’s deliverance from Egypt in Hosea 11:1
adds a layer of rescue to our familial portrait, especially when we remember that
the language of Israel as Yahweh’s firstborn son is used in the exodus narrative
(Exod 4:22). A father will go to dramatic lengths to liberate his son from the yoke
of oppression.
Yahweh, Father to the Fatherless

Yahweh’s fatherly care is extended to those who are bereft of the security and the
sense of belonging that families provide. Hosea 14:4b (Eng 14:3b) adds to the
tender picture by affirming that in Yahweh orphans find compassion. Various
hymns were sung to describe how Yahweh is “father of the fatherless” and “the
helper of the fatherless” (Ps 10:14; 68:6 [Eng 68:5]). The orphan, along with the
widow and the gēr (the non-Israelite resident or “client”),221 typified the pow-
erless in ancient Israel (Exod 22:21–24; Deut 10:18 etc.).222 Prophets describe
the abuse of these individuals by those in power (e.g., Jer 7:6; Isa 1:17, 10:2; Mal
3:5). Yahweh provides protection, justice, food, and clothing to these disadvan-
taged segments of society (e.g., Deut 10:18; Ps 68:6 [Eng 68:5]; cf. Ps 146:9; Prov
15:25; 23:10b–11). Such concern about the marginalized was a widespread motif
used of father figures (especially deities and monarchs) throughout ancient Near
Eastern literature.223
Rebellious Children
The filial duties of children toward their parents, especially those of sons to-
ward their fathers, is well attested in the ancient Near East.224 Note, for example,
the duties of “the ideal son” that form a fourfold refrain in the Ugaritic Tale of
Aqhatu.225 A father was to be held in high esteem in Israelite culture. Analogously,
Father Yahweh (known elsewhere for his kābôd)226 was to be accorded the honor
(√kbd) due one’s parents (Exod 20:12; Deut 5:16) as well as the reverence (√yrʾ)
in which one’s father and mother were to be held (Lev 19:3).227 Such an analogy
allowed prophets to press the case against the disobedient behavior of Israel
(Yahweh’s firstborn son) using the language of the rebelliously defiant child (cf.
Deut 21:18–21).
Isaiah 1:2–3 has Yahweh speaking of rearing his “sons” (i.e., Judahites) only
to have them rebel against him. Williamson (2006: 33) aptly comments that the
rebellion here “is clearly to be understood as rejection of parental authority with
all that that entails of family breakdown, something of great social significance
in a society where the family unit was the chief means of support, not least in
old age.”228 The fuller context of the poignant passage from Hosea 11 is that
of the child Israel running away from the nurturing and loving father Yahweh,
not realizing that his father was the source of his healing (Hosea 11:2–3).229
Jeremiah 32:33 portrays Israel as not listening to Yahweh’s instruction (presum-
ably in the role of a father; cf. Prov 3:12; 4:1) even though he constantly taught
them.230
Jeremiah 3:19 presents yet another vignette: Yahweh as a father musing about
how he would allot the fairest of his land to firstborn Israel such that his child’s ap-
preciative response would surely be to call out “My Father!” Alas, here too the Father
is betrayed by the faithless child despite such a rich inheritance. As noted by Jack
Lundbom (1999: 318–319), the author here seems to be playing off Deuteronomy
32:8–9 with its description of allotment and special inheritance (cf. too how the
status of children is tied to election in Deut 14:1–2). Similarly, as recognized by
William Holladay (1986: 104), Jeremiah 2:27 seems to be playing off Deuteronomy
32:6, 18. Those insightful verses described El/Yahweh as a father-creator and yet also
a personified Rock who like a mother gave birth to her newborn Israel—only to be
forgotten.231 In Jeremiah 2:27 the wayward people call out to an illegitimate tree as
their father and a false stone as the mother who gave them birth.232
Lastly, consider how Malachi 1:6 places the following on Yahweh’s lips as he
addresses the abuses of priests:
“A son should honor [yĕkabbēd] his father, and a servant his lord. If then I am a
father, where is the honor due me [kĕbôdî]? And if I am lord, where is the rever-
ence due me [môrāʾî]?” says Yahweh of Hosts to you, O priests who despise my
name. (Mal 1:6)
Michael Fishbane (1985: 332–334) has written about how the prophet’s dia-
tribe in Malachi 1:6–2:9 “is exegetical in nature . . . [taking] the contents of
the Priestly Blessing [Num 6:23–27]—delivered by the priests, and with its
emphasis on blessing, the sanctity of the divine Name, and such benefactions
as protection, favorable countenance, and peace—and inverted them” (em-
phasis Fishbane). Similarly, one could argue that the prophet exegetes the way
in which kābôd can designate both honor and glory. The prophet has taken
the command to honor one’s human father, a command surely handed down
by priests (cf. Exod 20:12), and inverted it to accuse priests of withholding
the honor (kābôd) due their divine Father. Those to whom the kĕbôd Yahweh
appeared as a priestly prerogative (Lev 9:4, 6) have withheld from Yahweh his
due glory (kābôd).233
The Reproving of the Father

It comes as no surprise that the analogy of Yahweh as Father included fatherly
correction and discipline (√ysr/mûsār). We read in Proverbs:
For Yahweh reproves him whom he loves,

as a father the son in whom he delights. (Prov 3:12; cf. Job 5:17; Ps 94:12)
Deuteronomy 8:5 expresses a similar sentiment with regard to the hardships

of the desert wandering of Israel, who is metaphorically Yahweh’s firstborn
son: “Bear in mind that Yahweh your God disciplines you just as a man discip-
lines his son.” At times Yahweh’s discipline of Israel is expressed within the con-
text of loving correction. At other times it is punitive, similar to the harshness of
Deuteronomy’s treatment of a defiant child (Deut 21:18–21).234 This is especially
so with regard to cultic sins and apostasy, for which no toleration is shown. Thus
the Holiness Code has Yahweh respond with fury, personally chastising Israel
sevenfold for their sins (Lev 26:27).
Prophets pressed the case that disobedient behavior by the wayward child
necessarily led to disciplinary treatment, even the severe discipline of the exile
(e.g., Hos 7:12–13; Jer 30:14; 32:31–35; Zeph 3:7). Hosea, through the telling of
a symbolic family story, says that there are desperate times when a daughter no
longer receives her father’s compassion (lōʾ ruḥāmâ) and a son no longer belongs
to his father’s kin (lōʾ ʿammî; Hos 1:6, 8–9). Jeremiah symbolically contrasts the
inhabitants of Jerusalem (i.e., Yahweh’s children), who repeatedly reject their
(fatherly) mûsār instruction (35:13, 14b,15b, 16b, 17b), with the Rechabite sons
of Jonadab, “who obey their father’s command” (35:14, 16a, 18–19). As a result,
the destruction of Jerusalem looms in the former’s future, in contrast to the se-
cure position bequeathed to the latter (35:17–19). Ezekiel too elaborates on how
Yahweh’s children rebelled against the instruction of their Father (e.g., Ezek
20:18–21).
Should a challenge to Yahweh’s manner of parenting ever be mounted (cf.

Ezek 18:25, 29), Ezekiel and Second Isaiah were ready with their responses.235
Telling his own story of three generations of father-son relationships, Ezekiel
underscores how sons are responsible for the consequences of their own beha-
vior (Ezek 18). Second Isaiah again uses the imagery of God fashioning Israel, his
child, like a potter (√yṣr):236
Woe to him who strives with his Maker,

you who are but mere clay,237
Should the clay say to its potter:238

“What are you making?”
or “Your work has no hands”?
Woe to him who says to a father:

“What are you begetting?”
or to a woman:
“What are you bearing?”
Thus says Yahweh,

the Holy One of Israel, and his Maker:
“Will you question me on the destiny of my children,239

or instruct me concerning the work of my hands?
It was I who made the earth,

and created humans upon it;
It was I—my hands that stretched out the heavens,
and I commanded all their host.” (Isa 45:9–12)
To the picture of Father Yahweh disciplining Israel as firstborn son we should

also add the notion of Yahweh treating Jerusalem as his “daughter.” The fem-
inine grammatical gender was applied to cities, and Jerusalem was personi-
fied through a variety of female images.240 The expression “Daughter Zion”
(bat-ṣiyyôn is an appositional genitive) is used to personify Jerusalem with
references to her destruction and eventual restoration (more detail to follow).
The use of daughter language occurs in pejorative contexts, yet without the
emphasis (in contrast to Israel as firstborn son) on being a disobedient child
in need of a father’s discipline (yet cf. Jer 31:22; Deut 31:19–20). Instead the
emphasis is on the vulnerability of Zion as a captive daughter—the way in
Figure 8.12 A terra-cotta imprint of the foot of a child sold into slavery together
with his inscribed name. From Late Bronze Age Temple M1 at Emar.
© Philippe Maillard/akg-images.
which she is besieged and violated by foreign soldiers, her suffering even at
Yahweh’s hands, and her bitter mourning (e.g., Isa 1:7–8; Mic 4:10; Jer 4:31;
6:1–7, 22–26; Lam 1:10, 15; 2:4, 8, 13, 15, 18).241
Fatherly Redemption
Throughout the Hebrew Bible, however and wherever the children of God end up
in distress, Yahweh, their father, acts as deliverer. A paradigm passage is found in
Exodus 4:22–23, where Yahweh proclaims his fatherly relationship to Israel (“Israel
is my firstborn son”) to Pharaoh, followed by the command “Let my son go.” The
severity of his demand is underscored by a Father-to-father threat: “Should you
refuse to let my firstborn son go, I will kill your firstborn son.” The language of
deliverance is often that of “redemption” (√gʾl). With the choice of this specific gʾl
vocabulary, the emphasis is once again on familial solidarity.242 Clans (and ideally
the nearest male relative) bore the responsibility to rescue (i.e., “redeem” or “buy
back”) a family member who, out of economic despair, had sold himself into inden-
tured slavery (cf. Lev 25:39–55; Neh 5:8). Indentured slavery, a last resort to ensure
survival for those who lost all their possessions, was known throughout the ancient
Near East, and the children of debtors could be enslaved by the parents’ creditors
(e.g., 2 Kgs 4:1; cf. Chirichigno 1993). A poignant illustrated example comes from
Emar, where parents were forced to sell their children into slavery to satisfy a debt.
We know of this transaction thanks to the discovery of the actual imprints (in terra
cotta) of the feet of children whose names are inscribed (see Figure 8.12). Three
of four children are named: Baʿla-bia, a two-year-old girl, and her twin brothers,
Baʿal-belu and Ishmaʿ-Dagan, each one year old. The parents (Zadamma and his
wife, Ku’e) themselves pressed each foot in the clay.243
The notion of Yahweh protecting helpless children became proverbial,
especially so for orphans, whose property was at risk because they lacked a
protecting kinsman who could advocate for their legal rights. To their aid
comes Yahweh as a “mighty kinsman redeemer” (gōʾēl ḥāzāq) who contends
on their behalf (Prov 23:10b–11; cf. Deut 10:18; Ps 68:6).244 The literature
found in Isaiah 40–55 is particularly fond of applying the metaphor of God as
(kinsman) redeemer (gōʾēl).245 In a tender passage Yahweh the creator/father/
redeemer speaks:
But now—thus says Yahweh,

He who created you, O Jacob,
He who formed you, O Israel:
“Fear not, for I have redeemed you [gĕʾaltîkā];

I have called you by name, you belong to me.
When you go through water, I will be with you;

and through rivers, they shall not sweep you away;
When you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

and a flame shall not scorch you.
For I, Yahweh, am your God,

the Holy One of Israel, your savior.246
I give Egypt as your ransom [kōper],

Ethiopia and Seba in exchange for you.
Because you are precious in my eyes,

honored, and I love you,
I give men in return for you,

peoples in exchange for your life.
Fear not, for I am with you;

I will bring your offspring from the east,
and from the west I will gather you;
I will say to the north, ‘Give [them] up,’

and to the south, ‘Do not withhold [them]’;
‘Bring my sons [bānay] [back here] from far away,

and my daughters [bĕnôtay] from the end of the earth,
All who are called by my name,

whom I created for my glory,
whom I formed and made.’ ” (Isa 43:1–7)
Yahweh, the one who brought Israel into existence in the first place, acts to re-
deem Israel as would the nearest male relative, who acts with a sense of personal
ownership (lî-ʾāttâ, Isa 43:1) to keep the bonds of family intact. Those whom
Yahweh redeems are called sons and daughters, those who bear his name (cf. the
special emphasis on qrʾ bĕšem in Isa 43:1, 7). Yahweh will pay an extravagant cost
to redeem his precious children, whom he loves.247 Indeed, he pays the mone-
tary equivalent of entire countries, especially Egypt with its vast resources, as
a ransom (Isa 43:3b). Yahweh’s geographic reach spans the compass; no land is
beyond this father’s reach when it comes to bringing home his sons and daugh-
ters who are called by his name (Isa 43:5–7).248 Later Isaianic traditions will pair
the fatherhood of Yahweh with his redemptive nature as traditions they inherited
from past ages:
You, O Yahweh, are our Father [ʾābînû],

From of old, your name is “Our Redeemer” [gōʾălēnû]. (Isa 63:16)
When we now revisit the “Daughter Zion” material, we see a dramatic con-
trast in expression. Whereas the pejorative “Daughter Zion” texts highlighted
captive Jerusalem’s vulnerability, suffering, and eventual destruction with
sober, harsh, and bitter language, the redemptive and restorative passages are
ebullient in their proclamations to Daughter Zion to rise and sing with joy.
Such poems are found in Deutero-and Trito-Isaiah along with Zechariah and
Zephaniah. Captive Daughter Zion is to shake herself free of dust and loosen
the fetters from her neck, awakening as a holy city, clothed in royal splendor
(Isa 52:1–2). Daughter Zion is to sing, shout, rejoice, and exult with all her
heart (Zeph 3:14). The catalyst for her joy is the triumphant king, Yahweh, who
has secured her salvation (Zech 9:9; Isa 62:11) and promises to reside in her
midst (Zech 2:10).
Viewing Yahweh as Mother
As demonstrated, Yahweh is distinctly male, whether dressed as a warrior or as

a father. Yet certain biblical authors considered exclusively male categories to be
too limiting for how they wanted to describe the full nature of divinity. Could the
warrior imagery of a deity fighting on behalf of his people, or even the picture
of a benevolent father figure, express the strength and compassion they knew of
motherhood? Israelite believers living out the realities of family religion within
day-to-day affairs (especially the transitions of life such as birth, marriage, and
death) would find it unimaginable to think that their family god was not moth-
erly. This is a personal god, after all, who can draw so intimately close as to wipe
away tears from one’s face (Isa 25:8).
In addition, for those who understood Yahwistic belief to funnel the multi-
plicity of divinity into the singular, logically that one divine entity (even if he was
male) had to encompass the motherhood of the goddesses. Did not “the rhetoric
of sexuality” found in Genesis 1:27 use the vehicle of “male and female” to ex-
press humankind in its fullness? Though transcending human sexuality, did not
Yahweh birth all things female as well as male? “Though the Bible overwhelm-
ingly favors male metaphors for deity,” were not “societal roles and relationships”
of females (a pregnant woman, a mother, a midwife) together with those of males
(father, husband, king, warrior) used as metaphors to point toward a fuller un-
derstanding of the character of God?249
The family religion associated with El traditions (which comes down to us
woven within Yahweh traditions) used figurative language to describe God as a
father who sired his human children (Deut 32:6) as well as a mother who writhed
with labor pains in giving them birth (√ḥwl; Deut 32:18; cf. Ps 2:7).250 Poems such
as Genesis 49:25, written in Israel’s earliest history and faithfully preserved for
hundreds of years, sang of how El Shadday was “the God of the father” who at the
same time provided “the blessings of breasts and womb.” The prophet Jeremiah
said that God knew him (and consecrated him for his mission) even prior to his
creation in and emergence from the womb (Jer 1:5; 20:18).251 Ancestral stories
tell of Yahweh opening and closing wombs (Gen 18:9–15; 21:1–7; 20:1–18;
25:19–28; 29:31–35; 30:1–8, 22–24; Judg 13; 1 Sam 1:1–20; 2 Kgs 4:8–17).252 The
author of Psalm 139:13–15 speaks of Yahweh “weaving” (tĕsukkēnî, ruqqamtî; cf.
Job 10:11; Prov 8:23) him in his mother’s womb in the most wondrous of ways
(nôrāʾôt niplêtî).253 Yet another psalmist (desperately ill at the time of writing)
chose in his petition for divine favor to describe how Yahweh was present at the
moment of birth and ever thereafter:
Indeed, you issued me from the womb,254

Made me secure at my mother’s breast;
Upon you was I cast right from the womb,

Ever since emerging from my mother’s womb, you have been
my God. (Ps 22:10–11 [Eng 22:9–10]; cf. Ps 71:6)
The notion that Yahweh was like a mother to Israel was well enough known
that the author of Numbers 11:12 could place the following on the frustrated
Moses’s lips:
Did I conceive [hārîtî] all this people? Did I give them birth [yĕlidtîhû], that you
should say to me, “Carry them in your bosom, as a nurse carries the sucking
child [hāʾōmēn ʾet-hayyōnēq], to the land that you have promised on oath to
their fathers?”
With this penchant for the dramatic, Moses implicitly says that it is Yahweh
who is responsible for conceiving and bearing child Israel and thus it is
Yahweh who should serve as wet nurse, not him. The masculine term ʾōmēn
is nonsensical if applied literally to a male as a wet nurse, and thus translators
regularly render it as “attendant” or “guardian.” We do indeed have passages
where a male ʾōmēn served as a caretaker of children (cf. 2 Kgs 10:1, 5; Isa
49:23; Est 2:7). Yet the context here clearly implies that Yahweh conceived and
gave birth (rather than siring) and the word used for the infant child is “suck-
ling” (yōnēq). Due to the constrains of grammatical gender, the author does
not use the female term for wet nurse (ʾōmenet) to remove all doubt, yet the
implications that Yahweh, though male, is like a mother nourishing a new-
born are obvious.255
The heaviest concentration of explicit motherly language used of Yahweh
is found in Second (and Third) Isaiah. Mayer Gruber (1983) argues that these
Isaianic traditions are intentional with their choice of explicit maternal language
for Yahweh. “The anonymous author,” writes Gruber (1983: 358), was intention-
ally counterbalancing “the insensitivity of his predecessors such as Jeremiah and
Ezekiel who had intimated that in the religion of Israel maleness is a positive value
with which divinity chooses to identity itself while femaleness is a negative value
with which divinity refuses to identify itself.” John Schmitt (1985: 558) argues
against Second Isaiah being “the first to come up with this [maternal] imagery as
an independent, creative insight,” given the pervasive notion of Zion as mother.
For Schmitt (1985: 563), “Second Isaiah had a deep sense of the motherhood of
Zion . . . [that] inspired the prophet to make motherhood as an aspect of God.”
Isaiah 42:13–16 astutely juxtaposes Yahweh as male and female with an un-
expected pairing of similes: Yahweh is described as both a man of war active in
battle and as a woman in the throes of labor.
Yahweh marches forth like a warrior [kaggibbôr],

like a man of war [kĕʾîš milḥāmôt] he excites his zeal;256
He raises the battle cry, he shouts aloud,

He manhandles his enemies.
“I have held my peace far too long,

I have kept still, exercising restraint;
But now I cry out like a woman giving birth [kayyôlēdâ],

Breathlessly panting.257
I will scorch mountains and hills,

All their verdant plants I will wither . . .
And I will lead the blind along unknown roads,

along paths they have never encountered, I will guide them.
turning the darkness before them to light,

leveling the rough ground to even paths.
These are the promises I will keep,

I will not abandon them.” (Isa 42:13–16)
The backdrop of this “new song” (Isa 42:10) is the perceived inactivity of
the deity. As we saw in several of the war poems, divine inaction led to pleas
for Yahweh’s arm to rouse itself to battle (ʿûrî ʿûrî) as in the distant past, when
Yahweh vanquished cosmic enemies (Isa 51:9–10; cf. Ps 74:12–17). Here there
is no need for such pleas; Yahweh rouses himself with zeal (yāʿîr qinʾâ). Yahweh
inwardly reflects on his delay, framing the inactivity as intentional restraint. Yet
the period of gestation is over and the warrior’s intense battle cry is echoed by the
cry of a woman in the travails of childbirth.258 The pent-up warrior of zeal can
no more hold back than can a woman whose labor is at its peak. Yahweh is “both
parturient-like and warrior-like” at the same time (Bergmann 2010: 53). The ef-
fectual results are similarly twofold, a warrior’s destruction of his enemies paired
with the enlightening guidance of one who takes those who dwell in darkness by
the hand to lead them along safe paths (cf. Isa 42:6–7).
Isaiah 49:14–15 and Isaiah 66:13 use the imagery of a mother’s intimate com-
passion for her infant child to describe Yahweh’s compassion. Expressed within
the context of Zion’s bereavement and her feelings of desertion, Yahweh’s first-
person rhetorical question is remarkable for its poignancy:
Zion says:
“Yahweh has forsaken me,
my Lord has forgotten me.”
“Can a woman forget her baby,

or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Granted, women may forget,
Yet I never could forget you.” (Isa 49:14–15)
“As a mother comforts her son,

so I will comfort you;
you shall find comfort in Jerusalem.” (Isa 66:13)
Elsewhere authors used paternal love to express such compassionate thoughts

(e.g., Ps 103:13). The notion of Yahweh as “a compassionate and gracious god”
(ʾēl raḥûm wĕḥannûn) is pervasive and likely dates back to the earliest formations
of El religion. Thus Gruber (1983: 352 n. 4) is correct in critiquing Phyllis Trible
that the words for “compassion” (√rḥm) need not imply a “uterine metaphor”
or “uterine perspective” based on the cognate reḥem “womb.”259 Moreover, the
language of desertion in Isaiah 49:14 suggests an accusation against an absentee
husband (cf. Isa 50:1; Blenkinsopp 2002: 310; Baltzer 2001: 321–322). And yet
these Isaianic traditions highlight the qualitative difference of a mother’s com-
passion for her newborn. In addition to the explicit association of this maternal
imagery with Yahweh, the author goes on to add in Isaiah 49:15b that Yahweh’s
love is even more enduring. As a psalmist notes, there are tragic instances where
parents do indeed forsake their children, yet never Yahweh (Ps 27:10). On this
matter, Hosea would agree—Yahweh’s love is of an altogether higher level, for he
is, after all, not a mere human. He is ʾēl raḥûm.
How can I give you up, O Ephraim?

How can I surrender you, O Israel? . . .
My heart twists within me,

my compassion is overwhelming.
I will not act on my wrath,

I will not turn to destroy Ephraim;
for I am God, not human [kî ʾēl ʾānōkî wĕlōʾ-ʾîš]
the Holy One in your midst,
I will not come in fury. (Hos 11:8–9)260
Other Aspects of Yahweh as a Family Deity
There are many additional areas of family religion involving Yahweh, yet a com-
prehensive examination lies outside the scope of the present volume. Thankfully,
the field has seen an ever-increasing amount of research done in this area.261
Of these, the work by Rainer Albertz and Rüdiger Schmitt (2012) needs to be
highlighted as particularly helpful. In addition to a fresh examination of material
culture, the volume contains a synthetic look at what can be gleaned about the
familial character of the god Yahweh from personal names. Albertz and Schmitt
structure their analysis using two main categories: “the religious significance of
childbirth” and “family beliefs related to experiences of crisis.”
Personal names attesting to Yahweh’s connection to childbirth are itemized
by Albertz and Schmitt (2012: 269–297) under the following subcategories: (1)
the distress of infertility (ʾAsapyahu, “Yahweh has taken away [the stigma of
childlessness]”); (2) prayers and vows (Šubnayahu, “Do come back, O Yahweh”;
ʿAnanyahu, “Yahweh has responded to me”); (3) birth oracles (ʾAmaryahu,
“Yahweh has spoken”); (4) conception and pregnancy (Petaḥyah, “Yahweh has
opened [the womb]”); (5) the religious dimension of pregnancy (Sebakyahu,
“Yahweh has woven [the child in the womb]”); (6) the religious dimension of
confinement during pregnancy (Daltayahu, “You, Yahweh, have drawn out
[my child]”); (7) divine support for the newborn (Ḥawwiyahu, “Yahweh has
brought [the child] to life”); (8) acceptance, naming, and circumcision of the
child (Mattanyahu, “Gift of Yahweh”; Malyahu, “Yahweh has circumcised [the
child]”); and (9) infant mortality and substitute names (Neḥemyahu, “Yahweh
has comforted”; Šellemyahu, “Yahweh has replaced”).
Personal names attesting to Yahweh’s familial connection to the crises of
everyday life are itemized by Albertz and Schmitt (2012: 298–336) under the fol-
lowing subcategories: (10) divine attention in names of thanksgiving (Šemaʿyahu,
“Yahweh has heard”); (11) divine salvation in names of thanksgiving (Yešaʿyahu,
“Yahweh has saved”); (12) divine assistance in names of thanksgiving (ʿAzaryahu,
“Yahweh has helped [me]”); (13) divine protection in names of thanksgiving
(Šemaryahu, “Yahweh has protected [me]”); (14) divine attention in names of
confession (Ḥanniyahu, “Yahweh is my mercy”); (15) divine salvation in names of
confession (Yehošuaʿ, “Yahweh is [my] salvation”); (16) divine assistance in names
of confession (Ḥizqiyahu, “My strength is Yahweh”; ʿImmadiyahu, “Yahweh is

with me”); (17) divine protection in names of confession (Yehoʿaz, “Yahweh is
[my] strong protection”); (18) trust in God in names of confession (Mibṭaḥyahu,
“My trust is Yahweh”); and (19) names of praise (ʿAliyahu, “Yahweh is exalted”).262
In conclusion, it is clear that Yahweh was perceived to be a family deity in
every way. Yahweh is indeed fatherly. Yahweh is indeed motherly. Yet as with the
material we find in the Hebrew Bible, which rarely includes explicitly maternal
language for God (e.g., Second and Third Isaiah), our onomastic data also re-
veal that Yahwists only rarely chose explicitly to refer to God as mother. In con-
trast to the numerous ʾAbi-X (“My divine father is X”) and X-ʾab (“X is a divine
Father”) names detailed on p. 480, we have only a single clear example using ʾem,
“mother,” as a theophoric element: ʾAḥiʾem, “[My divine] brother is like a mother
[to me].”263 Yet one must factor in the incomplete nature of our dataset. Just as
the majority of the authors of the Hebrew Bible are male, so too the majority of
the personal names that are attested are masculine. Carol Meyers (1998: 251–
252) has astutely noted how 1,315 of the Hebrew Bible’s 1,426 personal names
are male: “The enormous gap between the number of women’s and men’s names
signals the male-centered concerns of biblical literature.”
The overall impression that familial religion leaves is that El/Yahweh was per-
sonal and accessible. This dual emphasis is remarkable in the contrast it provides
to certain forms of elite religion that asserted the lethality of Yahweh, a god who
could only be approached by select religious officiants who had undertaken spe-
cific ritual precautions. The gradations of holiness (with restricted access) that
come to define priestly sacred space are at odds with the personal deity who
meets families in their homes. And yet, lest we draw this distinction too severely,
we need to keep in mind that the boundaries between elite and non-elite religion
were porous. As noted at the outset of our discussion, all—be they king, priest,
prophet, or commoner—petitioned Yahweh, a caring parent, for their personal
health and prosperity.
9
Part Two: Yahweh as King and Yahweh as Judge
Neither Hammurapi nor Darius, nor a Sassanid king nor Constantine

relied on prayer alone to establish their kingships; but . . . from the au-
thority and power of the god they sought to legitimize. The gods stand
behind those who exercise worldly power.
—Walter Burkert (1996: 95)
Section I: Yahweh as King
Introduction
Tryggve Mettinger (1988: 92) suggests that the metaphor of Yahweh as king
may well be at the very center of the Hebrew Bible’s understanding of God. Yet
it is difficult for modern readers to set aside our notions about kingship to look
at ancient Israelite kingship afresh. How and why have we drawn the pictures
we hold in our minds? Does the literary presentation of monarchs hold sway
(Malory’s Arthur, Shakespeare’s Richard III, Tolkien’s Aragorn), or do we think
of a debatable top-ten list from the pages of history (Suleiman I of the Ottoman
Empire, James I of England, John III of Poland-Lithuania, Meiji of Japan, Gustav
II Adolf of Sweden, Augustus of Rome, Cyrus of Persia, Frederick II of Prussia,
Victoria of the United Kingdom, Louis XIV of France)?1 Do we think only of
noble monarchs, or do we call to mind the world’s cruelest despots to underscore
the abuse of royal power? Is Lord Acton right that “great men are almost always
bad men”?
Even if we are intentionally self-aware of the picture we have drawn, this
does not necessarily keep us from projecting modern notions onto the Iron
Age monarchs. Some comfort can be found in the realization that the ancients
kept their own lists and assessments—from the Sumerian King List to the
Deuteronomistic criteria for the good and bad kings of Israel and Judah—and
had their own predilections. All such reminders are important for the topic at
hand, Yahweh as king. For ancients and moderns alike use what they know of
the human institution of kingship to conceptualize what it means for Yahweh to

be the monarch par excellence. In addition, aged lore across the entire ancient
Near East told of how gods became kings, often through a tale of a warrior god
who rose to preeminent kingship through cosmic battle. Such fantastic stories
quickened the imagination of Yahwists as they explored the royal status and sov-
ereignty of Yahweh in ways that went far beyond human kingship. Even “incom-
parable” kings such as Hezekiah and Josiah (2 Kgs 18:5; 23:25) could not slay a
seven-headed dragon or bring about the creation of the world by royal decree.
A Brief Overview of Royal Cult in the Ancient Near East
The Religious Lives of Kings and Their Putative Divinity

The religious lives of ancient Near Eastern kings need to be stressed at the outset
of our discussion. A modern interpreter who thinks that there is a clean separa-
tion between church and state could easily project the same on the ancient world.
Yet nothing could be further from the truth. Egypt presents the parade example
of the king’s close association with divinity and thus his role as the primary reli-
gious officiant who provides access to the gods. According to Thomas Schneider
(2004: 323), “Upon his accession to the throne the king became ‘a human in the
role of a god,’ the successor on earth of the god Horus ‘upon the throne of (the
god) Geb.” As for the performance of cult, John Baines (1998: 27–28) remarks
how “the king’s entire life was ritualized” such that ideologically he is portrayed
in temple relief “as the sole officiant interacting with the gods . . . Only the king
was depicted performing the temple cult.” Donald Redford (2013: 28) writes of
Akhenaten: “The active role adopted by the king . . . is absolutely unique and
excludes all others: he is the ‘High-Priest’ of the Disc. . . . And in his capacity
as sole celebrant, the king is the very image of the radiant Disc.” Certainly the
priesthood would have been delegated to carry out the day-to-day management
of the cult; yet ideologically “the king was the chief ritualist and therefore respon-
sible for the maintenance of the cult in temples,” with the building of temples
constituting “one of his most important duties” (Frandsen 2008: 47–48).2
In noting how the Sumerian King List tells of kingship being sent down
from heaven, Jacob Klein (2006: 115) underscores how “the Neo-Sumerian and
early Babylonian kings wanted their subjects to believe that kingship had been
a divinely ordained institution from time immemorial.”3 According to Klein
(2006: 126–127), literary topoi of royal legitimation “endowed [Neo-Sumerian
kings] with superhuman qualities, such as perfect wisdom, immense physical
power, [and] heavenly beauty”; they were described as “ideal rulers [and] right-
eous shepherds of their people, who uphold social and religious order in their
land.” Chief among their responsibilities was “the proper maintenance of the
cult.” Nicholas Postgate (1995: 398) concurs: “The kings included their care for
the temples among their principal titles, this remaining integral to their moral
claim to the right to rule.”
Writing on Assyrian kingship, Peter Machinist (2006: 156, 186) unpacks the
role of the king as šangû. “It makes sense,” he argues, “to translate šangû as ‘priest’
and šangûtu as ‘priesthood,’ and to say that one of the roles of the Assyrian king
is as chief priest of his realm.” In such a role “the king [is] the primary nexus
between heaven and earth: the lynchpin that allows the two realms to commu-
nicate with and sustain each other.” Other Assyriologists agree. Jerrold Cooper
(2008: 261) writes: “The vast majority of Mesopotamian sovereigns [were con-
tent] to be mediators between their subjects and the gods. . . . [K]ingship in
Mesopotamia was always sacred.” Piotr Michalowski (2008: 34) concurs: “All
kings are sacred and mediate between sacred and profane.” So does Irene Winter
(2008: 86): “The sacral aspects of kingship . . . were what was foregrounded in the
Neo-Assyrian period, no less than in earlier phases.”
The royal cult in Ḫatti portrays the king “as the steward of the divine” and “as
chief priest of the main deities,” presiding over the state-sponsored cult (Gilan
2011: 280; see Beckman 1989: 101). Harry Hoffner (2006: 132, 138) demonstrates
the importance of the king’s religious duties by noting how his “presence at major
religious festivals took precedence even over his duties as a battlefield com-
mander.” Hoffner illustrates this with the example of King Muršili II leaving the
battlefield to travel back to Ḫattuša to partake in a religious ritual. Gary Beckman
(1995: 532) also writes of how the king’s religious obligations, “which underlay
the entire system of thought supporting the monarchy,” were more important
than his administrative, judicial, diplomatic, and even military duties. The king’s
central religious role appears at every turn: donning priestly dress, offering
prayers, presiding over the worship, undertaking activities during the festivals
(breaking bread, pouring libations, washing of hands, making hand gestures,
drinking, assuming body postures), building and maintaining sacred spaces.4
Of special note are two calendrical/agricultural festivals (each lasting up to forty
days) during which the king and his entourage visit cult centers throughout the
empire.5
Turning to ancient Syria, we see how the Ugaritic mythological text about
King Kirta tells of the god ʾIlu’s patronage of the king as he faces three personal
issues that impact the stability of the realm’s political, social, and sacral order: the
problem of succession, the monarch’s personal health, and challenges to the
king’s rule.6 At the heart of the royal cult at Ugarit is the divine benevolence to-
ward the king. Simon Parker (1977: 173–174) sees this epic tale as intentionally
underscoring “the virtues of ʾIlu as the incomparable savior” of the king. Such
literary praise of benevolent divinity finds cultic expression in the Ugaritic ritual
texts that attest to the king’s participation in offering cult.7 Paolo Merlo and Paolo
Xella (1999: 296) write that the king “was by far the principal officiant [and] often
the main celebrant within a liturgy.” Dennis Pardee (2002a: 239) notes the schol-
arly dilemma when it comes to reconstructing the full picture of Ugaritic reli-
gion: the ritual texts focus so much on the king as the central cultic actor that
they are virtually silent when it comes to describing the other officiants who ac-
tually performed the cult.
KTU 1.119, a ritual calendar describing cultic activities in a specific month of
the year, can serve to illustrate the primacy of the Ugaritic king in ritual. In this
text the king must undergo a purifying rite of washing (yrtḥṣ mlk brr), and when
he is finished with his cultic obligations he returns to a profane state (√ḥll). Such
actions in the biblical sphere are associated with the priesthood (e.g., Lev 16:4,
23–24) rather than with the cultic actions of kings.8 In KTU 1.119, the offering of
sacrifice is the central activity in the ritual and the king is specifically described
as sacrificing in the temple of the god ʾIlu (ydbḥ mlk bt ʾil). Another monthly rite
known to us from two texts (KTU 1.41, 1.87) also describes the king washing
himself and being in a clean/pure state when engaging in cultic acts and in a pro-
fane state when free from his cultic obligations. As for his specific cultic acts, in
addition to sacrifice (at one point on a roof), the king also pours libations (√ntk)
and makes recitations while in a state of purity (mlk brr rgm yttb).9 Elsewhere we
have descriptions of so-called entry rituals where the king (and other members
of the royal family) would take part in processions of divine images (cf. KTU
1.43; 1.112). Finally, in KTU 1.40, the king (specifically Niqmaddu) and queen
are at the center of a national sacrificial ritual (although not officiating) that some
have called an “atonement” ritual, similar in some respects to the Israelite yôm
kippûr. That we have this ritual attested in multiple copies and at various find
spots attests to its importance.10 Various foreigners, along with the citizenry of
Ugarit—differentiated as male participants (bn ʾugrt) and female participants (bt
ʾugrt)—are described as taking part in a rite of expiation for personal and cultic
offenses. According to Pardee (2002a: 78), “The rite may have been to promote
communion, both between the social groups named in the text and between
humans and deities honored (ʾIlu and his family).” The royal concerns lying
behind this text (for the citizenry at large and for diplomatic relations) match
the ideology presented in the story of King Kirta (KTU 1.16.6.45–50; cf. KTU
1.17.5.4–8; KTU 1.23; Lewis forthcoming a). It too underscores that the king’s
role (religious and otherwise) included championing the case of the non-elite
(the widowed, the poor, the oppressed, the orphaned, the non-resident).
The King’s Role in Cultic Activities in Pre-Exilic Israel: A Sampling

Apart from Psalm 110:4 with its idyllic mention of the priest-king Melchizedek
(discussed later), kings in ancient Israel and Judah (at least according to our
biblical data) were not called “priests” (kōhănîm).11 And apart from a single
monarch (King Ahaz, who is discussed later), they did not engage in the dis-
tinctive priestly activity of blood manipulation.12 Nonetheless, kings were reli-
gious officiants involved in the performance of the cult as well as the primary
sponsors who built and maintained altars, sanctuaries, and temples. In Ziony
Zevit’s (2001: 452) words, “Biblical and extra-biblical sources indicate that royal
involvement with cultic affairs was the rule rather than the exception.”13 Jacob
Milgrom (1991: 557) concurs: “The king had the right to officiate in the cult and
indeed exercised it.”
Saul, the very first king, is described as making “burnt” offerings (ʿōlôt) as well
as the so-called peace offerings (šĕlāmîm) (1 Sam 13:9–14).14 In what seems to
be an independent and earlier tradition (there is no mention of any censure), 1
Samuel 14:31–35 portrays Saul as being particularly concerned about whether
the people had sinned against Yahweh by eating meat with blood (cf. Deut 12:16;
Lev 19:26). Saul goes on to supervise the animal slaughter so that it is done prop-
erly at an altar he built to Yahweh. Notably, no priests are mentioned in the nar-
rative. That the text mentions that this was “the first time Saul built an altar to
Yahweh” (1 Sam 14:35) implies that he built additional altars, yet our extant texts
are incomplete and give us no further details.
In Psalm 89:21 (Eng 89:20) David is divinely anointed as king, with Yahweh
using “holy/consecrating oil” (bĕšemen qodšî mĕšaḥtîv; cf. 1 Sam 16:13; 2 Sam
12:7). Elsewhere we have similar royal anointing (1 Sam 10:1; 2 Kgs 9:3, 6) where
the manner (pouring on head) and ritual substance (šemen hammišḥâ) remind
us of the anointing and consecration of the high priest.15 David’s cultic activities
are concentrated in the narrative about bringing the Ark of Yahweh to Jerusalem.
During this transport David is described as sacrificing an ox and a fatling (2 Sam
6:13), engaging in ritual dancing (2 Sam 6:16), and making ʿōlôt and šĕlāmîm
offerings “before [the Ark of] Yahweh” (2 Sam 6:17).16 During two other episodes
David uses priestly divinatory means (the ephod and presumably the Urim and
Thummim) to determine Yahweh’s will (1 Sam 23:6–12; 30:7–8; cf. 1 Sam 23:1–
5). Though a straightforward reading could suggest that David himself manipu-
lated the sacred lots, it seems more likely that the text is elliptical and that he used
them via the agency of the priest Abiathar.17
As for sacred space, David pitches a tent for the Ark (2 Sam 6:17) and later
builds an altar on which he again makes ʿōlôt and šĕlāmîm offerings (2 Sam
24:18–25; 1 Chr 21:15–30). Not to be missed in this latter account is the way in
which Davidic traditions place him at the center of a remarkable transforma-
tion of mundane space. According to the Chronicler’s tradition (1 Chr 21:15–1
Chr 22:1; 2 Chr 3:1), David’s decision to build an altar and sacrifice on Ornan’s
threshing floor (Aravnah’s in the Deuteronomistic tradition)—in faithful re-
sponse to an angelic command— ultimately led to this ordinary agrarian
space being transformed into sacred space of the highest order: the Jerusalem
Temple. In order to understand this episode, many factors need to be con-

sidered, including the historicity of the Chronicler’s tradition in view of the
Deuteronomistic History’s silence on the matter. Such a foundation story (if his-
torical) underscores considerable royal influence in Jerusalem’s religious affairs
from the outset, or (if not historical) it highlights the need to assert a royal or-
igin for the Temple to bolster the Davidides’ power and influence during a time
when they must have been weakened. What is again noticeable in the royal cult
described here is the lack of priestly involvement. This absence is more dramatic
than the non-mention of priests in the Saul narrative noted earlier. For (if this
account is historical), priests would have to assert their influence in a major way
to redefine this mundane, openly accessible, agrarian space into restricted sacred
space with gradations of holiness under their sole purview. One can only im-
agine the ways in which royal and priestly interests negotiated the repurposing of
a threshing floor into the ultimate symbol of divine presence and power.18 What
needs to be emphasized in the present discussion is the way in which this foun-
dation story of what was to become the religious axis mundi attached itself to
King David. Similar workings (machinations?) are involved in the Chronicler’s
portrayal, which celebrates David’s primacy in organizing the acquisition of
building materials and craftsmen for the Jerusalem Temple (1 Chr 22:2–5, 14–
16; 29:2–5), his organization of (and cultic instructions to) the Levites (1 Chr 23),
his orchestration of the music to be used in the Temple (1 Chr 25:1; 2 Chr 7:6),
and his drawing of the architectural plans with detailed specifications of various
cultic paraphernalia (1 Chr 28:11–19).
Not to be outdone, the royal cult associated with King Solomon is privileged
to an even greater degree in biblical tradition. Such an elevated role required a
nuanced articulation vis-à-vis the religious traditions of King David. The solu-
tion was, of course, to emphasize Solomon as David’s religious heir apparent, di-
vinely chosen to be the Temple builder in his place (2 Sam 7:11–16; 1 Kgs 5:5; cf.
Ps 132:11–18). The Chronicler makes a special point of having David proclaim
that it was indeed his intention to build the Jerusalem Temple but that God had
resolved to have Solomon as the builder because of the blood David had shed in
the past (1 Chr 22:7–8; 28:2–3; cf. 1 Kgs 5:17 [Eng 5:3]).19
Prior to the building of the Jerusalem Temple, Solomon’s cultic activities in-
clude sacrificing and burning incense at high places, with his sacrifice of 1,000
ʿōlôt offerings at the “great high place” of Gibeon being singled out (1 Kgs 3:2–
4).20 After his legitimizing dream revelation at Gibeon, Solomon returned to
Jerusalem, where he made ʿōlôt and šĕlāmîm offerings before the Ark (1 Kgs
3:15).21 Solomon’s building of the Temple receives extensive treatment in both
the DtrH and Chr traditions. The detailed narratives go far beyond David’s pro-
viding of the building materials. Solomon gathers building materials as well, yet
his construction narrative is fleshed out to a much greater degree by including
technical descriptions, specific architectural features, and the articulation of

a workforce made up of general laborers and those with specialized skills (1
Kgs 5:15–8:13 [Eng 5:1–8:13]; 2 Chr 1:18–6:11 [Eng 2:1–6:11]). Though these
laborers accomplished the actual work, the authors are keen on using third-
person singular verbs to describe over and over again how it was Solomon who
built the Temple.22 Notice in particular how Solomon is given credit for building
the innermost shrine (dĕbîr), the Holy of Holies (qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm), in which
the Ark of Yahweh was housed and guarded by two huge cherubim (1 Kgs 6:16–
36; 2 Chr 3:8–13). Gold abounds in every aspect of his crafting. Thus we read of
Solomon’s proclamation at the dedication ceremony: “I [O Yahweh] have built
you an exalted house” (1 Kgs 8:13//2 Chr 6:2).23
Royal cultic activities formed a central part of the temple’s dedication cer-
emony, with Solomon engaging in two sacrificial episodes. In the first his
sacrifices of oxen and sheep are beyond number (1 Kgs 8:5//2 Chr 5:6), while in
the second they are exaggerated to be 22,000 oxen and 120,000 sheep as šĕlāmîm
offerings as well as ʿōlôt, grain, and fat offerings (1 Kgs 8:62–64//2 Chr 7:5–7).24
This is not to imply that Solomon absorbed all priestly prerogatives, for priests
alone are privileged to bear the Ark into the Holy of Holies (1 Kgs 8:3–11//2 Chr
5:4–7).25
Subsequent traditions speak of Solomon’s (regular?) cultic activity of making
ʿōlôt and šĕlāmîm offerings three times a year (1 Kgs 9:25; cf. 2 Chr 8:12–13).
Most scholars view wĕheʿĕlâ in 1 Kgs 9:25 as a frequentative (“Solomon used
to . . .”) and combine it with the Chronicler’s understanding (2 Chr 8:13) to argue
that Solomon officiated at the three great pilgrimage feasts of Unleavened Bread,
Weeks, and Sukkot (cf. Exod 23:14–27; Deut 16:1–17).26 The Chronicler adds
that like his father, David, Solomon also appointed priests and Levites to their
service (2 Chr 8:14). DtrH inserts disparaging comments about Solomon en-
gaging in syncretistic worship linked to the religion of various foreign women to
whom he was married. DtrH specifically highlights his building of sacred space
(the notable “high places”) for two of these deities (the Moabite Chemosh and
the Ammonite Molek), yet adds that the cultic activities per se were enacted by
the wives, not Solomon (1 Kgs 11:7–8).
All in all, the Judean royal cult of Solomon (building on the foundation of
David) was remarkable in its reimagining of religion: at the end of his reign, the
nature of Yahweh was infused with royal imagery. Ancient Israelites certainly
knew of kingship before they had their own monarch; Yahweh was thought to
be king in their earliest poems. Yet with the erection of the Solomonic Temple,
Yahweh now sat enthroned as king in his royal abode in the heart of Jerusalem.
Yahweh the king, at the center of a hierarchical royal and priestly administration,
has traveled some distance from the family god who shepherded his people in
the most intimate of ways.
Many other kings (Israelite and Judean) were very involved with religion and
cultic matters—from Bethel being called “the king’s [i.e., Jeroboam II’s] sanc-
tuary” and “a temple of the kingdom” (miqdaš-melek hûʾ ûbêt mamlākâ hûʾ;
Amos 7:13) to the reforming kings who constructed and deconstructed cultic
apparatuses.27 Royal cult also saw queens and queen mothers as cultic actors,
with our best examples being Jezebel and her sponsoring of Baal and Asherah
worship (1 Kgs 18:19), Athaliah and her patronage of Baal (2 Kgs 11), and
Maacah and her erection of an asherah image, likely in the Jerusalem Temple
(Ackerman 1998a: 142–146).28
Two royal actors need to be singled out for special comment. The first is
the Israelite king Jeroboam I (ca. 930–908 BCE), whose religious activities are
described by Zevit (2006: 192) as “the locus classicus” of royal cultic participa-
tion. Like Solomon, Jeroboam I is a builder of sacred space, with his sanctuaries
at Bethel and Dan that served as pilgrimage centers. At these sanctuaries, he
makes and installs divine bull images of either El or Yahweh (see Chapter Five,
pp. 198–200, and Chapter Seven, pp. 318–320). In addition, he installs non-
Levitical priests, reforms the cultic calendar, and sacrifices to his bull images at
the altar (1 Kgs 12:28–33).29 Remarkably, Jeroboam I also asserts his prerogative
to offer incense (1 Kgs 13:1), an activity elsewhere reserved for priests.30
The extensive royal cult of the Judean king Ahaz (735–727 BCE) is un-
matched by any biblical king, Israelite or Judean. The DtrH narrative of his
cultic activities is found in 2 Kings 16:3–4, 10–16. At the outset, DtrH uses
its stereotypical vocabulary to list Ahaz’s “abominable” acts of child sacri-
fice as well as his cultic activities “on the high places, hills and under every
green tree.”31 What is unique is the description that follows, which tells of
the king’s travels to Damascus, where he sees an altar that captivates his at-
tention. He then sends a model and pattern of the altar to Uriah the priest,
who builds a replica in Jerusalem. Upon its completion, King Ahaz engages
in the cultic acts of making his own burnt (ʿōlâ), grain (minḥâ), and drink
(nesek) offerings.32 He also brings about considerable innovations in the
Jerusalem cult, including the dismantling of established cultic paraphernalia
(2 Kgs 16:14–18). Yet what is most surprising and unparalleled within royal
cult is his taking on a distinctly priestly role: “King Ahaz scattered the blood
of his šĕlāmîm offering against the altar” (2 Kgs 16:13).33 Nowhere else does a
king manipulate blood in such a fashion. Elsewhere such activity is solely the
prerogative of priests. Zevit (2006: 195) argues that “the historian’s point in
describing Ahaz’s selective officiating at the altar . . . was to illustrate its pecu-
liarity. . . . It was the exception; not the rule.”
It is also noteworthy to read that King Ahaz then commands the priest Uriah
to engage in various sacrificial offerings, including blood manipulation, and the
priest complies with his every demand (2 Kgs 16:15–16). Such a statement helps
to confirm Deborah Rooke’s reconstruction of the royal-priestly dynamic when

it came to the actual performance of cult. According to Rooke (1998: 195), it was
normally the job of the senior priest to function in loco regis and carry out what
were technically delegated royal duties on a daily basis . . . it seems reasonable
to conclude that the king would have had the right, if not the duty, to perform
quite a number of ritual observances, but that his responsibilities were largely
delegated to the senior priest. (My emphasis)
And yet, pace Rooke’s insights, certain episodes in Judean history (e.g., the
Jehoida-Jehoash narratives [2 Kgs 11–12; 2 Chr 24], the Uzziah/Azariah con-
frontation and its aftermath [2 Chr 26:17–18]) give evidence of when the sit-
uation was not “normal” and of where there were priestly efforts to limit the
cultic (and political) role of the king.34 The Deuteronomic Law of the King
(Deut 17:14–20) similarly attempts to restrict royal power, including in the
cultic sphere.35 Moreover, in later periods, one would see dramatically different
perspectives, ranging from Ezekiel’s limiting royal power with his vision of a
diarchical reign—with its demotion of the melek to a nāśîʾ figure (cf. Levenson
1976)—to the mysterious disappearance of the Davidide Zerubbabel in the book
of Zechariah that resulted in a priestly consolidation of power (Lewis 2005b).
To conclude, we return to Zevit (2006: 194), who provides a convenient sum-
mary of the role of pre-exilic (and especially early) Israelite and Judean kings
in cult:
Biblical texts suffice to indicate that the kings of Israel from the tenth cen-
tury and of Judah from the middle of the ninth century acted like their more
powerful royal counterparts and contemporaries in cultic affairs, politics and
construction.
At the same time, there are clear priestly prerogatives (e.g., bearing the Ark of
Yahweh, entering the Holy of Holies, wearing sacral vestments, ritual washings,
handling cultic pollution, blood manipulation, offering incense) that over the
course of time—especially with the development of the priestly culture reflected
in the P and H material—distinguished priestly cult from its royal counterpart.36
In view of the royal use of the cognate term for “priest” (khn) in neighboring
Phoenicia, one could assume that the Judean priesthood exerted strong influ-
ence in keeping the term kōhēn for themselves.37
The Question of Divine Kingship

Having briefly looked at the functional nature of the early royal cult, it is time
to look at the ideological nature of kingship, especially Judean kingship within
its ancient Near Eastern setting.38 Regrettably, the history of past scholarship on
the sacrality of kingship has often been mingled with speculations about divine
kingship. This was especially true of the myth-and-ritual approach (see Chapter
Two, pp. 27–29) and biblical scholars such as Sigmund Mowinckel, who argued
that the Judean king was a “divine being . . . a powerful, superhuman being . . . He
is a god” (Mowinckel 1956: 62, emphasis his). More recent assessments have
eschewed the “patternist” approach whereby the notion of the king as god has
been assumed from the outset and replicated throughout the entire ancient Near
East. Granted, Egypt presents a special case with its articulations of the king’s
divinity. Yet even here we need to nuance the extent to which all kings at all
times were regarded as divine/semi-divine, for there is clear evidence of what
Alexandra von Lieven (2010: 2) calls a “historical evolution of deification.”39
Moreover, though it would be unwise to minimize the power of royal ideology,
the fact that non-royal elites were also deified (including certain women) reveals
that it is not kingship alone that marked one for deification. As for the nature of
deification per se, Marie-Ange Bonhême (2001: 403) cautions that “the divinity
of kings . . . derived from the gods and is therefore not original.” Using Ramses
II as an example, she adds: “On the one hand, the efficacy expected of the king is
comparable to that of Re, the luminous god who repels the enemies of Egypt into
the shadows; the king and Re collaborate in the magical protection of the lands of
Nubia. On the other hand, the king, who is not the god, is the sign of the efficacy
of the god’s power, which requires royal intermediation to be actualized.”
The character of Mesopotamian kingship has played a central role in formu-
lating past reconstructions of divine kingship in Judah.40 Current understandings
of the topic are considerably different from those of past generations. In contrast
to adherents of Frazer’s grand, sweeping paradigm, we now read much more
nuanced assessments such as that of Michalowski, who discusses the divine king-
ship of particular individuals (Naram-Sin of Akkade and Shulgi, the second king
of the Ur III Dynasty) while weighing the vicissitudes of their historical context.
In contrast to the grandiose claims of the Frazerian past, Michalowski (2008: 39,
41–42) concludes that divine kingship had a relatively “short shelf life.” Moreover,
it had “nothing to do with any autonomous symbolic system” but was rather “but
one component in a complex fabric of economic, structural, and ideological
reformations that took place in a concrete historical context.” Cooper (2008: 261)
concurs that kingship was “rarely divine” and that its divinity was “a historically
contingent phenomenon,” as does Winter (2008: 87), who stresses “the political
parameters of the explicit ascription of divine status to rulers when it does occur.”41
Divine Vocabulary Used of Kings: The “Infusing of Divinity”

At the same time, we need to be careful not to be so reductionist that we fail to
appreciate the sacral and mediating roles of the king where he could be viewed as
“the primary nexus between heaven and earth.” Illustrious vocabulary was used
to depict how the king could partake of the divine. Consider the Middle Assyrian
king Tukulti-Ninurta I (1243–1207 BCE), whose legacy lived on into the Neo-
Assyrian period. As noted by Machinist (2006: 170, 184, 186), Tukulti-Ninurta
I was the “favorite” and “beloved” of the gods, divinely birthed and nurtured,
even adorned with divine radiance. Of particular note is the way in which the
king represented the god as his “image” (ṣalmu), reflecting the deity’s “capacity
and character.” Machinist concludes: “It is difficult to deny that these [attributes]
look to some kind of divine status for the king.” Winter (2008: 88) offers yet an-
other way to conceptualize the topic: “Mesopotamian kingship was consistently
treated as if infused by the divine, ‘sacral kingship’ being the constant in which all
rulers participated. As such, kingship itself was always ‘divine’ ” (my emphasis).
The Infusing of Divinity and Judean Kingship

Machinist’s emphasis on how divinely chosen and endowed kings can be
garnished with illustrious (divine-like) depictions and Winter’s terminology of
“infused sacral divinity” are both helpful when applied to the debate over di-
vine kingship in Judean royal ideology. Such analyses strike a middle ground,
not advocating that Judean kings were thought to be deities in their own right
while not devaluing or minimizing the divine support of the Judean king or his
central role as a cultic actor. Contrary to the assertions of the myth-and-ritual
school, there is no explicit evidence that any Judean king ever underwent a pro-
cess of deification, nor is there any ritual data that would indicate that he be-
came the recipient of cult. We have prophetic polemics against foreign monarchs
who portray themselves as gods (Isa 14:12–15 against the king of Babylon; Ezek
28:2–10 against the prince of Tyre; cf. Dan 3). That we have no record of such
polemics being written against Judean kings is telling, for prophetic critiques
certainly would have been penned had any Judean monarch made a bold claim
to divinity.42
Nonetheless, Judean ideology articulated how Yahweh’s chosen king was
endowed with divine traits, traits needed to rule as God’s steward. The Davidic
king is portrayed as the firstborn son of Yahweh. It was Yahweh who gave him
birth and Yahweh who relates to him as a father to a son (Ps 2:7; 89:28 [Eng 89:27];
2 Sam 7:14; Isa 9:5).43 Yahweh extends his divine ḥesed (a word whose semantic
range includes loyalty, faithfulness, goodness, and graciousness) to his anointed
king (2 Sam 7:15; Ps 18:51 [Eng 18:50]//2 Sam 22:51; Ps 21:8 [Eng 21:7]; 2 Chr
1:8; Prov 20:28). The illustrious lore of David and Solomon is particularly inter-
esting. As previously noted, David’s kingship is superlative in that like Yahweh
he fights the cosmic Sea and is granted the status of “most high” with respect
to earthly kings (ʿelyôn lĕmalkê-ʾāreṣ; Ps 89:20–28 [Eng 89:19–27]).44 In 1 Kings
3:13 (//2 Chr 1:12) Solomon is granted incomparable “radiance” (kābôd) by
Yahweh, who is elsewhere described as “the King of Radiance” (melek hakkābôd;

Ps 24:7–10; see p. 459). Incomparable “majestic strength” (hôd) is bestowed upon
Solomon (1 Chr 29:25) by Yahweh, who is also characterized by hôd (Ps 8:2;
148:13). Eventually Solomon is referred to as “beloved” (ʾāhûb) of God, the only
king to receive such a designation (Neh 13:26).
Psalm 21:4–8 (Eng 21:3–7) provides us with a nice summary. After noting
how the king enjoys divine protection and divine access (Ps 21:2–3 [Eng 21:1–
2]), the psalmist praises God and king with the following words:
You [God] have proffered him [the king] blessings of good things,
have set upon his head a crown of fine gold.
He asked You for life; You granted it—

length of days, lasting forever [ʾōrek yāmîm ʿôlām wāʿed].
Great is his radiance [kābôd] through Your victory;

You have endowed him with splendor and majesty [hôd wĕhādār].
You bestow on him blessings forever,

you gladden him with the joy of Your very presence.45
Indeed, the king trusts in Yahweh,

Due to the ḥesed of the Most High
he will not be shaken.
According to Judean royal ideology, along with a golden crown, God also blessed
(infused) his chosen monarch with God’s very presence, as well as the deity’s vic-
tory, goodness, ḥesed, and ongoing blessings. In short, the character of Yahweh’s
king was portrayed as reflecting that of his divine benefactor: majestically ra-
diant, trustworthy, unshakable, and with a lengthy reign.
As Psalm 21:7 (Eng 21:6) describes the intimate presence (pānîm) of Yahweh
being with the king, so the Isaianic ideal has the very spirit (rûaḥ) of Yahweh
“resting” on the king to “gird” him with the following divine qualities: wisdom
(ḥokmâ), understanding (bînâ), counsel (ʿēṣâ), might (gĕbûrâ), knowledge
(daʿat), justice (mišpāṭ), righteousness (ṣedeq/ṣĕdāqâ), equity (mîšôr), and faith-
fulness (ʾĕmûnâ) (Isa 11:2–5). The idyllic Davidide of Isaiah 9:5–6 (Eng 9:6–7)
is similarly described, as he bears the illustrious/divine names that point simul-
taneously to the character of Yahweh and the divine traits of his chosen king.
These traits of Yahweh and his Davidide emphasize a superb warrior (ʾēl gibbôr;
cf. Isa 10:21) whose rule nonetheless promotes never-ending well-being (śar-
šālôm); a King/king known for unfathomable counsel (peleʾ yôʿēṣ; cf. Isa 28:29);
and an enduring fatherhood (ʾăbî ʿad) that, as we have seen, was the hallmark of
a benevolent ruler.
Psalm 45, used excessively by the myth-and-ritual school, should be situ-
ated in the context of such illustrious vocabulary.46 Once again we meet a king
described with superlatives: most handsome of men, graceful of speech, eternally
blessed, a majestically radiant warrior (i.e., with hôd and hādār) who victoriously
rides to defend what is true and right (45:3–5 [Eng 45:2–4]). The Hebrew Bible
is fully at home within its broader world, for such glorious descriptions of the
perfect king are, in the words of Hans-Joachim Kraus, “painted with every im-
aginable Near Eastern color.” Grandiose language is needed for the “king [who]
represents the royal presence of God on earth” (Kraus 1988: 457). The king sits
on the very throne of God, as explicitly stated in 1 Chronicles 29:23 about (once
again) the illustrious Solomon: “So Solomon sat on the throne of Yahweh as king
[kissēʾ yhwh lĕmelek].” Thus there can be no other way to understand Psalm 45:7
(Eng 45:6) (“Your throne, O God, endures forever” or, better, “Your divine throne
endures forever”) than as referring to an illustrious king “infused” with divinity
as he sits on God’s eternal throne.
To summarize: the Judean king is not God, he is not deified, and he never
receives cult. At the same time, ideologically, he is so gifted, so infused with
divine qualities, that his rule can exhibit godly equity (mîšōr) and righteous-
ness (ṣedeq) (Ps 45:7–8 [Eng 45:6–7]) and, idyllically, well-being (šālôm),
justice (mišpāṭ), and righteousness (ṣĕdāqâ) in the fullest sense of the terms
(Isa 9:5–6 [Eng 9:6–7]; 11:1–9).47 To complete the picture we should add
Psalm 110, which highlights the cultic role of the king that was described
earlier. This psalm too uses illustrious language: we read of the king being
granted a seat at God’s right hand (Ps 110:1), followed by a divine proclama-
tion that he will be invested with the priest-king mantel (kōhēn lĕʿôlām) once
held by the legendary Melchizedek (Ps 110:4; Gen 14:18).48 Prophetic voices
endorse the king’s esteemed cultic office as well. Consider Jeremiah 30:21’s
use of distinctly priestly vocabulary to describe how God grants his noble
ruler (ʾadîrô//mōšĕlô) the ability to draw near (qrb) to approach the divine—
“for who would otherwise dare approach me?” (kî mî hûʾ-zeh ʿārab ʾet-libbô
lāgešet ʾēlay).49
Yahweh as Sovereign
The preceding excursus on Judean kingship, functional and ideological, sets the
stage for considering how Judeans envisioned Yahweh as king. If kingship (var-
iously understood) was the dominant political, judicial, military, and religious
institution throughout the ancient Near East, then it goes without saying that
kingship was chosen as the obvious metaphor to describe the sovereignty of the
gods. In every Near Eastern culture, it is common to read of gods reigning as
kings and of a particular god ascending to preeminent kingship. In light of such
a constant, it is odd to read scholars who assert that the notion of Yahwistic king-
ship arose only with advent of monarchies in ancient Israel and Judah. For ex-
ample, Horst Dietrich Preuss (1995: 153) writes: “From the period prior to the
formation of the state, there appears to be no instance of YHWH’s kingship.”
Here it would be helpful to revisit the linguistic and religious cultural con-
tinuum articulated in Chapter Six, pp. 256–269. The breadth of the linguistic
attestations of the root mlk as it is applied to human and divine royalty (as mas-
culine and feminine nouns, as verbal nouns, in various verbal stems, and in
abstract expressions of “kingship” and “kingdom”) is staggering, as it includes
Akkadian, Amarna Canaanite, Amorite, Arabic, Aramaic (in all its dialects),
Eblaite, Ethiopic, Hebrew (biblical and epigraphic), Mandaic, Moabite, Old
South Arabic, Phoenician, Punic, Syriac, and Ugaritic, not to mention Greek
transcriptions of malk- and melk-. In addition to attestations in wide-ranging
literary genres (royal hymns and inscriptions mentioning God as king being the
most prominent), one needs to add attestations of mlk as a theophoric element in
personal names (e.g., malkiyyāhû, “my king is Yah[weh]”).
Thus it makes most sense from an ancient Near Eastern perspective to assume
that the metaphor of god as king was readily adapted as early as any believer
chose Yahweh as his preeminent deity. One need not require state formation to
conceptualize one’s favored deity as a monarch and a preeminent one at that.
Mesopotamian lore has kingship handed down from the heavens in pre-dynastic,
antediluvian times, and in Egypt “there were kings . . . from prehistory, before
the state had come into being” (Baines 1998: 16). Ugaritic ideology (see KTU
1.23) promotes the idea that god and king from time immemorial are respon-
sible for the blessings of agriculture (Lewis forthcoming a). Thus John Gibson
(1994: 104), in studying the kingship of Yahweh against its broader Canaanite
background, rightly concludes:
If we read the evidence honestly and fairly, there seems to me to be no reason

why . . . Yahweh could not have been thought of from the start as something of
a creator deity, as a god who had power over the forces of nature, as superior to
other gods and therefore entitled to be called King over the gods. . . . The germs of
all these leading facets of Israel’s faith . . . did not suddenly emerge only after the
establishment of the monarchy. (My emphasis)
Gibson’s claim is buttressed with our earliest attested texts where Yahweh is
referenced as king. The climax of the Song of the Sea proclaims: “Yahweh will
reign [yimlōk] forever and ever” (Exod 15:18). Deuteronomy 33:5 has Yahweh
tribally as king in Yeshurun; Psalm 29:10 has Yahweh cosmically enthroned as

king (wayyēšeb yhwh melek) over the flood; the Balaam Oracles proclaim the
battle cry of the king Yahweh (tĕrûʿat melek; Num 23:21b); and Psalm 68:25
(Eng 68:24) sings of the procession of “god and king” (ʾēlî malkî) into Yahweh’s
sanctuary.50 Such archaic passages are what the psalmist has in mind when he
proclaims that Yahweh is his king “from of old” (miqqedem; Ps 74:12).
The Superlative Quality of Yahweh’s Kingship

Describing divine kingship can easily exhaust our supply of superlatives. It is no
wonder that the word ʾĕlōhîm in Hebrew could be used grammatically to mark
the superlative degree (Joüon and Muraoka 1991: §141n; Waltke and O’Connor
1990: 268). Yahweh was understood to be “king of kings and lord of lords,”
though this exact expression is not to be found in the Hebrew Bible (it comes
rather from the apocalyptic battle scene in Rev 19:16).51 Prophets have Yahweh
himself proclaim in unmistakable clarity: “I am a great King” (melek gādôl ʾānî;
Mal 1:14; cf. Isa 44:6; Jer 46:18) and poets extol that his kingship is eternal (yhwh
melek ʿôlām wāʿed; Ps 10:16; Lam 5:19).
Superlative expressions of Yahweh’s sovereignty stretch beyond legendary
human kings (mĕlākîm gĕdōlîm//mĕlākîm ʾadîrîm; Ps 136:17–20) to include his
reign over all the nations and their gods. This is particularly fleshed out in late
literature. Deuteronomic traditions have Yahweh as absolute sovereign, the “god
of gods and lord of lords, the great god, mighty and awesome” (Deut 10:17), who
theologically has no rivals (Deut 4:35, 39; 6:4; 32:39; cf. Isa 44:6). The author of
Psalm 136 uses similar language, adding that Yahweh alone performs great won-
ders, especially those of creation (Ps 136:2–4). Other psalmists praise Yahweh
as “the king of all the earth,” the enthroned, holy sovereign who “reigns over the
nations” (Ps 47:7–9 [Eng 47:6–8]). Yahweh is “the great god, the great king above
all gods [melek gādôl ʿal-kol-ʾĕlōhîm]” (Ps 95:3). Within the sociological and psy-
chological contours of apocalyptic thought, divine sovereignty enjoys full ex-
pression. Yahweh is “truly the God of gods, the Lord of kings” (Dan 2:47).
Obviously, to assert that Yahweh is the king of kings or, better, the (divine)
king of (divine) kings, implies that other divine monarchs were also wor-
shipped in ancient Israel. This is clearly the case with the Queen of Heaven
(mĕleket haššāmayim), likely ʿAshtart, mentioned in Jeremiah 7:16–20; 44:15–
30. This deity, who had both royal and household cults, is treated in detail in
the Conclusion. According to the Deuteornomistic Historian (1 Kgs 11:5, 33; cf.
OG to 1 Kgs 11:7; 2 Kgs 23:13), the Ammonite god Milkom was worshipped
by King Solomon. The Judean monarch even built a sanctuary to Milkom east
of Jerusalem that Josiah then defiled. As for the putative god Molek (so often
assocated with child sacrifice), the most recent research makes it most unlikely
that there ever was such a Judean deity (see Dewrell 2017: 4–36).
Yahweh’s Kingship: Cosmic Warfare, Jerusalem Enthronement, and

Zion Theology
To repeat, if kingship (in its various parameters) was the dominant institu-
tion throughout the ancient Near East including the southern Levant, then di-
achronically we can assume that the notion of Yahweh as king was a constant
throughout Israelite and Judean cultures, though our extant texts provide us
with a very incomplete record. We agree with Mettinger (1988: 92) that under-
standing Yahweh as king is at the very core of how many authors of the Hebrew
Bible conceptualized Yahweh. The episodes of Yahweh’s kingship that have with-
stood the ravages of time include the following highlights.
As discussed in Chapter Eight, pp. 453–460, the language of cosmic warfare
marked Yahwistic kingly warrior cults from our earliest texts onward. Because
such language used royal imagery, it was appropriated to legitimate Davidic/
Judean kingship. To reiterate briefly, the vehicle of royal military might was fre-
quently employed to flesh out Yahweh’s Chaoskampf victories. Or, put differently,
stories of preternatural Chaoskampf victories carried such cultural weight that
they were the obvious choice to sing of how such a skillful, divine warrior should
be accorded preeminent, royal status. It is Yahweh as king who fights on a cosmic
scale (Exod 15:18; Ps 24:8, 10; Ps 29:10; Ps 74:12–15; Ps 89:6–19 [Eng 89:5–18];
Ps 93:1–4; Ps 97:1–5), and Yahweh’s incomparable victory is the justification for
worshipping him as king in his sanctuary that was built for just such a purpose
(Ps 24:7–10).
As noted in Chapter Seven (pp. 366–368), Isaiah 6 paints a detailed portrait of
Yahweh as king sitting on his throne in the Jerusalem Temple:52
In the year of King Uzziah’s death, I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, high and
exalted; and the edges of his garment filled the temple [wāʾerʾeh ʾet-ʾădōnāy
yōšēb ʿal-kissēʾ rām wĕniśśāʾ wĕšûlāyw mĕlēʾîm ʾet-hahêkāl]. Above him were at-
tendant seraphim . . .
Then I cried, “Woe is me! . . . my own eyes have seen the King, Yahweh of
Hosts!” (Isaiah 6:1–2a, 5)
Our description in Chapter Seven concentrated on the radiant presence of

Yahweh, described via winged creatures attending Yahweh’s kābôd, and the
danger for Isaiah, the prophet, when he “saw” the divine, a danger known from
other passages that articulate the lethality of seeing God. We noted too the
accompanying language of shaking thresholds and a smoke-filled temple, lan-
guage that resonates with various cultic traditions. To these powerful images,
we would now add the additional force of Yahweh as king, including his royal
attire and lordly stature. What is of particular note is the size of the royal
paraphernalia, which indicates that Yahweh is being portrayed as a supersized

king. As noted by Jonas Greenfield (1985) and Mark Smith (1988), notions of
deities sitting on superhuman-sized thrones were used at Ugarit (KTU 1.4.6.56–
57; 1.6.1.56–65; 1.101.1–10) and in the description of God’s enormous (10 cubits
high by 10 cubits wide) cherub throne in the Jerusalem Temple (1 Kgs 6:23–28).53
Elizabeth Bloch-Smith (1994: 20–25) emphasizes that this enormous throne is
complemented by the immense basin known as “the Molten Sea,” both of which
served symbolic purposes: “Great size signified importance, sovereignty, and, ul-
timately, divinity. . . . [T]‌he enormous size symbolized the spatial and temporal
magnitude of the deity.” Bloch-Smith also emphasizes (as does Hugh Williamson
[2005b: 125]) how the artists at Ayn Dara used extraordinarily large footprints to
imagine a superhuman-sized God.54 The imagery behind all of these large-scale
portrayals, argue Greenfield, Smith, and Williamson, informs the royal vision
in Isaiah 6 with Yahweh seated on a high and exalted throne (yōšēb ʿal-kissēʾ rām
wĕniśśāʾ). Williamson (2005b: 124, 129–130) further adds how the enormous
size of Yahweh’s throne is also implied “if merely the edge of the Lord’s garment
[šûlāyw, traditionally translated ‘train’] fills the sanctuary.” In short, a supersized
throne is yet another indicator of the superlative nature of Yahweh’s kingship.
Other signs are the various divine council traditions that elevate Yahweh’s lofty
throne to the heavens: “I saw Yahweh sitting on His throne, and all the host of
heaven standing by, on His right hand and on His left” (1 Kgs 22:19//2 Chr 18:18;
Ezek 1:26; 10:1; Dan 7:9; cf. Job 1:6; 2:1).55
A look back at the Zion traditions (see Chapter Eight, pp. 467–469)
underscores how the notion of Yahweh as king was appropriated to underscore
the inviolability of Jerusalem. The various Zion traditions, for all their similari-
ties, nonetheless employ a wide array of visual images to depict Yahweh actively
protecting his city. Yahweh is a helper and a refuge, a hovering bird, a burning
fire, a logger felling trees, a lion, and a storm god. Within this literary variety is
a dominant motif: Yahweh as capable, strong warrior who willingly chooses to
defend his city. As the texts mentioned earlier indicate, Yahweh’s military might
is often couched in the language of a kingly warrior. Thus it is that we read that
Mt. Zion is unassailable precisely because it is “the city of the great king” (qiryat
melek rāb) and thus under his protection (Ps 48:3 [Eng 48:2]).56 Yahweh has
chosen Zion as his habitation and that of his Davidic king (Ps 132).
The Cultic Enactment of Yahweh’s Kingship
The enactment of Yahweh’s kingship in cult is a complicated topic. The field of

biblical studies has experienced a long debate about the proper interpretation
of a handful of psalms (maximally including Ps 47, 93, 95–99) whose theme is
Yahweh’s kingship. These poets proclaim that God is worthy of praise as king.
As warrior king, he sits enthroned robed in a majesty (gēʾût lābēš) and girded
with a strength (ʾōz hitʾazzār Ps 93:1) that befits his victory over the nations and
his sovereignty over the world (Ps 47:3, 7–9 [Eng 47:2, 6–8]; 93:1; 96:10). Such
victories include hoary cosmic victories that allow the psalmist to write that his
throne was “established from of old” (nākôn kisʾăkā mēʾāz; Ps 93:2). Such vic-
tories were also harbingers for a warrior king coming in the future as righteous
judge to adjudicate the world with equity (Ps 98:9).
If Yahweh is to be praised for being a “great king above all gods” (95:3), how did
these poets think that this praise should be enacted in cultic ritual? How should
his glory be best “proclaimed among the nations” (Ps 96:3)? Certainly such a
cultic proclamation should come with loud and joyful shouts, the music of harps,
and the trumpeting of horns (Ps 98:5–6). Beyond this we cannot be certain about
any accompanying ritual, although several scholars (e.g., Day 1985: 18–21; Kraus
1989: 232–233, 236) are on solid footing when they suggest that (at least during
certain times) Yahweh’s kingship was central to sukkôt celebrations. This sugges-
tion is based on a clear reference in Zechariah 14:16–17:
All who survive of those nations that came up against Jerusalem shall go up
from year to year to worship the King, Yahweh of Armies [lĕhištaḥăwōt lĕmelek
yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt], and to observe the Feast of Booths [ḥag hassukkôt]. Any of the
families of the earth that do not come up to worship the King, Yahweh of Armies
[lĕhištaḥăwōt lĕmelek yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt], shall receive no rain.
On a much shakier footing is the suggestion of other scholars that these kingship
psalms point to a coronation ritual that enacts as it celebrates that “Yahweh has
become king.” In other words, the proclamation is thought to be one of investi-
ture. This suggestion is most closely connected to the work of Mowinckel and his
followers, who interpret a phrase that occurs four times in these psalms (yhwh
mālāk) as referring to Yahweh becoming king (Ps 93:1; 96:10; 97:1; 99:1). Thus
these psalms are often referred to as “enthronement psalms.”
Marc Brettler’s (1989: 125–158) aptly titled book God Is King contains a de-
tailed and perceptive analysis of this material, underscoring the methodolog-
ical hurdles facing the historian who attempts to reconstruct ancient Israelite
coronation rites, be they human or divine. Should these hurdles be overcome,
the strongest case for Yahweh becoming king in a coronation ritual would be
based on Psalm 93. A majestically robed Yahweh is indeed enthroned, and
one can imagine his worshippers celebrating his kingship as they call to mind
his victory over the chaotic waters (Ps 93:1–4; see pp. 454–455). In this sense,
Yahweh has indeed become king (i.e., exercised his sovereignty) over those whom
he vanquished. And yet our poet at the same time proclaims of Yahweh: “Your
throne is established from of old” (Ps 93:2). For Brettler (1989: 146, 157, 167), this
“counter-image” “implies that he has always been king.” Contrary to Mowinckel’s
thesis, Yahweh “always ‘was’ and never ‘became’ king.” Brettler (1989: 147–151,
167) also draws attention to the “significant anomaly” of non-Israelite nations
being called upon to proclaim Yahweh’s kingship in the so-called enthrone-
ment psalms. Sociologically, it is hard to imagine such a scenario being enacted
in pre-exilic Judean cult. Brettler’s alternative (seeing these motifs as eschato-
logical visions of God as “judge of all nations” being projected into the present)
makes much better sense. Moreover, if Psalm 93 is indeed our strongest evidence
for a coronation ceremony, then it would seem relevant to underscore that it is
Yahweh who robes himself with grandeur and strength dating back to the days of
creation (see pp. 454–455).
Section II: Yahweh as Judge
A Royal Framework for Divine Justice
The traditions of divine warfare, Jerusalem enthronement, and Zion theology

were perfect vehicles though which Judean royal ideology could construct and
reinforce the very nature of power and by so doing promote the interests (and
vital necessity) not just of God but also of king and state. Yet such royal power
would not be sustainable (certainly from the perspective of the governed) unless
it wielded judicial power. Consider the model portrayal of Absalom in his coup
d’état (2 Sam 15:1–6). It was not enough to have the reality and the spectacle of
military grandeur with horses, chariot, and an entourage (cf. 1 Sam 8:11; 1 Kgs
1:5). A proper king had to be seen as an accessible and responsive judge (šōpēṭ)
at the city gate, a site chosen for a wide array of royal appearances (2 Sam 18:1–5;
19:9; 1 Kgs 22:10; 2 Chr 32:6; May 2014: 91–94).57 A legitimate king is one to
whom the populace looks to govern (špṭ) the nation successfully (1 Sam 8:5, 20).
Throughout the ancient Near East (and beyond), the ideology of the king as
the embodiment of justice is grounded in a cultural understanding that earthly
kings were to mirror the judicious behavior of the gods. Theologically, it was the
gods who bestowed discernment upon earthly kings and then entrusted them
with the duty to be righteous and wise judges, legitimizing their legal authority.
In Mesopotamia, as noted by Mario Liverani (1995: 2360), “the quality of the king
as righteous judge . . . finds expression in specific kinds of texts, namely the law
codes whose aim is to demonstrate, through a lengthy list of practical examples,
how correctly the kingdom was run under the king who authored the code.” The
Laws of Hammurabi were engraved on a basalt stela 7 feet (2.1 m) tall where the
king stands before an enthroned Shamash, the god of justice (Figure 9.1).58 The
Figure 9.1 King Hammurabi standing before an enthroned Shamash, the god of
justice, on the stela bearing his laws.
Courtesy Mbzt. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:F0182_Louvre_Code_Hammourabi_
Bas-relief_Sb8_rwk.jpg.
message of the iconography could not be clearer: the god of justice and the king
of justice work in tandem. Martha Roth (1995: 17) underscores how “the gods,
and especially Marduk, Hammurabi’s patron deity of Babylon, and Shamash, the
god of justice, entrusted the king with the administration and equitable applica-
tion of the principles of ‘truth and justice’ (kittum u mīšarum)” so that he, in the
words of the law code’s prologue, would “provide just ways and appropriate beha-
vior for the people of the land” (prologue, vv. 16–19). The contours of justice are
fleshed out in detail in the code’s epilogue, with its focus on god and king (or, one
could argue, king and god, for it is hard to miss Hammurabi’s ego):
In order that the mighty not wrong the weak, to provide just ways for the waif
and the widow, I have inscribed my precious pronouncements upon my stela
and set it up before the statue of me, the king of justice [šar mišārim], in the
city of Babylon, the city which the gods Anu and Enlil have elevated, within the
Esagil, the temple whose foundations are fixed as are heaven and earth, in order
to render the judgments of the land, to give the verdicts of the land, and to pro-
vide just ways for the wronged. (xlvii 59–78)
Let any wronged man who has a lawsuit come before the statue of me, the
king of justice [šar mišārim], and let him have my inscribed stela read aloud
to him, thus may he hear my precious pronouncements and let my stela reveal
the lawsuit for him; may he examine his case, may he calm his [troubled] heart
[libbašu linappišma], [and may he praise me], saying: “Hammurabi, the lord,
who is like a father and begetter to his people [ša kīma abim wālidim ana nišī
ibaššû], submitted himself to the command of the god Marduk, his lord, and
achieved victory for the god Marduk everywhere. He gladdens the heart of the
god Marduk, his lord, and he secured the eternal well-being of the people and
provided just ways for the land.” May he say thus, and may he pray for me with
his whole heart before the gods, Marduk, and Zarpanitu, my lady. (xlviii 3–47;
Roth 1995: 17–18)
Juridical vocabulary understandably fills this narrative, yet the way in which it
is framed is equally important.59 We read of the king’s justice not only in formal
legal contexts (e.g., as he settles disputes and renders lawsuit verdicts). In ad-
dition, we hear of him especially as the protector and vindicator of the disad-
vantaged of society who have been wronged and are in need of legal safeguards.
The language of the king as a father giving birth to his people (and as one who
sets people’s minds at ease) resonates with the familial portrayal of divinity.
Procuring justice for the land secures “the eternal well-being of the people” and
in so doing gladdens the very heart of Marduk. Once again, king and god work in
tandem in their love for justice.
Ideologically, such is the case for every ancient Near Eastern monarch who
seeks to be viewed as the representative of the gods in carrying out justice (cf.
Weinfeld 1995b: 45–74). At Mari in the eighteenth century BCE, King Zimri-
Lim was given the following charges by the god Adad:
When a wronged man or wo[man] cries out to you, be there and judge their
case. This only I have demanded from you. (A. 1121 + A. 2731 lines 53–55)
Now hear a single word of mine: If anyone cries out to [you] for judgment,
saying “I have been wr[ong]ed,” be there to decide his case; an[swer him fai]rly.
[Th]is is what I de[sire] from you. (A. 1968 lines 6′–11′)60
The Hittite king Arnuwanda I (ca. 1390s–1370s BCE) provided instructions that
his “governor of the post, the magistrate [and] the elders shall judge law cases
properly, and they shall resolve [them]” (CTH 261.I §37′; cf. §38).61 His specific
judicial instructions include the following admonitions:
Let no one accept a bribe. He shall not make a superior case inferior; he shall
not make the inferior superior. You shall do what is just! . . . and for whomever
a law case is [pending], judge it for him/her and resolve [it for] him/her. If there
is a law case [pending] for a male or a female servant or a woman without kin,62
then decide it for them and resolve [it for] them. (CTH 261.I §39′, §40′)
Egypt too preserves the delegation of judicial authority with instructions written
in a way that has God foremost in mind (cf. also Moses’ judiciary, discussed
later). Rekhmire was the royal vizier during the latter days of Thutmose III (ca.
1490–1436 BCE). The pharaoh installed him in office with the following charge:
Do not judge [?]‌[unfairly (?)], for God abhors partiality. . . . Regard him whom
you know like him whom you do not know, him who is near you like him who
is far [from you]; as for the magistrate who acts thus, he will be successful in
his place. . . . See, the [real] worth of a magistrate is that he does justice. . . . And
as for the office in which you judge, there is a spacious room in it full of [the
records (?) of all (past)] judgments. As for him who shall do justice before all
men, he is the vizier. . . . Do not do your [own will] in matters whereof the law
is known.63
Rekhmire describes how the pharaoh “gave me a court of justice under my au-
thority” because “[My Majesty] knows the decisions are many and there is no
end to them, and the judgment of cases never flags.” Rekhmire’s autobiography
describes how he was faithful to the judicial ideal:
I judged [poor and] and rich alike. I rescued the weak from the strong. . . .
I defended the husbandless widow. I established the son and heir on the seat of
his father. I gave [bread to the hungry], water to the thirsty, meat and ointment
and clothes to him who had nothing . . . I judged great matter[s?]. . . . [I caused]
both parties to go forth at peace. I did not per[vert justice] for reward. I was not
deaf to the empty-handed, nay more, I never accepted anyone’s bribe.64
The judicial ideal at Late Bronze Age Ugarit is seen from the challenge of the
rebellious son Yassubu (cf. biblical Absalom), who demands that his father,
King Kirta, step down from kingship, asserting that he has failed to carry out
the essential duties of adjudicating the legal cases of widows and the oppressed,
and casting out those who prey upon the poor (ltdn dn ʾalmnt/ltṯpṭ ṯpṭ qṣr npš/
ltdy ṯšm ʿl dl; KTU 1.16.VI.44–48). Sharing the same notion of justice, another
legend (the tale of Aqhatu) speaks of the admirable Danilu, who was known for
providing justice for the widow and the orphan (ydn dn ʾalmnt/yṯpṭ ṯpṭ y[tm];
KTU 1.17.V.7–8; cf. 1.19.I.23–25). A remarkable royal ritual text (mentioning
king and queen) describes public confessions and various sacrifices culminating
in a rare (and highly valued) donkey sacrifice.65 On a national scale, the ritual’s
aim was to promote “justice” (mšr) for those in various sociopolitical groups, in-
cluding the non-native residents (gr) living within the walls of Ugarit. Nothing in
any of these texts explicitly says that the justice being sought out is that birthed
of the gods, yet such an understanding is clearly implicit. King Kirta is “the son
of ʾIlu,” after all, and the symbiotic relation of god and king for the good of so-
ciety is attested elsewhere, especially in KTU 1.23 (cf. Lewis forthcoming a). The
“donkey sacrifices of justice” (ʿr mšr) in KTU 1.40 are offered to ʾIlu (and his di-
vine family) with the dire hope and confidence that ʾIlu will indeed grant their re-
quest to restore and reestablish the well-ordered state of justice that he required.
Judean Royal Judicial Ideology

Biblical tradition espouses similar judicial ideology about Judean monarchs.
The idyllic Davidide in Isaiah 11:2–4 will judge the poor and meek judiciously
(ṣedeq//mîšôr) due to his piety, with the spirit of Yahweh’s wisdom and counsel
resting upon him (cf. Isa 9:6 [Eng 9:7]; Jer 23:5). Similar to the prayer on behalf of
King Hammurabi (LH xlviii 41–47), the royal Psalm 72 prays:
O Yahweh,66 endow the king with your justice,

The king’s son with your righteousness
That he may judge your people rightly,

your poor justly.
May he [righteously] judge the common poor,

provide deliverance to the needy,
and crush those who oppress [them]. (Ps 72:1–2, 4; cf. 72:12–14)
As Hammurabi’s divinely elevated city of Babylon is ordained as the seat of jus-

tice and its temple as the seat of cult (LH xlvii 59–78), so too a psalmist proclaims
that Jerusalem with its temple is a divinely ordained city where the thrones of
the Davidic house are established as “thrones of justice” (šāmmâ yāšĕbû kisʾôt
lĕmišpāṭ kisʾôt lĕbêt dāwîd; Ps 122:3–5).
Four Judean “Kings of Justice”

Four individuals (David, Solomon, Josiah, and Jehoshaphat) are portrayed in
biblical tradition as ideal “kings of justice,” to borrow the Akkadian phrase.67
David is certainly the most surprising on this list, given his abuse of power. The
Court History is frank with the unsavory details of his reign. Baruch Halpern
(2001: xv, 73–103) labels him a “serial killer” with a “homicidal policy,” and
Robert Wilson (1983: 243) describes his judicial behavior as “often arbitrary,”
with David “unwilling to apply the law evenhandedly.” A later section will deal
with David’s criminality regarding the Bathsheba-Uriah episode and his missteps
as judge. For now, consider the positive judicial traditions of David that endured
along with tales of his dark side.
The Tekoite wise woman who brings a pretend legal case (prompted by Joab)
before David flatters him by describing his judicial discernment as “like an angel/
messenger of God” (kĕmalʾak hāʾĕlōhîm kēn ʾădōnî hammelek lišmōaʿ haṭṭôb
wĕhārāʿ; 2 Sam 14:17). Indeed, David is discerning enough to see her fictitious
case for the ruse that it is (2 Sam 14:1–20).68 Though those who suffered under his
reign would beg to differ, David is said by the Deuteronomist to have exercised
justice and equity (mišpāṭ ûṣĕdāqâ) for all his people (2 Sam 8:15). David is also
presented as an ideal, just monarch in Psalm 89, where equity and justice (ṣedeq
ûmišpāṭ) form the very foundation of his throne (Ps 89:15 [Eng 89:14]). A similar
notion is found in Jeremiah 22:3, which presents an appeal for justice (including
advocating for the widowed, the fatherless, and the non-Israelite resident or gēr)
to the royal house “who sit on the throne of David.” Divine justice also influences
David’s political behavior. Consider the legal language contained in the portrait
of David sparing Saul’s life in 1 Samuel 24. Rather than taking matters into his
own hands by killing Saul, David defers to Yahweh as the ultimate judge (dayyān)
who will plead his case (yārēb ʾet-rîbî), arbitrate between him and Saul (yišpōṭ
bênî ûbênekā), avenge David (nĕqāmanî; cf. Deut 32:35), and ultimately provide
him with vindication over Saul (wĕyišpĕṭēnî miyyādekā) (1 Sam 24:13, 16 [Eng
24:12, 15]). When one combines all these legal stories, it is understandable that
David’s name is mentioned in passages that hope for a future idyllic “king of jus-
tice” (Isa 9:6 [Eng 9:7]; 11:2–4; 16:5; Jer 23:5).
Notwithstanding this picture of David’s judicial prowess, Solomon’s justice is
of a much greater magnitude. Just as Solomon is portrayed as exceeding his pred-
ecessor when it comes to royal cult (see pp. 500–501), so too he is depicted as
outshining David with regard to royal justice. Mettinger (1976: 238–246) speaks
of Solomon being “charismatically” granted God’s own judicial wisdom (cf. Ps
45:5, 7–8 [Eng 45:4, 6–7]; 72:1–4; Prov 16:10–15). Keith Whitelam (1979: 166,
219) even calls him “the Just King par excellence.” Such impressions are cer-
tainly understandable; yet they ignore Solomon’s breaking of cultic law (e.g.,
1 Kgs 11:1–13), the machinations whereby he secured the throne (1 Kgs 1–2),
and episodes of his self-aggrandizement—such that the Deuteronomic “Law of
the King” (Deut 17:14–17) has him in mind as a lawbreaker.69 On that note, ac-
cording to the Deuteronomic restrictions on the monarchy, Solomon should not
have had judicial authority to begin with (cf. Levinson 1997: 140–141).
The positive impressions of Solomon’s justice come especially from the lit-
erary artistry that tells of his dream request of God (1 Kgs 3:3–15) and the
memorable story of his adjudicating between two women each claiming to

be the mother of the same child (1 Kgs 3:16–28). Solomon’s dream request at
Gibeon is sandwiched between mentions of his proficiency in cultic sacrifice
at Gibeon and Jerusalem (1 Kgs 3:4, 15; cf. 2 Chr 1:3–6, 13).70 Laying aside any
thought of long life or wealth, the Deuteronomist instead has Solomon asking
God for the ability to govern with justice: “Give your servant an understanding
mind to provide justice [lišpōṭ] for your people, able to discern between good
and evil” (1 Kgs 3:9). For verification, the narrative of the two women with con-
flicting testimonies immediately follows, and with it Solomon’s perceptiveness
and ability (via his shocking remedy by sword) to bring about a perfectly just
decision. Little wonder then that Solomon’s fame as one who possessed “the
wisdom of God to render justice” (ḥokmat ʾĕlōhîm bĕqirbô laʿăśôt mišpāṭ; 1 Kgs
3:28) spread widely, to the Queen of Sheba in distant lands (1 Kgs 10:9; 2 Chr
9:8), and throughout subsequent history, even to the present as an archetype.71
King Josiah is the favorite of the Deuteronomist (i.e., Dtr1), in whose work
he, like Solomon (1 Kgs 3:12) and Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:5), receives incompa-
rable status. Yet his incomparability lies in his religious reforms (2 Kgs 23:25),
not in Solomon’s wisdom and justice nor in Hezekiah’s unparalleled trust
(Knoppers 1992a: 413). For traditions about Josiah’s idyllic justice, we turn not to
a Deuteronomistic portrayal but to Jeremiah 22, which contrasts his just actions
with the injustice of his son and successor Jehoiakim. The outset of this chapter
articulates the divine expectations that those who sit on the throne of David will
promote justice:
Thus says Yahweh: “Act with justice and righteousness [mišpāṭ ûṣĕdāqâ].
Deliver from the defrauder anyone who has been robbed. Do no wrong or vi-
olence to the gēr [non-Israelite resident], the orphan, and the widow, or shed
innocent blood in this place.” (Jer 22:3)
Rhetorically, these expectations are highlighted prior to the prophet bringing

indictments against Jehoiakim for how he ruled without righteousness and
without justice (bĕlōʾ-ṣedeq; bĕlōʾ mišpāṭ; Jer 22:13). The sharp critique of
Jehoiakim’s injustice is poetic in its contrast with his father’s behavior:
Are you more of a king

because you compete in cedar?
As for your father [King Josiah],

Did he not eat and drink
and execute justice and equity?
Then it went well with him.
He advocated justice for the poor and needy;

Then all was well.
Is not this to know me?
declares Yahweh.
But your eyes and mind

are only on your dishonest gain,
on shedding the blood of the innocent,
on practicing oppression and violence. (Jer 22:15–17)
It is not clear whether the reference to Josiah eating and drinking in Jer 22:15 is meant
to underscore his enjoyment of life (Lundbom 2004: 138), his contentment with
the simple necessities of life in contrast to Jehoiakim’s extravagant building projects
(cf. JPS footnote), or (as translated here) a metaphor for his appetite for justice (see
Holladay 1986: 596). The justice that made Josiah an admirable king is characterized
by the ancient Near Eastern royal ideal of caring for the disadvantaged. As expected,
the prophet grounds such activity in the divine. Josiah’s judicial concern for the poor
and needy stems from and exhibits his knowing of Yahweh (Jer 22:16).
The narratives about King Jehoshaphat’s judiciary (2 Chr 17:7–9; 19:4b–11)
are complicated, with a lengthy history of scholarship. The king’s very name
(“Yah[weh] judges”) almost begs scholars to advocate for the historicity of his
ninth-century BCE judiciary (Albright 1950a) or, due to etiological suspicions,
to argue for the total lack thereof (Wellhausen 1965: 191).72 Jehoshaphat’s judi-
ciary has also been retrojected into pentateuchal narratives, especially the judi-
cial structures of Moses in Exodus 18:13–27 and Deut 1:9–18; 16:18–20; 17:8–13.
Yet clearly Gary Knoppers’ (1994: 62, 79–80) sober assessment should prevail: the
Chronicler, as a monarchist, reformulates earlier traditions to fit his own ideo-
logical concerns—namely, to “consistently ascribe,” in contrast to Deuteronomic
restrictions, a “pivotal role . . . to the king in governing Israel.”73 The Chronicler’s
royal ideal is as juridical as it is cultic, military, and political. “The Chronicler’s
king cares about military security and juridical reform and is equally adept at
achieving both” (Knoppers 1994: 80). At the same time that Jehoshaphat’s judiciary
centralizes power in the crown, it also balances the competing interests of cult per-
sonnel (with priests and Levites) and traditional clan magistrates (with “heads of
the fathers”) (2 Chr 17.8; 19:8; Andersen and Freedman 2000: 350–351).
Yet as much as he reformulates his received traditions, there is one constant
that the Chronicler does not change: the notion of Yahweh as supreme judge
whose perfect justice must be emulated by those he designates to judicial office:
Jehoshaphat said to the judges [he appointed], “Be intentional about what you
are doing—for it is not on behalf of human beings that you render justice, but on
behalf of [none other than] Yahweh. He is with you in rendering justice. Now,
let the dread of Yahweh be upon you; adjudicate with care. For with Yahweh our
God, there is no injustice, favoritism, or bribe-taking.” (2 Chr 19:6–7)
The Chronicler does not mention the disadvantaged triad of orphan, widow,
and gēr so common elsewhere, preferring instead to concentrate on the serious
nature of a human judge’s position. Jehoshaphat’s admonition is two-sided, se-
vere yet supportive. It underscores Yahweh as the perfect judge in whom there is
no injustice (cf. Deut 10:17–18; 16:19; 32:4) and for whom earthly judges act as
proxy. Here, as noted by Knoppers (1994: 77), the king’s exhortation echoes that
of Moses, that justice is ultimately of God, with no need for earthly judges to fear
human backlash (Deut 1:17). Wielding such responsibility, they are to carry out
justice with guarded care (šimrû ʿăśû) and dread (paḥad), knowing that God,
the unerring ultimate magistrate, will in turn be judging their judgments. At the
same time, earthly judges can take heart in knowing that the supreme judge is in-
deed with them in the act of rendering justice.
Non-Royal Frameworks for Divine Justice
With kingship being such a dominant social and political institution, it made
sense to look here first—and at the ideal of the just king—in order to view
the Hebrew Bible’s theology of God as judge. Consider the personal name
Malkîṣedeq, “My [divine] king is [my] justice.” The thematic catchphrase “There
was no king in the land, everyone did as he pleased” in the book of Judges (Judg
17:6; 21:25; cf. 18:1; 19:1) also implies the need for a royal administration to bring
about a just society. And yet, as Brettler (1989: 113) astutely observes, “the role of
judging was never confined to the royal sphere, and most texts connecting judg-
ment to God do not mention his kingship.” As such, “we may not assume that all
texts which use juridical terminology of God are a projection of royal justice on
to him.” Looking elsewhere bears this out.
Family Religion and Divine Justice on the Personal Level

As family and household religion (Chapter Eight, pp. 473–494) gave us a needed
complement to the royal warrior cult (Chapter Eight, pp. 428–472), so too a look
outside the notion of royal justice will prove instructive. Sources that open a
window into the legal realities of the individual, of the household unit, and of
small towns as opposed to the complex societies and elite hierarchies that pro-
duced urban law are few but telling. Moreover, if family religion emphasizes God
as a “father to the fatherless,” then it will complement the royal ideal that provides
protection for the orphan. Familial language is used to proclaim that Yahweh is
“father of orphans and the one who provides justice [dayyān] for widows” (Ps
68:6 [Eng 68:5]).
Rainer Albertz studied personal names found in the epigraphic record as a window
into personal piety. Albertz documented two subgroups that either look to divine
protection in providing justice74 or employ judicial imagery in acts of confession.75
Such imagery need not require a juridical setting with enemies as legal adversaries.76
And yet, even if the language of Yahweh as judge is used metaphorically, it nonethe-
less testifies to a pervasive desire for divine justice in all walks of life. The names in
Albertz’s study include the following: ʾElyārîb, “El has contended/adjudicated [on my
behalf]”; Yišpōṭ, “[God] has rendered justice [on my behalf]”; Šĕpaṭyāhû, “Yahweh
has rendered justice [on my behalf]”; Šāpāṭ, “[God] has rendered justice [on my be-
half]”; Šipṭān, “Our legal assistance is of God”; Ṣādōq, “God” was/is just”; Yĕhôṣādāq,
“Yahweh was/is just”; Ṣidqīyāhu, “My justice is Yahweh”; Yĕdīnyāhû, “Yahweh has
judged [in my favor]”; and Yôʿēd, “Yahweh is [my] legal witness.”
The personal expression of trust and confidence in God as an active and caring
judge that underlies these personal names is also found in individual laments in
a number of psalms. Examples of acts of confession employing judicial language
are found in Psalm 140 and, blending in royal language, Psalm 9:
I know77 that Yahweh will enact justice [yaʿăśeh dîn] for the poor,
execute justice [mišpaṭ] for the needy. (Ps 140:13 [Eng 140:12])
For you have executed a just verdict on my behalf [mišpaṭî wĕdînî];

Enthroned as righteous judge [šôpēṭ ṣedeq] . . .
[Yahweh] has established his throne for justice [mišpāṭ],
It is He who judges [yišpōṭ] the world with righteousness,
Judges [yādîn] the people with equity.
Yahweh is a haven for the oppressed,
A haven in times of trouble. (Ps 9:5, 8b–10 [Eng 9:4, 7b–9])
Such confidence and trust underlie the petitions of Psalms 7, 26, 43, 54 and
Lamentations 3, which cry out with a similar voice:78
Yahweh ordains justice [mišpāṭ] . . .

Yahweh judges [yādîn] the peoples,
Execute justice on my behalf [šopṭēnî], O Yahweh,
According to the rightness and integrity that is in me. (Ps 7:7b, 9 [Eng 7:6b, 8)])
Execute justice on my behalf [šopṭēnî], O Yahweh,

for I have walked in my integrity,
I have trusted in Yahweh without wavering. (Ps 26:1)
Execute justice on my behalf [šopṭēnî],

According to your rightness, O Yahweh, my God.
Do not let them [the accusers] rejoice over me. (Ps 35:24)
Execute justice on my behalf [šopṭēnî], O Yahweh,79

Defend my legal case [rîbâ rîbî] from the [accusations of] the ungodly,
From those who are deceitful and unjust deliver me! (Ps 43:1)
O Yahweh,80 deliver me by your name,

Adjudicate for me [tĕdînēnî] by your might. (Ps 54:3 [Eng 54:1])
You have seen the wrong done to me, O Yahweh;

Render my cause with justice [šopṭâ mišpāṭî]! (Lam 3:59)
Additional Judicial Locations

Sociologically, the various traditions that have come down to us in the Hebrew
Bible contain additional judicial locations beyond the royal sphere and
expressions of personal piety. The degree to which the literary presentations of
such social settings reflect historical realia continues to be debated and will not
be taken up here in great detail. Yet the durability of these traditions underscores
in additional ways how the notion of God as judge was a constant that permeated
all social levels. However society was structured (or imagined to be structured
for literary presentation), the ideal of God as an active, fair, and caring judge was
a core belief. This certainly does not mean that issues of theodicy never arose, for
indeed they did, and were articulated with poignant artistry (discussed later).
Wilson (1983) has courageously attempted to say what can be said of “Israel’s
judicial system in the preexilic period,” with attention given to both premonarchic
and monarchic judiciaries, although with minimal exploration of competing ju-
diciary “origin myths” having to do with Moses (discussed later). Repeatedly and
honestly acknowledging how little we really know of ancient Israel’s judiciary in
the pre-monarchic period, Wilson sketches viable scenarios from the gleanings
of a handful of texts (Gen 31, 38; Josh 7; Judg 19–21), juxtaposed with anthro-
pological theory on kinship groups.81 With little help from the archaeological or
epigraphic record, any historical reconstruction is obviously tentative.
Working with uncertainties at every turn, Wilson nonetheless is able to
posit how legal proceedings may have worked within kinship-based social
structures. For example, the judicial authority of the paterfamilias would have
been significant within the household and extended family. This is reflected in
patriarchal narratives in Genesis 31 and Genesis 38, in contrast to later legal
codes that imagine no such scenario (Num 5:11–31; Deut 21:18–21; 22:13–21;
Wilson 1983: 233). Legal proceedings among different kinship groups would
have necessitated a role for town elders (zĕqēnîm; references provided later) and
were perhaps, if Ruth 4:1–12 is any guide, located at city gates (cf. Josh 20:4).82
And yet—as nuanced by Raymond Westbrook and Bruce Wells (2009: 37), who
add Genesis 16:1–6 into the mix—the patriarch Abram is portrayed as a co-
litigant alongside Sarai rather than a family head with ultimate judicial power.
Likewise in Genesis 38, Judah’s legal rights are those of a litigant, not, contrary
to Wilson (1983: 233), those derived from being a paterfamilias judge. As for
the legal maneuverings of Genesis 31, a tribunal of kinsmen (ʾaḥîm, brothers),
not elders, from both families are proposed as judges (Gen 31:32, 37), only in
the end to give primacy to divine judgment (Gen 31:49–54), a topic to be taken
up later. Further complicating the pre-monarchic picture are the various social
levels within lineage systems where “judicial proceedings might have taken
place at any level” and with varying degrees of success (Wilson 1983: 232–233,
237–239).
Moreover, a brief mention of Deborah as judge reveals that such an of-
fice need not always be exclusively male.83 According to Judges 4:4–5, when
Deborah was serving in a judicial capacity (šōpĕtâ), “the Israelites came up
to her for a legal decision/justice [lammišpāṭ].” Regrettably, as Jack Sasson
(2014: 256) remarks, we have no information “to explain how or under what
circumstances Deborah assumed her role as judge,” and yet “the narrator is
so keen about placing Deborah among the judges that a special parenthet-
ical clause addresses how and where she conducted her business.” Later
Sasson speculates that perhaps we have a “sly comment” by the narrator, who
wants to address “God’s capacity to empower other than those at palaces and
temples.”
Carol Meyers (1988: 154–157; cf. Knight 2011: 72–73) complements what
we see in Deborah with anthropological and archaeological models that look
at the ways in which women were involved in legal matters within the house-
hold unit. Early Israelite society was agrarian, and the household unit consti-
tuted the “basic level of social organization.” The “ongoing dynamics” of the
pre-state agrarian household included “socialization, education, and even re-
ligious observance and jural (judicial-legal) action.” “There can be no doubt,”
Meyers (1988: 149) continues, “that women play a unique and critical role in the
socializing process, broadly conceived.” Of particular interest is the way in which
laws regarding parental authority include men and women (Exod 21:15; cf. Exod
20:12; Deut 5:16).84 Meyers (1988: 157) is quick to provide nuance that we are
not talking about women having absolute jurisdiction within the household unit.
Yet women’s economic roles in the pre-monarchic economy were substantial, to
such an extent that women had “considerable informal power and at least some
legal authority.”85
The Origin and Organization of Early Israelite Judiciaries
Sketching the history of Israelite judiciaries becomes even more complicated

when one tries to factor in the various and distinctly different “origin myths”
(Levinson 2008: 58–68; 2005: 89–100) that describe a highly organized ju-
dicial authority with Moses at the center. The Hebrew Bible preserves two ac-
counts (Exod 18:13–26; Deut 1:9–18), perhaps three if one counts Numbers
11:16–25. Exodus 18 was addressed earlier for the key role that it has played in
questions about the origin of Yahwism, the identity of Moses’ father-in-law, and
the Midianite hypothesis (cf. Chapter Six, pp. 271–276). As we saw, Jethro, the
priest of Midian, becomes a Yahwist, either as a result of Moses’ testimony about
Yahweh liberating his people from Egyptian slavery (the position taken here) or
prior to Moses’ encounter with the deity (implying that Jethro, as a priest, played a
vital role in teaching Moses about Yahwism). In either scenario, Jethro proclaims
his faith in Yahweh with exuberant praise and the offering of cult (Exod 18:9–12).
Joining Moses and Jethro at the sacrificial feast was Aaron—not only as Moses’
brother but also in anticipation of his eventual consecration as high priest—and,
remarkably, all the elders of Israel (kōl ziqnê yiśrāʾēl).
We read that immediately following the feast Moses was seated (some would
say enthroned) in his judicial role (wayyēšeb mōšeh lišpōṭ).86 His judgment is in
such demand that people are willing to stand in wait from morning to evening.
Moses describes the logistics of his role to his father-in-law as follows:
The people come to me to [have me] inquire of God. When they have a legal
matter, it comes before me and I adjudicate [šāpaṭtî] between one person and
another, and I make known to them the statutes of God, that is, his very laws.
(Exod 18:15b–16)
Here Moses, a well-versed judge, acts as a surrogate for God when it comes to
legal matters. In addition to his role adjudicating cases, Moses also acts as an in-
structor of divine law. Such a dual role is acknowledged and restated by Jethro in
Exodus 18:19b–20 with more detail: (1) Moses alone represents the people before
God as he presents their legal cases before God’s very presence, and (2) Moses
is also the people’s law professor who will clarify (hizhartâ) statutes and laws,
applying them to all of life (lit. “how to walk and what to do”).
The forward-thinking Jethro, realizing that Moses is taxed by such a heavy
workload, proposes a division of judicial labor that will keep Moses from
wearing himself out. Honest, competent men of godly character are to be chosen
from the entire populace (mikkōl-hāʿām) to adjudicate the easier cases. With or-
ganizational (some would say military) precision, they are to serve as “officers”
(śārîm) and “heads” (rāʾšîm) of variously sized divisions (thousands, hundreds,
fifties, tens) (Exod 18:21–22, 25–26).87 Moses precisely follows Jethro’s orders in
implementing this new judiciary. Noticeably absent is any mention of (or em-
phasis on) the aforementioned elders (Exod 18:12). This omission is particularly
noticeable when juxtaposed with a variety of traditions that accord judiciary
roles to elders (cf. Ruth 4:1–12; Deut 19:12; 21:1–9, 18–20; 22:15–18; 25:7–9;
Josh 20:4; 1 Kgs 21:8; Isa 3:14; Jer 26:17; see too Num 11:16–25).
The origin of the Mosaic judiciary in Deuteronomy 1:9–18 (with parallel
instructions in Deut 16:18–20 to follow) is prefaced with a remark about how
Moses “undertook to expound” (hôʾîl bēʾēr) Yahweh’s law (Deut 1:5).88 The imme-
diate focus is twofold: on the need to depart for the land sworn to the patriarchs
and their descendants, and on the urgency of an expanded judiciary because of
the growth of the population, which now numbers “as the stars of the heavens.”
The difficulty that accompanies such a population expansion is the heavy
burden placed on Moses alone to adjudicate lawsuits (Deut 1:12). Thus Moses
proposes that people choose wise, discerning, and experienced men from their
tribes that he then appoints as judicial “heads” (rāʾšîm). Having done so, Moses
installs their “tribal heads” (rāʾšê šibṭêkem) to function as “officials” (śārîm) over
the variously sized divisions (Deut 1:15). Perhaps to clarify, their functions are
described as those of tribal šōṭĕrîm (Deut 1:15); the term’s Akkadian cognate,
šaṭāru, points toward those skilled at actually writing legal documents (cf. CAD
Š II, 231–234). Though šōṭĕrîm elsewhere can designate nondescript officials,
scribes with Levitical connections, or even military officials (cf. HALOT 1441;
Weinfeld 1977: 83–86), the judicial character of these šōṭĕrîm is made explicit in
Deuteronomy 16:18.89
As installed “judges” (šōpĕṭîm; Deut 1:16), they are ethically charged by
Moses to adjudicate justly (šĕpaṭtem ṣedeq; cf. Deut 16:18–20). They are to
render decisions without partiality, providing justice for natives and non-native
residents (gēr) alike, with all social rungs (kaqqāṭōn kaggādōl) receiving equal
treatment (Deut 1:17; cf. 10:17; Isa 11:3). The most difficult cases are reserved
for Moses, who remains the supreme earthly judge.90 Yet the judicial ideology
and the premise upon which judicial ethics are grounded are the same: prin-
cipled judges must not bow to human intimidation, “for justice is of God” (kî
hammišpāṭ lēʾlōhîm hûʾ; Deut 1:16–17).
When juxtaposed with the account in Exodus 18, the absence of Jethro
is striking. It is not merely that his role in forming the judiciary is minimized
in favor of that of Moses. Rather, in the words of Bernard Levinson (2008: 66;
2005: 97), he “has been completely ‘air-brushed’ out of the retold, now sani-
tized, narrative as if to remove even the possibility of the Israelite system of
justice having any foreign derivation. Jethro lives on only as spectral, textual
trace, assimilated into the character of Moses, who now gives Israelite voice to
the Midianite original plan.”91 Rather than Jethro emphasizing Moses’ role as
the surrogate for God who clarifies and applies divine law to all of life, the focus
here is on Moses’ voice with its ethical charge of equal treatment under the law
(kaqqāṭōn kaggādōl), for justice is of God.
A third tradition about the distribution of Moses’ authority among seventy
elders is found in Numbers 11:16–25. This shared governance tradition has
been discussed as yet another narrative about the origins of the judiciary (e.g.,
Westbrook and Wells 2009: 37–38), and it very well might be. Yet with the present
state of our text, it is hard to press the case, though there are tantalizing details.
As the text is currently formulated, the shared governance being described is ab-
sent of any explicit reference to a judiciary. There is no mention of lawsuits being
brought before Moses, God’s judicial surrogate, nor is there any ethical charge
to subordinate judges to be just in their legal renderings. Instead we have here
an account situated within a literary complex that addresses the distribution of
Moses’ prophetic (not judicial) authority among seventy elders (Num 11:10–25),
with addenda addressing the specific situation of Eldad and Medad (11:26–30)
and that of Miriam and Aaron (12:1–16).
The broader literary complex includes yet another tradition about Moses’
Midianite father-in-law, here called Hobab, as a reluctant wilderness guide who
has to be urged to become involved (Num 10:29–32). Moses is once again the
overburdened solitary leader of a huge populace, here concerned with pro-
viding enough meat to eat (Num 11:4–15). The subordinate leaders are elders
(zĕqēnîm), seventy in number, who are chosen not because of their godly and
just reputations (though they may have been so regarded) but because they are
known to be elders and šōṭĕrîm officials (Num 11:16). No information is given
about selecting them because they are impartial or competent in seeking justice
for the disadvantaged.
Obviously, there are enough differences in this tradition to deny its status as
a judiciary origin tale with sound justification. And yet it remains tantalizing
to speculate that underneath the present formulation we may have a variant ju-
diciary tradition about Moses and his father-in-law that eradicates the role of
Hobab, much as Deuteronomy 1:9–18 airbrushes Jethro out of significance.92
The notion of elders as judicial figures resonates with Wilson’s anthropological
reconstruction and with the numerous texts that, as we have seen, explicitly men-
tion elders as judges. The selection of the šōṭĕrîm officials alongside the elders in
Numbers 11:16 is intriguing, especially if the term designates someone skilled in
legal documentation, as suggested earlier with regard to Deut 1:15 with support
from Deut 16:18–20. There, the šōṭĕrîm officials along with the judges are clearly
adjudicating cases. It may be telling that elders (zĕqēnîm), šōṭĕrîm officials, and
judges (šōpĕṭîm) form a triad in Joshua 8:33—and with the addition of “heads”
(rāʾšîm) a quadriad in Joshua 23:2, 24:1. In such a light, one again wonders about
the presence of elders in Exodus 18:12 and what the motive was for them not
being mentioned among the competent men (ʾanšê-ḥayil) who make up the ju-
diciary in Exodus 18:21, 25. Lastly, as hinted at by Baruch Levine (1993: 338,
342), who sees a common Sitz-im-Leben for Numbers 11–12 and Exodus 18, the
selection of prophetic leaders in Numbers 11:16–25 may not be an obstacle for
speculating about a judiciary. Exodus 18:15b notes that when the people have a
legal dispute they come to Moses “to inquire of God” (lidrōš ʾĕlōhîm). Oracular
inquiry was evidently one of the ways by which Moses obtained judicial know-
ledge from Yahweh. Thus the gap between judicial leaders and chosen prophetic
leaders may not be as large as a modern person might envision.
The Overarching Belief in Yahweh as Absolute Judge
Clearly, the sketch given here has only scratched the surface in regard to the many
ways in which justice was rendered and judiciaries were perceived throughout
ancient Israel. A more detailed examination would require a consideration of the
ways in which priests were sometimes also involved in adjudicating cases (e.g.,
Num 27:21; Deut 17:8–12; 19:15–19; 21:5; 2 Chr 19:8; cf. Josh 8:33; Jer 26:11, 16;
Ezek 44:24; Mic 3:11), how trials could be brought before the congregation (ʿēdâ)
at large (e.g., Num 35:12, 24; Josh 20:6; cf. Ps 1:5), and how kings could some-
times function as the final court of appeal (e.g., 2 Sam 14:4–11).93
Yet what is patently evident from this sketch is that at every turn God is
portrayed as the judge par excellence, the source of law, the ideal practitioner
of justice, and the one to whom those who have suffered injustice may appeal.
A return look at the wide-ranging texts discussed earlier will illustrate the point.
In Genesis 31, though an earthly tribunal made up of kinsmen of both Laban
and Jacob (ʾaḥay wĕʾaḥêkā) is to arbitrate between the two litigants (yôkîḥû bên
šĕnênû; Gen 31:37), Yahweh is called upon to be an ever-present sentry watching
between the two parties (yiṣep yhwh bênî ûbênekā) “when they are absent [lit.
‘hidden’] from each other,” that is, when one mistrusts what the other is up to
(Gen 31:49). Each litigant is to act justly toward the other party in realization
that Yahweh is a “witness” between them (ʿēd bênî ûbênekā), not in the sense of a
witness testifying on behalf of the defense or prosecution but as a divine witness
who superintends the ongoing process and to whom they swear allegiance (Gen
31:50; cf. 1 Sam 12:5–6; 20:12).94 To bind them to their commitments, a formal
oath is taken by each party together with a sacrificial ritual. Each party states
that the judging per se (√špṭ) will be carried out by the god of one’s ancestor,
with Jacob swearing by “the Fear of his father Isaac” (paḥad ʾābîw yiṣḥāq; Gen
31:53–54).
Deuteronomy 21:1–9 presents a case of homicide with no evidence and in
open country where questions of jurisdiction need to be resolved. Once it is
determined that they shoulder the responsibility, the elders of the nearest city
grasp their liability for the crime.95 A complicated ritual ensues that involves the
killing of a heifer by breaking its neck. The elders wash their hands over the heifer
while testifying that they did not commit the murder nor were they witnesses to
the murder (Deut 21:6–7; cf. Ps 26:6). Though it is not stated outright, the elders
implicitly assert that no one in their city is criminally responsible, either as an
accessory to the murder or complicit in some other way (e.g., harboring the fu-
gitive). Overseeing these legal disclaimers are the priests who are chosen to be
God’s judicial representatives to settle such a dispute involving assault (kol-rîb
wĕkol-nāga‘; Deut 21:5). Yet no mention is made of their verdict. Instead the nar-
rative centers on the Ultimate Judge, the only one who can truly decide such a
case with so many unknowns. After their ritual actions, the elders beseech God
for absolution (kappēr) of the blood guilt (lit. “innocent blood,” dām nāqî), ab-
solution that only God can provide. Such a purge (bʿr) of blood guilt is “exer-
cising what is just [yāšār] in the estimation of Yahweh” (Deut 21:9)—a favorite
Deuteronomic expression (cf. 6:18; 12:25, 28; 13:19 [Eng 13:18]) for Yahweh as
the giver of law and its absolute judge.
Returning to royal justice, time and again we read that the Judean monarch’s
judicial ability is ordained of God (Ps 72:1–4, 12–14), and his renderings are
authoritative only insofar as they reflect the justice of the Ultimate Magistrate,
who is the author of law. David’s judicial discernment is that of “an angel/mes-
senger of God” (2 Sam 14:17). Solomon possesses “the very wisdom of God to
render justice” (1 Kgs 3:28). It is not a coincidence that Josiah’s “knowing” of God
exhibits itself in acts of justice for the poor that reflect those of the Absolute Judge
(Jer 22:16). Likewise, Jehoshaphat’s admonition to his judiciary to be righteous
judges is in imitation of “Yahweh in whom there is no injustice, favoritism or
bribe-taking” (2 Chr 19:6–7). His magistrates are to fear Yahweh, for they ex-
ercise their roles “not for humans but as His surrogates.” Indeed, Yahweh’s very
presence is with them in the act of adjudicating justly (2 Chr 19:6, 9). The poetic
proclamation found in Isaiah 33:22 typifies royal justice:
Yahweh is our judge, yhwh šōpĕṭēnû

Yahweh is he who inscribes our [laws],96 yhwh mĕḥōqĕqēnû
Yahweh is our king, yhwh malkēnû
He will deliver us. hûʾ yôšîʿēnû
Sources such as personal names and individual laments give windows into the
voices of those least likely to have power (royal or otherwise) and often those op-
pressed by such power. What they share is a confidence that Yahweh is indeed the
ultimate judge (e.g., Ps 9:5, 8b–10 [Eng 9:4, 7b–9]; Ps 140:13 [Eng 140:12]), and
one who will come to the address their plight (e.g., Ps 26:1; 35:24; 43:1; 54:3 [Eng
54:1]; Lam 3:59); sometimes both beliefs are expressed in the same prayer (e.g., Ps
7:7b, 9 [Eng 7:6b, 8]). Independent of circumstances (pre-or post-vindication),
the sentiment is the same: Yahweh is a judge unlike any earthly judge. Whereas
human judges—even idealized judges—fail, Yahweh’s justice is constant (Amos
5:24 would say “ever flowing”), ever true, and ever fair. Whereas human judges,
even those with the best intentions, fall short, there is a divine judge who never
overlooks those downtrodden by injustice, one who never fails to see and rectify
the injustice of their dire circumstances. Such personal piety sees in Yahweh the
“Father of orphans and the one who provides justice for widows” (Ps 68:6 [Eng
68:5]).
Divine Justice Cast into the Future
Triumphal visions announce the advent of a teacher par excellence who in the
future will teach justice as he arbitrates disputes, resulting in an unheard-of pe-
riod of disarmament where “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, nei-
ther shall they learn war any more.” The idyllic “swords into plowshares” passage,
preserved near verbatim in two prophetic traditions (Isa 2:2–4//Mic 4:1–3), was
addressed earlier for its irenic vision (see Chapter Eight, pp. 471–473). There it
was pointed out that Yahweh’s “judging among the nations” (šāpaṭ bên haggôyim
Isa 2:4; cf. šāpaṭ bên ʿammîm rabbîm in Mic 4:3) can connote military action, as
the root špṭ is indeed used in battle contexts, most notably in the book of Judges
(e.g., Judg 2:16).97 Blending with Yahweh the ultimate warrior whose might
brings about a disarmed surrender is Yahweh the ultimate teacher-judge.98 The
disarmament of the nations is predicated on Yahweh’s “judging” via the teaching
of his law (tôrâ) and practice (dĕrākāyw//ʾōrḥōtāyw) as well as arbitration on an
international scale (wĕhôkîaḥ lĕʿammîm rabbîm; Isa 2:4; cf. wĕhôkîaḥ lĕgôyim
ʿăṣumîm ʿad-rāḥôq; Mic 4:3).
The Isaianic traditions also contain the most expressive hopes for a Davidide
who excels all others in upholding justice. According to Isaiah 9:6 (Eng 9:7), the
authority of this just king will be realized by Yahweh’s zeal (qinʾâ). With such di-
vine dispensation, justice will be enduring (mēʿattâ wĕʿad-ʿôlām).
[His] authority will be expansive

peace without end,
over David’s throne and his kingdom—
to establish it, to sanction it
with justice and with equity
from this time forth and ever more.
The zeal of Yahweh of hosts will accomplish this.
Isaiah 11:2–5 adds that it is Yahweh’s spirit (with its qualities of wisdom and rev-
erence) that will allow this Davidide to judge without partiality, as does Yahweh
(cf. Deut 1:17; 10:17). By so doing, he will achieve the hoped-for ideal of pro-
viding true justice for the poor.
A shoot will grow from Jesse’s stump,

a branch will sprout from his roots.
The [very] spirit of Yahweh will rest on him,

a spirit of wisdom and understanding,
a spirit of counsel and strength,
a spirit of knowledge and the fear of Yahweh.
His delight will be in the fear of Yahweh.
He will not adjudicate based on appearance,

or arbitrate based on hearsay,
rather he will righteously judge the poor,
and arbitrate with equity for the earth’s downcast . . .
Righteous justice will be the belt around his waist,

Faithful renderings the belt around his loins. (Isa 11:1–5)
Such hopes were echoed elsewhere, as in Jeremiah 23:5:
Yes, days are coming—oracle of Yahweh—

when I will raise up for David a righteous Shoot.
He will reign as king and he will succeed [hiśkîl],
He will execute justice and equity in the land.
The use of the root śkl to designate “success” in a Davidic passage such as this is
noteworthy. Royal success is often thought of in military terms, especially when
we turn to a passage such as 1 Samuel 18, which uses the root śkl four times to
celebrate success on the battlefield (1 Sam 18:5, 14, 15, 30). Yet Tova Forti and
David Glatt-Gilad (2015) posit that even in such a militaristic context we see
divine patronage at work in molding the ideal king. Looking at the use of śkl in
sapiential literature, they argue that David’s overall “success” as a maśkîl is based
on him being “a God-fearing individual, who possesses insight and sensitivity to
pursue a path consistent with God’s ethical standards” (2015: 5–6). More specifi-
cally, it could be said that sapiential literature (Ps 32:8; 41:1; 119:99; Prov 1:3) and
Deuteronomistic traditions (Josh 1:7; 1 Kgs 2:3; cf. Deut 29:9) converge in articu-
lating that to have success (śkl) one must adhere to divine law and execute justice.
Proverbs 1:2–3 nicely summarizes the way in which the book of Proverbs should
serve as a manual for judicious behavior:
For use in learning wisdom and discipline,

for understanding words of understanding,
for acquiring the discipline of insight [haśkēl]:
righteousness, justice, and rectitude [ṣedeq ûmišpāṭ ûmêšārîm].
Jeremiah 23:5 is fully in line with these ethics. A successful future king will nec-
essarily be a just king, as was Josiah (cf. Jer 22:16). Such hopes recapitulate an
earlier statement found in the book (Jer 9:22–23 [Eng 22:23–24]; cf. 8:8). When
humans boast of their accomplishments, they should privilege knowing Yahweh,
and, by so doing, imitate His just actions.
Thus said Yahweh: “Let not the wise boast of their wisdom, let not the strong
boast of their strength, let not let the wealthy boast in their wealth; but let those
who boast boast in this: that they understand and know me [haśkēl wĕyādōaʿ
ʾôtî], for I Yahweh act with steadfast love, justice, and righteousness in the earth,
for in these things I delight.” Oracle of Yahweh. (Jer 9:22–23 [Eng 22:23–24])
Divine Justice and Apocalyptic Literature
The historical and sociological vicissitudes that contributed to proto-apocalyptic

and apocalyptic themes are gnarled and difficult to unravel. Instead of the
idyllic “swords into plowshares” future of “all the nations” coming peacefully to
Jerusalem to have Yahweh instruct them in tôrâ (Isa 2:2–4//Mic 4:1–3), we read
of eschatological battles with “all the nations” violently plundering Jerusalem
and raping its women (e.g., Zech 14:1–2). In place of the idyllic spirt-filled
Davidide governing the future with justice, we have the mysterious disappear-
ance of the hoped-for Davidide Zerubbabel, and thus the loss of Yahweh’s signet
ring (ḥôtām) endowed with divine authority and power (Hag 2:23).99 In the
midst of tragic turns of history that led to apocalyptic despair, biblical writers
were nonetheless resolute in proclaiming a sovereign judge who would bring
about a judicial reckoning to right all wrongs. As for the violent nations, the
prophet Joel asserts that Yahweh will “in those days and at that time” bring them
to the symbolically named Valley of Jehoshaphat (lit. “Yah[weh] judges”), where
the deity will execute judgment against them (nišpaṭtî ʿimmām; ʾēšēb lišpōṭ; Joel
4:2, 12 [Eng 3:2, 12]). “On that day” when the legendary enemy Gog and his
horde come against Israel, they will meet the all-powerful Storm God bringing
his tempestuous fury, pestilence, and bloodshed as he executes judgment upon

them (nišpaṭtî ʾittô; Ezek 38:18–23).
As for the disadvantaged poor who suffer legal injustice the most, here too
stands Yahweh with redress. Joseph Blenkinsopp (2000: 409) opines that the fol-
lowing Isaianic words represent “the restorationist eschatological view . . . at the
great turning point of history”:100
On that day the deaf will hear the words of a scroll,

The eyes of the blind will see
Freed of their gloom and darkness;
The downtrodden will rejoice in Yahweh once again,
the poorest of all will exult in the Holy One of Israel.
For the ruthless will be no more,
the scoffer will come to an end,
all those who watch to do evil will be cut off—
those who criminalize a person with a [just] case,
who entrap the arbiter in the gate,
who nullify the one in the right. (Isa 29:18–21; cf. Amos 5:7, 10–12)101
The notion of God as eschatological judge is found in the most famous of apoc-
alyptic writings in the Hebrew Bible, which is set “in mythic space” (Collins
1993: 303).102 In this passage we hear of a fiery scene of judgment:
As I was envisioning
Thrones were set in place,
And the Ancient of Days sat [enthroned].
His garment was like white snow,

The hair of his head like pure wool;
His throne was fiery flames,

Its wheels were burning fire.
A river of fire flows,

streams forth from his presence.
Thousands upon thousands serve him,

Myriads upon myriads attend him.
The court was seated [dînāʾ yĕtib],

the records [of judgments] were opened. (Dan 7:9–10; cf. 7:21–22; 12:1–3)
Daniel’s symbolic throne vision weaves together a wide array of inherited

Chaoskampf traditions that also appear in extra-biblical apocalypses such as 1
Enoch. Unpacking these is beyond the scope of the present work. What is relevant
is the judicial execution that John Collins (1993: 291) argues is “a distinctively
Jewish adaptation of the myth.” The notion of a court of law being seated (lit.
“judgment sat”) in Daniel 7:10 together with the mention of plural thrones in the
previous verse suggest to some that we might have the divine council rendering
judgment (cf. the “thrones for judgment” in Ps 122:5).103 Note too the mention
of judicial records (siprîn), which have antecedents in the traditions underlying
Psalm 56:9 (Eng 56:8), Isaiah 65:6, and Malachi 3:16, and even more so in 1
Enoch 81; 89:70; 90:20; 103:2 and Jubilees 5:12–19; 16:9. For our purposes, these
late texts contribute to notions of a final judgment day (cf. already the “Day of
Yahweh” in Amos 5:18) and once again envision a royal figure as Supreme Judge.
Counter-Discourses: Questioning the Ideal

of the Just (Human) Judge
To this point we have been describing both the divine Ideal Judge and Just King
and the earthly versions. Obviously, positing ideal justice that is grounded in the
divine and executed by God’s earthly designate does not make it so. Human na-
ture guarantees that ideal justice will always remain theoretical, even if Plato’s
wise philosopher-king were magistrate.104 Abstract notions of perfect justice
cannot ensure legal redress. Injustice was (and is) an ever-present reality for
countless humans. Tragically, injustice is regularly committed by the very people
who, by the nature of their office, are charged with living up to the ideal. We
need to admit that an ideal portrayal may very well “present a man who never
did exist, a ruler altogether too good to be true” (Halpern 2001: xvi). We need
to acknowledge the injustice that goes unaddressed, such as biblical slavery—
especially, argues Wilda Gafney (2017: 72), “the sexual use of female slaves for
the personal, individual gratification of slave-holding males and perpetual pro-
duction of subsequent generations of slaves though forced pregnancy.”
Prosecuting the Abuse of Justice

In biblical tradition, prophets took center stage in prosecuting the case against
the abuse of justice by all who misused power, be they king, judge, elder, priest,
prophet, or fellow citizen. Indeed, the oppositional voice speaking divine truth
to unjust power has become a lasting appeal of the prophets. Nathan, Yahweh’s
emissary (2 Sam 12:1), boldly rebukes the king whom he otherwise supports and
for whom he had declared the promise of an enduring dynasty (2 Sam 7:11b–
16). The king in question is, surprisingly (or not), the “just king” David.105 The
involved tale of David having sex with (raping?) another man’s wife (Uriah’s wife,
Bathsheba), her becoming pregnant, the cover-up of the adultery, and the sub-
sequent murder by proxy of Uriah are well known (2 Sam 11). Nathan’s story of
the poor man’s lamb (2 Sam 12:1–15), which he will use to rebuke David for his
criminal activity, begins with Nathan presenting a legal case before the king in
his role as judge.106 In what P. Kyle McCarter (1984: 304–305) calls a “juridical
parable” (cf. 2 Sam 14:4–11; 1 Kgs 20:39–40), Nathan humanizes the fate of the
poor when abused by power with such artistry that “David the royal judge” ends
up “condemn[ing] David the rich oppressor.”107
Elijah is the voice of God’s harsh sentence upon Ahab and Jezebel of the
ninth century BCE for the orchestrated charade (with fabricated witnesses and
charges, plus a tampered jury) that led to the judicial murder of Naboth (1 Kgs
21:1–24). The narrative marks this episode as an abuse of royal power by noting
how Jezebel uses the royal seal to coerce her co-conspirators (1 Kgs 21:8).108 In
the eighth century BCE, we find Amos’s indictment against those who turn jus-
tice into wormwood and poison (Amos 5:7; 6:12b) and trample the poor (Amos
2:6–8). Its prosecutorial zeal is biting:
They hate the arbiter at the gate,

they abhor the one who speaks for the innocent. 109
Therefore, because you trample on the poor,

extract levies of grain from them,
the houses of hewn stone you built,

you shall not reside in them;
the desirable vineyards you planted,
you shall not quaff their wine.
For I know the huge number of your violations,

The countless throng of your sins—
you who afflict the upright

who take a bribe,
who thrust aside the needy at the gate. (Amos 5:10–12)
Francis Andersen and David Noel Freedman (1989: 502) are certainly cor-
rect in seeing in this passage corrupt magistrates who are taking bribes from
“wealthy exploiters who are under indictment.” The poor are “doubly helpless”
in that they are victims of economic oppression who also fail to receive a fair
trial. Though God is not explicitly mentioned here as a judge who carries out
a sentence, he is clearly the indignant voice behind the “knowing I” in Amos

5:12, the one for whom Amos is speaking, and the effectual power behind the
curse.110
For all his fame as the prophet advocating Yahwistic justice and its constancy
(Amos 5:24), Amos is not alone in protesting the subversion of justice, as seen
especially in the eighth-century BCE prophets Isaiah and Micah. In the Isaianic
traditions (which originate in the eighth century BCE and continue into the post-
exilic period) we see once again the coupling of the widow and the orphan as par-
ticularly vulnerable to economic injustice at the hands of a corrupt legal system.111
Cease to do evil,
Learn to do good,
Seek out justice,
Rescue the oppressed,
Judge on behalf of the orphan,
Adjudicate on behalf of the widow . . .
How the faithful city

has become a whore!
Once full of justice,
equity lodged in her—
but now murderers! . . .
Your princes are rebels,

partnered with thieves.
They all love bribes,
pursuing gifts.
They provide no justice for the orphan,
the widow’s lawsuit never comes before them.
Therefore—oracle of the Sovereign, Yahweh of hosts,

The Mighty One of Israel,
I will assuage my wrath on my enemies,
Avenge myself on my foes. (Isa 1:16b–17, 21, 23–24)
Woe to those who draft wicked decrees,

who write oppressive statutes,
to turn away the needy from justice
to rob the poor of my people of justice,
that widows may be your spoil,
that they may plunder orphans! (Isa 10:1–2)
Though Jerusalem is said to have once been known for its justice (cf. the ju-
dicial characterizations of David and Solomon presented earlier), there is no
longer any hint of a “just king” living up to judicial ideals. Rather, the lament
(ʾêkâ; Isa 1:21) turned indictment charges royal judicial figures (śārîm) with
conspiring with thieves in taking bribes, with the consequence that those al-
ready most economically deprived are stripped of legal redress.112 The second
passage accuses drafters of manipulating legal statutes to disadvantage the
destitute in ways that amount (literally and figuratively) to robbing and plun-
dering. Blenkinsopp (2000: 186, 212–213) sees royal scribes (with particular
focus on the eighth century BCE) writing legislation aimed at sequestering
the property of widows. In a patrilineal society, widows would not regularly
have had rights of inheritance when it comes to ancestral land (naḥălâ; cf.
Lewis 1991: 609–612).
Looking elsewhere in the eighth century BCE, we see yet more concerns
about bribery corrupting the legal system. Isaiah 5:23 mentions judges acquit-
ting the guilty in exchange for a bribe and thereby depriving the innocent of
justice. An extended judgment oracle addressing a similar situation is found in
Micah 3:9–12:
Listen up, you magistrates [rāʾšîm] of the House of Jacob

and you adjudicators [qĕṣînîm] of the House of Israel,
who detest justice

and pervert all that is upright,113
He who builds Zion with bloodshed

and Jerusalem with injustice.
Its magistrates provide a legal ruling for a bribe,

its priests teach for a price,
its prophets divine for money;
Yet they lean upon Yahweh retorting

“Is not Yahweh within our midst?
Disaster cannot come against us.”
Therefore, on account of you

Zion will be plowed like a field;
Jerusalem will become a heap of rubble,
and the temple mount like forested high places. (Mic 3:9–12)
The parallel terms used for the rulers in 3:1, 9 (rāʾšîm, qĕṣînîm) can be used for
leaders in general, both civil and military. Here their positions are clearly judi-
cial.114 Micah 3 begins with a bold challenge: “Should you not know justice?”
This is followed by visual depictions reminiscent of Neo-Assyrian atrocities of
war (Mic 3:2–3; cf. Lewis 2008b: 88). Caustic declarations conclude that these
magistrates detest justice, “twisting” straight justness (yĕšārâ) into a perversion
(paralleling the roots tʿb and ʿqš). Their bribery scheme includes the collusion
of priests and prophets, who, as we have seen, can also be involved in rendering
legal decisions.
Judgment oracles such as this one imply a judge and a prosecutor. Yahweh
is the judge par excellence who demands justice in his courtroom and carries
out sentences against violators. In the present case, the Divine Judge judges cor-
rupt judges who assumed that Yahweh was in their pocket (Mic 3:11b). Micah
the prophet is the voice of Yahweh’s prosecutor, divinely empowered for the task
at hand:
Dynamically, I am filled with power,

with the [very] spirit of Yahweh,
with [His] justice and might,
to declare to Jacob his violations
and to Israel his sin. (Mic 3:8)
The emphasis here is on power rightly used for the cause of justice. Whereas
the magistrates abused their power (resulting in “bloody” injustice caused by
bribery), Micah speaks the voice of the divine, as powerful as it is just. Bruce
Waltke (2007: 174), following Hans Walter Wolff, aptly quotes Pascal: “Justice
without power is powerless. Power without justice is tyrannical. . . . Justice and
power must therefore be connected so that what is just is also powerful and what
is powerful is also just” (Pensées, §298).
These early prophets of Israel (Nathan, Elijah, Amos, Isaiah, Micah) were part
of a broad sociological trend that saw central and peripheral intermediaries alike
(cf. Wilson 1980) speaking out against the injustice of those who abused their
positions of power. Courageously advocating for justice was their perennial task;
this prophetic legacy was carried on in the decades that followed (e.g., Jer 5:28;
7:5; Ezek 18:30; 21:30; 24:14; 34:17; 36:19; Zeph 3:3).
Judgment Oracles and Covenant Lawsuits

Judgment oracles abound throughout the Hebrew Bible’s prophetic corpus. The
enduring heritage of speaking divine truth to power often concentrates on the
breaking of cultic law, and this makes absolute sense when “laws were consid-
ered stipulations of the covenant between Israel and God” (Frymer-Kensky
2003: 991). Yahweh was seen to be the one who promulgated law, especially
through Moses, and legally held his people accountable. Many scholars (e.g.,
G. E. Mendenhall, H. B. Huffmon) set such metaphors against the backdrop of
international treaty diplomacy, wherein a suzerain sets out stipulations that a
vassal must obey. Other scholars (e.g., F. C. Fensham, C. Westermann) imagine
civil courts to be the proper setting envisioned, perhaps at the city gate,115 while
yet others (e.g., R. Hentschke, E. Würthwein) see the lawsuit as being liturgical in
nature and litigated within temple ceremonies.116
Judgment oracles have been studied and nuanced over the years by genre
critics, with two overlapping categories being particularly relevant for the cur-
rent discussion: trial speeches (Gerichtsreden) and judicial speeches.117 Though
structures vary, constituent parts can include (1) a messenger formula, where
the prophet speaks for the deity (“Thus says Yahweh”) or a divine proclamation/
summons (“Hear the message that Yahweh has spoken”), (2) an indictment of
charges, and (3) a sentence of judgment.118 Thus it is that we read of Yahweh pro-
ceeding to court: “Accuse me, let us go to trial together; litigate [your legal case]
that you may be proved right” (Isa 43:26).119
The Juridical Situation Known as Rîb

A specific theme highlighting Yahweh taking his people to court is the rîb, often re-
ferred to as a “covenant/prophetic lawsuit.” Writing on the topic in general, Pietro
Bovati (1994: 29–30) defines rîb as a “juridical controversy” “that takes place be-
tween two parties on questions of law.” In order for the case to proceed, “it is neces-
sary that they [the two parties] refer to a body of norms that regulate the rights and
duties of each,” for “the progress of a dispute is substantiated by juridical arguments
and requires a solution in conformity with the law.”120 Micah 6:1–8 is the parade
example, for it gives voice to both litigants, Yahweh and Israel (cf. Isa 1:2; Jer 2:4–
14; Ps 50; Deut 32). I have added my interpretive headings and explanations. The
poet, for whatever reason (dramatic effect? vividness?), does not identify the var-
ious speakers, and thus the headings are deduced from the context.
The Charge to Listen This is an address by an unidentified speaker (seemingly

Micah as an official of the court, or perhaps an offstage narrator) charging an
unidentified group of people (addressed with a second person masculine plural
verb; seemingly the accused Israel) to listen to the forthcoming legal case.121
Hear [šimʿû-nāʾ] what Yahweh says.

The Charge to Present An unidentified speaker (Yahweh or perhaps an offstage

narrator) charges an unidentified male person (addressed with second person
masculine singular imperatives; seemingly Micah) to present the legal case.122
Arise [qûm], plead the legal case [rîb] before the mountains,
let the hills hear your voice.
Opening Remarks An unidentified speaker (likely Micah as an officer of the

court speaking on Yahweh’s behalf) gives opening remarks.
Hear, O mountains, Yahweh’s legal case [rîb],

O enduring foundations of the earth;
for Yahweh has a legal case [rîb] against his people,
he will litigate with Israel.
The Plaintiff Speaks to the Accused Here Yahweh, as the plaintiff, is speaking to
the accused, Israel.
My people! What have I done against you?

How have I wearied you?
Testify against me!
Indeed, I brought you up from the land of Egypt,

from the very house of slavery I redeemed you;
I sent before you
Moses, Aaron, and Miriam.
My people! Remember what he schemed,

that is, King Balaq of Moab,
[Remember] how he answered him,
that is, Balaam son of Beʿor.
[Remember all that happened] from Shittim to Gilgal,
that you may know Yahweh’s just acts [ṣidqôt yhwh].
The People’s Retort Here the people present their defense strategy.
With what should I come before Yahweh,

[with what] should I bow down before God on high?
Should I come before him with burnt offerings?

With calves a year old?
Would Yahweh be pleased with thousands of rams?

With myriads of rivers of oil?
Should I give my firstborn [as an offering] for my transgression?
The fruit of my body [as an offering] for my own sin?
Resolution The resolution is offered by an unidentified speaker.
He has told you, O human, what is good,

what Yahweh requires of you:
but to execute justice [mišpāṭ], to love acting justly [ḥesed],
and to walk intentionally with your God. (Mic 6:1–8)
It is obvious why Micah 6:1–8 has received accolades, especially with its final
words that eloquently summarize divine expectations for ethical living. Yet
there is far more here than that summary, grand as it is. Though litigious in
nature, Yahweh acts as a plaintiff who speaks personally with his own people
(ʿammî), not as a draconian judge who has depersonalized the accused. His
appeal is based on their history together, a history marked by his benevo-
lent actions of rescue, even from slavery, and his presence via earthly repre-
sentatives (Moses, Aaron, Miriam, Balaam). Here those scholars who note
the typical historical prologue of suzerainty treaties are right on the mark
(e.g., Huffmon 1959: 294). As a suzerain tells of his benevolent deeds, he
underscores his faithfulness to the treaty along with reminders that the
vassal must be similarly faithful to the agreed-upon terms of the treaty. Thus
Yahweh, in a legal setting, asserts that his consistent actions over their entire
history together are just (cf. how ṣĕdāqâ often parallels mišpāṭ). And such
just actions (ṣidqôt yhwh) provide the evidence for his people to know his just
nature (Mic 6.5).
The defense strategy by the accused is brilliant, though in the end it fails.123
Yahweh challenges his people to “testify against” him (ʿănēh bî; Mic 6:3b), and
this is precisely what they do. Their retort quickly shifts the imagery of a per-
sonal god speaking to his people to that of a God on high to whom they must
bow in deference (Mic 6:6). The language is not that of intimate knowing, but
rather “coming before” (√qdm in the D stem) a superior. Using ascending hy-
perbole, they assert that they do not know the requirements by which they
are being measured, those that would “please” (rṣh) an overly demanding su-
perior such as Yahweh. In fact, they assert—using rhetoric that would do a
lawyer proud—the requirements border on the absurd. Reparations in the
amount of a thousand rams (if they were to be had) would bankrupt any single
individual apart from wealthy Solomon (1 Kgs 3:4; 8:5, 62–64). One cannot
imagine the nonsensical offering of a river of oil for one’s sins, and yet that
may be what Yahweh does indeed require—or perhaps even a myriad of such
rivers.
Strikingly, the third payment due is within actual reach, shockingly so. Does
Yahweh indeed demand the sacrifice of one’s eldest son (Mic 6:7b)? There is prec-
edent, they might add, in that the Covenant Code states forthrightly, “The first-
born of your sons you will give to me” (bĕkôr bānêkā titten-lî; Exod 22:28b [Eng
22:29b]). In the traditions that Ezekiel inherits, Yahweh himself admits that he
is responsible for “defiling” his people by giving them “bad laws and statutes by
which they could not live” (ʾănî nātattî lāhem ḥuqqîm lōʾ ṭôbîm ûmišpāṭîm lōʾ
yiḥyû bāhem wāʾăṭammēʾ ʾôtām; Ezek 20:25–26). What were these bad laws and
the motive behind them? They were none other than the law of child sacrifice
(wāʾăṭammēʾ ʾôtām . . . bĕhaʿăbîr kol-peṭer rāḥam), with the motive being that his
people might “know” Yahweh (Ezek 20:26; cf. Mic 6:5). Historical reflection cuts
both ways. Yahweh’s law requiring child sacrifice was—by his own admission,
the people assert—“defiling” and “not good,” so how could they have kept such
a law? But it was a divinely given law, after all; is child sacrifice what he really
wants? The plaintiff ’s conflicting requirements have led to their paralysis of ac-
tion. The defense rests.124
The legal case (rîb) is resolved in Micah 6:8. Once again the speaker is uni-
dentified, though interpreters often see the prophet Micah having the last word.
The voice is authoritative. The ruling implicitly reveals that the defense, despite
its rhetoric, did not prove its case against Yahweh. The resolution concludes that
Yahweh’s requirements are indeed good (i.e., just), and he has articulated them in
the past (higgîd).125 Perhaps this look to the past is why the case is presented before
the aged mountains and foundations of the earth (Mic 6:2a), who were witnesses
to Yahweh penning the law in remote antiquity—perhaps a reference to Mt. Sinai
(cf. Exod 24.12; 31.18; 32:16) or even to the time of creation (cf. Sarna 1991: 206).
Given the synonymous parallelism of Micah 6:8a, it would be fair to con-
clude (contrary to Ezek 20:25, discussed later) that the resolution asserts that
what Yahweh requires is good, and—vice versa—that what is good is what
Yahweh requires. And it is clear from what follows that Yahweh’s requirements
are defined by justice, as one would expect from the constant emphasis we
have seen on how “justice is of God” (kî hammišpāṭ lēʾlōhîm hûʾ), for he is the
one who “does” justice (ʿōśeh mišpāṭ). Numerous passages concur in equating
“goodness” with justice (e.g., Amos 5:15; Jer 22:15; Job 34:4; Prov 2:9; Neh
9:13). The three descriptors that follow are a hendiatris used to flesh out these
requirements. To execute justice is to love the concept of ḥesed, and both are
the result of intentionally living a life (lit. “walking”) in communion with a
just God. Though our text is not explicit in this regard, Waltke (2007: 393)
nicely points out how ḥesed often occurs in situations where the stronger
party meets the needs of the weaker party. This type of ḥesed relationship
would match the concept of ideal justice that above all looks out for the disad-
vantaged. Though the last requirement is traditionally translated as having to
do with humility, the hapax ṣnʿ followed by ʿim-ʾĕlōhêkā seems to have more
to do with living prudently, circumspectly, and intentionally in full view of
Yahweh’s just character.
Summation: Counter-Discourses Questioning the Ideal of the Just

(Human) Judge
Overall, the many biblical traditions that happen to have come down to us (edited
and reinterpreted along the way) are fully aware of the ideal of what true justice
should look like. When it comes to practitioners, only four kings are promoted as
“kings of justice,” and two of the four (David and Solomon) have blemishes pre-
served alongside their accolades. The bulk of what has been preserved through
the weathering of time and at the hands of editors and scribes is realistic rather
than idealistic: injustice occurs at every turn, especially when looking at power
dynamics. The abuse of justice is well documented in the pages of the Hebrew
Bible, with special attention given to economic injustice and the failures of cor-
rupt magistrates to provide relief. Bribery and partiality within the court system
are of special concern. Moreover, with laws being perceived as stipulations of a
divine suzerain, all laws are thereby religious law. Thus civil injustice and cultic
injustice are equally serious offenses against a godly judge.
Four ancient responses rise to the surface: (1) When it comes to the abuse
of justice, prophetic traditions were firm in their belief that the power of rhet-
oric (together with occasional sign-acts) could be effectually wielded to chas-
tise corrupt kings and magistrates. Those who were oppressed by powerful rulers
and a court system rife with bribery needed a voice. They found it in courageous
prophets speaking divine truth to power. (2) The constant failure of humans to
live up to the judicial ideal is paralleled by the dominant motif that God remains
the ideal judge. Though this belief is ubiquitous, questions of theodicy surfaced
as well, as we will see. (3) God is appealed to as the rescuer of those who suffer
injustice and the restorer of justice. Personal names and heartfelt laments bid
Yahweh to rescue them from the hand of their judicial oppressors. In the face of
rampant injustice, voices proclaim that Yahweh will restore faithful judges for
a future Zion “redeemed by justice” (Isa 1:26–27). (4) In addition to prophetic
chastisement, there are clear signs of strategies limiting the judicial power of the
king. Here the Deuteronomic voice is striking, especially when juxtaposed with
that of the Deuteronomistic History.126 The Deuteronomic position is clear when
it comes to a judge living up to the royal ideal advocated throughout the ancient
Near East: the ideal judge is Yahweh and Yahweh alone.
For Yahweh, your god, He is God of gods and Lord of lords. [He is] the Great
God, mighty and awesome, who [as judge] shows no partiality, nor does he ever
take bribes. He [and not an earthly king] is the one who executes justice [ʿōśeh
mišpāṭ] for the orphan and the widow. He is the one who loves the gēr [non-
native resident], providing him with food and clothing. (Deut 10:17–18)
Pragmatically, this requires earthly representatives who serve as God’s judi-

ciary. It is quite remarkable, especially in an ancient Near Eastern context, that
the Deuteronomic strategic plan has no mention of the king playing any judi-
cial role. None of the two (three?) origin stories about human judiciaries hints
at any role for the king. In the immediate context of the stories in Exodus 18
and Deuteronomy 1:9–18, this makes perfect sense, for the setting is the present-
day distribution of Moses’ judicial authority. The advent of the monarchy is un-
known to the actors. Yet the forward-looking perspective of Deuteronomy 16–18
(written and/or edited from subsequent history and projected backward) is
a different matter. Its authorial voice gives instructions about the four institu-
tional offices needed to govern society: the judge (Deut 16:18–20), the monarch
(Deut 17:14–20), the priest (Deut 18:1–8), and the prophet (Deut 18:9–22). The
king’s absence in the future judiciary is astonishing, especially in an ancient Near
Eastern context where royal judicial power is well attested.
You shall appoint for yourself judges and šōṭĕrîm officials [note: not kings] at all
your [city] gates that Yahweh your God is giving you for your tribes, and they
shall adjudicate [the cases of] the people with righteous justice. You must not
distort justice; you must not show partiality; and you must not accept bribes,
because a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and subverts cases of righteous judg-
ment. Righteous justice, and only righteous justice, you shall pursue, so that
you may live and occupy the land that Yahweh your God is giving you. (Deut
16:18–20)
Sandwiched between this appointment of a judiciary (Deut 16:18–20) and the

declaration about the king’s role (Deut 17:14–20), we find two sections dealing
with hypothetical legal cases. The first deals with the violation of cultic law based
on hearsay, and the second with difficult legal cases of homicide, civil legislation,
and personal injury. When they are taken together, we see that care is taken to
describe the accused (17:2), the nature of the crimes (17:2–3, 8), research into the
crime (17:4), the location of litigation (17:5, 8), the acting judges (17:9, 12), the
role of witnesses in providing evidence (17:6–7), the sentences (17:5, 9, 12), and
instructions about carrying out the sentence (17:10–11). Here too is the glaring
absence of any judicial role for the monarch. This is surely intentional. The func-
tion of the king with respect to the law is addressed in the next few verses (Deut
17:18–19): it is one of copying and constantly reading the law. The king’s behavior
is molded by the keeping of God’s laws. The aim is to keep the king’s heart “from
being exalted above his brethren” (lĕbiltî rûm-lĕbābô mēʾeḥāyw). The king’s royal
power does not elevate him to the position of a supreme judge above the law;
rather, because he is subject to the law, he must not turn aside from it, either to
the right or to the left (Deut 17:20).
Such a drastic realignment of societal roles must stem from writers who
wanted to limit the judicial power of the king because of abuses in the legal arena.
Whereas prophets responded to royal abuse with rhetorical chastisement in the
name of Yahweh, the absolute judge, the Deuteronomic tradition attempted to
strip the king of any judicial office. That these passages are set in a time prior
to entering the land allows Deuteronomic advocates to challenge any reigning
king’s judicial misdeeds with an appeal to remote antiquity, when Yahweh
demanded that the king have no judicial role to begin with. Such a challenge hit a
nerve. Quoting Levinson (2001: 533–534) once again:
So radical was it in its own time that, shortly after its promulgation, it was effec-
tively abrogated, as the Deuteronomistic Historian, while purporting to imple-
ment the norms of Deuteronomy, restored to the king precisely those powers
denied him by Deuteronomy.
Counter-Discourses: Questioning the Ideal

of the Just (Divine) Judge
We have solid evidence from the Hebrew Bible that questions of theodicy existed
alongside the dominant and ubiquitous motif of God as a never-failing, absolute
judge. One can imagine passionate, intricate, sometimes tempestuous debates
raging in antiquity as they do in modernity. Probing how “the Torah and subse-
quent texts provide occasion and rationale for slaveholding,” Gafney (2017: 73)
poignantly asks: “Is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob truly the God of Hagar,
Sarah, Keturah, Rebekah, Leah, Rachel, Bilhah, and Zilpah? . . . [N]‌o issue forces
this question [of theodicy] more than the biblical sanction of the sexual subordi-
nation of women in and through chattel slavery.”
One could say that Yahweh brought such questioning upon himself. As we
have seen in Micah 6:3b, Yahweh challenges his people to “testify against”
him (ʿănēh bî). According to Ezekiel 20:25, he admits to being a judge who
gave bad statutes and judgments! In Isaiah 1:17–18a, right after challenging
his people to live up to the judicial ideal (“to cease evil, to learn goodness, to
seek out justice, to rescue the oppressed, to judge on behalf of the orphan, to
adjudicate on behalf of the widow”), Yahweh beckons “Come, let us argue it
out” (lĕkû-nāʾ wĕniwwākĕḥâ).127 Elsewhere Isaianic tradition has God pro-

claim: “Accuse me, let us go to trial together; litigate [your legal case] that you
may be proved right” (Isa 43:26). And accuse they did—from Genesis’ “Shall
not the judge of the entire earth execute justice?” (hăšōpēṭ kol-hāʾāreṣ lōʾ
yaʿăśeh mišpāṭ; Gen 18:25) to Malachi’s “Where is the God of justice?” (ʾayyēh
ʾĕlōhê hammišpāṭ; Mal 2:17). Jeremiah considers taking God to court over
why the wicked prosper and the treacherous live at ease (Jer 12:1). Unyielding
Job boldly demands an indictment written by the God he calls his legal adver-
sary (rîb; Job 31:35).
Wisdom Literature: Setting the Stage for Theodicy

Nowhere in the Hebrew Bible is theodicy addressed at greater length than in its
wisdom literature, specifically in the books of Qoheleth and Job. Yet to frame
the discussion properly, it needs to be stressed that wisdom literature across the
entire ancient Near East affirms the connection between the gods and justice. So-
called perceptive hymns from Mesopotamia celebrate how Shamash carries out
justice and oversees how it is practiced on earth:
You dismiss [to the underworld] the rogue . . .

You bring up from the underworld river him entangled in a lawsuit . . .
What you say in a just verdict, Shamash . . .
Your manifest utterance may not be changed . . .
You give the unscrupulous judge experience in fetters.

Him who accepts a present [bribe] and lets justice miscarry
you make bear his punishment.
As for him who declines a present [bribe]
[and] takes the part of the weak,
It is pleasing to Shamash, and he will prolong his life.128
Precepts warning rulers about what will happen if they miscarry justice threaten
the intervention of a wide array of gods who are at the ready to send their
retribution:
If a king does not heed the justice of his land, Ea, king of destinies, will alter his
destiny. . . . If he improperly convicts a citizen . . . Shamash, judge of heaven and
earth, will set up foreign justice in his land. . . . If citizens . . . are brought to him
for judgment, but he accepts a present [bribe] and improperly convicts them,
Enlil, lord of the lands, will bring a foreign army against him. . . . If he hears a
lawsuit . . . but treats it frivolously, Marduk, lord of heaven and earth, will set
his foes upon him, and will give his property and wealth to his enemy. . . . If the
adviser or chief officer . . . obtains bribes . . . at the command of Ea, king of the
Apsû, the adviser and chief officer will die by the sword.129
In Egypt, the Instructions of Amenemope look to the god Thoth as judge, and
rightly so, for elsewhere he is referred to as “the Vizier of Re,” the wise judge
and mediator of disputants (wep rehwy).130 The sixth chapter of the Instructions
speaks against the one who is greedy for land and encroaches upon the bound-
aries of a widow by unjust means (e.g., by false oaths), with the warning that “he
will be caught by the might of the Moon”—that is, the judge Thoth in his lunar
manifestation. Similarly, the second chapter of the Instructions notes how the
Moon (Thoth) will declare the crime of the lawbreaker.131
Proverbial Understandings of Divine Justice

The wisdom literature of the Hebrew Bible likewise includes these positive
affirmations of God as the absolute, fair judge who also oversees human affairs.
The summation in Proverbs 5:21 is so succinct that Michael V. Fox (2000: 204)
suggests that it “may have existed as [an] independent proverb” prior to its cur-
rent context:
For a man’s ways are before Yahweh

and He assesses [mĕpallēs] all his paths.132 (Prov 5:21)
This “broad principle,” according to Fox, “remind[s]‌the audience that God is

omniscient and guarantees justice.” Elsewhere, Wisdom (ḥokmâ), divinely cre-
ated in primeval days (Prov 8:22–31), declares with her personified voice that she
is the source of just laws and their royal implementation:133
By me kings reign,
Governors inscribe just laws,
By me rulers rule,
So too nobles, all the just judges. (Prov 8:15–16)
Other proverbs provide precepts and instructions for just behavior (especially
for monarchs) with affirmations of positive divine retribution:
An [honest] balance and scales of justice are Yahweh’s

All the weights of the purse are his work;
Wicked actions are abominations for kings

For the throne is established by righteousness/justice.
Kings favor just lips,

They love he who speaks of just matters. (Prov 16:11–13)
A wise king winnows the wicked,

Rolls the threshing wheel over them . . .
Ḥesed justness and truth preserve the king,

and his throne is upheld by ḥesed justness. (Prov 20:26, 28)
By justice a king provides stability to the land,

but one who makes heavy exactions destroys it. . . .
A king who judges the poor with equity,

his throne will be established forever. . . .
Many make petitions of a ruler,

But it is from Yahweh that one obtains justice. (Prov 29:4, 14, 26)
Similar instructional wisdom is found in Psalm 37. Writing with a voice of time-
tested confidence, the elderly sage reviews his life experience prior to giving his
advice. Unlike the psalmist who called out to God to rescue him because he felt
forsaken (ʾēlî ʾēlî lāmâ ʿăzabtānî; Ps 22:2 [Eng 22:1]), the conviction of the sage is
presented with absolute certainty:
I was once young, and now am old,

and never have I see a righteous person forsaken [neʿĕzāb]
nor his child begging bread . . .
Turn aside from evil and do good;

so you shall abide forever.
For Yahweh loves justice,

he forsakes not [lōʾ-yaʿăzōb] his faithful ones . . .
The mouth of the righteous utters wisdom,

His tongue speaks justice.
The law of his God is in his heart,
His steps do not waver.
The wicked watches for the righteous,

And seeks to kill him.
Yahweh will not abandon him [lōʾ-yaʿazbennû] to his power

Nor let him be condemned when he is brought to trial. (Ps 37:25–28, 30–33)
Qoheleth’s Theodicy
Such positive affirmations of divine justice are what one expects from the book
of Proverbs and a wisdom psalm such as Psalm 37. Yet they are also foundational
to Qoheleth, who, unlike the sage of Psalm 37, blends his belief in a God of jus-
tice with notions of theodicy. The premise upon which the challenge is made is
that God is indeed just, but, maddeningly, one finds evidence that points to the
contrary.
Three times the book of Qoheleth explicitly affirms God’s role as judge, with
the book concluding, in its epilogue, on this singular note:134
I said to myself, God will judge the righteous and the wicked.
For there is a time for every matter and for all that is accomplished. (Qoh 3:17)
Rejoice, O youth, while you are young,

Let your heart cheer you in your youthful days;
Follow the inclinations of your heart,
The desires of your eyes;
And/but know that for all these things
God will bring you into judgment.135 (Qoh 11:9)
For God will bring every deed into judgment,

Including every secret deed, whether good or evil. (Qoh 12:14)
Against this understanding of God’s judicial nature Qoheleth highlights his

observations of unjust retribution. The verse prior to the first affirmation states
the inequity he sees:
Moreover, I saw [the following reality] under the sun:

In the place of justice, there is wickedness,
In the place of equity, there is wickedness. (Qoh 3:16)
He elaborates on the topic elsewhere:
I have seen it all living in my own days of absurdity [bîmê heblî]:

There are righteous people who perish in their righteousness,
And there are wicked people who prolong their life by acting evil. (Qoh 7:15)
There is an absurdity [hebel] that takes place on earth:
There are righteous people who are accorded the deeds of the wicked,
And there are wicked people who are accorded the deeds of the righteous.
I said that this too is absurd [hābel]. (Qoh 8:14)
What one makes of Qoheleth the speaker and Qoheleth the book depends on
larger questions about the frame narrative, how the epilogue mediates Qoheleth’s
words to the reader (Fox 1989: 316–329), and whether there are one or two
epilogists.136 Suffice it here to say that Qoheleth is an existentialist philoso-
pher who, unlike atheist existentialists such as Sartre, situates his questions of
theodicy within a framework of theism. He is a realist who acknowledges that
despite his belief in a God who adjudicates, the absurd is a reality in human ex-
perience, and one that confronts anyone holding a simplistic view of retribution.
Similar questions of retribution are represented elsewhere, as in the prophetic
disputation speech found in Malachi 3:13–15. Speaking to the post-exilic com-
munity in Jerusalem who are questioning the profit of serving God, the prophet
responds: “Once again, you will see the difference between a righteous person
and a wicked one, between one who serves God and one who does not” (Mal
3:18).137 Qoheleth’s understanding of the “absurd” (hebel) does not allow him
such certainty.138
Qoheleth’s rhetorical style with regard to theodicy is powerful, but in an un-
derstated way that is not disputational. Qoheleth does not directly challenge
God with a straightforward question, like Genesis’ “Shall not the judge of the
entire earth execute justice?” (hăšōpēṭ kol-hāʾāreṣ lōʾ yaʿăśeh mišpāṭ; Gen 18:25)
or Malachi’s “Where is the God of justice?” (ʾayyēh ʾĕlōhê hammišpāṭ; Mal 2:17).
For Qoheleth, it is poignant enough to juxtapose the notion of a just God with
his real-life observation of unjust retribution. As Fox (1989: 9–28; 1999: 1–26)
has insightfully pointed out, his style is one of juxtaposing contradictions (i.e.,
antinomies), thereby making his audience feel unsettled when there is no easy
reconciliation.
This is not to say that Qoheleth lacks bite. His observational style includes this
peppery passage:
Consider God’s handiwork:

Indeed, who can straighten what He has twisted [ʿiwwĕtô]?
In the day of prosperity, enjoy!
In the day of adversity, ponder this:
God has made the one as well as the other,
So mortals may not find out anything after them. (Qoh 7:13–14)
Regarding God’s “twisting,” note Amos’ use of the root ʿwt to describe the ec-
onomic oppression of the poor and needy by those who “practice twisted/
crooked behavior by falsifying balances” (lĕʿawwēt mōʾznê mirmâ) as they
weigh out grain and wheat (Amos 8:4–6).139 Psalm 146:9 presents the poetic
justice one desires for Amos’s miscreants. God comes to the aid of the disad-
vantaged (once again using the three social categories of the judicial ideal) by
contorting the wicked:
Yahweh guards/watches over non-native residents [gēr],

He upholds the orphan and the widow,
But he twists [yĕʿawwēt] the way of the wicked.
The book of Job explicitly applies the root ʿwt to the cause of justice. Bildad’s rhe-
torical questions that challenge Job’s blustery words (Job 8:2) affirm God as a just
judge who certainly does not distort or pervert matters of justice:
Does God twist [yĕʿawwēt] justice?

Does Shadday twist [yĕʿawwēt] the right?140 (Job 8:3)
Elihu uses declarative pronouncements to assert the same:
Far be it from God to do evil,

[Far be it] from Shadday to do wrong.
Rather, he repays a person according to his deeds,

Has the results of one’s own conduct befall him.
Surely God would not do evil,

Nor Shadday twist [lōʾ yĕʿawwēt] justice. (Job 34:10–12)
Job, as we will shortly see, does think that God can twist justice, at least when it
comes to God “twisting him about” (ʿiwwĕtānî; Job 19:6). Yet whereas Job will
come to level legal charges directly at God, Qoheleth presents his theodicy with a
philosophical and existential statement of the state of affairs as they are. Qoheleth
is resigned that the situation is what is it. He had previously affirmed that what
is crooked cannot be made straight (Qoh 1:15), and nothing has changed his
mind on this. Like Job, he observes that humans are not able to litigate (lōʾ-yûkal
lādîn; 6:10) with one who is stronger (cf. Job 9:4–5; 14:20). Given such a reality,
Qoheleth does not press the case directly. In contrast, Job does not let this dis-
parity keep him from filing his legal complaint with passionate zeal.
Job and Divine Justice

The book of Job is remarkable in how it wrestles with theodicy altogether differ-
ently than anything else we have seen in the Hebrew Bible. Here we have a human
being who imagines entering into formal litigation with God and then, after
fully acknowledging the insurmountable odds, proceeds to file an actual legal
case. Though there is debate over whether the book as a whole should be seen
as a legal drama,141 all scholars agree that legal rhetoric and judicial metaphors
fill the book.142 Yair Hoffman’s tally reveals that “judicial terminology is used no
less than 150 times” in the book.143 For Edward Greenstein (1996: 242), “The po-
etic speeches of Job are laced with legal rhetoric and shaped to express the hero’s
mounting desire to meet his God in a court of law.” Sylvia Scholnick (1982: 521)
asserts that “the meaning of divine justice” “is central to an understanding of the
book of Job.” Norman Habel (1985: 54) comments that “legal metaphor is a major
literary device” that is “integral to the structure and coherence of the book of Job.”
That Job the protagonist raises questions of theodicy is verified from the very
lips of the divine, who retorts in Job 40:8:
Will you really break my justice?144 haʾap tāpēr mišpāṭî

Make me out to be wicked so you may be just? taršîʿēnî lĕmaʿan tiṣdāq
As further proof, one need look no further than Job 9:22, where Job does indeed
deny God’s justice, using equally strong language:
It’s all the same. That’s why I say:

Blameless [tām]. Wicked [rāšāʿ]. It is He who destroys [mĕkalleh] them both.
What occasioned the use of such harsh language? The author of the book sets off
Job’s response by having his friend Bildad confidently assert that God certainly
does not “twist” justice (see 8:3) and thus
it’s patently obvious:

God does not reject the blameless [tām].
Nor does He take the hand of the wicked [mĕrēʿîm]. (Job 8:20)
Eliphaz had rhetorically asked a similar question, though using verbs of

destruction:
Think now, who indeed being innocent ever perished?

Where have the righteous ever been destroyed? (Job 4:7)
However, Job knows from the death of his children and his physical suffering
that Bildad’s confidence misses the mark. We readers know this too, aware that
Job is described as blameless (tām) by none other than Yahweh in the prologue
(1:8; 2:3). As for Eliphaz’s apology, Job has a ready counterexample. In Job 9:22
he uses an active verb of destruction (mĕkalleh) with God as subject, to drive the
point home. Thus we find Job starting to ponder the likelihood that he would
succeed were he to file a legal case against God. In his imagination he thinks
through the eventualities and finds little hope for redress.
Job’s Imaginary Lawsuit

Job presents his legal dilemma beginning in chapter 9 with what C. L. Seow
(2013: 541) calls “a cluster of terms” (twelve different words, with repetitions
occurring a total of twenty-three times) “at home in court law.” Job first
assesses his odds of success in Job 9:2 and finds them overwhelmingly stacked
against him—either because God would never deign to appear at the bar to an-
swer a human (cf. 9:16; 33:13) or because humans are in no position to answer
the Almighty (cf. 9:14–15, 32).145 Adding to such hopeless odds, Job admits
that God is so much wiser and stronger that resistance is futile (9:4b)—not to
mention that God seems to have a destructive nature and a propensity toward
anger (9:5–8, 13). And yet Job does resist, further bemoaning his imaginary
lawsuit. Though he believes that he is in the right (Job 9:15, 21), Job does not
think God would give him the hearing he desires (9:16), and God would likely
use his might, as he has in the past, to crush him further (9:17–18).146 Backed
into a legal corner, Job, though innocent (9:15, 20–21), can only imagine a
situation in which he has to (falsely) plead guilty and then plead for mercy
(ʾetḥannān) from, of all people, his opponent-at-law (mĕšōpĕṭî)—that is, from
God (9:15).147 Yet even then God would twist his words against him (yaʿqĕšēnî;
9:20). Questioning himself at this stage and loathing his life (9:21), he asks his
friends bluntly:
The earth is given into the hand of the wicked.

He [God] covers the faces of its judges.
If it is not He, then who is it?148 (Job 9:24)
In a direct contradiction to the belief that the righteous possess the land (e.g., Ps
37:9; Prov 2:21–22; 10:30), Job asserts the very opposite. Rather than God being
the quintessential impartial judge who alone carries out the judicial ideal, Job
claims that God is in fact behind a cover-up of justice. The climax of Job’s brutal
indictment challenges Bildad and Eliphaz to produce an alternative malefactor.
If not God, then who is it? Hence we have Job’s statement of theodicy that God
unjustly destroys the blameless along with the wicked (9:22).
One would think that with such hopeless odds Job would simply give in and
drop his imagined legal case, and this is precisely what he ponders next. Yet
should he do so because his days are fleeting? Or should he attempt to scrub him-
self clean, even though he would still stand accused as wicked (ʾānōkî ʾeršāʿ), with
God ready to douse him with filth (9:25–31)?149 The dire conclusion cannot be
avoided: God is not a mortal with whom one could proceed to court (9:32). The
only way to imagine such a scenario would be to have an arbiter (môkîaḥ) who
could adjudicate between them (9:33). Yet with God being God and no arbiter
having higher authority, this could never happen in reality. It resides solely in the
realm of “if only.”150
Job Files His Legal Complaint

As Job’s suffering continues and the seemingly endless debates with his friends
plod on, Job’s intention to file a futile lawsuit changes, and with it comes an
even more intense bravado. In chapter 16, we find some of the harshest lan-
guage in the book. Job lashes out at Yahweh, describing him as his enemy
(ṣar) coming at him like a wild animal, gnashing his teeth as his wrath “rips
[him] open” (16:9).151 God grabs him by the scruff of the neck and bashes
him about (16:12). Switching metaphors, Job tells of Yahweh the divine war-
rior (gibbôr) setting him up as an archery target, slashing him open without
mercy (16:12–14). In Seow’s (2013: 736) words, “This is a God aiming to kill.”
In the midst of the divine assault, Job once again asserts his innocence together
with a certainty that a heavenly witness exists who can vouch for him (hinnēh-
baššāmayim ʿēdî wĕśāhădî bammĕrômîm; 16:17b, 19). The identity of this wit-
ness is not made clear. Is it God in his mercy and love rather than God in his
wrath? The imagined arbiter of Job 9:33? An angelic intercessor? Job’s case for
vindication personified?
From a forensic standpoint, the soliloquy in Job 29–31 is a rhetorical high
point. Using Mesopotamian parallels describing trial appeals when pre-trial ar-
bitration has proven unsuccessful, Michael Dick has argued that these chapters
are “pivotal both for the structure and for the theme of the Book of Job.”152 Seow
(2013: 61) too sees this section as “critical to the book’s design.” According to
Dick, here we have Job as a defendant swearing an oath of innocence (though
laden with wisdom influence) that legally compels his opponent-at-law, God, to
appear in court. Such a legal maneuver skillfully answers the dilemma we saw ear-
lier (in Job 9), where the odds against putting God in the dock were insurmount-
able. The unimaginable filing of a legal case becomes a reality in c hapters 29–31.
Seow (2013: 59–61, 68–69) argues that these chapters are the culmination of the
judicial language running throughout the book, yet only here, “for the first time
in the book,” does the author employ a formal legal genre. Where Dick saw “a
defendant’s plea,” Seow sees Job as a plaintiff.153 For support, Seow turns to the
epigraphic record and F. W. Dobbs-Allsopp’s (1994) study of the genre of the
Meṣad Ḥashavyahu ostracon.154 For Seow, Job is a plaintiff filing a signed judi-
cial complaint that, like the Meṣad Ḥashavyahu inscription, accuses a superior
of abusing his power (Job 30:19–23). Like the plaintiff in the inscription, Job too
files a declaration of his innocence. Yet unlike the plaintiff in the inscription, Job
does not have human companions who will vouch for him, and so he must turn
to the heavenly witness mentioned previously.155 Even more significant for the
legal case at hand is that, whereas the litigant in the inscription can appeal to a
higher official for redress, Job has no uninterested third-party authority to whom
to appeal.
Whether defendant or plaintiff, Job’s defiant summons is a dramatic climax:
Oh that I had someone to hear [šōmēʿa] me!

Here is my mark!
Shadday—let him answer me!
Oh that my adversary-at-law [ʾîš rîbî] would write out an indictment!
(Job 31:35)
As with the heavenly witness in Job 16:19, determining the identity of

the “hearer” (šōmēʿa) that Job had in mind is guesswork. Is he imagining
a third-p arty magistrate who would be impartial regarding his case (cf.
9:33)? Or does he want a hearing from the Almighty, as is implied by the re-
quest for a divine indictment that immediately follows? The latter scenario
would align with Job’s earlier request to be weighed in just scales by a God
who sees all (Job 31:4, 6; cf. too Judg 11:10 on God as a šōmēʿa between two
parties).
The Divine Speeches and Theophany

Dramatically, Job gets his wish. If the Elihu speeches (Job 32–37) are sec-
ondary (a near consensus among scholars), then the divine speeches imme-
diately follow Job’s bold request. Without the Elihu material, Fox (1981: 56)
remarks, “neither Job nor the reader has a chance to catch his breath.” Once
again forensic language is employed. Scholnick (1987: 187) writes: “There
can be no doubt that chs. 38–41 were intended by the poet to be under-
stood as the testimony of the divine defendant in the lawsuit brought by
the plaintiff from Uz.” The first imperative out of God’s mouth (“Gird up
your loins”) denotes a rigorous struggle ahead, with military and perhaps
legal connotations.156 In Job 40:2, Yahweh explicitly asks: “Will he who le-
gally contends with Shadday correct [me]? Will he who chides God answer
that?”157
The standard reading of the divine speeches suggests that their tone is harsh,
sarcastic, adversarial, and humiliating, perhaps even bragging and bullying.
David Clines (2011: 1097) concludes:
God tells Job without qualification that he regards him as his opponent and
enemy who will need courage and strength—not a just [legal] cause—to
be able to confront him. God . . . makes no secret that the legal dispute will
only be . . . a trial of strength. . . . Job had better understand that summoning

God to trial will not lead to a calm, rational, orderly legal process. God takes
Job’s summons personally, and he intends to fight . . . he intends to get his
revenge.
In contrast, Fox (1981: 58–60) argues that the rhetorical technique of piling up
questions regarding matters known to questioner and auditor alike is intended to
“set up a special intimacy of communication” based on shared knowledge. This
particular form of rhetoric, suggests Fox, is not sarcastic and humiliating but rather
“a stern gentleness” where “God demands humility, not humiliation.” “With com-
passion and gentleness” God “remind[s]‌Job of the limitations of human wisdom.”
Whatever the tone, God highlights that Job had indeed called his justice into
question (cf. Job 9:24). His stern question to Job bears repeating:
Will you really break my justice? haʾap tāpēr mišpāṭî

Make me out to be wicked so you may be just? taršîʿēnî lĕmaʿan tiṣdāq
(Job 40:8)
Scholnick (1982; 1987: 194) and Dick (2006: 268) argue that the use of the word
mišpāṭ here is key to solving the meaning of the divine speeches. They illus-
trate how Hebrew and Ugaritic (cf. too Akkadian) use the root špṭ/ṯpṭ to des-
ignate both forensic rulings appropriate to a court of law and executive rulings
of a king amounting to “dominion” and “kingship.” Job the litigant argues the
forensic side of “justice” (mišpāṭ) without appreciating the way in which mišpāṭ
includes, for Yahweh the King, his right to manage the cosmos in the way that he
sees fit, for only he has title to it. Using 1 Samuel 8:11 as an example, Scholnick
(1982: 522–523) describes how the executive “justice” (mišpāṭ) of a king allows
him to take away children and servants as well as to appropriate property, similar
to what happens to Job in the prologue. Thus when it comes to Job’s legal claim,
God’s actions are within his jurisdiction as king. According to Scholnick, “God is
acting as Ruler to test His subject, not as Judge to punish him for wrongdoing.” In
response, Job retracts his legal claim.158
Greenstein adds yet another piece to the forensic puzzle of the di-
vine speeches. Taking his cue from the definition of a legal witness (ʿēd) in
Leviticus 5:1 as one who has “seen” or who “knows” of something relevant
(cf. David as witness in 1 Sam 24:8–22), Greenstein (1996: 245) highlights the
same vocabulary found on Job’s lips in Job 13:1–2. Job validates his standing
as a formal witness whose eye has seen and whose ear has heard and under-
stood justiciable evidence. Immediately following this, he proclaims his desire
to argue a legal case with God (wĕhôkēaḥ ʾel-ʾēl; 13:3; cf. 23:4–5). In contrast
to Scholnick, Greenstein (1996: 251–253) has God adopting his own legal ma-
neuver “to throw Job’s case out of court for cause.” Directly challenging Job’s
standing as an informed witness, God repeatedly assaults Job’s “knowledge,”
“harping on the verb ‘to know.’ ” Thus for Greenstein (1996: 250), “Yhwh does
not answer any charges.” He does not have to submit to litigation because
Job has already acknowledged that his incompetence in testifying (Job 42:3)
excludes him from bearing witness. Greenstein concludes that “in disquali-
fying Job’s status as witness, Yhwh implies no quarrel with the content of Job’s
charges.”
There are many ways of viewing the book of Job apart from a judicial focus.
However one understands the divine speeches and how they respond or do not
respond to Job’s litigation and assertions of injustice, our theodicean poet settles
his case with Job being satisfied. The divine theophany has the effect of bringing
Job to a place of resolution. His final words just prior to his repentance in dust
and ashes concentrate on the experiential:
I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear,

But now my eye sees you. (Job 42:5)
The legal rhetoric of the book of Job is powerful and unique. Nowhere else
do we read of a human filing a legal case that puts God in the dock. Yet even
the most skilled verbal rhetoric falls short of a personal encounter. Job “had
heard” of Yahweh—his co-litigant, his adversary at law, and his judge—as he
pressed forward with the particulars of his legal case. Yet once in court, he
undergoes a more rigorous cross-examination than he could have imagined—
one that leaves him acknowledging “things too wonderful for me, that which
I did not know” (Job 42:3). Contrary to Job’s expectations (voiced in Job 9),
God did deign to appear at the bar to answer a human (cf. 9:16; 33:13). Yet in
line with Job’s expectations, humans are indeed in no position to answer the
Almighty (cf. 9:14–15, 32). As the theophany reaffirmed, God is indeed so
much wiser and stronger (9:4). Yet, poignantly, God allowed Job “to see” the
ethereal divine, an encounter accorded only to a precious few (Jacob, Moses,
Gideon, Manoah, Isaiah).159 Though priestly teaching would assert that one
does not “see” God and live to tell about it (Exod 33:20), Job in fact does. He
gets his wish (Job 19:26–27). The powerful “adversary” whom Job had fully
expected “to destroy the blameless along with the wicked” (Job 9:22) here does
not. Rather, the Almighty powerfully humbles him, occasioning Job’s repent-
ance (Job 42:6b). Then, according to the epilogue (and with no mention of any
arbitrated courtroom settlement), God doubly restores Job’s possessions (Job
42:10–17).
God as Law Writer and Lawgiver, and

the Unique Role Assigned to Moses
We come at last to what may come to mind first when one thinks of God as
judge: he is the ultimate author of all law and the giver of law to Moses, who acts
as his delegated intermediary. God is indeed presented as the primary (sole?)
promulgator of law in ancient Israel.160 Yet for the historian of religion, this
theological truism needs to be set within its historical, sociological, and literary
contexts.
The ancient Near Eastern legal historian Raymond Westbrook (2003: 1)
states succinctly: “Law has existed as long as organized human society.”
A priori, all societies, large and small, have laws and lawgivers. The origins
of Near Eastern law are hard to trace, with “virtually no mention in the sur-
viving documents” (Wells 2005: 184), yet shared ancient Near Eastern scribal
legal codes, royal decrees (ṣimdat šarrim), and societal customs had to have
played significant roles.161 The attested categories of law are staggering in
number and variety: laws regarding personal status (e.g., citizenship, class,
gender, age, slavery), family law (e.g., marriage, dissolution of marriage, chil-
dren, adoption), property (e.g., tenure, inheritance, transfer, female inherit-
ance), contracts (e.g., findings, terms, social consequence), crime and delict
(e.g., punishment, offenses against the gods, offenses against the king, homi-
cide, adultery, rape, perjury, slander, theft), and international law (e.g., treaties,
customary law).162
The Need for Royal Legislation

Given the societal necessity and complexity of law, it is surprising to read un-
critical, non-nuanced, and reductionist summations that assert, for example,
that “Israel’s kings never give law” (Watts 1998: 417). Even the great Roland de
Vaux’s (1961: 150–151) summation is overly circumspect. In comparing ancient
Israelite law with Mesopotamia’s production of law codes, de Vaux writes:
In Israel, granted the religious nature of the law, and its connection with
Covenant, nothing of the sort was possible, and in fact the historical books
never allude to any legislative power of the king. . . . The king had of course
an extensive administrative authority; he organized his kingdom, appointed
his officials and made decrees, but he did not enact law. It is remarkable that
the two “laws of the king” (1 S 8:11–18; Dt 17:14–20) make no allusion to any
power of the king to lay down laws. . . . [T]‌he king is nowhere mentioned in the
Deuteronomic Code. . . . [T]he king could add nothing to the authority of a law
to which he himself was subject (Dt 17:19; 1 K 8:58; 2 K 23:3). . . . On the other
hand, the king was a judge, and held judicial power.
It is hard to imagine how ancient society would function without a head of state
being involved in the promulgation of laws. To imagine the legalities of a working
monarchy, one need only look at the extensive collections of legal transactions
from the royal court of Nineveh.163 Granted, the Neo-Assyrian Empire at
its height is a poor comparison for the much smaller Judean monarchies. Yet
though the scale would not be as large in the Judean kingdoms, the intricacies of
the purchase and loan documents from Nineveh are informative, for they reveal
the obvious need for law when it comes to the realities of economic agreements.
Moreover, de Vaux’s own words belie his conclusion when he speaks of kings
making decrees, administering their kingdoms, and holding judicial power. One
need not wait until the Persian period (cf. Est 1:19; 8:8; Ezra 6:1–12; 7:12–26;
Elephantine Papyri) to imagine kings issuing legal edicts that were a necessity for
the governing of society.
Though royal legislation is poorly documented because of the way the
Hebrew Bible is edited (further discussion to follow), we nonetheless read of
Samuel writing a legislative document about royal rights/regulations (mišpaṭ
hammĕlukâ) that he “laid before Yahweh” (wayyannaḥ lipnê yhwh), presum-
ably in a sanctuary (1 Sam 10:25; cf. McCarter 1980a: 193–194). We hear of
Saul issuing a decree that necromancy should be outlawed (1 Sam 28:9–10).
Prior to being king, David makes “a statute and ordinance” for Israel that
continues to exist at the time DtrH is writing (wayĕśimehā lĕḥōq ûlĕmišpāṭ
lĕyiśrāʾēl ʿad hayyôm hazzeh; 1 Sam 30:25).164 Once David becomes king, his
rendering of a legal verdict in the Tekoite woman’s (fictional) case is seen as
his own “angelic” act, and Solomon’s dealing with the two female litigants
is presented as ideological proof that he is divinely endowed (as discussed
earlier). Whitelam extrapolates (1979: 215–216): “There is no explicit refer-
ence to the promulgation of law in either of these cases, but the ideological
implications of the internalization of divine wisdom in judicial affairs cer-
tainly suggest that the king was believed to possess the potential to create
law.” Elsewhere we read of King Omri issuing statutes (Mic 6:16). Both
Hezekiah and Josiah, in enacting God’s ordinances, certainly had to issue
decrees for carrying out the specifics of their religious reforms, as would
Manasseh in his counter-reform. King Zedekiah, according to Jeremiah
34:8–10, decrees the manumission of all slaves (liqrōʾ dĕrôr).165 To govern
is to legislate.
The judicial ideal holds that kings emulate divine justice. It became proverbial
to speak of rulers “inscribing just decrees” (rôzĕnîm yĕḥōqĕqû ṣedeq; Prov 8:15).
Judean royal seals and bullae attest to administrative involvement in economic
matters, some of which had to involve legal decrees and legal redress regarding
property. As for the abuse of justice, Isaiah 10:1–2 likely has kings in mind when it
expresses woe because of “those who inscribe wicked decrees and write oppressive
statutes” (cf. Ps 94:20).166 In short, political and sociological considerations re-

quire human lawmakers; with the monarchy constituting a (or the) dominant in-
stitution of power, kings were certainly involved in promulgating legislation.167
The Absence of Royal Legislation in the Hebrew Bible

Given this reality, how then should one account for the absence of texts in the
Hebrew Bible documenting royal legislation? As noted earlier, we have detailed
descriptions of the thousands of offerings that King Solomon rendered, yet nary
a word about the myriad of written legal statutes that this “just king par excel-
lence” must have issued. On display are King Jehoshaphat’s noble admonitions
that a godly judiciary is without favoritism or bribe-taking, not his utilitarian
edicts regulating the functioning of society.
Three overlapping answers are readily apparent, the first redactional, the
second theological, and the third political/sociological. The first is that the ed-
iting of what comes to be the Hebrew Bible was a selective process with certain
content outside the interests of its redactors. I have written elsewhere of how
texts describing the day-to-day family religion of non-elite actors were outside
the scope of editors who were part of the priestly management and portrayal of
cult (Lewis 2012: 109–110, 113). Similarly, royal promulgations and regulations
(cf. Akk ṣimdat šarrim) as well as the royal supervision of economic legal
transactions (cf. again the records from Neo-Assyrian Nineveh) were simply not
considered to be germane—for whatever reason—by those editors (e.g., priestly,
prophetic, poetic, Deuteronomistic, Chronistic, wisdom-related) who were in-
volved in forming what we now know to be the Hebrew Bible. Their interests
simply lie elsewhere. Their portrayals were decidedly literary, often exhortatory,
rarely utilitarian.168 We have precious few remnants of the legal transactions of
the working monarchies of ancient Israel and Judah no matter the time period.
The second is that theological interests were dominant. Yahweh is the giver
of law. “Justice is of God” (hammišpāṭ lēʾlōhîm hûʾ; Deut 1:16–17). It is God’s
prerogative to legislate, with humans (from king to commoner) being assigned
the role of faithfully carrying out his “statutes” (ḥuqqîm), “instructions” (tôrōt),
and “ordinances” (mišpātîm). Humans are admonished to “be careful to ob-
serve” (√šmr laʿăśôt) divine legislation. Whether one turns to God handing
down the law on Mt. Sinai or to poetic formulations, Yahweh, not the human
king, is the royal legislator par excellence. Consider again the rhyming poetry of
Isaiah 33:22:
Yahweh is our judge, yhwh šōpĕṭēnû

Yahweh is he who inscribes our [laws], yhwh mĕḥōqĕqēnû
Yahweh is our king, yhwh malkēnû
He will deliver us. hûʾ yôšîʿēnû
If Yahweh is the one and only just king and impartial judge, then necessarily only
Yahweh can establish ideal laws. When we juxtapose the dominance of this theo-
logical motif with the sociological need for and reality of a human monarch leg-
islating, it only makes sense to understand Yahweh as the sole creator of perfect
law as a type of legal fiction, as does Whitelam (1979: 209–210). Legal fictions
(here viewed positively, not pejoratively) are necessary whenever theory and
practice are at odds (cf. rabbinic law).169 The conflicts of theory and practice are
threefold. (1) The first conflict results from how a law mediated solely by Moses
can be conveyed once he has died. Though theoretically Moses alone is God’s
legislator, we immediately hear of Joshua filling his role once he has died (Josh
8:32; 24:26). In the remarkable Mt. Ebal traditions, the people inscribe law (Deut
27:3). In the future, Jeremiah envisions Yahweh bypassing human mediators al-
together to write his law on people’s hearts himself (Jer 31:33; cf. Ezek 36:27).
(2) The second conflict results from the Deuteronomic notion that divine law
is unalterable (Deut 4:1–2; 13:1 [Eng 12:32]; cf. Josh 1:7; 23:6; Qoh 3:14).170
Whitelam suggests that historians who accept such statements of immutability
at face value (and thus conclude that kings did not legislate) are boxed in when
“pentateuchal laws [become] obviously inadequate to deal with all eventualities
in a dynamic and expanding . . . society as that created by the inauguration of the
monarchy and the subsequent expansion of the Davidic kingdom.” (3) Another
conflict of theory and practice arises from the abuse of justice by those charged
with rendering impartial justice. The theological way to deal with those “who in-
scribe wicked decrees and write oppressive statutes” (Ps 94:20) is to strip them of
any legislative authority. The functionality of the legal fiction that Yahweh is the
sole giver of impartial law is readily understandable.
The third explanation of the lack of texts in the Hebrew Bible documenting
royal legislation is sociological and political. Here we turn yet again to priestly
and prophetic voices chastising the monarchy, and to Deuteronomic restrictions
on royal power. These constituencies aimed at restricting the power of the mon-
archy to help avoid abuse of justice as well as abuse of cult. Though in practice
kings could not be kept from legislating, these ideological voices attempt to re-
strict the king’s role in the cult, in the judiciary, and in providing legislation. The
Deuteronomic view has been called “more utopian than pragmatic” (Levinson
2001: 533). Be that as it may, the passion to deny the king such powers of office
and to direct him instead to meditating on his own copy of divine law in order to
live a godly life and to avoid self-exaltation is undeniable (Deut 17:18–20).
The Unique Role of Moses as God’s Delegated Mediator of Law

The various traditions that have been preserved in the Hebrew Bible speak with
one voice: the prophet/scribe Moses, not any royal figure, is the face of God’s
delegated legislator. Some would suggest that Moses’s legal role is indeed that
of a royal figure, one that is patterned after Yahweh as the just king. Yet James
Watts (1998: 416–417), who acknowledges aspects of idyllic royalty that align
with Moses, concludes that overall the portrayal of Moses is contrasted with roy-
alty. Jean-Louis Ska (2009: 215) is more forceful in concluding: “Moses is not a
king and there is nothing of the oriental monarch about him.”
We have already looked at the various “origin myths” of Mosaic judiciaries.
As these traditions wrestle with the distribution of judicial authority, they at
the same time heighten the prestige of Moses. In Exodus 18:13–26, Moses’s ju-
dicial role is described as a divine conduit, for people come to him “to inquire
of God” (lidrōš ʾĕlōhîm). The expression here is certainly elliptical—that is, the
people come to Moses to (have him) inquire (on their behalf) of God—yet also
tantalizing in the impression it leaves that Moses is divine-like. If this ellipsis is
intentional, one is reminded of two expressions elsewhere in Exodus (4:16; 7:1)
where Moses is portrayed as a god.171 As God’s legislator, Moses is positioned
to make known (hôdîaʿ) and to clarify (hizhîr) divine statutes and laws (Exod
18:16, 20). The other judiciary origin tradition (Deut 1:9–18) also mentions
how Moses undertook “to expound” (or perhaps “to promulgate”) Yahweh’s law
and ends with him handling the most difficult cases (Deut 1:5, 17).172 Whether
Numbers 11:16–25 is related to this material has already been discussed. What
is clear is that the Numbers 11–12 complex also heightens Moses’ prestige,
and clearly along prophetic lines. There is no other individual like Moses, says
the authoritative voice of God, one to whom he “speaks face-to-face” (peh ʾel-
peh ʾădabber-bô). Moses sees the very “form” (marʾeh/tĕmûnâ) of God and is
entrusted with his entire estate (bĕkol-bêtî neʾĕmān hûʾ; Num 12:7–8). Speaking
against God’s servant Moses should occasion “fear,” for God’s wrath is at the
ready (Num 12:8b–9). The unique intimacy that Moses shares with the divine is
also on display in Exodus 33:11, where God is said to have spoken with Moses
“face-to-face, as one speaks to his friend” (pānîm ʾel-pānîm kaʾăšer yĕdabbēr ʾîš
ʾel-rēʿēhû).173 Deuteronomy 34:10 echoes that sentiment: “Never again did there
arise a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom Yahweh knew face-to-face” (ʾăšer
yĕdāʿô yhwh pānîm ʾel-pānîm).
The prophetic role of Moses is underscored in all of these traditions, from
the language chosen in the judiciary tradition to depict Moses inquiring of God
(lidrōš ʾĕlōhîm) to the explicit use of the word “prophet” (nābîʾ) in Numbers
11:29, 12:6, and Deuteronomy 34:10. Yet assigning Moses the unqualified title
“prophet” undercuts the way Numbers 12:6–8 privileges Moses’s prophetic of-
fice, calling it one of a kind. Other prophets, it is said, receive divine commu-
nication mediated through dreams and visions (Num 12:6). Such mediation
is implied in two of the key terms for “seers” (ḥōzeh, rōʾeh) used throughout
the Hebrew Bible’s prophetic corpus. In contrast, Moses’ prophetic office is
one mediated by direct auditory communication with the divine. Visions and
dreams require interpretation, unlike direct speech from God. Here the au-
ditory clearly trumps the visual.174 And yet Moses receives direct visual com-
munication too, as he sees God’s “form” directly rather than in the mediated
dream-like visions of lesser prophets. Levine (1993: 338, 341) speaks of Moses
as being “the sole person with oracular access to God . . . There is nothing inter-
vening between God and Moses in the transmission of God’s voice.” For Levine,
phenomenologically, the Tent of Meeting in Exodus 33:7–11 is “an oraculum.”
Were one to blend in the tradition of Numbers 12:8, one would conclude that
even this oraculum is like no other, for Moses sees as well as hears the divine.
Adding in the even later tradition of Deuteronomy 34:10 provides a “knowing”
intimacy that is unparalleled.175
Given such tradents about the auditory, visual, and “knowing” closeness that
Moses shares with the divine, it is not surprising to read of the conflation of “the
law of Yahweh” (Exod 13:9; 2 Kgs 10:31; Isa 5:24; 30:9; Jer 8:8; Amos 2:4; Ps 1:2;
19:8 [Eng 19:7]; 119:1; Ezr 7:10; Neh 9:3; 1 Chr 16:14; 22:12; 2 Chr 12:1; 17:9;
31:3–4; 34:14; 35:26) and “the law of Moses” (Josh 8:31–32; 23:6; 1 Kgs 2:3; 2
Kgs 14:6; 23:25; Mal 3:22 [Eng 4:4]; Ezr 3:2; 7:6; Neh 8:1; 2 Chr 23:18; 30:16; Dan
9:11, 13; cf. 2 Chr 25:4). The conversance, fellowship, and familiarity of God and
his chosen mediator allow divine law to be constituted by a human being. Thus
though the law is written by God (Exod 24:12; 34:1; Deut 5:22; 10:2, 4; Isa 33:22),
even with his very finger (Exod 31:18; Deut 9:10), it can be mediated through
Moses’ penmanship, especially when it is God who commands him to write
(Exod 17:14; 24:4; 34:27–28; Num 33:2; Deut 31:9; 31:22, 24). Leviticus 26:46
summarizes the way that this arrangement was thought of from a theological
perspective: “These are the statutes and ordinances and laws that Yahweh gave/
established [nātan] between himself and Israel on Mt. Sinai through the agency
of Moses” (bĕyad-mōšeh; cf. Lev 10:11; Num 36:13; 2 Chr 33:8; 34:14; Neh 9:14).
God (and God only) is the “establisher” and “giver” of law, yet he does so through
Moses’ agency.176
It is anyone’s guess as to how such a theocentric and “Moses-centric” phi-
losophy/theology of law actually worked on a day-to-day level, in which var-
ious constituencies (Yahwist and non-Yahwist) were necessarily involved in
legislating all the legal affairs of working tribes and monarchies, with a variety
of locations (e.g., urban centers or agrarian villages). We must return again to
ponder the many and varied social locations where judicial affairs (broadly con-
strued) were decided. Certainly these many constituencies (e.g., elders, kinsmen,
family and tribal “heads” [rāʾšîm], kings, judges, śārîm officals, šōṭĕrîm officials,
priests, local officials, competent men [ʾanšê-ḥayil], household actors including
women) would need to negotiate how laws were promulgated and enforced. All
legislative matters would have been subject to the dynamics of who possessed
power, influence, and resources, and to what degree.177
Conclusion
The texts surveyed here are partial indicators of the many ways in which juridical
topics were engaged and framed in ancient Israel. It is impossible to recover the
full breadth of legal affairs of any society that existed for hundreds of years, even
with the best of records. It is that much more challenging to piece together the
legal affairs of ancient Israel using the Hebrew Bible as our primary source. We
have meager data for the legal historian—certainly not the day-to-day utilitarian
records of working judiciaries (cf. Démare-Lafont et al. forthcoming). This is not
to imply that the minutiae of law were not seriously engaged, for what we have
preserved reveals that they were, and on a wide variety of topics (cf. Frymer-
Kensky 2003). And, as just noted, our extant texts do mention a wide variety of
social actors with stakes in legal affairs.
What is privileged in the edited sources that have come down to us is ideolog-
ical, counter-ideological, and theological in nature. We read of a judicial ideal
that resonates with broader ancient Near Eastern ideals: that the most disad-
vantaged in society (typified especially by widows and orphans, and in ancient
Israel also by the gēr) deserve special judicial protection. Time and again Yahweh
is proclaimed with confidence and faith to be the quintessential just judge.
Theologically, Yahweh is the author of law that he enacts through the prophet/
scribe Moses.
As ideal judge, Yahweh is the object of individual prayers for judicial redress
and corporate prayers that the king may be endowed with divine justice in order
to protect those in need (Ps 72:1–14). Ideologically, four Judean monarchs are
portrayed as trying on the mantle of the “just king,” with David and Solomon,
especially David, requiring serious editorial alterations for a proper fit. When
it comes to the monarchy overall, the record preserved counters ideological
pretensions. There are ample reports of the abuse of justice by those in power,
especially royal power. According to the critics (especially prophetic voices), the
ideal of an earthly “king of justice” remained distant, with little redress for actual
judicial suffering apart from divine intervention. At times of severest oppression
and loss of earthly hope, judicial redress was so very distant that it could only be
imagined in an apocalyptic future. Here too Yahweh was the source of judicial
rescue, raising up an idyllic offshoot of David who would at last execute justice in
the land (Jer 23:5).
Just as prophetic voices (and Deuteronomic utopian restrictions) did not
shrink from pressing their case against royal injustice, so too voices raising the
question of theodicy did not fail to file their grievances against the perceived in-
justice of a divine monarch. Their wrestlings took various forms, from Qoheleth
living with his contradictions to the experiential voice in Job 42:5–6. Whether or
not these voices proved satisfying for their ancient (or modern) audiences, in the
end they present an optimistic theodicy in line with Leibniz’s definition of the
concept of théodicée—that is, a vindication of the justice of God and his actions
in light of reality.178
Two additional perspectives need to be presented prior to wrapping up this
abridged look at Yahweh as judge. These final words, from psalmists and the
author of the book of Jonah, probe the extent of God’s judicial authority and
his mercy.
A Psalmist’s Look at the Vast Extent of God’s Judicial Authority

The various traditions we have examined profess Yahweh as the absolute judge
of all human legal affairs. As displayed in the prophetic “judgment oracles
against the nations,” Yahweh’s exclusive judicial authority is global in nature,
judging foreign (non-Yahwistic) peoples even without their acknowledgment
of his legal prerogative. Yet, according to an exceptional psalmist, one should
not stop with the earthly plane. If Yahweh is indeed absolute judge, then his
legal authority must transcend human society. It must extend to the realm of the
gods. Psalm 82 is one of the most visionary poems in the entire Hebrew Bible, as
it applies Yahweh’s judicial authority to the wrongdoings of the gods.179 Yahweh
places the gods in the dock in the divine assembly (cf. Ps 29:1–2; 89:6–9 [Eng
89:5–8]; Job 1:6, 2:1, 15:8; 1 Kgs 22:19–22; Isa 6:1–8; Jer 23:18, 22; Zech 3; Dan
7:10).180
Setting the Judicial Stage
Elohim [i.e., Yahweh] takes his stand ʾĕlōhîm niṣṣāb baʿădat-ʾēl

in the council of El,
In the midst of the gods he renders judgment. bĕqereb ʾĕlōhîm yišpōṭ
Accusation of Injustice
How long will you judge unjustly? ʿad-mātay tišpĕṭû-ʿāwel

[How long] will you show favoritism ûpĕnê rĕšāʿîm tiśĕʾû
to the wicked?
[Rather] render justice to the poor and the orphan šipṭû-dal wĕyātôm
Adjudicate on behalf of the poor and destitute. ʿānî wārāš haṣdîqû
Rescue the poor and needy pallĕṭû-dal wĕʾebyôn

From the power of the wicked—save [them]! miyyad rĕšāʿîm haṣîlû
Summary Statement
They neither know nor understand, lōʾ yādĕʿû wĕlōʾ yābînû

They walk around in darkness baḥăšēkâ yithallākû
All the foundations of the earth totter. yimmôṭû kol-môsĕdê ʾāreṣ
Decree of Sentence
I say: ʾănî-ʾāmartî
“You are gods ʾĕlōhîm ʾattem
Even sons of Elyon, all of you. ûbĕnê ʿelyôn kullĕkem
But now, like humans you shall die, ʾākēn kĕʾādām tĕmûtûn
Like one of the officials, you shall fall.” ûkĕʾaḥad haśśārîm tippōlû
Divine Charge/Plea
“Rise up, O Elohim [i.e., Yahweh], qûmâ ʾĕlōhîm šopṭâ

judge the earth! hāʾāreṣ
For You inherit all nations!” kî-ʾattâ tinḥal
bĕkol-haggôyim
Psalm 82 is filled with a plethora of legal vocabulary, with four occurrences of the verb
špṭ (to initiate a judicial proceeding, to adjudicate, to render judgment) together with
additional vocabulary common to juridical texts (e.g., haṣdîq, pallĕṭû [cf. Ps 43:1]).181
However one imagines the divine scenario, the judicial setting is unmistakable. Of
the assorted topics that scholars have addressed over the years, the primary crux of
Psalm 82 is the identity of ʾĕlōhîm in verses 1, 6 and 8. Ample rehearsals of the various
theories elsewhere allow me simply to note that I align myself with those scholars
who interpret all four instances of the word ʾĕlōhîm as referring to divinity. Beyond
this, one’s understanding of transmission and cultural history necessarily determines
how one then parses the divinity of these four references toʾĕlōhîm vis-à-vis the two
additional references to divinity, the mention of El in Psalm 82:1 and Elyon in Psalm
82:6. Or, in other words, how the ancients understood Psalm 82 (as well as how we
moderns understand it) is determined by where the author, audience, and interpreter
stand on the mythopoeic-mythopoetic continuum.
An Imagined Mythopoeic Scenario for Psalm 82

Mythopoeically, one can imagine (as one drinks deep of comparative mytholo-
gies, especially ʾIlu’s divine council at Ugarit) a robust vision of a subordinate
deity, Yahweh (= ʾĕlōhîm in Ps 82:1a), who takes his stand in the divine council
presided over by the senior deity, El (baʿădat-ʾēl; Ps 82:1a). El, whose epithet “God
Most High” (Elyon) is referenced in 82:6, would be seen as sovereign over his di-
vine council.182 Thus it would be El, surrounded by his divine council (ʾĕlōhîm),
who would be rendering judgment (yišpōṭ) in Ps 82:1b.
The purpose of Yahweh’s stance at El’s court of law would be to bring a legal
accusation of injustice (Ps 82:2–4). Surprisingly, his accusation is directed at the
very gods gathered for the occasion. His appeal is to a tribunal of one, El alone in
his sovereign role as head of the divine council. Yahweh’s accusation references
the judicial ideal, how the gods were charged with rendering (safeguarding) im-
partial justice to the disadvantaged of society. Yahweh’s accusation is framed as
part lament (“How long?”), part admonishment (“Render justice!”). With no in-
dicator of there being a break in who is speaking, it seems that Yahweh is the one
who concludes with a summary statement (addressed to El the judge) that the
gods are found wanting. In their darkened understanding, they do not under-
stand the nature of impartial justice and its advocacy for the needy. As a direct
result of their failure, injustice flourishes such that the very foundations of the
earth cannot help but totter (82:5).
El’s voice is then privileged as he addresses his children (who bear his ep-
ithet), recognizing their divine status (Ps 82:6a). The guilty verdict on the
first-degree charge of allowing injustice to flourish occasions the severe sen-
tence of mortality (Ps 82:6b). The gods are stripped of their divinity, a fitting
sentence for those who have not behaved as gods should (Ps 82:7). El then
turns to charge Yahweh as their replacement (Ps 82:8). Humans need a judge
on high. Not only does Yahweh win his legal case, but El grants him the in-
heritance of being the judge of humanity, for whom he has already expressed
his advocacy.
An Imagined Mythopoetic Scenario for Psalm 82

Mythopoetically—though rich with mythic imagery, even mythic vibrancy—our
psalm is Yahweh-centric, for he is the god (= ʾĕlōhîm in Ps 82:1a) whose “Most
High” epithet (Elyon) is referenced in 82:6. As numerous biblical tradents at-
test, Yahweh and Yahweh alone is absolute judge, the author of law, the impartial
judge who never wavers in executing the judicial ideal. There is no higher and no
other preternatural judicial authority, and this psalm tells of how such a scenario
came about. Being subordinate to none, Yahweh takes up his role in his divine
council, the name of which comes from one of Yahweh’s own ancient names, El
(baʿădat-ʾēl; Ps 82:1a). Yahweh presides over his El council made up of subordi-
nate deities (perhaps with ʾĕlōhîm mythopoetically reduced to angels; cf. LXX),
whom he then judges (yišpōṭ; Ps 82:1b).
Yahweh’s accusation of injustice among the gods remains the same as in the
mythopoeic scenario. Yet the accusation in the mythopoetic scenario is delivered
by Yahweh as judge, not Yahweh in a subordinate, prosecutorial role. The appeal
to the judicial ideal, the framing as lament and admonishment, the gods’ inepti-
tude and lack of knowledge, and the ramifications for a tottering earth filled with
injustice remain the same (Ps 82:2–5). Yahweh’s voice, the sole operative voice in
this scenario, sentences the gods (his subordinate children) to a mortal life based
on the severity of their inaction and miscarriage of justice (Ps 82:6–7).
The final verse is then not a charge from a senior god (El) to a lesser god
(Yahweh). Rather, for the psalmist, Yahweh is El of old, the divine magistrate, to
whom the psalmist pleads to act in executing godly judicial sovereignty over the
earth, indeed over all the nations (Ps 82:8).
The Masoretic Understanding of Psalm 82

It is impossible to know how the story behind this psalm was understood as it was
told and retold—written, copied, and recopied over the years in the history of an-
cient Judah by various hands. That these same tellers, writers, editors, copiers,
and interpreters handed down traditions such as those found in Deuteronomy
32:6b–9 and Psalm 29 suggests the existence of a variety of views lying along the
mythopoeic-mythopoetic continuum. As we saw in Chapter Four (pp. 91–92), we
have preserved one tradition of Deuteronomy 32 where (El-)Elyon establishes na-
tional boundaries by assigning land and people to various divine beings (4QDeutj’s
bĕnê ʾĕlōhîm; cf. LXX)—with Yahweh acquiring Israel. Yet another transmission of
the same text tells of an alternative tradition where it is (Yahweh-)Elyon making
these same decisions corresponding to the numbers of the sons of Israel (MT’s
bĕnê yiśrāʾēl). No mention of any gods remains in this mythopoetic variant. Later
traditions will tell the story yet differently, with references to Jacob’s family de-
scending to Egypt (cf. Tigay 1996: 514–515). As for Psalm 29:1, we seem to have
all the evidence we need to reconstruct a transition from the mythopoeic (the gods
give Yahweh radiance and strength) to the mythopoetic (David asks subordinate
preternatural beings [angels] to assign Yahweh radiance and strength).183
What understanding do we have in the Masoretic Text of Psalm 82? While
remnants of mythopoeic traditions seem to seep through the letters, the
Masoretic tradition stands fully in line with those acknowledging one deity
only as absolute judge. It leans heavily toward the mythopoetic and then
some.184 Thus’ my translation, which places Yahweh’s name in brackets glossing
the word ’ĕlōhîm. As I noted at the outset of the present chapter and at the be-
ginning of Chapter Six, the traditions preserved in the Hebrew Bible fold El
traditions into those of Yahweh. For the Masoretes, there is no polemic that sets
El and Yahweh at odds. There is no hierarchy that reduces Yahweh to a subor-
dinate in El’s divine council. This is not to say that there were not considerable
differences of opinion with regard to the nature of the ʾĕlōhîm whom Yahweh
judges in Psalm 82:2–7. The identity of these ʾĕlōhîm also depended on the in-
terpreter and lay somewhere on a continuum from the divine to the preternat-
urally angelic.
Not to be missed in such reconstructions by historians of religion is how
our exceptional psalmist reconceptualized the nature of Yahweh’s judicial au-
thority: it is so very vast that it extends even to the realms of the divine council.
Divine Mercy: Psalm 103 as Representational

We end with divine mercy. For what is a judge if he cannot grant mercy? An unre-
lenting judge who sees all can forever find legal fault. Just ask Job. The eloquence
of Psalm 103, with its economy of words and heartfelt poetry (“the most soaring
lyric in the Psalter,” says Jacobson [2014a: 769]), can stand as representative (cf.
Exod 34:9; Mic 7:18–20; Ps 78:38–39; Neh 9:29–31; Dan 9:9–10).185 Yahweh, the
hymn proclaims, is to be praised from one’s very depth of being (nepeš; bĕkol
qĕrābîm), mindful of the “benefits” that Yahweh has accomplished on one’s be-
half (gĕmûlāyw). They are articulated as follows:
[Yahweh is] the one who forgives all your offenses,

who heals all your diseases.
Who redeems your life from the Pit,

Who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy [ḥesed wĕraḥămîm] . . .
Yahweh is he who executes just rulings [ʿōśēh ṣĕdāqôt],

[Enacts] ordinances [mišpāṭîm] for all who are oppressed.
He made his ways known to Moses,

His deeds to the children of Israel.
Yahweh is merciful and gracious [raḥûm wĕḥannûn],

Slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love [rab-ḥāsed].
He does not always legally contend [yārîb],186

Nor does he harbor a grievance forever.187
He does not deal with us according to our sins,

Nor does he requite us according to our offenses.
For as the heavens are high above the earth,

So great is his steadfast love [ḥesed] toward those who fear him.
As distant as the east is from the west [lit. “the rising from the setting” (of
the sun)],
So far has he distanced our transgressions from us.
As a father has compassion on his children,

So Yahweh has compassion for those who fear him.
For He knows how we are formed;

He is mindful that we are but dust. (Ps 103:3–4, 6–14)
A few lines later in the psalm, Yahweh is celebrated as king with a heavenly
throne and a universal kingdom (Ps 103:19, 22b). Thus we end our study
of Yahweh as judge as we began (see pp. 513–521), by reflecting on how the
ancients commonly looked to a royal framework for justice. Yet, remark-
ably, our psalmist does not concentrate on a royal metaphor or even a royal
ideal when he talks of Yahweh’s mercy. The only mention of a crown is that
of Yahweh’s mercy gracing the head of those he redeems (mĕʿaṭṭĕrēkî ḥesed
wĕraḥămîm; Ps 103:4). Instead of a royal judge, our psalmist turns to the image
of Yahweh as a father who is compassionate toward his children, a creator-
father, one who knows the fragile nature of human “formation” (Ps 103:13–14;
cf. Ps 136:13–16). The parental metaphors of Yahweh as a caring father that
we looked at earlier (see Chapter Eight, pp. 479–482) come flooding back, yet
here with judicial overtones. We are again reminded that Yahweh is “father of
orphans and the one who provides justice [dayyān] for widows” (Ps 68:6 [Eng
68:5]). Moreover, Yahweh’s mercy is extended to all the children of Israel who
revere him.
The vast extent of Yahweh’s mercy is emphasized here as much as the vast ex-
tent of his justice was emphasized in Psalm 82. In Psalm 103 Yahweh’s patient
mercy abounds in magnitude (raḥûm wĕḥannûn yhwh/ʾerek ʾappayim wĕrab-
ḥāsed; Ps 103:8). The height of the heavens marks the expanse of his love. The
distance from east to west marks the gulf that this merciful judge puts between
his people and the offenses that prove their guilt (Ps 103:11–12). The questions
of justiciable offense and guilt here are not in doubt. They are acknowledged,
but only to illustrate how the magistrate of mercy lays them aside (Ps 103:10).
For the psalmist, such mercy exists alongside justice. Yahweh is still proclaimed
as executing just rulings and ordinances—with Moses highlighted once again
(Ps 103:6–7a). The notion that God does not always (or forever) legally contend
(yārîb) implies that he can indeed file his rîb lawsuits, as we saw earlier, using
Micah 6:1–8 as a prime example. Yet when merciful, Yahweh sets aside his legal
rights.
Mercy in the Extreme: The Story of Jonah and the Ninevites

It is a sad state of affairs when the intent of a serious author is distorted so com-
pletely as to obliterate any trace of his original purpose for writing. I am thinking,
of course, of the reception history of the book of Jonah. Most non-specialists
can readily tell the story of a whale (that never existed) without any hint of the
serious topic at hand. To give the book of Jonah its due, it should be treated as “a
conceptual treatise on the essence of justice,” aligned more with the books of Job
and Qoheleth than with the prophetic twelve with which it is grouped (Levine
2002: 172).188 More specifically, the book explores the limits of mercy rather than
the execution of retributive justice, for the repentant Ninevites at no point pro-
vide any restitution to those whom they were guilty of victimizing.
Why Nineveh?
Understanding the role of Nineveh provides the interpretive key to the book of
Jonah. The book begins with God’s first words charging Jonah to “arise, go to
Nineveh” (Jon 1:2) and ends with God’s last words admonishing Jonah for failing
to understand his mercy to Nineveh (Jon 4:11). Scholars often situate the book of
Jonah in the post-exilic period, referencing especially its concern about foreigners
(sailors and Ninevites) against the backdrop of xenophobia on display in passages
such as Ezra 9–10 and Nehemiah 13:23–25 (cf. Isa 56:1–8).189 This is very sensible,
although the Neo-Assyrian city of Nineveh was so well known and so paradigmatic
that it would have resonated for any first-millennium BCE audience. As Sasson
(1990: 70) notes, “Nineveh’s reputation as a center of savage power is reason enough
for Jonah to have made out of it a paradigm for utter wickedness reprieved by utter
mercy.” Sadly, Sasson’s correct analysis here is in the minority, with few interpreters
probing the depth of this reputation for a key to the meaning of the book.
At the outset, the author of the book highlights “wickedness” (rāʿâ) as the pri-
mary descriptor of Nineveh, apart from its “greatness,” and it is the wickedness
that prompts God to act (Jon 1:2). Once Jonah is redirected on his mission, the
message he conveys to the great city is solely that of a definitive judgment or-
acle (Jon 3:4). The Ninevites’ wickedness (Jon 3:8, 10) is implicitly the underlying
reason for Jonah’s consternation. The book of Jonah is not alone in its charac-
terization of Nineveh as paradigmatically wicked. Nahum’s “oracle concerning
Nineveh” (maśśāʾ nînĕwēh) gives clear evidence of the hatred felt by certain
Yahwists/Judeans toward the Assyrians. The imprecatory language looks for-
ward to divine judgment against “the bloody city” (ʿîr dāmîm; Nah 3:1) whose
“unrelenting evil” (rāʿâ tāmîd) has allowed no escape (Nah 3:19). Isaiah 37:11
has the rab šāqēh of Sennacherib brag to Hezekiah that the Assyrians have a
well-known reputation for annihilating their enemies (√ḥrm). Sennacherib
himself, according to the Chronicler, speaks of the “utter destruction” (√ḥrm)
Figure 9.2 Assyrian depictions of violence done by Aššurbanipal’s troops to his

Elamite enemies.
Drawings from Austen Layard’s 1882 Nineveh and Babylon: A Narrative of a Second Expedition to
Assyria During the Years 1849, 1850, & 1851.
wreaked by Neo-Assyrian armies (2 Chr 32:14). To these biblical references, we

can add a substantial amount of Neo-Assyrian war propaganda in text and ico-
nography that attests to atrocities that included beheadings, flaying, impaling,
bodily mutilations, and maiming. In contrast to the biblical narratives, these hei-
nous portrayals are not caricatures drawn by their detractors but a part of of-
ficial Assyrian record-keeping. Consider Figure 9.2. In the upper register two
naked men are being staked to the ground with their legs spread apart. Two
Assyrian executioners bending over them with knives flay them (alive, according
to Layard).190 To their right a soldier carries away a decapitated head. Below one
finds a bound prisoner of war whose head is held by the beard by one soldier
and with tongs by another as he is being decapitated. On the lowest register of
this scene, a bound prisoner of war is held to the ground as an Assyrian soldier
tears out his tongue. Layard writes about an adjacent scene not visible here: “The
bleeding heads of the slain were tied round the necks of the living who seemed
reserved for still more barbarous tortures.”191
Paralleling the pictorial evidence are inscriptions from Neo-Assyrian kings
(e.g., Aššurnasirpal II, Shalmaneser III, Tiglath- Pileser III, Sennacherib,
Esarhaddon, Aššurbanipal) who brag of their victories at war, including acts of
torture. Granted, the texts we are dealing with are stereotypical. Consider the fol-
lowing two representative examples from Aššurnasirpal II (883–859 BCE) and
Sennacherib (704–681 BCE), respectively.192
I burnt 3,000 captives from them. . . . I captured alive [PN] their city ruler.
I made a pile of their corpses. I burnt their adolescent boys (and) girls. I flayed
[PN] their city ruler (and) draped his skin over the wall of the city [GN]. . . .
I felled 50 of their fighting-men with the sword, burnt 200 captives from
them. . . . I burnt many captives from them. I captured many troops alive: from
some I cut off their arms (and) hands; from others I cut off their noses, ears,
(and) extremities. I gouged out the eyes of many troops. I made one pile of the
living (and) one of heads. I hung their heads on trees around the city. I burnt
their adolescent boys [and] girls.193
I cut their throats like lambs, I cut off their precious lives (as one cuts) a string.
Like the many waters of a storm, I made (the contents of) their gullets and en-
trails run down upon the wide earth. . . . (Their) testicles I cut off, and tore out
their privates like the seeds of cucumbers.194
Jonah’s Justified Position

In short, Jonah’s refusal to extend mercy to the Assyrians is well justified. He is
not being narcissistic or petty, as some have proposed. The primary concern of
the book of Jonah is not what scholars often suggest (e.g., unfulfilled prophecy,
to show the possibility of repenting, to encourage repentance among Judeans,
to encourage missionary activity to gentiles, to condemn xenophobia). Rather,
the main question it poses is one of theodicy: What is the extent of mercy? Can
mercy be extended to an extreme such that it would apply even to the most hei-
nous of actions—with Neo-Assyrian “wickedness” (rāʿâ) as the evidence sub-
mitted for trial? If we can be anachronistic, the question posed is the ancient
equivalent of war crimes trials, where to extend mercy to those who committed
atrocities does an injustice to their victims. Jonah is angry (Jon 4:1) and has “a
right to be angry” (cf. 4:4). Consider Yahweh’s question in Jonah 4:4. If the C
stem of the root yṭb in Jonah 4:4 (hahêṭēb ḥārâ lāk) refers to a judicial right (“Do
you have a right to be angry?”; cf. Jer 7:5–6), the answer to Yahweh’s question is
“Yes!”195 The Ninevites may have repented of their actions, yet they have pro-
vided no restitution to the victims (and how could they?) that a court could deem
an appropriate punishment.
Jonah is incensed at the very idea of extending mercy to such perpetrators
of wickedness. From a judicial standpoint, he is delighted to proclaim a fitting
punishment (“in 40 days Nineveh will be overthrown”; 3:4) as an act of divine re-
tributive justice. For Jonah, the atrocities of the Ninevites are of such severity that
they do not allow him, like Abraham in Genesis 18:22–33, to negotiate to spare
the “great” city if a few righteous people can be found.
Mercy
Ultimately the book of Jonah is about mercy. Mercy, by definition, is judicially
unfair. Yet it is a judge’s prerogative to grant mercy, even mercy that overrides
retributive justice. Yahweh’s final words are “And should I not have compassion
on Nineveh?” (Jon 4:11a). This is the question of the book. When extreme “wick-
edness” is in play, is there a limit to the extension of God’s mercy? The book of
Jonah, in contrast to Qoheleth 12:13–14 and Job 42:5–6, does not resolve the
matter neatly, with Jonah replying positively to Yahweh’s final question. We do
not hear Jonah’s answer. This is intentional.
Yahweh’s position is clear. As absolute judge, he has the prerogative to grant
mercy, and he does indeed grant mercy—for which all who are desperately guilty
and in need of (judicially unfair) mercy give thanks (Ps 25:11; 51:3–7 [Eng 51:1–
5]). It is clear that the intent the author of the book of Jonah is to underscore that
such acts are acts of severe mercy that must be taken with ultimate seriousness.
10
Part Three: Yahweh as the Holy One
Introduction
“God is holy. Herein we touch on that which constitutes the deepest and inner-
most nature of the God of the Old Testament.” In his comprehensive Holiness
in Israel, John G. Gammie (2005: 3) chose this quote by the prolific historian,
theologian, and archaeologist Ernst Sellin to underscore the centrality of divine
holiness.1 And yet Gammie (2005: 72–74) bemoans the lack of attention devoted
to this topic in recent decades by historians of Israelite religion, as divine holi-
ness “has been preempted by other biblical motifs” such as God the divine war-
rior and God the divine suzerain. Gammie’s observation that “the holiness of
God . . . seldom became the object of particular or focused inquiry” is especially
astute now that we have far more cognate data than was available to Sellin in the
1930s. The widespread concept of holiness (qdš) in multiple Northwest Semitic
cultures from the Late Bronze Age forward demands a closer look by historians
of Israelite religion, and not just those interested in priestly understandings of
ritual and cultic holiness.2
Setting the Stage: Northwest Semitic Holy Gods
While endeavoring “to answer the fundamental question of what a deity was
considered to be” in the ancient Near East (and especially in the Ugaritic texts
and the Hebrew Bible), Mark Smith (2001b: 83) came up with a short list of key
traits that includes holiness. Smith (2001b: 93) writes: “Deities were generally
marked for holiness as can be inferred from the general designation of deities
as ‘holy ones.’ ” Sacred places “are marked and demarcated for holiness, and di-
vinity is perceived to partake fully of holiness.” The Ugaritic deity ʾIlu is called
“the Holy One” (qdš), as is the dual-named deity Qudšu-wa-ʾAmrur, who per-
sonally attends the goddess ʾAthiratu.3 Baʿlu may be referred to as “the Holy One
against River,” yet the text is quite broken (bʿl qdš-m bnhr; KTU 1.179.17 = RS
92.2016.17).4 A Syro-Anatolian goddess known as “the Holy One” (qdšt, con-
ventionally rendered as Qedeshet) had a substantial presence in New Kingdom
Egypt. Her linguistic and iconographic cognate (qdš, conventionally rendered as

Qudshu) is well attested in the Northern and Southern Levant of the Late Bronze
Age. Both holy goddesses are regularly depicted with a lion.5 At Iron Age Arslan
Tash, the deity Hawron/Horon (ḥwrn) is referred to as “the lord of holiness”
(bʿl q[d]š).6 In fifth-century BCE Phoenicia, ʿAštart is called “holy queen” (mlkt
qdšt).7 ʾEshmun bears the epithet “holy prince” (šr qdš).8 In ancient Israelite re-
ligion, we read of “the Holy One” (qādôš) coming from Mt. Paran, parallel to
Eloah coming from Teman (Hab 3:3). A reference to a Holy Warrior likely occurs
in a late ninth-/early eighth-century BCE inscription from Kuntillet ʿAjrud
(discussed later).
At Late Bronze Age Ugarit the plurality of the gods can be referred to as “the
sons of the Holy One” (bn qdš).9 A reference in the fourteenth-century BCE
Amarna texts to the gods of Byblos being holy (DINGIRmeš urugubla qadišū; EA
137.31–32; see Rainey 1996a: 2:291; 2015: 698–699) resonates with the tenth-
century BCE Phoenician Yaḥimilk inscription that refers to “the assembly of
the holy gods of Byblos” (mpḥrt ʾl gbl qdšm; KAI 4, lines 4–5, 7; cf. KAI 14.9,
22). A seventh-century BCE incantation plaque from Arslan Tash mentions
“the assembly of all the Holy Ones” (dr kl qdšn) alongside “all the sons of the
gods” (kl bn ʾlm; KAI 27.11–12). This shared cultural understanding of divine
beings being holy is also found in Israelite psalmody (Ps 89:6, 8 [Eng 89:5, 7];
see text immediately following) and in ancient lore proclaiming that “myriads
of holy ones” (ribĕbōt qōdeš) form Yahweh’s military retinue (Deut 33:2).10 Such
understandings about “holy ones” are enduring as attested by much later usage
(cf. Zech 14:5; Job 5:1; 15:15; Dan 8:13). Aramaic literary traditions concur (e.g.,
qaddîš/qaddîšîn in Daniel 4:5–6, 10, 14–15, 20 [Eng 4:8–9, 13, 17–18, 23]; 5:11;
7:18, 21–22, 25, 27 and qdšn in Ahiqar, TAD 3, C1.1.79).
As for sacred space, Ugaritic ʾIlu is worshipped in the holy sanctuary of ʾIlu
(qdš ʾil; KTU 1.119.6), as is Baʿlu in his holy residence (qdš bʿl; KTU 119.33′).
Psalm 46 speaks of (El/Yahweh) Elyon’s holiness with respect to his dwelling
(qĕdōš miškĕnê ʿelyôn; Ps 46:5 [Eng 46:4]),11 as does Psalm 24:3 of Yahweh’s holy
mountain (har yhwh//mĕqôm qodšô). Other biblical traditions describe how
Yahweh brought his people to his “holy encampment” (nĕwēh qodeš) and his holy
sanctuary (miqdāš) (Exod 15:13, 17). Psalm 68:6 (Eng 68:5) will locate Yahweh’s
familial and judicial actions in his holy dwelling (bimĕʿôn qodšô).
Epigraphically, the use of qdš to designate cultic objects is attested as early as
the eighth century BCE and perhaps the late ninth century BCE (more later on
the reading qšdš at Kuntillet ʿAjrud). The full writing of qdš is attested at Hazor
(on the rim and exterior of a late eighth-century BCE bowl [stratum V]), at
Beersheva (on a late eighth-century BCE krater), at Arad (on a body sherd), and
at Philistine Tel Miqne (on four seventh-century BCE storage jars).12 In biblical
traditions, one of the earliest material consecrations appears in the account of
Micah’s mother “solemnly consecrating (haqdēš hiqdaštî) silver for Yahweh” that
in turn will be made into cultic objects (Judg 17:3).13
The Centrality of Yahweh’s Holiness
The attributes of Yahweh regularly overlap, and thus it should come as no sur-
prise that the Divine Warrior, Father, King, and Judge we looked at earlier was
also understood to be the Holy One. A small sampling of biblical passages will
suffice to illustrate the point. Yahweh of Armies is exalted by justice, “the Holy
God who shows himself holy” (hāʾēl haqqādôš niqdāš) by his righteousness (Isa
5:16). Yahweh is “Father of orphans and judge-advocate of widows, the God who
[resides] in his holy habitation” (bimĕʿôn qodšô; Ps 68:6 [Eng 68:5]). Yahweh, the
Mighty King, lover of justice, is extolled: “Holy is He” (qādôš hûʾ; Ps 99:4–5; cf.
Isa 43:15). Yahweh (the Judge) proclaims that when he executes his judgments,
he is manifesting his holiness (baʿăśôtî bah šĕpāṭîm wĕniqdaštî bah; Ezek 28:22).
Returning again to Gammie’s critique, the motif of Yahweh as holy should not
take a backseat to any of his other attributes. Divine holiness was central to how
Yahweh was understood and portrayed, from our earliest to our latest texts.
Yahweh as Holy: Non-Cultic Understandings
The fullest articulation of divine holiness in the Hebrew Bible is found in the
cultic traditions about purity (moral, ethical, and social) that have come down
to us in the P and H tradents (discussed later). This is especially true for H, as is
reflected in its very name, the Holiness Code. We cannot help but be influenced
by these formative witnesses. Yet we run the risk of being mono-focused (and
anachronistic) in understanding the diachronic development of the concept
of holiness if we privilege these perspectives. It is important first to look at
traditions outside of P and H, and especially those that seem to be earlier. Many
of these traditions are surprisingly non-cultic in nature (hence our subheading).
Yet even here we have a dire need for cultically managing holiness, as we will see
in the various Ark traditions.
Holiness as Awesome Power
The notion of Yahweh being holy is found in our earliest biblical traditions.
As noted previously, among the many tales we have about the divine war-
rior marching from the south/southeast, the poet of Habakkuk 3:2–3 chose to
accentuate “the Holy One” (qādôš) coming from Mt. Paran, who causes him fright
(yārēʾtî).14 Though the parallel line refers to Eloah, overall biblical lore (including
elsewhere in Habakkuk 3:2, 8, 18, 19) consistently looks to Yahweh as the Divine
Warrior on the march. Deuteronomy 33:2 presents a fiery Yahweh coming from
Seir with “holy ones” accompanying him as combatants (see Lewis 2013b).
Yahweh’s Holiness: Exodus 15, Psalm 68, and Psalm 89
Three additional texts that preserve early lore mentioning divine holiness
(Exodus 15, Psalm 68, Psalm 89) are most instructive. Exodus 15, one of our very
oldest texts, is a parade example of how the Hebrew Bible preserves divine war-
rior traditions about Yahweh, and has been treated as such in other chapters.15
And yet, illustrating Gammie’s critique, the many historians of religion who
have pored over Yahweh’s militancy have rarely, if ever, explored the fact that
Exodus 15 also mentions holiness three times. Yahweh, proclaims the poet, is
“feared in holiness” (neʾdār baqqōdeš; Exod 15:11), a god who creates holy space
(nĕwēh qodeš; miqdāš) to which he guides his people (Exod 15:13, 17).
Yah[weh] is my might and stronghold, ʿozzî wĕzimrāt yâ

May he be my salvation . . . yĕhî-lî lîšûʿâ . . .

terrible in strength; neʾdārî bakkōaḥ

Shattered the enemy . . . tirʿaṣ ʾôyēb . . .
You sent forth your fury . . . tĕšallaḥ ḥărōnĕkā . . .
Who is like you among the gods, Yahweh? mî-kāmōkâ bāʾēlim yhwh
Who is like you, feared in holiness? mî kāmōkâ neʾdār baqqōdeš
Terrible of radiance, worker of wonder. nôrāʾ tĕhillōt ʿōśēh peleʾ
You stretched out your right hand, nāṭîtā yĕmînĕkā

The underworld swallowed them. tiblāʿēmô ʾāreṣ
You faithfully led nāḥîtā bĕḥasdĕkā

the people whom you redeemed, ʿam-zû gāʾāltā
You guided in your might nēhaltā bĕʿozzĕkā
to your holy encampment. ʾel-nĕwēh qodšekā
The peoples heard, they shudder, šāmĕʿû ʿammîm yirgāzûn

Horror seized the inhabitants of Philistia. ḥîl ʾāḥaz yōšĕbê pĕlāšet
They were dismayed ʾāz nibhălû

the clans of Edom, ʾallûpê ʾĕdôm
the rams of Moab ʾêlê môʾāb
seized by terror, yōʾḥăzēmô rāʿad
melted—all Canaan’s inhabitants. nāmōgû kōl yōšĕbê kĕnāʿan
You fell on them tippōl ʿălêhem

[with] terror and dread, ʾêmātâ wāpaḥad
By your great power bigdōl zĕrôʿăkā
they were still as stone. yiddĕmû kāʾāben
While your people passed over, Yahweh, ʿad-yaʿăbōr ʿammĕkā yhwh

While your people whom you created passed over, ʿad-yaʿăbōr ʿam-zû qānîtā
You brought them, you planted them tĕbiʾēmô wĕtiṭṭāʿēmô

in the mount of your heritage. bĕhar naḥălātĕkā
The dais of your throne mākôn lĕšibtĕkā

which you made, Yahweh. pāʿaltā yhwh
The holy sanctuary, Yahweh miqdāš ʾădōnāy
which your hands created. kônĕnû yādêkā
May Yahweh reign/Yahweh, he will reign yhwh yimlōk

forever and ever. lĕʿōlām wāʿed
(Exod 15:2, 6, 7b, 11–18)
The date, structure, and genre of Psalm 68 are notoriously difficult.16 The psalm
has been dated extremely early by some based on Ugaritic parallels (cf. Albright’s
date of the thirteenth through tenth centuries BCE) and extremely late by
others based on apocalyptic themes (e.g., Gerstenberger and Cook). Where
some scholars argue that the psalm is made up of short independent strands
(cf. Albright’s thirty incipits), other scholars (e.g., Tate, Fokkelman) find themes
and structures pointing toward a coherent whole. Suggestions for the psalm’s
genre include cantata, hymn, prayer, procession liturgy, and victory song.
Even those who date the psalm late acknowledge early elements that have
been redacted (e.g., the reference to Mt. Bashan in Ps 68:16–17 [Eng 68:15–16]
as God’s dwelling woven into later Zion traditions). Portions of Psalm 68 are
regularly placed within the corpus of archaic Hebrew poetry. Of note is the ex-
tremely close wording of Psalm 68:8–11 (Eng 68:7–10) and the archaic Judges
5:4–5 (cf. Deut 33:2–3).17 As with Exodus 15, this poem celebrates the military
side of Yahweh—here as a charioteer and storm god on the march—while repeat-
edly mentioning the holiness of his residences.
May Yahweh arise, yāqûm yhwh*

may his enemies be scattered; yāpûṣû ʾôyĕbāyw
may his foes flee before him. wĕyānûsû mĕśanʾāyw
mippānāyw
As smoke is blown away kĕhinnādēp18 ʿāšān tindōp

So may you [Yahweh] blow them away;
As wax melts before the fire, kĕhimmēs dônag mippĕnê-ʾēš
So may the wicked perish before Yahweh. yōʾbĕdû rĕšāʿîm mippĕnê
yhwh* . . .
Sing to Yahweh, sing praise to his name, šîrû la-yhwh*

zammĕrû šĕmô
Extol him who rides through desert lands sōllû lārōkēb bāʿărābôt
[alt: who rides on the clouds] [alt: ʿărāpôt]19
—his name is Yah[weh]— bĕ-yah20 šĕmô
and rejoice before him. wĕʿilzû lĕpānāyw
Father to orphans, Defender of widows, ʾăbî yĕtômîm wĕdayyan

ʾalmānôt
is Yahweh in his holy dwelling. yhwh* bimĕʿôn qodšô
Yahweh restores the lonely to their homes, yhwh* môšîb yĕḥîdîm baytâ
he brings forth prisoners . . .21 môṣîʾ ʾăsîrîm bakkôšārôt . . .
O Yahweh, when you marched before your people, yhwh* bĕṣēʾtĕkā lipnê
ʿammekā
when you marched through the wilderness, bĕṣaʿdĕkā bîšîmôn
the earth quaked, ʾereṣ rāʿāšâ

yea, the heavens rained, ʾap-šāmayim nāṭĕpû
before Yahweh, the One of Sinai,22 mippĕnê yhwh* zeh sînay
before Yahweh, the God of Israel . . . mippĕnê yhwh* ʾĕlōhê
yiśrāʾēl . . .
Yahweh’s chariotry [numbers] in myriads rekeb yhwh* ribbōtayim

Thousands upon thousands; ʾalpê šinʾān23
Yahweh comes from Sinai into his holy sanctuary . . . yhwh bāʾ missînay
baqqōdeš . . . 24
Blessed be Yahweh bārûk yhwh25

Day by day he supports us, yôm yôm yaʿămos-lānû
El,26 our deliverance. hāʾēl yĕšûʿātēnû
El is for us, a God of deliverance, hāʾēl lānû ʾēl lĕmôšāʿôt

Yahweh [provides] escape from death . . . wĕla-yhwh27 lammāwet
tôṣāʾôt . . .
They see your processions, O Yahweh rāʾû hălîkôtêkā yhwh*

the processions of my God,
my King into the holy sanctuary . . . hălîkôt ʾēlî malkî baqqōdeš . . .
Summon your power, O Yahweh; ṣiwwāh yhwh* ʿuzzekā28

[show us] your strength, O Yahweh ʿûzzâ yhwh*
as you have done before. zû pāʿaltā lānû
From your temple above Jerusalem, mēhêkālekā ʿal-yĕrûšālā(y)im

Where kings bring you tribute. lĕkā yôbîlû mĕlākîm šāy
O kingdoms of the earth, sing to Yahweh, mamlĕkôt hāʾāreṣ šîrû

la-yhwh*
sing praise to Yahweh, zammĕrû yhwh29
to Him who rides the ancient skies above, lārōkēb bišmê šĕmê-qedem
who thunders with his powerful voice. hēn yittēn bĕqôlô qôl ʿōz
Proclaim the power of Yahweh, tĕnû ʿōz la-yhwh

whose majesty is over Israel, ʿal-yiśrāʾēl gaʾăwātô
whose power is in the skies. wĕʿuzzô bašĕḥāqîm
You are awesome, O Yahweh, [as you march] nôrāʾ yhwh* mimmiqdāšêkā
from your holy places;
El of Israel— ʾēl yiśrāʾēl
He gives power and strength to his people. hûʾ nōtēn ʿōz
wĕtaʿăṣumôt lāʿām
Praise be to Yahweh! bārûk yhwh*
(Ps 68:2–3, 5–9, 18, 20–21, 25, 29–30, 33–36

[Eng 68:1–2, 4–8, 17, 19–20, 24, 28–29, 32–35])
Similarly, Psalm 89, part of which is archaic in origin,30 professes:
The heavens praise your wonders, O Yahweh, wĕyôdû šāmayim

pilʾăkā yhwh
Your faithfulness too in the assembly of holy beings ʾap-ʾĕmûnātĕkā biqĕhal
qĕdōšîm
For who in the skies can equal Yahweh, kî mî baššaḥaq

yaʿărōk lĕyhwh
Can compare with Yahweh among the divine beings? yidmeh lĕyhwh bibĕnê ʾēlîm
El, the greatly dreaded in the council of holy beings, ʾēl naʿărāṣ bĕsôd-qĕdōšîm
Held in awe by all around him? . . . rabbâ wĕnôrāʾ
ʿal-kol-sĕbîbāyw
Indeed! Yahweh is our shield, kî lĕyhwh māginnēnû

The Holy One of Israel our King! wĕliqdôš yiśrāʾēl
malkēnû
(Psalm 89:6–8, 19 [Eng 89:5–7, 18])
All three of these passages—with their language of Yahweh being “feared in holi-
ness” (neʾdār baqqōdeš), “greatly dreaded in the council of holy beings” (ʾēl naʿărāṣ
bĕsôd-qĕdōšîm),31 and “held in awe” (nôrāʾ)—affirm that to say that Yahweh is
holy is to say that he is dynamically and terrifyingly powerful. The poet of Exodus
15 uses a startling number of different words to depict how Yahweh’s holy power
and fury (ʿoz, zimrâ, kōaḥ, yāmîn, ḥārōn, qōdeš, zĕrôʿa) is of such magnitude that
it occasions fear, terror, and dread (neʾdār [twice], nôrāʾ, rgz, ḥîl, bhl, rāʿad, mwg,
ʾêmātâ, paḥad). The end of Psalm 68 repeats the word ʿoz/ʿuz, “power,” six times
(Ps 68:29, 34–36 [Eng 68:28, 33–35])—together with the synonym taʿăṣumôt—
to describe “awesome” (nôrāʾ) warrior Yahweh, here portrayed as a thundering
storm god. As the awe-inspiring terror of a holy Yahweh (nôrāʾ//neʾdār) inspires
the poet of Exodus 15 to describe him as an incomparable “worker of surpassing/
extraordinary wonder” (ʿōśēh peleʾ; Exod 15:11), so too the author of Psalm 89
speaks of “terrifying awe” (nôrāʾ//naʿărāṣ), with the heavens praising Yahweh’s
incomparable “wonders” (peleʾ; Ps 89:6, 8 [Eng 89:5, 7]).
In all of these passages, holiness, rather than being about cultic purity (i.e.,
cleanness void of moral, social, and/or ritual pollution), equals a type of incom-
parable power known only to the realm of the gods. Considering the broader
cultural context, it should occasion no surprise that ʾIlu the Holy One is icon-
ographically and textually represented as Bull ʾIlu (ṯr ʾil), nor that Yahweh the
Holy One has both bull and lion associations, nor that the goddess Qudshu’s
(Qedeshet’s) symbolic animal is that of a powerful lion. When the Phoenician
king Eshmunazor contemplates potential violators of his tomb, he invokes “the
holy gods” (ʾlnm hqdšm) “to deliver them up and to cut them and their seed off
forever” (KAI 14.21–22). Holy gods are powerful gods. Theirs is a lethal power
appropriately and respectfully feared and dreaded. In Exodus 15 and Psalm 89,
Yahweh’s power is superlative, incomparably superior even among the gods (ʾēlim;
Exod 15:11//bĕnê ʾēlîm; Ps 89:7 [Eng 89:6]) who, being called qĕdōšîm (Ps 89:8
[Eng 89:7]), have their own holy power. Understanding that holy gods are pow-
erful gods is foundational for understanding ancient Israel’s portrayal of war as a
holy enterprise. Note how troops “consecrated themselves for war” (qaddĕšû ʿālêhā
milḥāmâ; Jer 6:4; cf. Deut 23:15 [Eng 23:14]). In other words, soldiers used cultic
rites “to make themselves holy/powerful/godlike” as they prepared for battle.32
Excursus: A Holy Warrior at Kuntillet ʿAjrud?
The celebrated late ninth- /early eighth-century BCE inscriptions from

Kuntillet ʿAjrud (Ḥorvat Teman) ground our understanding of Israelite reli-
gion with datable epigraphic data from a southeastern site. (See Chapter Six,
pp. 236–241, 281–282; Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.) The plaster fragment
documented in Figure 10.1, Figure 10.2, and Figure 10.3 (= Meshel 2012: in-
scription 4.2) (hereafter KA 4.2) stands out as truly remarkable. It represents
a militaristic wilderness theophany couched within what has been called “the
oldest known Hebrew poem” outside of the Hebrew Bible.33 I have treated
this inscription at length elsewhere—including its language (Hebrew, not
Phoenician), script, and contested readings—and thus my discussion here
will remain brief (see Lewis 2020).
KA 4.2 clearly belongs with those texts that describe a divine warrior whose
advent causes the travail of nature. That we have a militaristic context is clear
from the double mention of the word mlḥ[mh]; that we have nature dramati-
cally responding is certain from the mention of the earth quaking (rʿš), a verb
used in similar contexts to describe Yahweh’s march from the southeast (Judg
5:4; Ps 68:9 [Eng 68:8]; cf. too 2 Sam 22:8//Ps 18:8 [Eng 18:7]; Isa 29:6). In ad-
dition to these two motifs, the text may refer to the notion of “God dawning”
(wbzrḥ ʾl), a motif that is paralleled in the archaic poetry of Deuteronomy
33:2, where Yahweh comes from Sinai and “dawns” from Seir (yhwh missînay
bāʾ//zāraḥ miśśēʿîr).34 The concept of mountains melting and peaks being
crushed (wymsn hrm wydkn pbnm) resonates with biblical traditions about
Yahweh as a storm god on the march (e.g., Ps 97:5; Mic 1:4; cf. Ps 68:3 [Eng
68:2]; Hab 3:6).
Figure 10.1 The ninth-/early eighth-century BCE Kuntillet ʿAjrud Plaster
Inscription 4.2 that describes a militaristic wilderness theophany.
Figure 10.2 Kuntillet ʿAjrud Plaster Inscription 4.2, including a smaller

Figure 10.3 A composite drawing of Kuntillet ‘Ajrud Inscription 4.2 layering

the information of six different photographs.
Courtesy Theodore J. Lewis; Drawings by Marina Escolano-Poveda.
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, Plaster Fragment 4.2

(1) . . . šnt* . . .35
(2) . . . brʿš.wbzrḥ. [or wbyrḥ] ʾl b[ʾš] [y]hw[h]* . . .
(3) . . . r.wymsn. hrm. wydkn. pbnm
(4) . . . [ ]‌ʾrṣ.qšdš.ʿl˚y.ʾt˚n˚/m˚. ḥz.kr/s[
Or: . . . [m/b]ʾrṣ.qšdš.ʿl˚y.ʾt˚n˚/m˚. ḥz.kr/s
(5) . . . ° kn l°brk. bʿl. bym. mlḥ[mh] . . .
(6) . . . [lhl]l šm ʾl. bym. mlḥ[mh] . . .
. . . second time/years* . . .
. . . with/during the earthquake, when El shines forth [or buffets?] [with
fire?]; [Ya]hwe[h]‌* . . .
. . . The mountains melt, the hills are crushed . . .
. . . earth. The Holy One at/against the ever-flowing waters.36 He gazes like . . .
Or: [From/In] the land of Qadesh at the ever-flowing stream he
looked upon [with favor]
. . . ?? to bless the [war-]lord [El? Yahweh?] on a day of war . . .
. . . [to prai]se the Name of El on a day of wa[r]‌. . .
What is striking for our present concerns is how El at Ḥorvat Teman seems,
at first glance, to be portrayed as “the Holy One” (q[š!]dš),37 a direct parallel
to what we read in Habakkuk 3:3 about Eloah//the Holy One (qādôš) coming
from Teman//Mt. Paran.
Eloah came from Teman, ĕlôah mittêmān yābôʾ

Qadosh [the Holy One] from Mt. Paran . . . qādôš mēhar-pāʾrān . . .
The Identity of the Holy Warrior at Kuntillet ʿAjrud

Assuming the reconstructed reading of qdš can be sustained (as no other
plausible solution has arisen for the enigmatic qšdš), the obvious question
pertains to the identity of the Holy One (unless we are dealing with a GN
Qadesh).38 The overall context of the main fragment would seem to men-
tion two distinct Canaanite gods (El in line 2 and Baal in line 5)—unless the
words ʾl and bʿl are the regular nouns “god” and “lord”—to which one can
add the presence of El via his (hypostatic?) Name (šm ʾl) mentioned in line
6. According to the editors of the final report, KA 4.2 also includes a second
smaller fragment mentioning [Ya]hwe[h]‌([y]hw[h]; Figure 10.2).39 We are
left with two options. Either the mention of El and Baal in our text refers to
independent Canaanite deities worshipped at Kuntillet ʿAjrud or these two
terms are indicators of the syncretistic nature of worship at Kuntillet ʿAjrud,
where overall a single deity, Yahweh, was prominent. The script of KA 4.2 is
Phoenician (cf. too inscriptions 4.1–4.5 in Meshel 2012), which could make
one favor El or Baal.40 Yet the language of KA 4.2 is Hebrew (Aḥituv, Eshel,
and Meshel 2012: 105, 123–127; McCarter 2000a:173; Lewis 2020), which
could make one favor El, Yahweh, or Baal.
Elsewhere the plaster inscriptions attest to a single male deity only. KA 4.1.1
twice refers to “Yahweh of Teman/the south” ([y]hwh tymn; yhwh hty[mn]). If one
broadens the scope to include all of the inscriptions at Kuntillet ʿAjrud—those
incised in stone (KA 1.1–1.4) and in pottery (KA 2.1–2.9), and those written with
ink on pottery (KA 3.1–3.16)—a fuller divine profile emerges. As for male divinity,
apart from KA 4.2, only Yahweh occurs, both as an independent proper name as well
as a theophoric element in personal names.41 If we situate KA 4.2’s mention of ʾl, šm
ʾl, and bʿl within this profile, a striking observation is apparent: apart from KA 4.2,
neither El nor Baʿal is attested anywhere else with independent divine names.42 As
for onomastica, Baal never occurs as a theophoric element. This seems striking.
For his part, El does occur in a single instance (ʾlyw), yet it likely represents what
Rainer Albertz calls an “equating name” meaning “El is Yahweh.”43
What then are we to make of the divine profile in KA 4.2 when it is situated
within the other textual references at the site? Without any other attestation of
Baal (either in KA inscription 4.4.1 or in the onomastica), it is preferable—due to

synonymous parallelism—to see bʿl in line 6 as a reference to El as (war-) lord. At this
juncture, two options remain: either KA 4.2 is an El-centric text that represents an
additional, more pluralistic viewpoint at the site alongside Yahwism, or KA 4.2,
like all other inscriptions at the site, refers to Yahweh as god (ʾl) and lord (bʿl).
If our text reads [Ya]hwe[h]‌in line 2, we have a game-changer for defining
the divine profile of KA 4.2. Rather than leaning toward a pluralistic option
(i.e., KA 4.2 as an El-centric text in contrast to the Yahwism documented else-
where at the site), it seems best to see KA 4.2 as incorporating Yahweh in a way
that complements the Yahwism elsewhere at the site. If our text is poetic, and
if the placement of the smaller fragment is correct, then [Ya]hwe[h] in the B
line may form a poetic couplet with El in the A line, as suggested by Shmuel
Aḥituv and Esther Eshel.44
The presence of a deity known as “the Holy One” at Kuntillet ʿAjrud is pos-
sible only if we posit a scribal mistake. At first glance, reconstructing this deity
here based on the sole foundation of textual criticism seems overly specula-
tive. Yet there is substantial and widespread evidence documenting Yahweh
as “the Holy One” (qdš) elsewhere—in similar contexts of military theopha-
nies, in similar blended El-Yahweh traditions, in similar blended northern-
southern traditions, and during similar chronological periods (eighth
century BCE) (see Lewis 2020). Thus, with the usual cautions, one can assert
that there is a better-than-average likelihood that Yahweh was portrayed as
“the Holy One” (qdš) in KA 4.2’s militaristic wilderness theophany.
Rudolph Otto Once Again
Expressions of holy power (ʿoz, zimrâ, kōaḥ, yāmîn, ḥārōn, qōdeš, zĕrôʿa) and
fear (neʾdār, nôrāʾ, rgz, ḥîl, bhl, rāʿad, mwg, ʾêmātâ, paḥad) remind us of Rudolph
Otto’s theoretical approach to holiness, which we looked at earlier (Chapter
Seven, pp. 337–339, 372. Otto’s notions of the holy-numinous as containing both
fascinans (the irresistibly appealing and alluring) and tremendum (the over-
whelming and even lethal) provided useful ways of thinking about how certain
portions of the Hebrew Bible (especially P, Ezekiel, and Deuteronomy) used the
abstractions of fire and kābôd-radiance to depict divinity.45 Otto’s dual notions
are on full display in Exodus 15, Psalm 68, and Psalm 89. These authors find
Yahweh so irresistibly attractive that they cannot help but break out in praise.
At the same time, the inherent danger of encountering such an awesomely
powerful deity is underscored. Yahweh’s enemies perish, melting as wax before
fire (Ps 68:2–3 [Eng 68:1–2]), and fire is indeed the most dominant symbol of
Yahweh (see Chapter Seven, pp. 344–358). The earth itself quakes at his march,
with only his chosen escaping death (Ps 68:9, 21 [Eng 68:8, 20]). If other gods
and subordinate preternatural beings—that is, the qĕdōšîm who have their own
tremendum—are in dread of Yahweh, “the Holy One” (qādôš),46 how much more
so the human realms (Exod 15:14–15 mentions Philistia, Edom, Moab, and
Canaan), including his own people?
Divine Holiness Turned Benevolent

Remarkably, then, the gods may—should they benevolently so choose—
exercise their holy power on behalf of their chosen people. Thus Bull ʾIlu’s
dual epithet is simultaneously “the Gracious One and the powerfully Holy
One” (lṭpn wqdš), that is, a god of incomparable power who nonetheless is
gracious toward his people.47 Similarly, Yahweh is simultaneously “feared
in holiness” (neʾdār baqqōdeš) as he faithfully leads (nḥh), guides (nhl), and
redeems (gʾl) his people—even bringing them to his “holy encampment”
(nĕwēh qodeš; Exod 15:13), that is, the holy sanctuary (miqdāš) he has estab-
lished to interact with his people (Exod 15:17; cf. Ps 78:54). Yahweh, “the Holy
One of [his people] Israel,” is viewed as “a greatly dreaded deity” (ʾēl naʿărāṣ)
who at the same time is a protective shield (māgēn) for his people (Ps 89:8, 19
[Eng 89:7, 18]). Consider especially the remarkable language used in Psalm
68. Yahweh is the thundering Divine Warrior par excellence who brings death
to his enemies as surely as wax melts in fire. Yet, exults our poet, he is also
Father to the fatherless and Judicial Defender of widows, and is accessible at
his holy dwelling (bimĕʿôn qodšô; Ps 68:6 [Eng 68:5]). Though elsewhere we
hear of the tradition that humans “may not see God and live” (Exod 33:20),
here the people whom God “daily supports” and “delivers” (Ps 68:20–21
[Eng 68:19–20]) are invited to “see” Yahweh as he makes procession into his
holy sanctuary (baqqōdeš). (The Ark as the visible symbol of Yahweh will be
discussed later.)
Two aspects should be summarized as we look toward the continuing biblical
tradition. First, the early-attested incomparable and superlative nature of holy
power will eventually form the backdrop for the theology of God alone as holy
and God as unapproachable (discussed later). Second, the ancient traditions
about the gracious and benevolent exercise of holy power toward humanity will
form the backdrop for God’s invitation for his people—in imitatio Dei, imitation
of the divine—to join him in “being holy as he is holy” (discussed later).
The Song of Hannah: Yahweh the Incomparably Powerful Holy

One Acting on Behalf of the Disadvantaged
A similar early tradition lies behind the Song of Hannah (1 Sam 2:1–10).48 With
beautiful poetic artistry, this thanksgiving song celebrates how Yahweh is a holy
and knowing God who reverses fortunes, especially on behalf of the disadvan-
taged (the weak, the hungry, the barren, the poor, and the needy; 1 Sam 2:4–8).
Such divine care for the underprivileged echoes what we saw with Yahweh as the
ideal judge, and here too the poet praises him as magistrate of the ends of the
earth (yhwh yādîn ʾapsê ʾāreṣ; 1 Sam 2:10).
Similar to the incomparable praises we saw in Exodus 15:11 (mî-
kāmōkâ . . . mî-kāmōkâ . . .) and Psalm 89:7–9 [Eng 89:6–8] (kî mî . . . mî-
kāmōkâ . . .), twice the composer of the Song of Hannah praises Yahweh’s holy
nature as he proclaims his incomparability: “There is no Holy One like Yahweh”
(ʾên qādôš ka-yhwh) . . . “Who is holy like Yahweh?” (mî qādôš ka-yhwh) (1 Sam
2:2, 10).49 This remarkable poem, which seems to have been a model for the
Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55), deserves to be read in full.50
My heart exults in Yahweh; ʿālaṣ libbî ba-yhwh

My horn is exalted in my God. rāmâ qarnî ba-ʾĕlōhāy51
My mouth is enlarged over my enemies;52 rāḥab pî ʿal-ʾôyĕbay

I rejoice in your victory. śāmaḥtî ba-yēšûʿātekā
There is no Holy One like Yahweh; ʾên-qādôš ka-yhwh

There is no Rock like our God. ʾên ṣûr ka-ʾēlōhênû53
Do not multiply haughtiness; ʾal-tarbû gĕbōhâ54

Let not arrogance come from your mouths.55 yēṣēʾ ʿātāq mippîkem
For56 Yahweh is a God of knowledge,57 kî ʾēl dēʿôt yhwh

A God who weighs deeds.58 ʾēl tōkēn ʿălilôt
The bow of the mighty is broken; qešet gibbōrîm ḥattâ59
But the weak gird on strength. wĕnikšālîm ʾāzĕrû ḥāyil
The well-fed hire themselves out for food; śĕbēʿîm balleḥem niśkārû
But the hungry do not ûrĕʿēbîm ḥādēllû ʿōd60
[hire themselves out] anymore.
The barren woman bears seven; ʿăqārâ yālĕdâ šibʿâ

But she who has many children61 languishes. wĕrabbat bānîm ʾumlālâ
Yahweh brings death and makes alive; yhwh mēmît ûmĕḥayyeh

He brings down to Sheol and raises up. môrîd šĕʾôl wayyāʿal62
Yahweh makes poor and makes rich; yhwh môrîš ûmaʿăšîr

He brings low, he also exalts. mašpîl ʾap-mĕrômēm
He raises the poor from the dirt; mēqîm mēʿāpār dāl

From the ash heap he exalts the needy; mēʾašpōt yārîm ʾebyôn63
To make them sit with the nobility of the people, lĕhôšîb ʿim-nĕdîbê ʿam64
He has them inherit a throne of honor. wĕkissēʾ kābôd yanḥilēm
For the pillars of the earth are Yahweh’s;65 kî layhwh mĕṣuqê ʾereṣ
He has set the world upon them. wayyāšet ʿălêhem tēbēl
The feet of his faithful ones he guards; raglê66 ḥăsîdāyw yišmōr

But the wicked are silenced in darkness. ûrĕšāʿîm baḥōšek
yiddāmmû67
For it is not by might that one prevails.68 kî-lōʾ bĕkōaḥ yigbar-ʾîš
As for Yahweh, his adversaries are shattered, yhwh yēḥattû mĕrîbāyw

Who is holy like Yahweh? mî qādôš ka-yhwh69
The Exalted One70 thunders in the heavens; ʿēlî baššāmayim yarʿēm

Yahweh judges the ends of the earth. yhwh yādîn ʾapsê-ʾāreṣ
May he give strength to his king; yitten-ʿōz lĕmalkô

May he exalt71 the horn of his anointed. yārēm qeren mĕšîḥô
(1 Sam 2:1–10)
The Song of Hannah goes beyond Exodus 15 and Psalm 89 in exploring how a
god of incomparable, even thundering (yarʿēm; 1 Sam 2:10) power is accessible.
The poet here does not emphasize dreaded holiness as does Exodus 15, though
in his portrayal holy Yahweh is indeed powerful, as he shatters his adversaries (1
Sam 2:10), breaks weapons of the mighty (1 Sam 2:4), and silences the wicked
(1 Sam 2:9) as he achieves his victory (yēšûʿâ; 1 Sam 2:1). In his depiction of the
many reversals of fortune, it is fascinating how the author—like the poet of Psalm
68:6–7 (Eng 68:5–6)—portrays Yahweh as the compassionate god of family reli-
gion (see Chapter Eight). At the end of the poem, we read of Yahweh judging
(yhwh yādîn), which echoes Yahweh as the one who judicially defends widows
(dayyan ʾalmānôt) in Psalm 68:6 (Eng 68:5). Once again we have overlapping
divine traits. The author saw nothing incoherent about Yahweh being a thun-
dering, judging god of holy power (1 Sam 2:10) while at the same time one who
is intimately concerned with so-called life-cycle events (childbirth, death) and
issues of poverty and deprivation (1 Sam 2:4–8). He also freely blends traditions
of Yahweh as a god of the royal cult (1 Sam 2:10; cf. Chapter Nine) and Yahweh as
creator (1 Sam 2:8).
Two Prophetic Voices from the Eighth Century BCE
“Yahweh You Shall Regard as Holy”: Isaiah 8:11–15

Two eighth-century BCE prophetic passages, one from Isaiah, the other from
Hosea, add to our understanding of holiness in the early period. Isaiah 8:11–
15 is, according to Hans Wildberger (1991: 356), “without question . . . au-
thentic” to the eighth-century BCE Isaiah ben Amos, coming from the time of
the Syro-Ephraimite War (734–733 BCE). Yahweh addresses the prophet with
a warning that is also directly targeted to his associates (who are distinguished
from “this people” in Isa 8:11), for the verbs that follow in Isaiah 8:12–13 are
in the plural (tōʾmĕrûn, tîrʾû, taʿărîṣû, taqdîšû). There is a debate over the ref-
erent for the political conspiracy (qešer) in verse 12: does it refer to an in-
ternal group within Jerusalem (desiring to place a Tabelite on the throne; cf.
Isa 7:6) (e.g., Wildberger 1991: 358) or to the external threat of King Rezin of
Damascus and King Pekah of Samaria (e.g., Blenkinsopp 2000: 242)? Since the
qešer is an object of fear (Isa 8:12b), the military might of the two kingdoms
would be a more fitting referent. That the prophet consistently advocates
that Judah should trust in God rather than trusting in military alliances also
argues for the latter. Compare especially the admonishment in Isaiah 30:15;
31:1 (discussed later) that Judah should put its trust in the Holy One of Israel
rather than in Egypt’s military machine. Regardless of the specific referent,
the meaning of the passage is the same: someone far more dreaded than mere
humans is on the scene.
For thus Yahweh spoke to me, with his hand strong upon me, admonishing
me not to walk in the way of this people:
“Do not call conspiracy lōʾ-tōʾmĕrûn qešer
whatever this people calls conspiracy, lĕkōl ʾăšer-yōʾmar
hāʿām hazzeh qāšer
Do not fear what they fear, wĕʾet-môrāʾô lōʾ-tîrʾû
nor be in dread. wĕlōʾ taʿărîṣû
Rather, Yahweh of Armies, ʾet-yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt

Him you shall regard as holy; ʾōtô taqdîšû
He should be the one you fear, wĕhûʾ môraʾăkem
He should be the one you dread. wĕhûʾ maʿăriṣkem
He will be a holy place, wĕhāyâ lĕmiqdāš

a smiting stone, ûlĕʾeben negep
a rock of stumbling ûlĕṣûr mikšôl
for both houses of Israel; lišĕnê bāttê yiśrāʾēl
a trap and a snare lĕpaḥ ûlĕmôqēš

for the inhabitants of Jerusalem. lĕyôšēb yĕrûšālā(y)im
Many among them shall stumble; wĕkāšĕlû bām rabbîm

they shall fall and be broken; wĕnāpĕlû wĕnišbārû
they shall be ensnared and taken captive.” wĕnôqĕšû wĕnilkādû.
(Isa 8:11–15)
Rather than fearing and being in dread of any human entity, says the prophet,
Yahweh admonishes his followers to reevaluate that which is truly worthy of fear
and dread—namely, Yahweh in his warrior dress (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt). With a dramatic
syntax that highlights Yahweh four times in a single verse (fronting ʾet-yhwh,
ʾōtô, wĕhûʾ, wĕhûʾ in verse 13), our prophet underscores the powerful holiness
of Yahweh as the rationale for holding him in dread and fear. In other words, as
we have seen, in recognition of Yahweh’s holiness (ʾōtô taqdîšû), properly under-
stood as awesome power, people should shudder in fear at the prospect of such
power being wielded against them.
The reference to Yahweh being a “sanctuary” (miqdāš) in Isaiah 8:14 has
proven to be a major stumbling block for interpreters, many of whom think
that it “makes no sense in the context” (Blenkinsopp 2000: 241) or that it
cannot be parallel to the following two references to a smiting stone and a
rock of stumbling (Wildberger 1991: 355), not to mention the subsequent
trap and snare (Isa 8:14).72 Such understandings are predicated on a narrow
definition of miqdāš as a benign sacred place where one interacts with a deity
via cultic rituals that mediate the sacred and the profane. More appropri-
ately, a miqdāš is the place where the deity manifests his holy presence; if
holiness is to be equated with incomparably awesome power, then a deity’s
residence (miqdāš) is the most dangerous of places. One need look no fur-
ther than the notion that the high priest Aaron could potentially die in the
Holy of Holies (Exod 28:35). Consider too the deaths of Aaron’s sons Nadab
and Abihu due to Yahweh’s holy wrath (Lev 10:1–3; discussed later). The fear
that the Israelites express in Numbers 17:27–28 (Eng 17:12–13) is perfectly
understandable: “Surely we are about to perish—we are all lost; we are all
lost! Every person who approaches the Tabernacle dies! Will we ever cease
perishing?”73
In our view, the mention here of Yahweh being a miqdāš is ideally appropriate,
especially when considering the traditions in Exodus 15 and Psalm 68. The mas-
terly poet of Exodus 15 went out of his way to accentuate Yahweh’s terrifyingly
powerful holiness even as the deity simultaneously redeems his people, whom
he benevolently brings to his “holy encampment” (nĕwēh qodeš) and his holy
sanctuary (miqdāš) (Exod 15:13, 17). In Psalm 68:6 (Eng 68:5), Yahweh’s holy
dwelling (bimĕʿôn qodšô) is the locale of his gracious familial and judicial actions.
So too in Psalm 89 and 1 Samuel 2, where the incomparably holy and powerful
Yahweh nonetheless makes himself accessible to his people, even attending to
the needs of the disadvantaged. In contrast to these redemptive passages, Isaiah
8:11–15 is a harsh warning set against the backdrop of the Syro-Ephraimite war
with Judah. Where Yahweh’s miqdāš in Exodus 15 is a mountainous place of
holy refuge (Jerusalem) where he “planted” his people (Exod 15:17),74 in Isaiah’s
warning Yahweh’s miqdāš is smiting, stumbling, entrapping, and ensnaring the
inhabitants of Jerusalem (Isa 8:14–15). Where the Song of Hannah celebrated
Yahweh as the Holy One and Rock providing victory over enemies (1 Sam 2:1–
2), Isaiah turns the picture of Yahweh’s holiness and rock-like nature into the
cause of Jerusalem’s downfall.
Yahweh as the Holy One in Hosea 11:9

Scholars take radically different approaches to interpreting the mention of
Yahweh as the Holy One in Hosea 11:9. Does Yahweh’s holiness express itself with
destructive power or with accessible benevolence? This passage is also firmly sit-
uated in the eighth century BCE, with Hans Walter Wolff (1974: 197) dating it to
the first half of the reign of Shalmaneser V, around 727 BCE. The two represen-
tative translations listed here are diametrically opposed with regard to Hosea’s
intentions. The first translation (option A), by far the consensus view, resounds
with the prophet’s (or editor’s) voice of compassion, an inspired perspective in a
book dominated by judgment oracles. The second translation (option B) is con-
sistent with the book’s overall theme of judgment against the northern kingdom.
Option A
How can I give you up, Ephraim?

How can I hand you over, O Israel?
How can I make you like Admah?

How can I treat you like Zeboiim?
My heart recoils within me;

My compassion grows warm and tender.
I will not execute my fierce anger;

I will not again destroy Ephraim;
for I am God and no mortal,

the Holy One in your midst,
and I will not come in wrath. (NRSV)
Option B
How can I give you up, Ephraim?

How can I relinquish you, Israel?
How can I make you like Admah?

How can I deal with you like Zeboiim?
My mind is turning over inside me.

My emotions are agitated all together.
I will certainly act out my burning anger.

I will certainly come back to destroy Ephraim.
For I am a god and not a human.

I, the Holy One, will certainly come into the midst of your city.
(Andersen and Freedman 1980: 574–575)
James Luther Mays (1969: 157) articulates the theology underlying the trans-
lation of option A: “Responding to the desire of his heart and poignancy of his
compassion Yahweh declares three times that his wrath shall not have the final
word about Israel’s destiny . . . wrath cannot be the final decree. Yahweh will not
turn from his election of ‘my son’ and destroy the Ephraim created by his saving
acts.” Other passages in the book (Hos 1:7; 2:1–2, 16–25; 6:1–3; 14:5–8 [Eng 1:7,
10–11; 2:14–23; 6:1–3; 14:4–7]) suggest that Hosea 11:1–6 is yet further evidence
of how the author and/or editor weave(s) oracles of restoration with oracles
of judgment. In contrast, the rationale underlying the translation of option B
(which interprets the three occurrences of lʾ not as negative but rather as assever-
ative) is best voiced by Francis Andersen and David Noel Freedman (1980: 589–
591): Hosea 11:9 is “registering the renewed determination of Yahweh to carry
out his threatened judgments, in spite of the claims of the sentiment expressed in
v 8 . . . The historical events evince wrath against Israel, not mercy for it; so all the
later prophets interpreted the fate of the northern kingdom.” Further supporting
the translation of option B is the simple observation that the judgment and de-
struction of Israel/Ephraim is the most repeated theme within the book.Deciding
between these two views is extremely difficult, for both have merits.75 One simply
cannot deny the judgment oracles against Israel in the book, and yet to strip the
book of its divine compassion is to rob it of the profound appeal that contributed
to the preservation and ultimately the canonization of the book. There is the pos-
sibility that both options may have existed throughout the text’s long transmis-
sion history, with the final editors choosing option A over option B. Regardless,
each translation looks to Yahweh as the Holy One in Hosea 11:9, the operative
force behind his terrifying, destructive power (option B) or his radical benevo-
lence toward his people (option A).
Yahweh’s Holy Ark
As we saw in Chapter Seven (pp. 364–366, 388–389, 394–397), the Ark served as
a pragmatic focal point metonymically representing Yahweh. The Ark marked
Yahweh’s presence on the battlefield, in ritual warfare, and in processions, es-
pecially those associated with the Jerusalem Temple. As such, it was treated as a
sacred object. In Nadav Na’aman’s (1999a: 410–411; 2006a: 329) understanding,
the Ark was “the most sacred object of YHWH” to which “great sanctity [was]
attached” in that it was accessible to the public, in contrast to “the Cherubim
throne that was located inside the Holy of Holies and was seen by a few priests
of high rank.” Yet it would be a mistake to use such accessibility to minimize the
fact that the Ark was also a holy object. According to 1 Kings 8:6 (//2 Chr 5:7),
in Jerusalem the “place” where the Ark resides when not in procession is none
other than “the inner sanctuary of the Temple, in the most holy place [mĕqômô
ʾel-dĕbîr habbayit ʾel-qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm], underneath the wings of the cherubim.”
Yet what does it mean for the Ark to be holy? Was it an object of veneration
or religious respect in the sense that it was an attention-focusing device that
substituted for a divine image? Or was it thought to be a vehicle that was capable
of exhibiting divine power? Or did it have a mediating role whereby divine (le-
thal) power could reside among humans?
The Ark and Lethal Holiness: The Cultic Management of a War Palladium
Clearly, the pre-Jerusalem traditions about the portable Ark’s presence on the
battlefield are all about how the Ark was perceived as divinely powerful. After
a Philistine defeat, the elders of Israel bring the Ark from Shiloh “so that it/he
[Yahweh] may come among us and save us from the power of our enemies” (1
Sam 4:3). The portrait of the Philistine reaction is painted with fear, as they twice
cry out in terror (ʾôy lānû) knowing that they are about to do battle with divinity,
with one mighty enough to have smitten the Egyptians with every sort of scourge
and pestilence (1 Sam 4:6–8).76 With legendary flair, the Ark dismembers the
image of the Philistine god Dagon (1 Sam 5:1–4). The Ark is the source of “in-
credible panic” (mĕhûmâ gĕdôlâ mĕʾōd) to the Philistines, who are afflicted with
divinely caused plagues (1 Sam 5:9). The Ekronites conclude that the divinely
empowered Ark is lethal as their panic grows “deathly” (mĕhûmat-māwet; 1 Sam
5:10–11). The variant reading found in 4QSama underscores that the “deathly
panic” is at the same time “the panic of [caused by] Yahweh” (mhwmy yhwh).
When the Ark eventually arrives at Beth-Shemesh, the Judean inhabitants re-
joice and offer sacrifices (1 Sam 6:13–14). Levites emerge on the scene for the
proper handling of the Ark (1 Sam 6:15; cf. 1 Sam 7:1),77 and additional sacrifices
are offered by the citizens of the city (1 Sam 6:14–15). Curiously, seventy of the
Beth-Shemeshites are subsequently killed either for not having a sanctioned
priest to handle the Ark or for mishandling the sacred object themselves.78
What follows is instructive for our purposes. After mourning the deaths of so
many (called “Yahweh’s great slaughter”), the surviving Beth-Shemeshites ex-
claim: “Who is able to stand before Yahweh, this Holy God?” (1 Sam 6:20). The
phrasing here (“to stand before”) is a double entendre in that it can refer to the
ability of a designated religious officiant—using the proper ritual precautions—
to attend a lethal deity (cf. Jud 20:28; Ezek 44:15; 1 Sam 7:1), while also referring
to the inability to withstand such divine power (cf. Exod 9:11). In either case, the
holiness of Yahweh marks overwhelming power.
A similar tradition mentioning the lethality of divine holiness associated
with the Ark is found in 2 Samuel 6:1–11 (//1 Chr 13). There are many questions
swirling around the death of Uzzah, who seems to have good intentions when
he puts forth his hand to stabilize a falling Ark after the oxen stumble. David’s
response to the killing of Uzzah is, in equal measure, anger toward and fear of
Yahweh (2 Sam 6:8–9//1 Chr 13:11–12). The divine anger that strikes Uzzah dead
is said to have “burst forth with an outburst” (pāraṣ yhwh pereṣ), employing a verb
used elsewhere for divine lethality unleashed against those who would approach
the Unapproachable without proper consecration (see Exod 19:22, 24, discussed
later). The stated rationale for the (hypostatic?) Anger of Yahweh killing Uzzah
is “because he reached out his hand to the Ark” (2 Sam 6:7//1 Chr 13:10),79 yet
this only begins to answer our questions; one can appreciate David’s conster-
nation. Once again, we find scholars probing the question of whether Uzzah’s
death was due to cultic violation and/or not having the proper priestly status (cf.
1 Chr 15:13). Matters become even more confused when other Ark traditions
are added into the mix. 1 Kings 2:26 says that the priest Abiathar carried (nśʾ)
the ark before David, and most scholars see this as a reference to 2 Samuel 6 (cf.
1 Chr 13:2–3; 15:11–15). The priestly and Levitical divisions of labor with regard
to handling the Ark are found in Numbers 4. (A more thorough treatment of P’s
and H’s understanding of holiness is on pp. 615–643.) Baruch Levine (1993: 175)
summarizes:
According to Numbers 4:4–12 both priests and Levites were involved in

attending to the Ark, but the division of labor is consistent: the Aaronide priests
prepared the Ark for transport, because only they were permitted to handle it
before it was wrapped and its poles had been inserted. Actually, only priests
were permitted to enter the Shrine in order to remove the Ark (Num 4:17–20).
But it is the nonpriestly Kohathites [Kohathite Levites] who transport the Ark,
not the priests.80
Yahweh’s instructions given in Numbers 4:15–20 with regard to the Kohathite

clan of Levites is again instructive for our purposes:
When Aaron and his sons have finished wrapping [the sacred objects
within] the Holy [Shrine] [haqqōdeš] and all the vessels of the Holy
[Shrine] [haqqōdeš] at the departure of the encampment, only then shall the
Kohathites come and transport [nśʾ] them, so that they do not come in con-
tact with the Holy [Shrine] [haqqōdeš] lest they die. . . . Do not allow the
tribal clans of Kohathites to be cut off from the [rest of the] Levites. This
is how you should manage them so that they may remain alive and not die
whenever they approach the Holy of Holies [qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm]: Aaron and
his sons shall enter and assign each of them to his duties and to his porterage.
But let not [the Kohathites] go inside and view the Holy [Shrine] [haqqōdeš]
even for a moment, lest they die. (Lev 4:15–20)
The tradition here could not be clearer, as it resonates with the other Ark
traditions: divine holiness is lethal. Only the proper personnel (for Numbers 4,
the Aaronid priests; cf. 1 Chr 15:2–15) are able to attend to the Holy. Yet even
they would die without divinely sanctioned ritual precautions (discussed later).
Even Aaron, the high priest, is warned about the risk of dying when he comes be-
fore the Ark (Lev 16:2).
Accessing Holy Yahweh via the Ark

As Yahweh is holy, so he is powerful and even lethal. Likewise, as the Ark is holy
(or, better, associated with and representing Yahweh’s holiness), so it is powerful
and even lethal. In this light, what is most remarkable about the Ark (prior to its
residence in the Jerusalem Temple) is its portability and accessibility. Whereas
humans “cannot see Yahweh and live” (Exod 33:20), they are indeed able via
processions to experience the Ark, a cultic object representing Yahweh’s power
and presence in their midst outside of the Holy of Holies.81
Such divine accessibility can only occur at divine invitation. As we saw in the
various texts treated earlier (especially Exod 15:13, 17), Yahweh makes it pos-
sible for his people to commune safely with him in holy space (miqdāš), what
logically should be the most dangerous of places. The priestly traditions such
as those found in Leviticus 4 and elsewhere underscore that this can only be ac-
complished (whether within the miqdāš or in accessing the Ark) through a select
number of personnel who have undergone consecration (√qdš) together with
sanctioned ritual precautions.
Accessibility is articulated in yet another priestly Ark tradition (Exod 25:8–22;
cf. Exod 37:1–9; Deut 31:24–29). After detailed instructions about the fashioning
of the Ark, we read of Yahweh’s overture:
Speak to the people of Israel. . . . They shall make for me a holy sanctuary
[miqdāš] so that I may dwell in their midst. . . . They shall make an Ark. . . . You
[Moses using artisans] shall make a kappōret of pure gold . . . and you shall make
two cherubim of gold . . . on the ends of the kappōret. . . . Place the kappōret on
top of the Ark, and inside the Ark you shall set the Testimony [ʿēdut] that I will
give you. There I will meet with you [Moses] [wĕnôʿadtî lĕkā šām], and I will
speak you [wĕdibbartî ʾittĕkā] from above the kappōret—from between the two
cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Testimony—all that I will command
you concerning the Israelite people. (Exod 25:2, 8, 10, 17–18, 21–22)
For P (H?)82 here, the explicit purpose of Yahweh’s holy miqdāš is to make it
possible for God “to dwell” (or “to tent”)83 (škn) among his people (Exod 25:8).
The Ark with its kappōret and ʿēdut Testimony is the locale of divine presence
and communication (“There [šām] I will meet with you”; Exod 25:22). Rather
than the Ark occasioning fear of death, here we have an invitation by the
Almighty to treat the Ark as a locale where (a medium by which?) he will meet
with Moses in order to provide instruction for his people. In explaining the
“complex amalgamation of traditions” that we find in P’s articulation that the
Tabernacle can be both locative and locomotive, Benjamin Sommer (2001: 57–
59) appeals once again to the theoretical models of Jonathan Z. Smith and
Rudolph Otto:84
The opposition embodied in the priestly tabernacle results from the tension
between two religious impulses, neither of which is confined to a particular pe-
riod, place, or culture. One impulse emphasizes the Ottonian fascinans, which
produces a desire to approach the divine and hence that God is locatable . . . the
other impulse is rooted in mysterium and tremendum . . . hence the divine can
never be confidently located by humans. Examples of these impulses can be
found throughout the history of religions, often in a single tradition.
The Ark and the all-important kappōret highlight the tension while at the same
time resolving it.85 Though these two objects are divinely holy and thus poten-
tially lethal (Otto’s tremendum), remarkably much about them involves human
accessibility— their construction by consecrated artisans (divinely chosen,
empowered, and instructed; Exod 35:30–36:1), their handling by Aaron and
Aaronid priests, their transportation by Kohathite Levites, their viewing by the
people at large (cf. Ps 68:25 [Eng 68:24]), their role as a meeting place with Moses,
their providing instruction (via ʿēdut Testimony) to the people.
The Holy One of Israel in Isaianic Traditions
Interestingly, portrayals of Yahweh as the Holy One of Israel (qĕdôš yiśrāʾēl)

are found most often in Isaianic traditions. In the Hebrew Bible, the full phrase
yhwh qĕdôš yiśrāʾēl occurs only in Isaiah 10:20, 30:15, and 45:11. According to
the thorough studies of H. G. M. Williamson (2001; 2006: 43–46), the phrase
“the Holy One of Israel” (qĕdôš yiśrāʾēl) occurs some twenty-five times in the
Isaianic corpus, with similar vocabulary (e.g., “his/your Holy One,” “the Holy
One of Jacob”) growing the number of occurrences to twenty-nine. Though the
divine title occurs throughout the book of Isaiah (with some scholars seeing it
as a unifying theme), Williamson (2001: 38; 2006: 44) argues that “Deutero-
Isaiah is in reality the writer to have made most intensive use of the title,” which
was then rarely employed in Third Isaiah (2001: 24–27). Deutero-Isaiah’s ra-
tionale for choosing the title was (once again) not in reference to cultic purity or
ethical holiness, but rather a reference to the saving acts of Yahweh executed on
behalf of his people. The “Holy One of Israel” is Israel’s savior (môšîaʿ; Isa 43:3;
cf. Isa 30:15). Echoing ancient praise (cf. √gʾl and √qdš in Exod 15:13), six times
Deutero-Isaiah prefaces Yahweh’s title “Holy One of Israel” with the appella-
tion “Redeemer” (gōʾēl), emphasizing his helping (ʿāzar), teaching (limmēd),
guiding (hidrîk), and choosing (bāḥar) of Israel (Isa 41:14; 43:14; 47:4; 48:17;
49:7; 54:5).
As for First Isaiah, where Wildberger (1991: 24) finds seven authentic
passages (Isa 1:4; 5:19, 24; 30:11, 12, 15; 31:1), Williamson (2001: 27–31) reduces
the number to only four by omitting Isaiah 1:4 and 5:24 as redactional and by
being agnostic with regard to the date of Isaiah 5:19. Only those passages associ-
ated with Sennacherib’s invasion in 701 BCE are authentic to the eighth-century
prophet.86 As a result, where others see Yahweh’s epithet “the Holy One of Israel”
as central to Isaiah’s understanding of the divine (compare especially Isa 6:3),
Williamson (2001: 31, 35, 37) sees it as a “relatively obscure title.” Applying the
Propp Principle (see pp. 66–67, 283–284), one could easily take issue with such
a quantity argument. It assumes that our extant texts constitute a full dataset
representative of the prophet’s religious culture. More likely, what has been pre-
served allows us only a glance, so we should be careful not to draw overarching
conclusions from such an incomplete dataset. Be that as it may, the Sennacherib
passages that are certainly authentic reveal that “the Holy One of Israel” was
thought to be a God who intervened militarily. Isaiah 31:1 aptly summarizes the
prophet’s advocacy of relying on Yahweh as a divine warrior rather than trusting
political alliances:
Woe to those who go down to Egypt for help,

Who rely on horses—
They trust in chariots due to their vast number,
In horsemen due to their incredible strength,
But do not look to the Holy One of Israel
Nor search out Yahweh.
At risk of being redundant, once again we note that holiness here has to do with
divine power rather than cultic, ritual, social, or ethical holiness. In Isaianic
traditions, early and late, to say that Yahweh is the Holy One of Israel is to say that
Yahweh is the military deliverer and redeemer of his people and nation.
Possible Origins of the Title “the Holy One of Israel”

There is a good deal of speculation with regard to the earlier traditions that might
have informed the Isaianic understanding of Yahweh as “the Holy One of Israel.”
Claus Westermann (1969: 75) is representative of those who think that the title in
Isaiah 6 “derives from Isaiah in the eighth century . . . to express the truth . . . that
God’s numinous holiness is holiness turned toward Israel.” Gammie (1989: 74–
76) looks to the expression “the Holy One in your midst” in Hosea 11:9 as “prob-
ably the source of inspiration” behind Isaiah’s coining of the title for Yahweh.
Referring to the “Holy One of Israel” in Psalm 71:22 (cf. Ps 78:41; 89:19), Joseph
Blenkinsopp (2000: 183) suggests that the title “probably derives from the lit-
urgy of the Jerusalem temple and, further back, from the war prophecy of Israel’s
beginnings in association with the ark.” Similarly, Wildberger (1991: 24–26)
focuses on the Jerusalem cult, noting that it is “not by chance” that the prophet
Isaiah encounters “the Holy God” (hāʾēl haqqādôš) who is “holy-holy-holy”
(qādôš qādôš qādôš) “right in Jerusalem” (Isa 5:16; 6:3).
Using the Title “the Holy One of Israel” to Speculate About Early
Israelite Religion
Yet due to the rarity of the title in the psalter and hence its “narrow” use,
Wildberger (1991: 24) probes earlier source material. He adamantly argues: “It is
most certain that reference was made to God as the Holy One in Jerusalem even
before the Israelite era.” For Wildberger, an unspecified “Holy One” (cf. Isa 5:16)
was made specific as “the Holy One of Israel” on analogy with “the Mighty One
of Jacob” (Gen 49:24; Isa 49:26; 60:16; Ps 132:2, 5), “the Mighty One of Israel”
(Isa 1:24), and “the Holy One of Jacob . . . the God of Israel” (Isa 29:23). In a
lengthy reconstruction, Wildberger, like Blenkinsopp, looks to psalmody and
Ark traditions to conclude:
Based on Psalm 132, it is quite likely that the name ʾbyr yʿqb (Mighty One of
Jacob) came to Jerusalem in connection with the ark and its traditions, so that
qdwš yśrʾl (Holy One of Israel) provides us with an instructive example to show
the way in which Jerusalem traditions and old Israelite traditions were synthe-
sized, as can be seen in the way these traditions developed in the city where the
temple was located. . . . The parallel expression ʾbyr yʿqb (Mighty One of Jacob)
gives one reason to believe that Yahweh is called “Holy One of Israel” insofar
as he turns toward Israel, leads and protects the people. . . . [T]‌he Holy One of
Israel is the God of the covenant who is viewed as the kind father who has raised
his people.
In his own lengthy study of the topic, Williamson (2006: 45; 2001: 27–35)
concludes that the eighth-century BCE prophet “Isaiah had certainly used” the
title “the Holy One of Israel” “on occasion,” yet “he did not himself . . . coin the
phrase.” Williamson agrees with Wildberger that the understanding of the God
of Jerusalem as Holy dates to pre-Israelite cult. Building on the work of Werner
Schmidt and comparative material about Ugaritic ʾIlu as holy (see the opening
of the present chapter), Williamson paints the background to Yahweh as holy
by referring to “the holy dwelling of (El-) Elyon” in Psalm 46:5 (Eng 46:4).87 He
suggests the following scenario:
There need be little doubt that the ascription of holiness to Yahweh . . . was . . .
probably predicated of El Elyon in the pre-Israelite Jerusalem cult . . . whence it
would have been transferred to Yahweh sometime after Jerusalem became part
of Israel.
Williamson here echoes the conclusion of Werner Schmidt (1983: 154): “So
the Jerusalem city god (El) Elyon seems to have been worshipped as holy, and
Yahweh has succeeded him in this.” Evidence of the blending of El and Yahweh
traditions with respect to holiness are found in Psalm 68:36 (Eng 68:35),88 which
proclaims: “You are awesome, O Yahweh, [as you march] from your holy places,
El of Israel [nôrāʾ yhwh* mimmiqdāšêkā ʾēl yiśrāʾēl].”89 The use of the plural here
(miqdāšêkā) to designate the deity’s sacred locales may preserve an early tradi-
tion that is in line with the many different sanctuaries associated with El (cf. the
description of El Berith at Shechem, El Bethel at Bethel, El Elyon at (Jeru-)salem,
El Olam at Beersheba, El of Peniel, and El Roi at Beer Lahay Roi).90 Clearly, the
reference to these plural sanctuaries (and Mt. Bashan in Ps 68:16 [Eng 68:15]) is
prior to the elevation of Jerusalem to its sole place of prominence.
Schmidt and Williamson’s emphasis on antecedent El-Elyon worship as a pre-
lude to Yahweh worship at Jerusalem is also supported by the presence of the god
El-Elyon at (Jeru-)salem (Gen 14:18–22). See too the way in which Deuteronomy
32:6b–9 has (El)-Elyon allocating deities to peoples, an allocation that results in
Yahweh acquiring Israel (see Chapter Four, pp. 91–92). As for the absorption
of the El-Elyon traditions into Yahwism, in addition to Psalm 68, numerous
other psalms either have Yahweh and Elyon as parallel terms (Ps 9:3; Ps 18:14
[Eng 18:13] = 2 Sam 22:14; Ps 21:8; Ps 87:5–6; 91:9; 92:2 [Eng 92:1]; 107:1, 11) or
simply apply the epithet of “the Most High” to Yahweh, that is, Yahweh Elyon
(Ps 7:18 [Eng 7:17]; Ps 47:3 (47:2); Ps 97:9).91 Finally, consider again how the
way in which one understands Psalm 82 (mythopoeically or mythopoetically) is
directly relevant to one’s understanding of El-Elyon and Yahweh. (See Chapter
Nine, pp. 565–569.)
El, “The Mighty One of Jacob/Israel”//Yahweh, “The Holy One of Israel”

The notion of Yahweh as powerfully holy, which we emphasized earlier, would
make the Schmidt- Wildberger-Williamson proposal even more attractive
(cf. too Blenkinsopp). On formal grounds these scholars have equated El, “the
Mighty One of Jacob/Israel,” with Yahweh, “the Holy One of Israel.” There is abun-
dant evidence to support the thesis that holy gods are powerful gods. Thus in
addition to their formal similarities, these two divine titles mirror each other
ideologically. Isaiah 10:17–21 says as much in speaking of how the Holy One of
Israel becomes a fiery destroyer (playing off “the light of Israel”) such that the
remnant of Jacob will lean on “Yahweh, the Holy One of Israel” as they return to
mighty El (ʾēl gibbôr).
Both titles (“the Mighty One of Jacob/Israel” and “the Holy One of Israel”)
also affirm the double sense of divine power that is awesomely militant against
God’s enemies (including lethality against improper cult) while protectively
powerful (and benevolently gracious) toward God’s people. If we are correct that
El traditions were more at home within family religion in contrast to the cosmic
militancy of certain Yahweh traditions (i.e., Chaoskampf traditions), then we can
speculate a bit further.
The traditions about El as “the Mighty One of Jacob” such as we find in Genesis
49:24–25 emphasize that El is a father who provides “the blessings of breasts and
womb.” Traditions preserved in Deuteronomy 32:6b, 18 affirm El as father and
creator, coloring that portrait with birthing imagery. (On these two passages, see
Chapter Four, pp. 106, 110–111) Is it just a coincidence that Hosea’s mention of
Yahweh as “the Holy One in your midst” (Hos 11:9) is set within a familial con-
text? Several Isaianic traditions also locate “the Holy One of Israel” within fa-
milial contexts. Isaiah 1:2–3 describes the rebelliousness of Yahweh’s “sons” (i.e.,
Judahites) whom “he reared and brought up,” together with the vocabulary of
forsaking Yahweh, the Holy One of Israel. Second Isaiah depicts Yahweh, “the
Holy One of Israel and his maker,” challenging those who question him (using
parental language) about the destiny of his children (Isaiah 45:9–12). Using pos-
itive imagery, Yahweh, the Holy One of Israel, who formed and created Jacob/
Israel, gives extravagant ransom for his sons and daughters, whom he loves, for
they are precious in his eyes (Isa 43:1–7). Of special note is Second Isaiah’s fre-
quent choice of the appellation “[kinsman] Redeemer” (gōʾēl) to describe the
Holy One of Israel (Isa 41:14; 43:14; 47:4; 48:17; 49:7; 54:5). As we saw in Chapter
Eight, the traditions of El as Father were fully wed with those of Yahweh as Father.
Thus sociologically, perhaps it was the locus of family religion that facilitated the
wedding of a mighty El protecting his clans with the more cosmically militant
and holy-powerful Yahweh traditions.92
Summation of Non-Cultic Understandings:

To Be Holy Is to Be Powerful
Setting aside the Ark traditions for the moment, what is particularly noteworthy
in the streams of non-P traditions discussed to this point is the lack of what comes
to define holiness in Priestly, Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic, and Chronistic
traditions (discussed later). There is no hint here of the concept of cultic purity,
wherein the ritually holy is “that which is withdrawn from common use.” There
is no implication here that holiness stands in contrast to pollution occasioned by
moral and ritual violations. There are no admonitions to social and ethical ho-
liness, no mention of sacerdotal privilege. The worshipers in Exodus 15, Psalm
68, Psalm 89, and 1 Samuel 2 (cf. too Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscription 4.2) acknowl-
edge Yahweh’s awesome power (with the fear of lethal holiness in Exod 15 and
Ps 89), yet they do not then proceed to engage in a series of ritual precautions
in order to approach the Unapproachable. They do indeed risk boldly as they
approach the powerful, dreadful Yahweh in worship, praising him for his past
victories on their behalf (especially at the sea and against Sea in Exod 15) as well
as his ongoing protection (the “shield” metaphor in Ps 89) and daily support (Ps
68:20 [Eng 68:19]). With confident audacity (and again without undertaking any
ritual precautions), the royal ideology underlying Psalm 89 dares to proclaim
that the Holy King of Israel will marshal his awesome power in support of the
earthly king David.93 A familial perspective is found in Psalm 68. The holy space
of Yahweh, the charioteer and sovereign to whom kings bring tribute, is not as-
sociated with an elite priestly class, but rather is the locale where he is a father
to orphans and a judicial advocate for widows (Ps 68:6 [Eng 68:5]). The Song
of Hannah is even more remarkable, with Yahweh the Holy One reversing the
fortunes of the disadvantaged, the weak, the hungry, the barren, and the poor.
Turning to Yahweh’s epithet as “the Holy One of Israel,” we see that numerous
Isaianic references fit well within these streams of tradition. Their repeated focus
is on Yahweh’s mighty deliverance of his people as savior and redeemer, not on
the management of divine lethality through ritual holiness.
The Ark Narratives as a Cultic Corrective
Having emphasized holiness as divine power, it would be a grave mistake for

one to use these data to assert that there was no cultic perspective within these
streams of tradition, or that ritual holiness came only with the advent of the P
and H traditions. Here adding the Ark traditions proves to be corrective. One
cannot read the Ark narratives without being impressed by the power of the Ark
as it symbolizes divine might on the battlefield and elsewhere. The Ark was per-
ceived as Yahweh’s holy vehicle occasioning “deathly panic” to the Ekronites,
dismemberment to Dagon’s divine image, and actual death to seventy of the
Beth-Shemeshites and the well-intentioned Uzzah. Somewhere in the transmis-
sion of the tradition, Levites appear on the scene in 1 Samuel 6:13–15 to handle
the Ark (though with the people sacrificing).94 Though not appearing in the nar-
rative in 2 Samuel 6:1–11, “priests and Levites” join David in transporting the
Ark in the reformulation of the tradition in 1 Chr 13:2–3 (cf. 1 Chr 15:11–15; 1
Kgs 2:26). Somewhere in recounting these two tales, the focus has turned to the
reason for the deaths of Yahwistic Judahites. (Philistine deaths occasioned no
such probing.) Scholars plausibly reconstruct the possible reasons to be either
cultic violation and/or the lack of a sanctioned priest to handle the Ark. The dif-
ference of P’s emphasis on the cultic management of the holy Ark is clearly seen
when one juxtaposes the accounts in 1 Samuel 6:13–15 and 2 Samuel 6:1–11 (//
1 Chr 13) with the detailed instructions of Numbers 4. There we see the preci-
sion of P, who takes special care to describe how the Aaronid priests are charged
with attending the Holy Ark per se, with the Kohathite Levites being assigned the
responsibility of its transportation. For P, the sanctioned privilege of physically
handling the Ark itself (e.g., the wrapping of the naked Ark for travel) is the sole
purview of the Aaronid priests, in contrast to the Kohathite Levites, whose con-
tact is with a wrapped Ark—and even then using the poles attached to it.
This leads us now to turn to a fuller examination of the various cultic

understandings of holiness. Yet as we do, we need to keep in mind that the no-
tion of dread induced by the power of the holy/divine is an enduring concept,
even when ritualized holiness becomes more of a focal point. In calling to mind
Yahweh’s victory in “the days of old” (i.e., his victory over Sea), a late psalmist
proclaims that the (personified) Cosmic Waters and the Abyss were afraid
(yāḥîlû) and trembled with fear (yirgĕzû) when they saw Yahweh on the march,
for his way is holy and powerful (ʾĕlōhîm baqqōdeš darkekā mî-ʾēl gādôl kēʾlōhîm)
(Ps 77:14, 17 [Eng 77:13, 16]). Another psalmist channels such fear of the holy
into the language of worship:
Prostrate yourself to Yahweh majestic in holiness [bĕhadrat-qōdeš],

Tremble [ḥîlû] before him, all the earth! (Ps 96:9)
Yahweh as Holy: Systematic Cultic Frameworks,

or the Cultic “Management” of Holiness
Having laid a foundation of holy power and lethality, we now turn to where the
Hebrew Bible places much of its emphasis. For lack of a better term, let us call
this the cultic “system” or “management” of holiness, although such functional
vocabulary should not be used to minimize the deep passion involved in this
pursuit of and thirst for the holy. If God is both lethally holy and at the same time
one who invites his people to commune with him at his holy residence (miqdāš),
how then should one approach? Remarkably, God also invites his people—in
imitatio Dei—to join him in “being holy as he is holy” (Lev 11:44–45; cf. 19:2;
20:7; 21:8). Pragmatically, how does one achieve such holiness?
To explore such notions, we turn to Jacob Milgrom, the sage of our time who
spent most of his career studying concepts of holiness in the Hebrew Bible.
Milgrom summarizes:
Holy is . . . “that which is unapproachable except through divinely imposed

restrictions” or “that which is withdrawn from common use.” . . . Holiness [in
the Bible] is not innate [i.e., not in nature, as with animism]. The source of ho-
liness is assigned to God alone. Holiness is God’s quintessential nature, distin-
guishing God from all beings (1 Sam 2:2). It acts as the agency of God’s will. If
certain things are termed holy—such as land (Canaan), person (priest), place
(sanctuary), or time (festival day)—they are so by virtue of divine dispensa-
tion. . . . The holy things of the Bible can cause death to the unwary and the
impure who approach them without regard for the regulations that govern their
usage. Indeed, though biblical qadosh attains new dimensions, it never loses the
sense of withdrawal and the separation. (Milgrom 2007: 850; 2000: 1711–1712)
If we posit that the definition of God as holy is “he who is quintessentially un-
approachable”—especially since an encounter with the divine could prove
lethal—it then says a great deal that the ancients felt the allure of the divine as so
irresistibly enticing that they found ways to approach him despite the risk. Or, to
borrow the words of William Propp (2006: 686), “the whole purpose of biblical
worship, and ancient worship in general, is to bring the human and divine into
safe contact.” The process by which they made such an approach has everything
to do with the many parameters of “holiness” (√qdš). These variables include the
management of sacred space and sacred time as well as the sociological factors
involved in the selection of proper religious officiants and the theological tenets
used to construct efficacious ritual precautions.
Early Attestations of Cultic Holiness
Though notions of holiness as having to do with cultic purity are best known
in the Hebrew Bible from later priestly traditions, it would be erroneous
to think that cultic holiness is a late idea. One need only consider a reflective
comment found in one of the Rib-Adda letters written in Amarna Canaanite
to the Egyptian pharaoh in the mid-fourteenth century BCE. In EA 137, the
king of Byblos describes why he is personally unable to travel to Egypt: “I am
old and there is a serious illness in my body. The king, my lord, knows that the
gods of Gubla [Byblos] are holy [qadišū], and [my] ailments are severe, for
I com<mit>ted my sins against the gods [ù ḫīṭī ep<šā>ti ana ilāni].” Rib-Adda
here confesses that his commission of sins against the Phoenician gods is the
cause of his illness; because he offended the holy nature of the gods, they are
punishing him.95 Non-priestly biblical traditions concur, as we have seen in the
passages regarding the Ark where a holy God meted out his punishment upon
the offending Beth-Shemeshites and Uzzah.
In ancient Syria, cultic holiness is well attested at Late Bronze Age Ugarit and
Emar. From the former we have a fascinating text (KTU 1.119) that includes a
royal sacrificial ritual along with a votive prayer to the god Baʿlu. The first part of
the text mentions many ritual elements, including cultic actors (divine recipients
of cult, the king as the primary officiant who sacrifices, mḥllm-purifiers), nu-
merous references to sacred time and sacred space (bt temples to both ʾIlu and
Baʿlu, a ʿd room of Baʿlu, a qdš sanctuary of ʾIlu, and a bt house of the ṯāʿiyu
priest), ritual washing and purifying (of the king), ritual states of sacralization/
desacralization (ḥl, again of the king), a wide array of offerings (ram, cow, ewe,
lamb, city dove, ṯaʿû, bull, fire, šnpt, neck, donkey, birds, liver, burnt), and the
use of oil (specifically šmn šlm, “the oil of well-being”) and libations. The text
concludes with a votive prayer that contains three explicit references to cultic
holiness (qdš).
O Baʿlu y bʿlm
If you drive the strong one from our gate, hm tdy ʿz ṯǵrny
The warrior from our walls, qrd [l]‌  ḥmytny
A bull, O Baʿlu, we shall present [to you] ʾibr y bʿl nšqdš

as a holy offering
A vow, O Baʿlu, we shall fulfill. mḏr bʿl nmlʾu
[A fir]stborn, O Baʿlu, we shall present [to you] [b]‌kr bʿl nš[q]dš

as a holy offering
A ḥtp offering, O Baʿlu, we shall fulfill. ḥtp bʿl nmlʾu
A banquet, O Baʿlu, we shall offer [to you]. ʿšrt bʿl n[ʿ]šr
To the sanctuary, O Baʿlu, we shall ascend, qdš bʿl nʿl

That path, O Baʿlu, we shall tread. ntbt b[ʿl] ntlk
(KTU 119.28′–34a′)96
One of the lines refers to the place where people make ascent to offer cult to the
deity Baʿlu—namely, at his “holy place” (qdš bʿl).97 The description of worshippers
making an ascent (nʿl) fits the topography of the Baʿlu Temple located on the
Acropolis at the highest elevation of Tell Ras Shamra (Yon 2006: 106–110). Such
language resonates with Psalm 24:3–4, which speaks of virtuous worshippers
making an ascent to Yahweh’s holy place (yaʿăleh . . . mĕqôm qodšô).98 As Mark
Smith (2001b: 93–94) articulates well, at Ugarit sacred spaces “are marked and
demarcated for holiness.” “Deities’ sanctuaries . . . partake of holiness” due to
the divine presence that “imparts holiness to those places.” It is not only biblical
tradition that defines a once-profane place as holy due to divine residence (Exod
3:5; 19:10–25; Josh 5:15). The two other references to holiness (KTU 1.119.30′–
31′) reveal, fittingly, how people vow to offer holy cult (nšqdš) to a powerful deity
in response to divine aid. English translations of nšqdš can prove murky (e.g., “we
shall sanctify/dedicate/consecrate”) with their lack of specificity. The Ugaritic
verb nšqdš in the Š stem (/našaqdišu/or /nušaqdišu/) is here doubly causative
(with direct object and implied indirect object): “We will cause animals [here
bulls and firstborn males] to be holy offerings by the process of presenting them
to a deity [here Baʿlu].”
A similar situation occurs in several of Emar’s festivals that mention a variety

of rituals occurring “on the day of sanctification” (ina ūmi qadduši) or elliptically
“in the [day of] sanctification” (ina qadduši).99 The text dealing with the instal-
lation of the high priestess mentions two such rituals occurring during the first
two days of the festival—and with bread and beer as ritual substances! Daniel
Fleming (1992a:10–11, 49, 51) translates the relevant passages as follows:
During the shaving sanctification (ina qadduši ša gallubi), they will sanctify
(uqaddašū) all the gods of Emar with bread (and) beer. (Emar 369.6)
On the day of the sanctification of the installation (ina qadduši ša malluki), they
will sanc[tify] ([uqa]ddašū) all the gods of Emar [with bread (and) beer]. (Emar
369.22)
In describing what he means with his translation of “to sanctify” (based on an older
English use of the term), Fleming (1992: 49 n. 4) writes that here “the Emar verb
qaddušu appears to mean ‘to treat as holy, or sacred,’ not ‘to consecrate or purify.’ Gods
do not need to be made pure.” Elsewhere, Fleming (1992: 162) elaborates that while
humans can be indeed consecrated (e.g., cleansed and purified) for divine use, “one
does not ‘consecrate’ gods because they are already sacred. Emar’s qaddušu appears
to mean ‘to treat as sacred’ by means of concrete offerings. This special ‘sanctification’
offering apparently makes the festival holy by giving cult to the gods as holy.”
The Process of Consecration in Exodus 19:10–25
A relatively early Israelite tradition is found in Exodus 19:10–25. Source-

critically, those who see it as mostly a unit lean toward J (or a mixture of J and
E), with others seeing an earlier tradition that has then undergone Priestly and/
or Deuteronomistic redaction.100 Attention is often focused on the theophany
that depicts Yahweh’s fiery and thundering presence on a Mt. Sinai wrapped in
smoke (Exod 19:18–19) along with the special privileging of Moses. Others use
the mention of a covenant (bĕrît) in Exodus 19:5 and the subsequent Decalogue
to frame the entire narrative that follows (e.g., Beyerlin 1965: 145–151). Yet if
we approach this material through the lens of holiness another picture emerges.
The focus of this passage then becomes how people and priests alike need to be
“consecrated” (Exod 19:10, 14, 22) in order to avert death at the hands of the
deity. Both parties must be “made holy” (qdš in D and tD stems) in order to sur-
vive interacting with the holy divine.
Ritual performance facilitates approaching the Unapproachable— at
101
least to a degree. Via the theophany on Mt. Sinai, Yahweh allows himself
to be partly seen and heard by all the people (lĕʿênê kol-hāʿām; Exod 19:11).
Exodus 19:17 explicitly mentions how Moses brought the people out of the
camp “to encounter God” (or “toward God”) (liqraʾt hāʾĕlōhîm), and Exodus
19:22 describes priests who “approach Yahweh” (hakkōhănîm hanniggāšîm ʾel-
yhwh). Yet each group can do so only once they have been “consecrated.” The
consecration process is occasioned by divine instruction to Moses, Yahweh’s
emissary turned officiant, whose presence is repeatedly emphasized, together
with mention of Aaron, whose access is also privileged over priests and people
(Exod 19:24).
The ritual performance contains six elements: (1) sacred time involving a
three-day enactment, (2) the washing of clothes (Exod 19:10, 14), (3) abstinence
from sex (Exod 19:15), (4) the delimiting of sacred space (Exod 19:12, 21, 23),
(5) ritual warnings about divine lethality (Exod 19:12–13, 21–24), and (6) the en-
tering into sacred space (with visuals and sound) that is marked by gradations of
holiness in that the people remain at the base of the mountain while Moses (and
later Aaron) ascends to its summit to encounter Yahweh up close.
Yahweh said to Moses: “Go to the people and consecrate them [qiddaštām]
today and tomorrow. Have them wash their clothes and prepare for the
third day, because on the third day Yahweh will come down upon Mt. Sinai
in the sight of all the people [lĕʿênê kol-hāʿām]. You shall set boundary limits
[wĕhigbaltā] for the people all around, saying, ‘Beware not to go up the moun-
tain or to touch the edge of it. Whoever touches the mountain shall be put to
death.’ (No hand should touch him. Rather he should be either stoned or shot
[with arrows]; whether animal or human being, he shall not live.) When the
ram’s horn [yōbēl] sounds a long blast, they may go up on the mountain.”
So Moses came down from the mountain to the people. He consecrated
[wayĕqaddēš] the people, and they washed their clothes. He said to the people,
“Prepare for the third day; do not approach [ʾal-tiggĕšû] a woman.”
On the third day, as morning dawned, there was thunder and lightning, as
well as a dense cloud on the mountain, and an extremely loud blast of a šōpār
horn, so loud that all the people who were in the camp trembled [with fear]
[yeḥĕrad]. Moses led the people out of the camp to meet God [liqraʾt hāʾĕlōhîm].
They took their places at the base of the mountain.
Now Mt. Sinai was all in smoke, because Yahweh had descended upon it
in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, while the whole mountain
trembled violently [yeḥĕrad . . . mĕʾōd]. As the blast [qôl] of the šôpār horn
grew louder and louder, Moses would speak and God would answer him in
thunder [qôl]. When Yahweh descended upon Mt. Sinai, to the top of the
mountain, Yahweh summoned Moses to the top of the mountain, and Moses
went up.
Yahweh then said to Moses: “Go down and warn the people not to break
through to Yahweh to gaze [yehersû ʾel-yhwh lirʾôt], lest many of them perish.
In addition, the priests who approach [hakkōhănîm hanniggāšîm] Yahweh
must consecrate themselves [yitqaddāšû] lest Yahweh break out [yiprōṣ]
against them.”
But Moses said to Yahweh: “The people are not permitted to come up to
Mt. Sinai; for you yourself warned us, saying, ‘Set boundary limits around the
mountain and keep it holy’ ” [hagbēl ʾet-hāhār wĕqiddaštô].
So Yahweh said to him: “Go down, and come up bringing Aaron with you;
but do not let either the priests or the people break through to come up to
Yahweh [ʾal-yehersû laʿălōt ʾel-yhwh], lest He break out against [yiprōṣ] them.”
So Moses went down to the people and told them. (Exodus 19:10–25)
Sacred Time, Purity and Pollution

The first three elements (dealing with sacred time, purity, and pollution) are
surprising for their lack of detail when compared to priestly treatments of such
rituals elsewhere. Propp (2006: 687) calls the rites here “rudimentary.” One can
safely conclude that any Priestly redaction of this narrative about an outdoor
ritual is minimal.102
As historians of religion studying cultic calendars throughout the ancient
Near East have long noted, time is as important a category as space, and it too can
be sacred or profane.103 The setting of our narrative (the theophany at Mt. Sinai)
is a one-time event, and thus its minimal temporal regulations are understand-
able in contrast to the attention given elsewhere to repeated cultic times of day,
week, month, and year, especially within priestly circles (e.g., Lev 23). The setting
is also non-agrarian and non-sacrificial and thus separate from regulations of
cultic time linked to agricultural seasons and animal sacrifice (e.g., Exod 13:6–7;
23:10–19; 34:18–26; Lev 9:1–14; Num 28–29; Deut 161–17; Ezek 45:18–25; cf.
the tenth-century BCE Gezer Calendar).104
Though the ritual here has minimal regulations of sacred time, such time is
nonetheless a focal point. To carry out the consecration process Moses must act
immediately and for two consecutive days (hayyôm ûmāḥār; Exod 19:10). The
third day, when divinity appears, is the climactic event, for which the people
must ritually prepare themselves (wĕhāyû/hĕyû nĕkōnîm layyôm haššĕlîšî; Exod
19:11, 15). The advent is marked with powerful visuals (lightning, dense cloud,
fire, smoke) and auditory blasts (thunder, loud soundings of the šōpār horn),
both of which have the desired effect of producing violent trembling (√ḥrd) for
people and mountain alike (Exod 19:16, 18).105 The third day is also the day
when Moses leads the people (in a ritual procession?) “to meet God” at the sa-
cred space allotted to their status. Finally, the third day also contains the ele-
vation of Moses to his uniquely privileged position, marked by an even louder
demarcating blast of sacred sound (qôl haššôpār hôlēk wĕḥāzēq mĕʾōd; Exod
19:19).
The instructions about the washing of clothes (kibbĕsû śimlōtām; Exod 19:10,
14) and sexual abstinence (Exod 19:15) have to do with rites of purity and pol-
lution (cf. Frymer-Kensky 1983). In contrast to priestly literature, which goes
into much greater detail, the particulars here are scant and have no stated ra-
tionale. Compare the simple reference to the washing of clothes in the present
text with the fastidious details found in Leviticus and Numbers that concern the
different types of garment soiling (by blood from a sin offering, semen, unclean
animal, scapegoat, leprosy, female bleeding, corpse, battle, etc.). As for the span
of time for this consecration ritual, the two days of washing here pale in com-
parison to the involved seven-day ritual washing (and rewashing) of garments
and bodies in the priestly material.106 Though the rationale is not stated, Nicole
Ruane (2007: 69) suggests that “the laundering defines the cultically privileged
group . . . , changes the status of those who have gone from common people to
chosen people,” and “help[s]‌to forge the ritual community.” Turning to sexual
abstinence, here too we find the briefest of references, which pales in compar-
ison to the wide variety of priestly legislation on sex that Tikva Frymer-Kensky
sums up simply: “Emissions from the genitalia were considered polluting
agents.”107
Delimiting Sacred Space and Divine Lethality

In contrast to the briefness of the remarks having to do with sacred time, pu-
rity, and pollution, the narrative expends considerable energy on the delimita-
tion of sacred space and on deathly warnings should one violate defined borders.
Even more odd is how a text that at first glance wants to convey how the people
encountered God via a theophany spends most of its time keeping them at a good
distance. As we will see, there is a strong ideological reason for this.
Two different expressions are used for delimiting the sacred space for the
people. One uses a denominative verb from the noun gĕbûl, “border,” to mark
the actual physical space, followed by the modifier “all around” (sābîb) to under-
score its completeness (Exod 19:12, 23). The sacred space allotted to the people is
later said to be located at the base of the mountain (bĕtaḥtît hāhār; Exod 19:17), a
great distance from its summit (rōʾš hāhār), where Yahweh has descended (Exod
19:20). The second expression involves the enforcement of this limit, where the
people are not allowed “to break through” (hrs) the border to ascend the moun-
tain (Exod 19:21, 23).108
The potential offense of crossing this limit is “to gaze upon Yahweh” (ʾel-yhwh
lirʾôt). The stated rationale for delimiting space on the mount is “to keep it holy”
(wĕqiddaštô) or, more accurately, to guard the lethal power of divine holiness
from “breaking out” (prṣ) against the people lest a great number of them die
(wĕnāpal mimmennû rāb; Exod 19:21–22, 24). These two concepts go hand in
hand. Seeing the holy powerful divine is lethal (Exod 33:20). The author of Psalm
78:54, using synonymous parallelism, equates Mt. Sinai with Yahweh’s “holy
border” (gĕbûl qodšô; cf. Arb jabal “mountain”). Crossing a divinely set border
into holy space—that is, a place where one might see or encounter the Holy One
in all his power—is lethal. The verb used here for Yahweh, “breaking out” (prṣ)
with deadly effect, is the same verb used of Yahweh killing Uzzah in 2 Samuel 6:8
for his cultic violation with the Ark (previously discussed).
Gradations: Social/Cultic Status and Physical Space

The divine-human interaction on the holy mountain is marked by gradations
that correlate elevated social and cultic status with elevated physical space. The
people who have undergone consecrating rites are described as going up the
mountain to meet God (yaʿălû bāhār . . . liqraʾt hāʾĕlōhîm). In reality they only
ascend to the base of the mountain (taḥtît hāhār; Exod 19:13, 17). Socially and
cultically above the people are the priests, who also undergo consecration rites
(Exod 19:22). While they are assigned the privilege of “approaching Yahweh,”
curiously in the present text they too are grouped with the people at large who
must stay in delimited space lest they “break through to come up to Yahweh”
(ʾal-yehersû laʿălōt ʾel-yhwh; Exod 19:24). From what we see regarding the privi-
leged status of Moses and Aaron in the present text (and elsewhere as in Exodus
24), we would have expected the priests to have occupied space elevated from the
people. While this may indeed have been the case, no explicit mention occurs in
our narrative. As the text stands, the priests’ higher social and cultic status is not
correlated with physical elevation.109
The higher rungs of social and cultic status that correlate with the elevated
physical space on the holy mountain are reserved for Aaron and especially Moses.
The same divine command that forbids priests “coming up” (ʿălōt) to Yahweh—
by grouping them with the non-ascending people—bids Moses to come up
(ʿālîtā ʾattâ) and then groups Aaron with him (Exod 19:24). Here physical ele-
vation alone marks Aaron’s premier status (pregnantly priestly); other traditions
will use elaborate rituals of washing, vestments, anointing oil, sacrificial blood,
and food consumption to mark his consecration (lĕqaddĕšô) and ordination
(yĕmallēʾ ʾet-yad) (e.g., Exod 29:4–5; Lev 8:7–9, 12, 23, 30–33). Remarkably,
though Exodus 19 regulates the priesthood (their consecration, physical space,
and approach), in this Sinai narrative Aaron is never called a priest.110
The Unique Status of Moses in Exodus 19

At every turn, the ritual performance of Exodus 19:10–25 accords Moses the
highest possible human status. As it is currently framed, Moses is already on the
mountain abiding in Yahweh’s presence and receiving divine directives. Tellingly,
Moses simply and repeatedly “goes up to God” (ʿālâ ʾel-hāʾĕlōhîm) without any
mention of the need to be consecrated (Exod 19:3, 20, 24). Moses does not en-
gage in any rites of purification or sacerdotal investiture. Instead Yahweh di-
rectly summons him to the summit (wayyiqrāʾ yhwh lĕmōšeh ʾel-rōʾš hāhār; Exod
19:20). Moses freely crosses delimited space without any worry of divine holi-
ness “breaking out” (prṣ) against him and causing his death. Moses never has to
“break through” (hrs) any border barrier as he comes up to Yahweh.
The summit of the mountain, the most restricted (and thus privileged) gra-
dation of sacred space, is reserved for Yahweh and Moses alone. Granted, Aaron
does ascend the mountain with Moses, as he does elsewhere (cf. Exod 19:24;
24:1, 9), yet there is no mention of him being on the summit, where Moses alone
approaches Yahweh (cf. Exod 24:2). In the tradition found in Exodus 19, there is
no explicit mention of Moses “seeing” Yahweh, nor any mention of dining (con-
trast Exod 24:9–11). Instead, the emphasis here is on an auditory experience
with the divine similar to the traditions about Moses’ unique prophetic role (cf.
Chapter Nine, pp. 562–563). There are indeed powerful theophanic visuals of
fire, smoke, and lightning, yet the “voice of thunder” (qôl) metaphorically acts as
Yahweh’s mode of conversation with Moses (Exod 19:19). Sociologically, Moses
is Yahweh’s designated mediator. He acts as Yahweh’s emissary in communi-
cating the deity’s instructions and warnings. Simultaneously, as Yahweh’s chosen
officiant, he carries out the consecration rituals of the people, leads them (in pro-
cession) to the mountain, and sets their sacred boundary limit.
Ideological Holiness
To review, the Mt. Sinai narrative in Exodus 19:10–25 is rudimentary when it
comes to ritual details, emphasizes the consecration (qdš) of people and priest
set against a backdrop of divine lethality,111 and prescribes gradations of sacred
space that correlate with social and cultic status.
As the narrative continues in Exodus 20:15 (Eng 20:18), the people are phys-
ically terrified (wayyirāʾ/wayyirʾû [cf. LXX] hāʿām wayyānuʿû) upon seeing and
hearing Yahweh’s impressive theophany with its thunder, lightning, smoke, and
blast of the šōpār horn. In contrast to having sacred space delimited for them
(Exod 19:12, 23), here they are portrayed as willingly choosing “to stand at a dis-
tance far away” (wayyaʿamdû mērāḥōq; Exod 20:15, 18 [Eng 20:18, 21]). They
remain at a distance even after Moses tries to assure them that they need not be
afraid. They also urge Moses to be their intermediary with God lest the direct
hearing of the divine result in their death (Exod 20:16 [Eng 20:19]).
Such a response reminds us of Catherine Bell’s (1997: 75) comments on
“the emergent quality of ritual” whereby “prestige has accrued to some but not
others” with a self-reflective component “that enables the community to stand
back and reflect upon their actions and identity.” In the literary (and ideological)
presentation of the ritual and its aftermath before us, prestige has accrued to
Moses, who has unique (safe) access to Yahweh, and the people happily ac-
cede to such prestige out of a fear of divine lethality. The qdš consecration rit-
uals of purity and pollution do indeed allow Israelites a partial approach to the
Unapproachable Yahweh, even as non-Israelites have no such access. Yet their
approach is partial (at the base of the mountain), reflecting the limitations of
their social and cultic standing. Upon reflection, they acknowledge Moses’
unique ability to draw near to God and to receive his instructions, which they
pledge to obey (Exod 20:16–18 [Eng 20:19–21]; cf. Exod 24:2–3).
Returning to Moses, Milgrom states: “Moses himself acts as priest—indeed, as
Israel’s first priest, the one who not only established Israel’s cult, but also officiated
alone during the first week of its existence.”112 Moses, as Holy Yahweh’s representa-
tive, is instructed “to make the people holy” (qiddaštām) in Exodus 19:10 through
the two-day purity and pollution rituals. Moses likely oversaw the consecration
of the priests in Exodus 19:22 as well. Yet, as astutely underscored by Freedman
(quoted in Milgrom 1991: 557), “it is most significant that no one consecrates or
invests Moses. His authority comes directly from God and is not mediated as is
the power of both priests and kings.” As noted earlier, whereas in our text both
people and priest undergo qdš consecration rituals, the verb qdš is never used of
Moses.113 In fact, nowhere in the entire Hebrew Bible is the root qdš used of Moses
apart from a single (and telling) remark in Isaiah 63:11. Though this text is very
late, it preserves a tradition worth noting here for its extraordinary language of
God putting his holy spirit within Moses (haśśām bĕqirbô ʾet-rûaḥ qodšô):
But they [the people of Israel]

rebelled and grieved wĕhēmmâ mārû wĕʿiṣṣĕbû
his holy spirit. ʾet-rûaḥ qodšô
So he became their enemy, wayyēhāpēk lāhem lĕʾôyēb

he himself fought against them. hûʾ nilḥam-bām
Then he [God? the people?] remembered wayyizkōr yĕmê-ʿôlām

the days of old:
Moses. His people. mōšeh ʿammô114
“Where is he who brought them up from the Sea? ʾayyēh hammaʿălēm miyyām
With the shepherd of his flock?’ ʾēt rōʿeh ṣōʾnô115
“Where is he who put within him ʾayyēh haśśām bĕqirbô

his holy spirit? ʾet-rûaḥ qodšô
Who made his glorious arm môlîk lîmîn mōšeh

proceed at the right hand of Moses?” zĕrôaʿ tipʾartô
(Isaiah 63:10–12a)
The historical reminiscence of this hymnic poetry laments how God fought
against his own people who grieved “his holy spirit” (rûaḥ qodšô; Isa 63:10).
Then, through a series of rhetorical questions, Israel asks if Yahweh is as pow-
erful in the present as he was in the glorious past. Memories of the Exodus
come to mind, specifically the memories of a victorious warrior who delivered
his people with Moses playing a privileged role. Moses is highlighted four
times in a verse and a half. The name of Moses is the very first item remem-
bered, either by God or by the people as he/they reminisce (Isa 63:11).116 The
victory at the sea (and over Sea) immediately follows, with Yahweh using
Moses as the shepherd of his flock.117 Yahweh manifests his military power by
having “his glorious Arm” proceed at the right hand of Moses. Additionally,
and above all these accolades, Yahweh proclaims that he placed “his holy
Spirit” within Moses (haśśām bĕqirbô ʾet-rûaḥ qodšô). Such a personal and
direct investiture of divine essence and power (and with it prestige and au-
thority) is unparalleled.
Holy Personnel in the Priestly Traditions
Priestly authors would certainly agree with the confessions of faith we have
looked at earlier, those proclaiming that “there is no Holy One like Yahweh” (ʾên-
qādôš ka-yhwh; 1 Sam 2:2) and that Yahweh is “he who should be regarded as
holy” (ʾōtô taqdîšû; Isa 8:13). In worshipful response they too would acknowl-
edge that Yahweh is the incomparable one who should be “feared in holiness” (mî
kāmōkâ neʾdār baqqōdeš; Exod 15:11) and that devotees should prostrate them-
selves before “Yahweh majestic in holiness” (bĕhadrat-qōdeš; Ps 96:9). Yet in ad-
dition, they would advance notions about how a holy Yahweh should be revered
in decisively different ways. Rhetorically, consider the difference between the
third-person confessions about Yahweh’s holiness and the dramatic first-person
declaration by God himself found in Leviticus 11:44–45:
I am Yahweh . . . I am holy ʾănî yhwh . . . qādôš ʾānî
Such a proclamation resonates with the authority and supremacy we saw earlier
in the divine speech contained in Hosea’s prophetic oracles:
For I am God, not human, kî ʾēl ʾānōkî wĕlōʾ-ʾîš

the Holy One in your midst. bĕqirbĕkā qādôš
(Hosea 11:9)
Yahweh’s incomparable holy essence is the theological foundation that undergirds

all the pragmatics of managing holiness in space and time. Conceptually, it si-
multaneously emphasizes the divine/human divide as it begs the selection of
proper personnel and the enactment of ritual to bridge the divide.118 Of course,
the priestly writers knew that saying that a human (priest or people) should be
holy (consecrated) is categorically different from saying that God is holy. God is
essentially holy; he can be no other. The essence of humans, in contrast, is not.
If human essence were holy, there would be little need for intricate consecration
rituals and rhetorical admonishments to ritual, moral, and ethical holiness. Yet
despite this qualitative difference, as we will see, priestly traditions—with ulti-
mate seriousness—showcase in varying ways how priests (for P and H) and also
the community at large (for H) can be holy (i.e., to be godly, godlike). This par-
taking of the divine (though in an imitative sense only) is quite remarkable.119
The Complicated Nature of Holiness in Priestly Traditions
The Hebrew Bible preserves an array of priestly viewpoints of holiness, many of

them similar, others quite divergent from one another. Differences in theology de-
pend on the eye of the beholder. For Milgrom (1992: 454), “when it comes to the-
ology, P and H mostly form a single continuum; H articulates and develops what is
incipient and even latent, in P.” For Robert Kugler (1997: 26), “Leviticus is a book at
war within itself theologically . . . the two parts of Leviticus represent distinct the-
ological and ideological perspectives.” Unraveling priestly viewpoints on holiness
that have been woven together over years of transmission and redactional activity
is a daunting if not impossible task. Only a sketch will be given here.
The Management of Holiness: Holy Personnel
The rudimentary Mt. Sinai narrative in Exodus 19:10– 25 depicted four

gradations regarding personnel coming into Yahweh’s holy presence, five
demarcations if one wanted to add in the mention of animals in Exodus 19:13.
Moses is ranked alone as preeminent, with Aaron ranked second, as indicated
by his ascending the mountain along with Moses. Third in order would be the
priests (hakkōhănîm), who are described as “approaching” Yahweh, though in
the narrative their space is delimited. Lowest in rank are the people at large, who
remain at the base of the mountain. The last two groups are explicitly described
as undergoing consecration rituals. Moses consecrated (qiddēš) the people and
could likely have overseen the consecration of priests, though the reflexive verb
used (yitqaddāšû) puts emphasis on their agency in consecrating themselves.
The priestly traditions found in P and H essentially agree on these four
gradations of holy personnel (Moses followed by Aaron followed by the sacer-
dotal officiants [priests/Levites] and then the people), though they differ consid-
erably in how they nuance the last two groups, and in the spirit with which they
approach sanctification. These matters will be discussed in detail shortly. For
now, Jacob Milgrom and Israel Knohl present a helpful overview. In summarizing
his views of how “P and H sharply diverge on many theological fundamentals,”
especially “in their contrasting conceptions of holiness,” Milgrom (1991: 48)
notes: “Holiness of persons is restricted in P to priests and Nazirites; H extends
it to all Israel.” Unpacking the latter, Milgrom describes how H, “though it
concedes that only priests are innately holy (Lev 21:7), repeatedly calls on Israel
to strive for holiness.” Moreover, for H, “sanctification is an ongoing process for
priests as well as for all Israelites,” both of whom “bear a holiness that expands
or contracts in proportion to their adherence to God’s commandments.” Knohl
(1995: 180–181) writes in a similar fashion. For P (Knohl’s PT or Priestly Torah),
“only the priests, Aaron and his descendants, are sanctified for eternity,” whereas
H “expands the realm of holiness” such that it “applies to the entire community
of Israel.” Using H’s connection of honoring one’s parents with holiness, Knohl
adds: “One may clearly not restrict holiness to the Temple and the priests.”
The Supremacy of Moses in Priestly Tradition: Moses as Priest?
According to non-P (J?) tradition, during his very first and unexpected encounter
with the fiery divine, the shepherd Moses is able to stand on holy ground (ʾadmat-
qōdeš) without having undergone any type of priestly qdš investiture ritual (Exod
3:5)—but with the admonishment to remove his sandals (cf. Josh 5:15). Later
in the story, other non-P (E?) traditions have Moses demanding that Pharaoh
allow Israel to leave Egypt due to the necessity of sacrificing to Yahweh (Exod
3:18; 5:3, 8, 17; 8:8, 25–29; 10:25). Later still, as we just saw, in the mountain the-
ophany in Exodus 19, Moses is depicted as God’s intimate conversation partner
(Exod 19:19, 23) who serves as an emissary for the divine, communicating his
instructions and mediating his lethal power on behalf of the people. Cultically,
Moses serves as Yahweh’s chosen officiant, who carries out consecration rituals.
Moses himself holds such stature that he never undergoes any type of consecra-
tion ritual in order to approach divinity, in contrast to all other humans. In yet
another non-P (E?) tradition in Numbers 12:8, Moses is Yahweh’s servant, with
whom Yahweh “speaks face-to-face” (peh ʾel-peh ʾădabber-bô; cf. Exod 33:11) and
to whom he makes himself known in prophetic visions. Additionally, Moses is
one of the select few who are able to see Yahweh at least partially (tĕmunat yhwh
yabbîṭ) and live to tell about it (cf. Chapter Seven, pp. 296–297, 354–355). In all
of these traditions, no “holy” status is assigned to God’s special servant. As we
have seen, the only place where holiness comes explicitly into the picture is in a
late Isaianic portrayal where the shepherd Moses possesses Yahweh’s holy spirit
(rûaḥ qodšô; Isa 63:11). To this we now add Ps 99:6’s reference to Moses as priest
alongside Aaron (mōšeh wĕʾahărōn bĕkōhănāyw). Yet this is the only reference of
its kind in the entire Hebrew Bible, and one that is often discounted as not refer-
ring to kĕhunnâ priesthood in its technical sense.120
What about in P and H? The supremacy of Moses is seen throughout this
material, with scholars referring to him as “the exalted inaugurator of the cult”
(Gorman 1990: 141) or “the appointed mediator between the deity and the
community” (Rooke 2000: 16). For Propp (2006: 531), “Moses stands apart as
a once-in-history phenomenon.” Yet there is no certainty as to his sacerdotal
status. Acknowledging how “P is uneasy about Moses’ priestly role,” Milgrom
(1991: 555–558)—writing on Leviticus 8—nonetheless asserts that “Moses him-
self acts as priest—indeed, as Israel’s first priest, the one who not only estab-
lished Israel’s cult, but also officiated alone during the first week of its existence.”
Not only did Moses “officiate at the priestly consecration,” “he even received in
part the priestly prebends from the sacrifices (Lev 8:29b).” Building on the well-
documented role of the king as the central cultic actor in the ancient Near East
(including ancient Judah and Israel), Milgrom (1991: 557) asserts that Moses’
cultic leadership (dedicating the Tabernacle and investing the priests) is kinglike.
And it is thus “Moses’ regal role [that] entitles him to act as a priest.”121 Others
frame matters quite differently, with Aelred Cody (1969: 49) concluding that
“Moses does not appear in any way that clearly makes him a priest. . . . [T]‌he
truly ancient traditions on Moses preserved for us do not offer any evidence of
an aetiological attempt to trace the origins of priesthood to a Moses.” Levine
(1989: 49) also remarks that “it would be incorrect . . . to regard Moses as a priest.”
Erhard Gerstenberger (1996b: 112) takes a middle path. In Exodus 29, “Moses is
the officiating priest,” but in P “the role of priestly forefather is most certainly not
to be ascribed to Moses.”
What stands out among Moses’ sacerdotal associations is not primarily his
acts of consecrating others or receiving priestly prebends, though each of these
carries some weight. Logically, one must be holy to sanctify others, and according
to P’s worldview, prebends constitute “holy” food (Exod 29:33–34). Rather, there
are three marks of distinction that are striking: (1) Moses’ unique approach to
the Unapproachable One (typically, the closer to the Holy One, the more holy
the officiant); (2) Moses’ role as Yahweh’s emissary, mediating lethal divinity and
divine precepts to humans, and (3) Moses’ manipulation of blood (Exod 24:4–8;
29:12, 16, 20–21; Lev 8:15, 19, 23–24, 30). The last of these is quite noticeable, for
elsewhere it is consistently a privilege accorded only to priests (e.g., Lev 1:5, 11;
3:2, 8, 13; 4:25, 30, 34; 7:2; 8:15; 9:9; Ezek 43:18–20; 2 Chr 29:22, 24; 30:16).122
Ziony Zevit (2004: 200) sums up well: “So far as P was concerned, all such blood
manipulation fell in the province of kohanim.”
In light of P’s and H’s interest in sacerdotal affairs (discussed later), we must
take seriously the fact P and H never have Moses undergo any consecration ritual,
nor do they ever refer to Moses as a priest (kōhēn). A tempting solution would
be to see the suppression of a Mosaic priesthood due to P’s and H’s pro-Aaronid
stance. Much has been made of the existence of a Mushite priesthood (based in
Shiloh and Nob) rivaling that of the Aaronids (based in Bethel), building espe-
cially on the work of Frank Moore Cross and using as evidence such passages as
Exodus 32, Deuteronomy 33:8–11, and Judges 17–18 (discussed again later).123
Yet the omission of qdš language and priestly (kōhēn) vocabulary for Moses
occurs throughout the entire Hebrew Bible (apart from Ps 99:6), not just in a
handful of polemical texts. Something else must account for the universal omis-
sion of holy, priestly terminology for Moses.
Some suggest a sociological and/or rhetorical answer without appealing to
any type of polemic. Moses’ stature is secure. It is the Aaronids that need legit-
imation. Milgrom (1991: 557, together with Freedman) notes how Moses’ “au-
thority comes directly from God and is not mediated.” As such, “his capacity as
priest” can be “intentionally bypasse[d]‌. . . in order to confer divine sanction
upon Aaron and his sons.” Deborah Rooke (2000: 16) similarly comments that
Moses is viewed as a “pre-existing authority figure who never loses his authority
even when Aaron has been inducted as high priest.” Frank Gorman (1990: 141–
149), building on the work of Victor Turner, provides a more satisfying anthro-
pological answer. Moses’ role as Yahweh’s representative who inaugurates the
cult is singular. His position is unlike any other, his horned visage godly (Exod
34:29). “His role . . . goes well beyond that of ‘mediator,’ ” and is thus a liminal
one that straddles the divine and the human. As such, “he stands outside of and
transcends the normally operating cultic structures.”
The High Priest Aaron and His Priestly Sons:

The Ritual Act of Clothing
P’s treatment of Aaron is elaborate, as can be seen in many passages (e.g., Exod
28–29; 39:1–31; 40:12–15; Lev 1–8, 16; Num 3). It is easy to understand why.
Aaron stands for (personifies) every Aaronid high priest who occupies this most
elevated cultic position of prestige and power, including the high priest(s) at the
time(s) of P’s writing and editing. The Priestly writer(s) is (are) writing of himself
(themselves). For P, nothing could be more serious than regulating who should
be allowed to approach the Unapproachable and to what degree. Using gene-
alogical descent as a mechanism of legitimation, P has Aaron as the ancestor
of “priesthood” (kĕhunnâ; Num 3:10; cf. Exod 40:15; Lev 16:32). This supreme
Aaronid office is a divine “gift” (mattānâ; Num 18:7). It is to be “guarded” against
the “outsider” making approach, with death in the offering for such violation
(hazzār haqqārēb yûmāt; Num 3:10; Num 18:7).124
Several priestly consecration (qdš) rituals have to do with the body (e.g.,
movement, posture, washing, clothing, anointing). Over the past three decades,
social scientists, anthropologists, philosophers, and scholars of gender have
trained us to look for the ways in which the treatment of the body, especially in
ritual, constructs and reinforces social realities and hierarchies.125 Of the priestly
consecration rituals, two (clothing and anointing)126 are highlighted as marking
Aaron (and symbolically every high priest) as preeminent—elevated far above
ordinary priests, though lower in rank than Moses. P’s description of the ritual
performance of clothing Aaron in one-of-a-kind garments is explicit with re-
gard to its function. Yahweh clearly states his rationale: “You shall make holy
vestments for Aaron—for glorious radiance [lĕkābôd ûlĕtipʾāret] . . . to conse-
crate him for his priestly service to me [lĕqaddĕšô lĕkahănô-lî]” (Exod 28:2–3; cf.
Lev 8:30). The reference to Yahweh’s radiant kābôd, a key feature of P’s theology
of divine presence, is hard to miss.127 Writing on the ideology of ritual perfor-
mance, Gorman (1990: 118) astutely puts emphasis here on “the act of clothing”
and how it “serves as a marker of Aaron’s passage to his new status.” Visually,
Aaron’s “holy vestments” (bigdê-qōdeš) “give tangible evidence of his changed
position in society and serve as a symbol of his unique status.” In short, the ritual
clothing of Aaron is an act of investiture that formally bestows and confirms the
authority due his rank.
As for the holy garments per se, every one of them marks the privileged po-
sition of the high priest in expense and in function.128 That the expenditure of
resources (materials and workmanship) correlates with rank is on full display
with the four outer garments worn only by the high priest, in contrast to the
undergarments worn by all priests.129 These four include the holy ṣîṣ nēzer di-
adem (Exod 28:36–38; 39:30–31; Lev 8:9), the ḥōšen breastpiece (Exod 28:15–
30; 39:8–21; Lev 8:8; Num 27:21), the ephod (Exod 28:6–12; 39:2–7; Lev 8:7),
and the robe (Exod 28:31–35; 39:22–26; Lev 8:7). The materials used include
pure gold (zāhāb ṭāhôr), gold, hammered gold leaf, twelve engraved precious
stones (for the ḥōšen), two engraved onyx stones, gold bells, pomegranates (jew-
elry?), and richly embroidered and colored wool and linen. As astutely noted by
Menahem Haran (1985: 210), “in quality, materials, and workmanship” the high
priest’s garments “are correlated with the inner curtains of the tabernacle and the
golden vessels within it,” whereas regular priestly garments “are correlated with
the hangings and curtains of the court.”
The functions associated with Aaron’s vestments also mark his elevated au-
thority and status. It is when Aaron performs the rites that are his sole prerogative
that he dons “the garments of gold and linen-wool mixture which he alone may
wear” (Haran 1985: 211). The pure gold ṣîṣ nēzer-haqqōdeš diadem on which is
engraved “Holy to Yahweh” (qōdeš lyhwh) is ever present (tāmîd) on Aaron’s fore-
head as he carries out his elite mediation role on behalf of the people.130 Propp
(2006: 448) goes so far as to suggest that this engraving marks Aaron as “Yahweh’s
major domo,” who possesses “the greatest sanctity to which a mere human can
attain.” The function of the high priest’s ephod with its “breastpiece of judgment”
(ḥōšen mišpāṭ; Exod 28:15, 29) is equally elite. The breastpiece contains the di-
vinatory Urim and Thummim, which, according to P, only the high priest may
employ when he enters into “the holy [sanctuary]” (haqqōdeš; Exod 28:29–30;
but cf. Num 27:21).131 As for the robe with its gold bells, it too is worn only by the
high priest as he enters into the most holy recesses of the temple. Here again the
rationale given (“so that he may not die”) underscores his unique privilege to ap-
proach holy divinity, lethal though it may be.132
Along with the social markings of status, power, and privilege that clothing
provides, for P there is a vital theological tenet. This is seen in the all-important
Day of Atonement/Purgation (yôm kippûr), which focuses considerable atten-
tion on the ritual acts of washing and clothing (Lev 16:4)—and the act of dis-
robing (Lev 16:23)—to mark the entry into and out of “the Holy” (haqqōdeš).
According to Leviticus 16:2, “the Holy” is a reference to physical space (the inner
shrine with its veiled Ark and its kappōret) and to the place of clouded theophany
with its potential lethality. The clothes that Aaron wears to enter “the Holy” are
appropriately designated “holy vestments” (bigdê-qōdeš). His tunic is a “holy
linen tunic” (kĕtōnet-bad qōdeš). The vestments are made of linen (Lev 16:4) to
mark his subservience before God, in contrast to the previously mentioned or-
nate golden vestments that mark his elevated status before humans. Milgrom
(1991: 1016), following Talmudic tradition, notes how angels are mentioned
wearing linen in their “ministration on high” (cf. Ezek 9:2–3, 11; 10:2; Dan 10:5),
and thus Aaron’s garb is fitting, for “entry into the adytum is equivalent to admis-
sion to the heavenly council.”
Yet even in a passage that marks Aaron’s subservience before Yahweh, there
remain markers of his elevated authority and status vis-à-vis other humans.
Leviticus 16:26–28 describes those who assist with the scapegoat ritual (cf. the ʾîš
ʿittî in Lev 16:21)133 and the burning of the bull and goat ḥaṭṭāʾt offerings. Only
the laundering (kbs) of the clothing of these individuals is mentioned (Lev 16:26,
28), unlike Aaron’s ritual clothing and disrobing. For these minor figures, the
handling of their clothing is purificatory only (note too their ritual washings).
Though they too necessarily had to put on and take off their clothing, there is
no mention of the ritual act of clothing (and disrobing) to mark investiture and
divestiture, as there is with Aaron, who alone is granted the privilege of tempo-
rarily entering “the Holy” as he approaches the Unapproachable.
Finally, underscoring the ritual act of clothing, the appendix found in Leviticus
16:29–34 distills P’s instructions about the Day of Atonement/Purgation rituals
“for all time” (wĕhāyĕtâ lākem lĕḥuqqat ʿôlām) in order to promote the authority
and status of the current ruling priesthood. To summarize: the high priest (who
has been anointed and ordained to his hereditary office [lĕkahēn taḥat ʾābîw])
“shall put on the linen vestments, the holy vestments” in order to effect purgation
(Lev 16:32).
The High Priest Aaron and His Priestly Sons:

The Ritual Act of Anointing
This brings us to the way in which the ritual act of anointing (mšḥ) served to con-
secrate (cf. Gorman 1990: 118–121). Cornelis Houtman (1992; 2000: 574–587)
has articulated the way in which “holy anointing oil” (šemen mišḥat-qōdeš) and
a specialized mixture of incense with spices that makes it pure and “most holy”
(qĕṭōret . . . qōdeš qodāšîm) are sensory markers of sacred space (see Exod 30:22–
38; 37:29).134 Such sacred oil and pure incense are reserved for Yahweh alone,
to mark his “special fragrance,” which “becomes an expression of his person-
ality” (1992: 462, 465; 2000: 575). Every space and every object associated with
Yahweh’s presence (Tent of Meeting, Ark of the Covenant, incense altar, altar of
offerings, table, lampstand, utensils, basin) must be “consecrated” with divine
aroma (Exod 30:26–29). Once consecrated—and thus being made “most holy”
(wĕqiddaštā ʾōtām wĕhāyû qōdeš qodāšîm)—these objects possess holy conta-
gion for anyone who handles them (Exod 29:37; 30:29).135 Thus officiants too
must be consecrated with holy oil (Exod 30:30). The exquisite quality of these
fragrances and their restricted use mark elevated status for those whom Yahweh
allows to enter his “atmospheric curtain” by “imparting” his fragrance to them
(Houtman 1992: 463–464; 2000: 575). The seriousness of these holy fragrances
being used for Yahweh alone is emphasized in Exodus 30:32–33, 38, where any
individual who uses them for ordinary cosmetics is cut off from the people.
The P traditions provide three windows into priestly anointing, found in
Exodus 29, Leviticus 8–9, and Exodus 40.136 The beginning of Exodus 29 is sim-
ilar to Exodus 28:1 in that it starts with Yahweh’s ritual instructions to Moses
about what he is to do to Aaron and his sons to consecrate them for priestly ser-
vice (lĕqaddēš ʾōtām lĕkahēn lî; Exod 29:1). As Exodus 29 begins, so it ends, with
Yahweh’s proclamation: “I will consecrate Aaron and his sons to serve me as

priests” (ʾet ʾahărōn wĕʾet-bānāyw ʾăqaddēš lĕkahēn lî; Exod 29:44). The content
of the chapter reveals how anointing is a core aspect of the consecration pro-
cess (see items 3 and 6 in the following list), and yet it is not done in isolation.
Rather, it is part of a complex system of rituals and instructions that include the
following fourteen components:
1. The securing and transporting of sacrificial animals and unleavened

foods (29:1b–3)
2. The ritual transport, washing, and garbing of Aaron and his sons
(29:1–6, 8–9a)
3. The special anointing ritual for Aaron (29:7)
4. The particulars of the bull sacrifice (e.g., location, blood manipulation;
29:10–14), including the effectual priestly transference of sins via hand-
laying (29:10)137
5. The particulars of the first ram sacrifice (e.g., blood manipulation, dis-
memberment, complete burning; 29:15– 18), including the effectual
priestly transference of sins (29:15)
6. The particulars of the second milluʾîm (“filling → “ordination”?) ram sac-
rifice (e.g., blood manipulation; 29:19–21), including the effectual priestly
transference of sins (29:19) and a special anointing of the priests and their
garments with oil and blood from the altar (29:21)
7. Additional milluʾîm ram rituals, which together with unleavened bread
constitute priestly tĕnûpâ offerings, which then become a fire offering
(29:22–25)
8. Additional tĕnûpâ instructions with regard to priestly portions (29:26–28)
9. The use of Aaron’s holy garments and succession (29:29–30)
10. The priests’ privileged eating of the “holy” milluʾîm ram and unleavened
bread, which functions as an atoning (kuppar)138 means of ordination and
consecration (lĕmallēʾ ʾet-yādām lĕqaddēš ʾōtām) (29:31–34)
11. A summary statement mentioning a seven-day ordination ritual and the
atonement function of the bull sin offering (ḥaṭṭāʾt . . . ʿal-hakkippurîm
29:35–36a)
12. Instructions for carrying out a sin offering to effect atonement for the
altar, whose resulting holiness is contagious (29:36b–37)
13. Additional instructions regarding the perpetual nature of the altar
offerings (29:38–42a)
14. Yahweh’s promise to meet with and speak to his people as he dwells among
them at the Tent of Meeting; the “consecrated” Tent of Meeting and altar
with its “consecrated” priests (29:44) will ultimately be sanctified by the
very presence of Yahweh’s kābôd (wĕniqdaš bikĕbōdî; 29:43)139
Where Exodus 29 is instructional in nature, the narrative in Leviticus 8–9

articulates the process. Moses faithfully carries out Yahweh’s designs for the con-
secration and ordination of Aaron and his sons. Detailed mention is made of
Moses securing the relevant parties (priests and people) and ritual ingredients
(oil, sacrificial animals, and unleavened bread) at a sacred location (the entrance
of the Tent of Meeting) (Lev 8:1–4). Moses’ ritual washing of the priests (Lev
8:6; cf. Exod 29.4) and ritual garbing of Aaron are described with step-by-step
precision. The latter recounts each particular vestment (tunic, sash, robe, ephod,
decorated band, breastpiece, Urim and Thummim, headdress, gold frontlet) and
each particular mode of dressing (putting on, fastening/girding, clothing, tying,
setting), including an exclusive use of a denominative verb (ʾpd) formed from the
word ʾēpōd (Lev 8:7–9; cf. Exod 29:5–6).
The anointing procedure begins with Moses anointing the Tabernacle
(miškān) and its paraphernalia as an act of consecration (Lev 8:10–11), a feature
found elsewhere in P (Exod 40:9; Num 7:1) but not in Exodus 29.140 Leviticus
8:11 also mentions anointing the altar, as does Exodus 29:36 (cf. Exod 40:10),
yet the former does so seven times.141 Turning to Aaron, we find the same elite
practice of pouring oil on his head that was described in Exodus 29:7, though
the Leviticus narrative explicitly underscores how this too was an act of conse-
cration (wayyiṣōq miššemen hammišḥâ ʿal rōʾš ʾahărōn . . . lĕqaddĕšô; Lev 8:12; cf.
Lev 21:10; Ps 133:2). Though the narrative is arranged differently than in Exodus
29, Leviticus 8:30 also mentions the surprising anointing of the priests and their
garments with oil and blood from the altar (cf. Exod 29:21). Blood from the
milluʾîm ram is also used in both narratives to mark the right ears, thumbs, and
big toes of Aaron and his sons (Lev 8:23–24; Exod 29:20) and to land on the altar
(Lev 8:19, 24; Exod 29:16, 20).142 In addition, Leviticus 8 includes the priestly
transference of sins via hand-laying (cf. Lev 8:14, 18, 22; cf. Exod 29:10, 15, 19) as
well as the atonement (kpr) function of various ritual actions (Lev 8:15, 34; 9:7;
cf. Exod 29:33, 36–37).143
The subtle differences between Exodus 29:31–37 and Leviticus 8:31–35 are
fascinating. Each of these sections deals with the priestly eating of a portion of
the “ordination” (milluʾîm) ram. Distinctively, Exodus 29 emphasizes the “holy”
nature of the food to be eaten (29:33–34), giving the rationale that this is “the
food by which atonement is made in order to ordain and consecrate” the Aaronid
priests (wĕʾākĕlû ʾōtām ʾăšer kuppar bāhem lĕmallēʾ ʾet-yādām lĕqaddēš ʾōtām;
Exod 29:33). A telling exclusionary command then appears: “an ‘outsider’ [zār]
shall not eat [of the food] for it is holy.” It is curious that Leviticus 8 is silent on
this matter, especially in light of the severe concern about “the outsider” (hazzār)
making priestly approach (with resulting death penalty) found elsewhere in P
(Num 3:10; Num 18:7).144
Exodus 29:36–37 also emphasizes a seven-day consecration ritual for the

altar involving sacrificial atonement and anointing (cf. Ezek 43:18–27). As a re-
sult, the altar is “most holy” and a vehicle of holy contagion. Though Leviticus
8:11 echoes the anointing and consecrating of the altar that we find in Exodus
29:36—and with an added sevenfold emphasis—the rest of Leviticus 8 does not
include an explicit seven-day altar ritual.145 Instead, Leviticus 8:33–35 preserves
an explicit seven-day segregation for the priests that is totally lacking in Exodus
29:35, which mentions only a generic seven-day ordination. The Leviticus per-
spective here makes much of this segregation process, both how it takes a full
seven days and nights for the atonement/ordination process to be completed and
how violation of the stated procedure will result in the priests’ death (Lev 8:35).
Milgrom (1991: 538, 568–569) and Lester Grabbe (2003: 213 n. 12) understand
this as following the classic presentation of a rite of passage whereby the person
transitioning from one stage to another finds himself in a potentially dangerous
liminal state that requires ritual precautions.146 One might think that the end of
the segregation on the eighth day would ensure safety (cf. Lev 9), yet—as vividly
demonstrated in Leviticus 10:1–3—when one approaches the divine with its holy
power, lethality can strike whenever there is a failure to carry out the requisite
ritual performance.147
Anointing: Ritual Manner Designating Rank—Pouring Versus Sprinkling

The manner in which the anointing ritual is performed demarcates social and
cultic status. Aaron alone as high priest is anointed (mšḥ) in his person with
the pouring (yṣq) of anointing oil (šemen hammišḥâ) on his head (Lev 8:12;
Exod 29:7). Leviticus 8:12 is explicit in describing this bodily rite as consecra-
tory (qdš). Elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, the pouring of oil on the head as an
anointing ritual is elite, used only of Yahweh marking royalty (Saul as nāgîd in 1
Sam 10:1; Jehu as melek in 2 Kgs 9:3, 6).148 The elite pouring rite used to elevate
Aaron contrasts with a sprinkling (nzh) ritual used to mark lesser priests (also
using anointing oil) as they are garbed in priestly vestments (Exod 29:21; Lev
8:30). This sprinkling ritual is also viewed as consecratory (qdš; Exod 29:21b; Lev
8:30b). To make certain that this sprinkling ritual is not seen in any way as priv-
ileging these lesser priests above Aaron, both passages point out that Aaron as
priest is also accorded this rite.
As orderly as this hierarchy seems, other traditions add texture and perhaps
hints of conflict. One tradition underscores the importance of the high priest
by referring to “the anointed priest” (singular) (hakkōhēn hammāšîaḥ; Lev 4:3,
5; cf. Exod 29:7; 40:13; Lev 6:13, 15 [Eng 6:20, 22]; 8:12; 16; 21:10), whereas an-
other underscores the importance of distributed authority by referring to “the
anointed priests” (plural) (hakkōhănîm hammĕšuḥîm; Num 3:3; Exod 30:30; Lev
7:36; 10:7).149 The former tradition emphasizes how the high priest “is greater
than his brothers” (hakkōhēn haggādôl mēʾeḥāyw). The latter tradition stresses
the legitimation of Aaron’s sons and succession (cf. Exod 40:13–15). They are
anointed to be Yahweh’s priests “as was their father (Aaron),” and such anointing
serves to mark “a perpetual priesthood for their future generations” (likĕhunnat
ʿôlām lĕdōrōtām; Exod 40:15; cf. Lev 16:32; Num 3:10).
While these two perspectives can be harmonized, Levine (1993: 155) prefers
to see “two discrete traditions or viewpoints” that present “alternative view[s]‌
of the Israelite priesthood,” when it comes to “the status of the high priest.” See
too Fleming’s (1998: 408–409, 412, 414) suggestion of “independent origins for
the two anointing rites,” “truly separate cultic offices,” and “two separate priestly
heritages.” Both Levine and Fleming are responding to the foundational work of
Martin Noth (1984: 237–240), to which we now turn.
The Demise of Martin Noth’s Royal Interpretation

As already noted, the manner of Aaron’s priestly anointing (pouring oil on the
head) resonates with royal anointing. Privileging the latter, Noth (1984: 237–
240) developed an influential reconstruction that asserted that priestly anointing
was not a phenomenon of the pre-exilic period.150 Rather, for Noth and many
who followed him, anointing was an “institution of kingship [and] from there it
was passed on to the post-exilic high priest” due to his “special royal status” (em-
phasis mine). For Noth, “the act of anointing did not originally belong to the of-
fice of priest . . . anointing enters the Old Testament tradition with the monarchy.”
For comparative support for his royal scenario, Noth (1984: 239) looked to the
Syro-Hittite realm. Subsequent comparative study has revealed the narrowness
of Noth’s perspective. As Fleming has shown, “anointing was an essential part
of everyday life in the ancient Near East” and involved a wide variety of social
actors and social transactions (e.g., kings, priests, prophets, brides, merchants,
parties conducting property obligations).151 Anointing functioned in a variety of
ways, from marking social bonding to a change in social status.
As for priestly anointing, the Syro-Hittite realm to which Noth appealed now
undermines his royal argument. Milgrom (1991: 519, 554), following Harry
Hoffner, has pointed out that both Hittite priests and kings were anointed, with
the former even being referred to as “the anointed” (tazzelli = Sum GUDU4 = Akk
pašišu). From Late Bronze Age Syria, the relevant texts come from Emar, an out-
post city on the southeastern edge of the Hittite empire.152 One of the city’s most
important indigenous rituals involved a two-day anointing of the high priestess
of the storm god at Emar (NIN.DINGIR dIM) as part of a fuller nine-day instal-
lation rite that has references to “days of sanctification.”153 Mention is made of
the recipients of cult (the gods of Emar), the lead officiant and his payment (the
diviner, shekels of silver), additional personnel, the ritual substance (fragrant
oil), its place of procurement (temple of the goddess dNIN.KUR and palace),
method, location (at the gate of the storm god), timing (daily markers, evening),
and associated rituals (lot casting, animal sacrifice of oxen and sheep, offerings
of breadstuffs and liquid [esp. wine], shaving ceremony). Of note for our present
discussion is that anointing the priestess involves pouring oil on her head. Thus,
as Fleming (1998: 401–402) notes, “the ancient Near Eastern evidence does not
sustain a late evolution from the preexilic anointing of kings to the postexilic
use of the rite for priests.” In addition, the priestess undergoes anointing on two
different occasions (cf. Aaron) and as a part of a much larger complex of rituals
that includes sacrifice.154 Thus what we read in Exodus 29 and Leviticus 8—while
constituting P’s literary portrayal of priestly consecration—is nonetheless woven
out of a historical conceptual fabric. While there are elements that are “ideal-
ized” or “utopian” (cf. Grabbe 2003: 215–224), Fleming’s (1998: 412) nuanced
wording provides a nice balance: “These should not be regarded as ritual texts
in the sense of having full correspondence to actual practice . . . but they are the
work of professionals familiar with both ritual and its recording.”
Anointing: Ritual Substance—Oil and Blood

Prior to leaving these texts on priestly anointing, we must revisit the two
references to the anointing of the priests and their garments with oil and blood
from the altar (Lev 8:30; Exod 29:21). Until recently, the unlikely mixture of these
two substances was unknown outside of our Hebrew texts. Anointing with oil is
common, yet the use of blood typically points to an altogether different ritual
event (sacrifice) with altogether different ritual functions. E. E. Evans-Pritchard
has tabulated fourteen possible motivations underlying sacrifice (“communion,
gift, apotropaic rite, bargain, exchange, ransom, elimination, expulsion, purifica-
tion, expiation, propitiation, substitution, abnegation, homage”), none of them
involving anointing.155
As first pointed out by Fleming (1998), here too Late Bronze Age Emar
provides our closest comparative data with its highly important zukru festival.
The zukru festival is fascinating in that we have variant traditions ranging from
a short annual rite focused on a single day to an elaborate seven-day festival
planned a full year in advance.156 The former has no human actors and minor
mention of organized offerings by “the city,” while the latter is as expansive as it
is expensive, with offerings for all the gods of the city (about ninety in number)
and with the palace and king picking up the majority of the cost. One cannot
miss how the festival underscores royal patronage and benevolence. Yet, curi-
ously, the king has no active role in the ritual, contrary to expectations (for kings
are the primary religious officiants in the ancient Near East). What is important
for our present concern is an anointing ritual that occurs in both short and long
versions. Surprisingly, it involves the use of oil and blood (Ìmeš ÚŠmeš) rubbed on
standing stones (sikkānu) that seem to function as divine images.157 As Fleming

(1998: 410) notes, of all the many anointing rituals attested in the ancient Near
East, the distinctive mixture of oil and blood occurs only in Emar’s zukru fes-
tival and the anointing of the priests and their vestments in Exodus 29:21 and
Leviticus 8:30.
While it would be tempting to draw direct parallels between the Emar
texts and the biblical texts due to the ritual nature of both corpora (cf. Hess
2007b: 112– 123), proper comparative methodology— where differences are
highlighted along with similarities—suggests that we proceed with caution.
While Emar does have the anointing of a priestly figure similar to Exodus 29
and Leviticus 8 (and with the same manner of pouring oil on the head), Emar’s
officiant is a priestess rather than a priest. While Emar does attest indigenous
West Semitic ritual practices (no such rites are attested in Mesopotamia), they
are set against a historical backdrop of thirteenth-century BCE Hittite hegemony
that is a world apart from P’s historical context. While some of the installation
rituals at Emar resonate with Exodus 29 and Leviticus 8 (e.g., priestly anointing
with oil, sacrifice), there are just as many rites that diverge (e.g., lot casting,
wine offerings, shaving ceremony). And while the zukru festival at Emar does
attest both oil and blood being used as anointing substances, they are rubbed
onto standing stones as opposed to the biblical sprinkling on priests and their
garments. Functionally, Fleming (2000: 83) argues that the zukru anointing is
not a rite of “consecrat[ing] the stones as new cult objects, since it is repeated
at the end of the festival as well as during the sixth year.” While Yitzhaq Feder
(2011: 121) does allow for the Emar anointing “to endow the object with a level
of sanctity,” he, like Fleming, notes how the repetitive nature of the rite points
away from consecration and toward “the preparation for the passage of Dagan
between the stones.” Patrick Michel (2013: 192) concurs: “The unction cannot
then be considered as a consecration rite.”
If not for consecration, then what was the purpose of the anointing of
the standing stones in the zukru festival? Fleming (1998: 410; 2000: 86–87)
understands the ritual as “a form of cultic care” whereby “the stones [representing
the collected gods] are anointed in preparation for the moment of meeting” the
god Dagan as he (via his divine image) proceeds from the city to their rural lo-
cale. Upon arrival, Dagan “passes between them to receive their homage,” and, as
a result, “the cults of two domains salute and establish a basis for continuity.” For
Fleming (2000: 97), this is “the ritual center of the zukru, the reason for [Dagan,
the pantheon head] leaving the city for a shrine of upright stones.” Michel’s
(2013: 196) reconstruction is similar: “The Zukrum should primarily be the mo-
ment when [the anthropomorphic statue of] Dagan meets his own [aniconic]
stone, in front of all the deities.” Clearly, for our purposes, the similarities of
Emar’s anointing of standing stones with oil and blood are outweighed by the
manifold differences with P’s use of the two substances for his priestly consecra-
tion ritual.
The Ritual Act of Anointing: Consecratory Expiation

We are still left with trying to ascertain the full meaning of the anointing of the
priests and their garments with oil and blood in Exodus 29:21 and Leviticus 8:30.
Both texts are clear that this ritual action results in officiants and vestments being
made holy (qdš). As noted earlier, the anointing with oil is common (cf. Exod
30:22–30). It is the additional anointing with blood that is remarkable.
When both passages mention the blood, they point back to the altar: “You
shall take [Then Moses took] some of the blood that is on the altar” (Exod 29:21a;
Lev 8:30). Thus here is where we need to look. Leviticus 8:10–11 and Exodus
40:9–10 explicitly mention the anointing of the altar with “anointing oil” (šemen
hammišḥâ), and Exodus 29:36 implicitly says the same. As for blood, the altar
undergoes a cleansing rite (√ḥṭʾ) by means of the sin (ḥaṭṭtāʾt) sacrifice and as
part of a complex process of purgation/expiation (kpr) and consecration (qdš)
(Lev 8:15; Exod 29:36; cf. Feder 2011: 49–50, 99–105). When this altar blood is
then used for priestly anointing, it must carry with it a related effectual power.
As for the mechanism by which blood can have both expiatory and consecra-
tory power, Milgrom (1991: 533–534) appeals to the principle of holy contagion
as expressed in Exodus 29:37b: “As soon as the blood impinges upon the altar it
partakes of its holiness and is then able to impart holiness to others.” “The sacrifi-
cial blood is sanctified; only consecrated blood can consecrate.”158
Holy Personnel: Restriction and Expansion (P and H)
Up to this point, we have been concentrating our discussion on the ways that P
conceptualizes holy personnel. For P, priesthood (kĕhunnâ) is an elite Aaronid
office. Consecrated Aaron—being marked with uniquely “radiant” vestments
(Exod 28:2–3) and an exclusive anointing ritual—is the “father figure,” and only
his loins produce legitimate priestly descendants. Time and again we read in P
of “Aaron and his sons” (Exod 27:21; 29:4, 9–10, 15, 19, 28, 32, 35, 44; 30:19, 30;
39:27; 40:12, 31; Lev 2:3, 10; 6:9, 16, 20; 7:31; 8:2, 6, 14, 18, 22, 31, 36; 9:1; 24:9;
Num 3:9, 10, 38, 48, 51; 4:5, 15, 19, 27; 8:19). For P, the Aaronid priesthood is
an exclusive “gift” (mattānâ) directly given by Yahweh (Num 18:7). Moreover,
its legitimacy should never be challenged, for Yahweh proclaimed their priest-
hood to be “a perpetual ordinance” that is valid “for all generations to come”
(kĕhunnâ lĕḥuqqat ʿôlām/likĕhunnat ʿôlām lĕdōrōtām; Exod 29:9; 40:15; cf. Exod
27:21; Num 25:13). As we have documented, P uses every aspect of the ritual
ingredients and ritual performance to construct and reinforce the status, power,
and privilege of the consecrated Aaronid priesthood. (On ritual space, see dis-
cussion later.) In particular, William Gilders (2004: 103–104) emphasizes the
way in which the manipulation of blood during the ordination rituals serves to
index the Aaronids as holy. As a result, they possess “an existential relationship”
with the altar, which they alone are privileged to access.
Expansive Holiness in the Holiness Source (H)

H conceptualizes the situation quite differently.159 Knohl (1995: 180–186) looks
to Leviticus 19 to articulate H’s “striking expression” of inclusive holiness. H’s
succinct rhetoric with its plural imperative in Leviticus 19:2 (cf. Lev 11:1–2a,
44–45; 20:1, 7–8; 20:26; Num 15:40) could not be more powerful.160 Yahweh
instructs Moses:
Speak to the entire congregation of the people of Israel and say to them: “Be
holy, for I, Yahweh your God, am holy” [qĕdōšîm tihyû kî qādôš ʾănî yhwh
ʾĕlōhêkem]. (Lev 19:2)
When juxtaposed against P’s restrictive Aaronid holiness, this expansive view
of sanctity is indeed striking. Leviticus 19 then provides a comprehensive list of
instructions that are to be followed by the collective community (all the verbs
are plural) to achieve holiness. The remarkable contrast with P’s cult-oriented
holiness could not be more noticeable. Leviticus 19’s “laws of holiness” includes a
wide variety of social, cultic, judicial, economic, and moral topics: revering one’s
parents, Sabbath observance, idolatry, acceptable šĕlāmîm sacrifices, reaping
with the marginalized in mind, theft, lying, false swearing, fraud, concern for
the deaf and blind, just legal renderings, slander, interpersonal relationships and
neighborly love, improper mixtures, sexual relations, moratorium on harvesting
fruit, diet, divination, tonsure rites, bloodletting, tattooing, prostitution, rever-
ence of the sanctuary, false intermediaries, the elderly, the non-Israelite resident,
and business ethics (Lev 19:3–36).
Fifteen times in this single chapter—more occurrences here than anywhere
else in the entire Hebrew Bible—we find divine self-declarations (“I am Yahweh”
or “I am Yahweh, your God”) interlaced with the commands to undertake a life
of holiness. This interlacing identifies Yahweh’s personhood with his commands,
which are expressions of his holy character. His relational identifier (“your
God”) binds Yahweh with the community, which is to carry out the laws of ho-
liness as they relate one to another. Thus Leviticus 19, verse by verse, unpacks
its opening and closing imitatio Dei admonitions: “Be holy, for I, Yahweh your
God, am holy” (Lev 19:2); “Keep all my statutes and all my ordinances and ob-
serve them; I am Yahweh” (Lev 19:37). Leviticus 19 is framed by two additional
chapters (Lev 18, 20) where H also has the holiness of the entire community in
view. Twice more Yahweh explicitly instructs his people to consecrate themselves
to living a holy life due to their relationship with (and imitation of) him and
his holiness (Lev 20:7, 26). As much as the people themselves do so, symbioti-
cally it is Yahweh himself who carries out the process of sanctification (ʾănî yhwh
mĕqaddiškem; Lev 20:7–8; cf. 21:8). Additionally, these two chapters address
ethnic identity, especially by using the C stem of √bdl to relate the people’s “dis-
tinguished/separated” practices (above all with regard to diet) to how Yahweh
“distinguished/separated” them from their neighbors. Yahweh did so, says H, in
order that they might be marked as his possession (Lev 20:24b–26; cf. Lev 10:10;
11:47).
Though H in Leviticus 19:30 does indeed promote reverence for the sanc-
tuary (miqdāšî tîrāʾû), when it comes to the place where holiness is to be
practiced, here too H is expansive. Holiness is to be carried out wherever the
people live their lives. The same can be said of sacred time. Rather than it
being solely tied to a cultic calendar, for H the people are to practice holiness
continuously.
The Priesthood in H
H’s expansive holiness does not mean that he disregards the elevated role of
the Aaronid priesthood and its vital role in mediating holiness within sa-
cred space and time. H devotes two detailed chapters (Lev 21–22) to priestly
regulations. H proclaims how the high priest who holds Aaron’s office “is
greater than his brothers” (hakkōhēn haggādôl mēʾeḥāyw). He is marked by
the pouring rite of anointing and by unique vestments (Lev 21:10, 12). His
level of sanctity must be the highest possible, so extreme measures are in force
with regard to his hair, garments, marriage, and defilement (Lev 21:10–15).
For example, he is not even allowed to leave the sanctuary for his own parents’
funeral lest he return with the impurity arising from corpse contamination
(Lev 21:11–12).
Though the Aaronid priests are included in the comprehensive “laws of ho-
liness” that apply to the community at large and all aspects of social engage-
ment, they are marked with an additional level of sanctity. They are the focus
of increased regulations with regard to defilement, tonsure, and marriage. H’s
rationale for their elevated level of sanctity is given in Leviticus 21:1–8:
Yahweh said to Moses: Speak to the priests, the sons of Aaron, and say to
them: [Defilement ordinances and tonsure regulations specific to priests.] They
shall be holy to their God [qĕdōšîm yihyû lēʾlōhêhem], and not profane the name
of their God; for they offer Yahweh’s offerings by fire,161 the food of their God;
therefore they shall be holy [wĕhāyû qōdeš]. [Increased marriage regulations.]
For they are holy to their God [kî-qādōš hûʾ lēʾlōhāyw], and you shall treat them
as holy [wĕqiddaštô], since they offer the food of your God; they shall be holy
to you, for I Yahweh, I who sanctify you [plural], am holy [qādōš yihyeh-lāk kî
qādôš ʾănî yhwh mĕqaddiškem]. (Lev 21:1–8)
As Knohl (1995: 192) observes, this “highest grade of holiness,” “in which
Israelites [at large] and Levites may not participate,” is that which “emanat[es]
from the cult.” The specific cultic act is mentioned twice: approaching Yahweh on
behalf of the people to offer their sacrifices via fire. Elsewhere H unpacks what
is terse here. The priests are charged with incinerating the offerings, producing
the smoke that is a “pleasing aroma” (rêyaḥ nîḥōaḥ) to Yahweh (Num 28:2).162
The logic is clear: the Aaronid priests have to adhere to additional regulations to
increase their level of sanctity if they are to approach the Holy One with proper
cult. Significantly, they then do so using fire as the means by which the offerings
are made acceptable to Yahweh. Christian Eberhart (2011: 28) speaks of this as “a
process of transforming the material offering into a new, ethereal essence during
the burning rite.” In sum, holy priests using fire are allowed entry to Yahweh, the
Holy One, who manifests his presence and power most often via fire (see Chapter
Seven, pp. 344–358).
Additional priestly regulations (having to do with priestly blemishes) are then
pronounced in Leviticus 21:16–23, again raising the restrictive bar higher for
Aaronids who make approach (qrb; ngš) to make offerings to Yahweh. Concerns
about priestly provisions, simply called “holy [foods]” (qodāšîm), are addressed
in detail with regard to restrictive states of impurity (Lev 22:1–9).163 As with
blemishes, H understands the economics of the situation, for such “holy [foods]”
were the chief means of the priests’ sustenance. Priests with blemishes or those in
states of impurity are allowed (for the latter after purificatory washings and waiting
until the evening) to eat of the “holy [provisions]” (Lev 21:12; 22:6–7). Economics
are also in view with regard to priestly families (and slaves acquired into priestly
households), as the possibility of their eating the holy food under certain conditions
is then pronounced (Lev 22:10–16). The notion of a priest’s holy status extending to
his family reminds us of the bonds of family religion (see Chapter Eight).
P’s Expansive Holiness: Temporary Nazirite Vows for Women and Men
H’s expansive notion of a broadly defined holiness for the entire community does
indeed stand in stark contrast to P’s narrow concentration on the cultic holiness
of the Aaronid priesthood. Yet P’s restrictive focus should not be taken to mean
that P has no mechanism for non-priests who desire a higher level of sanctity. For
P, non-priests, both men and women, are able to achieve a level of holy distinc-
tion by becoming Nazirites.
Limited data make any reconstruction of the Nazirites provisional.164 Several
passages suggest that the institution has an old pedigree, and the early nature
of the Nazirites is quite different from P’s formulation. Their storied history
includes tribal references to Joseph as well as the episodes about Samson and
Samuel. In two parallel poetic blessings, Joseph is said to be “the nāzîr of his
brothers” (Gen 49:26; Deut 33:16). There is no indication of what secures his
status as the nāzîr. Curiously missing is any votive language that typifies Nazirite
narratives elsewhere. Joseph’s status is an elevated one, judging from the related
noun nezer, “crown,” and how the blessing comes upon his head (cf. the anointing
of elite personnel on their head). Some scholars have suggested a “consecrated”
status, though there is no indication of any cultic role for Joseph.165 Such a por-
trayal would make sense only if broadly construed (e.g., how God used Joseph to
bring about his will in Gen 50:20; thus de Hoop 1999: 217). For a clearer cultic
use of the root nzr elsewhere, compare the devotees who “became nāzîr of Baal”
(yinnāzĕrû labbōšet) at Baal-Peor as portrayed in Hosea 9:10.166
We have more distinct information regarding Samson and Samuel as Nazirites.
In each case we read of a mother dedicating her son to be a lifelong Nazirite prior
to his birth. (Note again the primacy of family religion and with women in pri-
mary roles.) Samson’s mother’s dedication is described as the result of a pre-
ternatural visitor (the fiery malʾak-Yahweh) who instructs her to do so.167 The
mention of Samson being “a nāzîr of God” is explicitly described in Judges 13:5, 7
and 16:17. Judges 13:7 underscores the lifelong commitment (min-habbeṭen ʿad-
yôm môtô). Samuel’s mother’s dedication is expressed as a vow (neder) should
Yahweh bless her with a long-desired son (1 Sam 1:11, 22).168 In its fullest for-
mulation (see discussion of P later), a vow to be a Nazirite involves a threefold
abstinence: (1) refraining from cutting one’s hair, (2) avoiding intoxicants (prob-
ably even all products of viticulture; cf. Judg 13:14; Amos 2:11–12; Num 6:4) and
unclean food, and (3) avoiding any contact with a corpse. Only the first applies
to Samson; curiously and significantly, it is his mother who is the observant
devotee abstaining from products of viticulture and impure food (Judg 13:4,
7, 14; cf. Levine 1993: 230). In Samuel’s case, the uncut hair provision is clear,
as with Samson, while the intoxicant stipulation depends on one’s textual criti-
cism.169 Neither the Samson tradition nor the Samuel tradition mentions corpse
contamination.
In Numbers 6, P’s reformulation of whatever Nazirite traditions he inherited
is distinct and transformative. P clearly states that this is a consecrated (though
temporary) vocation (Num 6:5, 8). Mayer (1998: 307) argues that the verb nzr
refers to consecration and thus P’s nāzîr can be translated “consecrated one.” The
Septuagint translator(s) of Numbers 6:1–21 would certainly agree, for “as a rule,
we find a derivative of hagi-. . . or hagn-” to render these terms. In Numbers 6:6–
12, P adds a third abstinence condition for Nazirites (a strict avoidance of corpse
contamination) that is found nowhere else. As many have noted, this prohibition
closely tracks that of the high priest (cf. Num 6:6–8 with H’s Lev 21:11–12). Note
especially how each passage mentions close family members and how “the nēzer
consecration of God” is on their respective heads, though the high priest alone is
marked by anointing oil (nēzer ʾĕlōhāyw ʿal-rōʾšô; Num 6:8; nēzer šemen mišḥat
ʾĕlōhāyw ʿālāyw; Lev 21:12). Lastly, it is not a coincidence that the “holy diadem”
placed on the high priest’s head and engraved “Holy to Yahweh” is called a nēzer
haqqōdeš (Exod 29:6; 39:30; Lev 8:9).
So, what is P up to with his portrayal of the Nazirites’ vow and their
regulations? It seems that P is anticipating what H fleshes out on a broader soci-
etal scale. Though the Aaronid priesthood is preeminently and restrictively holy
with its offering of cult, allowances must be provided for people at large who de-
sire higher levels of sanctity and want to be recognized for such. Of special note
is how the office of the Nazirite is open to women who have no other cultic role
in P’s scheme (ʾîš ʾô-ʾiššâ kî yapliʾ lindōr neder nāzîr lĕhazzîr lĕ-yhwh; Num 6:1).
P’s mechanism to satisfy this desire is to provide for an elevated, holy
office that is publicly recognized. Social awareness comes from the
practitioners making a public vow and their subsequent adherence to the
three abstinences noted earlier. The nature of a vow (neder) and the diffi-
culty of the threefold abstinence (along with legislation for their violation;
Num 6:9–12) adds to the solemnity of the vocation. Public recognition is
especially facilitated by what we read in Numbers 6:13–21 that describes
rituals at the end of a Nazirite’s period of observance. Here again we see how
ritual practice constructs and reinforces social realities and hierarchies.
The Nazirites are ceremonially brought in procession to sacred space (Num
6:13). Their provisions of multiple offerings (three unblemished rams, var-
ious foodstuffs, wine, oil) underscore their economic and social standing
along with their piety (Num 6:14–15). The acceptance of these offerings by
the deity, to borrow the rite’s technical vocabulary, facilitates a wholesome
“well-b eing” (šĕlāmîm) between Yahweh and the Nazirite (Num 6:16–17).
A solemn handling of the body follows, with two deconsecrating tonsure
rites: the shaving and burning of the Nazirite’s hair, both of which occur
within sacred space (the entrance of the Tent of Meeting and the altar;
Num 6:18).
Yet as much as P provides this esteemed avenue toward holiness for people
at large, he at the same time exercises control over the vocation so as not to
yield the authoritative status of the Aaronids. Importantly, P restricts the
Nazirite institution to a temporary position, in direct contrast to the lifelong
Nazirite. The position is also framed as being an internal, individual path to-
ward holiness, without any governance of (or power over) another’s affairs.
In contrast to Samuel, the child Nazirite who grows up to engage in a va-
riety of cultic roles (e.g., sacrificing, royal anointing; 1 Sam 9:13; 10:1, 8), P’s
Nazirite has no authority. P’s Nazirite does not mediate the affairs of others;
his/her vocation is an individual one. Most significantly, although P’s Nazirite

can undertake a personal vow (Num 6:2), his/her position is under the au-
thority of the Aaronid priests. They are the ones who enforce the legislation
for a Nazirite’s violation of observance (Num 6:9–12). Repeatedly the kōhēn
is described as the one who offers cult on the Nazirite’s behalf (Num 6:10–11,
16–17, 19–20). In short, the stature of the Nazirite’s temporary state of inner
holiness is quantitatively and qualitatively inferior to that of the perpetual
priesthood of the Aaronid priests (likĕhunnat ʿôlām lĕdōrōtām; Exod 40:15).
Writing on hierarchy in biblical representations of cult, Saul Olyan (2000: 61)
sums up the situation well:
If anything, the contrast between Nazirite holiness and that of priest and high
priest only serves to reinforce and underscore the difference between the
priestly class and all others in the Priestly schema, including Nazirites. The very
presence of the Nazirite is a reminder that even the elite among non-priests,
those willing to embrace restrictive lifestyle modifications, have no enduring
claim to holiness as do priests.
Though P strongly privileges the power and prestige of the Aaronid priests,
it would be unbalanced to allow this to be the last word on Nazirite holiness.
Milgrom (1990: 357) squarely sets out two parameters for gauging the social
dynamic between priests and Nazirites: “How did the priesthood regard the
Nazirite institutions: with favor, as an opportunity for the layman to achieve
holiness, or with disfavor, as an unproductive, wasteful form of life?” Using H’s
broad understanding of societal holiness as his benchmark (particularly Lev 19),
Milgrom argues for the latter:
Israel indeed can aspire to holiness . . . but not in the way of the Nazirite. Rather,
Israel achieves holiness by adhering to a series of moral and ritual rules that
impinge on the total life of the individual, affecting as much the relationship
with his fellow as with his God . . . The Nazirite, on the other hand, owes no ser-
vice either to his God or to his people. His priestlike abstentions may satisfy his
inner emotional need but they are of benefit to no one else. Only a behavioral
transformation, especially as it alleviates the plight of the underprivileged in
society, is the true gauge of holiness.
Such harsh wording toward the Nazirite is striking for anyone who values the
contemplative and ascetic traditions that are found in most, if not all, religions.
As P must have understood, society must allow a mechanism for inward
seekers who choose a contemplative path, and it must do so in a way that is
supportive rather than demeaning. Thus whereas Milgrom chooses the latter
of his two parameters, it is more likely that both were in play as the social dy-
namic was lived out by people of different persuasions and prejudices (espe-
cially against women Nazirites). As for P, he explicitly writes that “all the days
of the Nazirite’s observance are holy to Yahweh” (Num 6:5, 8)—and P never uses
the term qādôš lightly. Moreover, P uses very specific language in Numbers 6:1
to introduce the topic. Numbers 6:1 is typically translated something like: “If
anyone, man or woman, explicitly utters a [or makes a special] Nazirite vow, to
set himself apart for Yahweh.” As noted as early as Ibn Ezra (whom Milgrom
[1990: 44] acknowledges), the verb plʾ, used here to modify the making of a
vow (yapliʾ lindōr neder), is used elsewhere of God’s “wondrous” deeds (cf. the
related nouns peleʾ and niplāʾōt).170 Thus in Numbers 6:1, P is framing the na-
ture of the Nazirite vow as remarkably positive. As for Milgrom’s critique about
the civil good, an inward path can result in benefits for the community at large
if the ascetic is socially minded (e.g., Thomas Merton, Gandhi).171 For some
inward seekers, their thirst for justice and engagement with the marginalized
flows out of their asceticism.
The Holiness of Levites
The complicated history of the Levites and the question of their consecration is
too tangled to be unraveled.172 The braided threads that end up in the Hebrew
Bible attest to several traditions, early and late, that point to inter-priestly con-
flict. It seems that the Levites were regularly faced with negotiating priestly power
and position with Aaronid and Zadokite priests, and more often than not they
came out on the losing end. As for our present concerns, Olyan (2000: 35) writes
perceptively: “Among the ranks of the cultic elite, distinctions of status . . . are
often expressed through the idiom of holiness.”
As we have demonstrated, P’s and H’s views of priestly power and status privi-
lege the Aaronids. Thus it comes as no surprise to find traditions minimizing the
stature of the Levites. While the services of the Levites are highly valued, they
are hierarchically subordinate to those of the Aaronid priesthood. Yet prior to
turning to this material, we should first look at alternative traditions that hint
at a different scenario, one in which the Levites had a more prominent position.
What tangles our understanding of all of these traditions is the genealogy re-
vealing that Aaron is himself a Levite (Exod 4:14; 6:16–25), and in particular
the geneaology of the house of Kohath and the family of Amram (Num 26:58–
59). Thus the texts that seem to give clear evidence of an internecine Aaronid-
Levite conflict can be reframed as legitimating the Aaronids, who are, after all,
Levites.173
The Prestigious Levite of Judges 17–18

One of the earliest traditions about the prestige of a Levite is found in Judges
17–18, where a mobile Levite comes to be installed as a priest (kōhēn).174 Rather
than being connected to the organized sacred space we come to associate with
priestly activity (Tabernacle, Tent of Meeting, Ark, Temple), here the locus of
cultic activity is a family shrine (bêt ʾĕlōhîm) with a divine image and related
cultic paraphernalia (Judg 17:3–5; 18:14, 17–18, 20, 24, 30–31). At the start of the
narrative, the shrine’s priest (kōhēn) is one of the sons of its owner, a man named
Micah (Judg 17:5; cf. 2 Sam 8:18). In accord with family religion, when Micah
secures the services of the Levite, he uses familial language: “Be to me a father
and a priest [hĕyēh-lî lĕʾāb ûlĕkōhēn].”175 Unlike P’s priestly ordination language
(cf. Exod 28:41; 29:29, 33), when Micah installs (millʾē yād) the Levite into his
priestly vocation, there is no mention of any anointing (mšḥ) or consecration
(qdš) rite. The Levite is “in the house of Micah,” becoming to him “like one of his
sons” (Judg 17:10–12). The prestige of securing the services of a Levite is clear
throughout the story of Micah’s familial shrine as well as in the subsequent nar-
rative where the Danites steal the priest and the cultic paraphernalia for larger
tribal service (Judg 18). Functionally, the Levite’s duties as kōhēn are mentioned
only as oracular (Judg 18:5–6), not sacrificial.176
Levite Prominence in Exodus 32:25–29 and Deuteronomy 33:8–11

Another tradition highlighting the prominence of the Levites is found in
Exodus 32.177 In the famous golden calf episode, Aaron comes off poorly. In
Houtman’s (2000: 614–615, 628) description, he is a “bumbling” “failure as
leader”—“the incompetent leader; lacking in moxie to stand up to the wishes
of the people,” who “tries to make the best of it by resorting to syncretism.” (As
discussed later, Deut 9:20 has an angered Yahweh seeking to kill Aaron for his
offense.) This is hardly P’s consecrated leader who wears “radiant” vestments
and undergoes an exclusive anointing ritual, the one who is allowed to make
approach on behalf of the people to minister to Yahweh. In contrast, coming
to Moses’ side in Exodus 32 are the stalwart Levites, who, at Yahweh’s com-
mand, strap on the sword to kill large numbers of apostates even if they are
sons, brothers, friends, or neighbors (Exod 32:27, 29). According to Exodus
32:29, these actions at such a great cost are etiological, as Moses proclaims how
“this day” the Levites have ordained themselves for service to Yahweh (milʾû
yedkem hayyôm lĕ-yhwh).178
Deuteronomy 33:8–11 includes similar notions:179

Of Levi he said:
Give to Levi your Thummim,180
Your Urim to your faithful man,

Whom you tested at Massah,
Whom you tried at the waters of Meribah;
[Levi] who says of his father and mother,

“I have no regard for them.”
His own brothers, he did not acknowledge.
His own sons, he did not know.
For they [alone] obey your command,

They [alone] guard your covenant.
They [shall] teach your ordinances to Jacob,

Your law to Israel.
They [will] set incense for you to smell,
A whole offering on your altar.
Bless, O Yahweh, his might,

Be pleased with the work of his hands.
Smite his foes [on] the loins,181

His enemies, so they rise no more.
This fascinating passage speaks of Levi, the ancestral collective term standing for
the Levites as a group, as is soon made clear with the use of plural verbs (šāmĕrû,
yinṣōrû, yôrû, yāśîmû; Deut 33:9–10). The poem contains hints of what may be
a military context in asking Yahweh to bless Levi’s might as he smites his foes
(Deut 33:11). The reference to Levi having no regard for one’s relatives (Deut
33:9a) might resonate with the Levites’ purge of similar groups making up the
golden calf apostates (Exod 32:27, 29).182 Deuteronomy 33:9b’s mention of the
Levites (alone?) obeying Yahweh’s word would nicely parallel their obedience to
Yahweh’s command in Exodus 32:26–29. Some scholars even make a connection
between the trials at Massah and Meribah and the springs where the ashes of the
golden calf are dissolved (e.g., Propp 2006: 568), though the explicit reference is
clearly to Moses bringing water from the rock for the quarrelling Israelites (Exod
17:1–7; Num 20:2–13).183
Whether or not such connections between Deuteronomy 33:8–11 and
Exodus 32:26–29 amount to anything, it is clear that the former, like the latter,
elevates the Levites. Moreover, Deuteronomy 33:8–11 is far more expan-
sive, as it fleshes out three priestly roles for the Levites: (1) the handling of
the Thummim and Urim, (2) the teaching of ordinances and law, and (3) the
offering of cult to Yahweh himself. The first of these functions is quite re-
markable on several accounts. Its atypical word order is attested only here (as
opposed to the common order of Urim and Thummim). What this tells us
is hard to say, but at the least it suggests a non-standardized (non-Aaronid?
non-P?) phrasing. These oracular devices, used to determine the divine will,
remind us of the oracular function of the Levite in Judges 18:5–6, especially
with the mention of a cultic ephod in the story (Judg 17:5; 18:14, 17–18, 20).
Deuteronomy 33:8’s assigning of the Thummim and Urim to the Levites (who
passed the Massah/Meribah trials) contrasts with P’s usage, where these di-
vinatory objects are used only by the Aaronid high priest and most often
when he enters into “the holy [sanctuary]” (haqqōdeš) (Exod 28:29–30). Only
in Deuteronomy 33:8 are the Thummim and Urim marked as Yahweh’s very
own possession, which he bestows upon the Levites, who are labeled as his
loyal followers (ḥăsîdekā). The second function, the teaching (yrh) of Yahweh’s
ordinances, fits with what we see elsewhere in Deuteronomy for the duties of
the Levitical priests (e.g., Deut 17.10–11; 24:8), yet it is also used by P for the
Aaronids (Lev 10:11), and it too resonates with the Thummim and Urim being
housed, according to P, in the “breastpiece of judgment” (ḥōšen mišpāṭ; Exod
28:15, 29).184 The third function, the offering of incense and cult at the altar, is
striking if juxtaposed with P’s restrictions on the cultic duties of Levites. For
P, the Aaronids, not the Levites, have charge over the altar (Num 18:7). For P,
a death penalty is assigned to the Levite approaching the altar (Num 18:3, 7).
For P, as we will soon see, the same penalty is assigned to non-Aaronid Levites
offering incense to Yahweh (Num 16:35; 17:5 [Eng 16:40]).
The Levites’ Rebellion in Numbers 16: Their Punishment and Work

Profile in P
The most explicit narrative describing the priestly conflict between a certain
group of Levites and the Aaronid priesthood is found in Numbers 16.185 Led by
Korah, a Kohathite Levite (like Moses and Aaron), the rebels present a very fo-
cused charge:
They assembled against Moses and against Aaron, and charged them, “You
have gone too far! The community in its entirety is holy [kullām qĕdōšîm], and
Yahweh is among them. So why then do you exalt yourselves above Yahweh’s
congregation?” (Num 16:3)
While the charge is initially against both Moses and Aaron (Num 16:2–3), as
the narrative continues it becomes clear that Aaron is the primary focus of the
rebels’ animosity (Num 16:11). Olyan’s (2000: 35) perceptive remark needs to be
quoted again: “Among the ranks of the cultic elite, distinctions of status . . . are
often expressed through the idiom of holiness” (emphasis mine). The redacted
narrative, coming from the hands of P (but cf. Knohl 1995: 83, 105, 187), dra-
matically affirms the holiness of the Aaronids who are divinely chosen to con-
trol the priesthood. The Aaronids, or, more specifically, the Kohathite-Amram
branch of the Levites, is promoted over the Kohathite-Izhar Levites led by Korah.
The rebels’ notion of the entire community being holy (Num 16:3) is quite fasci-
nating, for it aligns precisely with H’s expansive view of holiness, in contrast to
P’s restrictive approach (Knohl 1995: 81).
The mechanism used to resolve the complaint is a ritual contest. Quoting the
very charge back at Korah and his followers (“You Levites have gone too far!”),
Moses proposes the following ordeal:
In the morning Yahweh will make known who belongs to Him, and who is holy
[ʾet-ʾăšer-lô wĕʾet-haqqādôš], and He will grant [him] approach to Himself; the
one whom He chooses He will grant approach to Himself.
Do the following: take firepans, Korah and all his company. Tomorrow put
fiery coals in them, and lay incense over them before Yahweh. Then the man
whom Yahweh chooses, he shall be the holy one [hûʾ haqqādôš]. You Levites
have gone too far! (Num 16:5–7; cf. 16:16–17)
Once again we see how ritual practice (or, more accurately, the literary portrayal
of ritual practice) is used ideologically to construct and reinforce power, prestige,
influence, and status (Bell 1997). The ritual contest (the offering of incense) is
appropriate to what is at stake: priestly status and control. For, as the narrative
will go on to teach, only Aaronid priests are allowed to offer incense (Num 17:5
[Eng 16:40]). Even the Aaronids must carry out the rite properly or else they too
face death, as is demonstrated by the demise of Aaron’s own two sons, Nadab and
Abihu (Lev 10:1–2; cf. 2 Chr 26:16–20).186
Moses’ pre-contest diatribe against Korah continues:
Listen up, you Levites! Is it of so little importance to you that the God of Israel
has distinguished [hibdîl] you from the community of Israel, to allow you to ap-
proach him in order to perform the duties of Yahweh’s Tabernacle, and to stand
before the community to serve them?
He has allowed you to approach [him], and all your Levite kinsmen with
you. Yet you seek the priesthood [kĕhunnâ] as well! In reality, you and all your
company have banded together against Yahweh! As for Aaron, what is he that
you should rail against him? (Num 16:8–11)
With just a few sentences, Moses demarcates P’s views on the cultic privileges of
the Levites juxtaposed with their cultic restrictions (elsewhere, see Num 1:50–53;
3:5–10; 4; 8:14–22; 18:1–7). Both have to do with gradations of holiness and

rank. Hierarchically, the Levites are higher in status than the people but lower
than the Aaronid priests. Theirs is a remarkable entitlement: they are qualified to
approach the Unapproachable One (lĕhaqrîb ʾetkem ʾēlāyw; Num 16:9). Yet their
so-called access to the divine is immediately defined and constrained. In reality,
they do not make a literal approach to serve Yahweh cultically, but rather serve
in an operational role that facilitates the functioning of the community and the
management of sacred space.187 For P, Levitical service is to stand before (i.e., to
attend to) the community (laʿămōd lipnê hāʿēdâ lĕšārĕtām), not before Yahweh
(Num 16:9). Only the Aaronids have claim to the priesthood that allows access
to “the Holy.”
As one could predict from this P tradition, the situation does not go well
for the rebelling Korah and his Levites seeking the office of priesthood. Moses
reframes their rebellion against Aaron as one of banding together against Yahweh
(Num 16:11). When they engage in the exclusive priestly rite of offering incense
(Num 16:18), Yahweh responds directly via his powerful fiery kābôd presence,
threatening destruction (Num 16:19–21).188 Despite (or as a result of) Moses
and Aaron’s intercession on behalf of the entire community, the episode ends
with Yahweh’s consuming fire killing (only) the 250 men who had illegitimately
offered incense (Num 16:35). P concludes with the destruction of Korah and
his band of Levites—visibly marked through the repurposing of their scorched
firepans as bronze plating for the altar—serving as a “warning sign” (ʾôt) and “re-
minder” (zikkārôn) that a similar fate awaits any “outsider” who seeks Aaronid
priestly prerogatives (Num 17:1–5). As we have seen elsewhere in P, the Aaronids
lay claim to “a perpetual priesthood for future generations” (likĕhunnat ʿôlām
lĕdōrōtām; Exod 40:15; cf. Lev 16:32; Num 3:10) that is a result of “a perpetual
ordinance” (kĕhunnâ lĕḥuqqat ʿôlām; Exod 29:9; cf. Exod 27:21; Num 25:13).
Nothing legitimizes one’s hold on an office more than recounting the dramatic
story of God killing one’s challengers.189
The Cultic Privileges of the Levites According to P

A final word on P’s attitude toward the cultic privileges of the Levites is in
order.190 Though the non-Amram branches of the Levites are restricted from
attaining the highest priestly status that would allow them to handle sancta
(Num 18:2–5), it would be unbalanced to leave the impression that their ser-
vice was not highly esteemed by P. An imbalance is often found in opinions that
reduce their service to “menial tasks” (e.g., Soggin 1993: 434). Rather, as Olyan
(2000: 29) underscores, the Levites “occupy a privileged position,” as indicated
by the way in which Yahweh “distinguishes” (hibdîl) them from the people as
he brings them near himself (C stem of √qrb), two idioms used elsewhere to de-
scribe priestly status.
The degree to which we appreciate the vital importance of sacred space is the
degree to which we esteem the portrayal of the Levites managing the Tabernacle
complex. The Levites construct, disassemble, and transport the Tabernacle along
with its equipment (Num 1:50–51; cf. 1 Sam 6:15).191 They risk death as they
transport the potentially lethal Ark (Lev 4:15, 18–20). Overall, their “guarding”
(mišmeret) and “work” (ʿăbōdâ) within sacred space are in service of the people
at large and especially the Aaronid priests, whom they “assist” (šēret; Num 3:5–
10). The Levites, according to P, are “unreservedly given” (nĕtûnim nĕtûnim) to
service the Aaronid priests (Num 3:9; cf. 8:19).
Yet more importantly, P also underscores (using Yahweh’s voice) that the
Levites are “unreservedly given” (nĕtûnim nĕtûnim) to Yahweh as well (Num
8:16; cf. 18:6). Thus it is that the Levites undergo their own special initiatory
ritual, though one of “purification” (√ṭhr) and “dedication” (√ntn), not priestly
“consecration” (√qdš), for as Milgrom has astutely pointed out, “nowhere in
P is the root qdš used in connection with the Levites.”192 This public rite for
the Levites includes the laundering of clothes, the shaving of the body, and a
sprinkling of water (Num 8:7), followed by bull sacrifice and meal offerings
(Num 8:7–10). The first of these rituals is of a markedly lesser rank than what
is done for priestly investiture, where we find garbing with special vestments
and anointing with blood and oil.193 Yet the procedures for the Levites are sig-
nificant nonetheless. For what follows next is theologically remarkable. In ad-
dition to the actual bull sacrifice, the narrative goes on to describe how the
Levites themselves constitute a symbolic offering to God. This is expressed in
two different ways. First, P describes the Levites as figurative tĕnûpâ offerings
that Aaron presents to Yahweh (Num 8:11, 13, 15, 21). This so-called eleva-
tion offering is combined with the Israelites’ laying on of hands (Num 8:11)
to set apart the Levites as representing Israel’s symbolic sacrifice. The Levites
are given over to become “Yahweh’s possession” (wĕhāyû lî halĕwiyyim; Num
3:12, 45; 8:13–14, 16). The second symbol is even more dramatic. According
to P (likely reformulating Exodus 13), Yahweh has claim to the firstborn (of
humans and animals) and deems the Levites worthy of being a substitute.194
P repeatedly describes the Levites’ substantive role in providing a redemptive
replacement:
For [the Levites] are unreservedly given to me from among the Israelites; I have
taken them for myself, in place of all that open the womb, the firstborn of all
the Israelites. For all the firstborn among the Israelites are mine, both human
and animal. On the day that I struck down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt,
I consecrated them for myself. I have thus taken the Levites in place of all the
firstborn among the Israelites. (Num 8:16–17; cf. Num 3:12–13, 40–42, 45;
Num 18:15–17)
It is quite fascinating to read in Numbers 3:13 and Numbers 8:17 how the Levites
function as substitutes for Yahweh’s “consecrated” firstborn when they them-
selves never have consecrated status.195 Yet they do become Yahweh’s possession.
Just as God acquired Israel’s firstborn in the days of the Egyptian Exodus through
redemption (Exod 13:15), so too Yahweh now acquires the Levites as he person-
ally takes (lqḥ) them for himself (Num 3:12, 42, 45; 8:16, 18).
In summary, the importance of the cultic privileges of the Levites should not be
minimized. They are qualified to approach (operationally) the Unapproachable
One (lĕhaqrîb ʾetkem ʾēlāyw; Num 16:9). Their Tabernacle service, undertaken at
great personal risk, and their representation as symbolic offerings set them apart
from and above the people. Thus the various traditions we find woven in P are
mixed. They harshly restrict the functions of non-Amram Levites (e.g., Num 16–
17) while at the same time praising the Levites for their management of sacred
space. The entire cultic system simply could not operate without the significant
service of the Levites. Theirs is an elevated position, just not as highly elevated as
the priesthood. While their cultic service is esteemed, it is not as highly esteemed
as the cultic manipulation of blood, which remains the sole prerogative of the
priesthood (cf. Lev 1–7). Whereas others might rightly associate Levitical ser-
vice with holy endeavors on behalf of God and people, P restricts the term “holy”
solely to the priests. Thus for P, holiness is not about personal piety and service.
We assume that most Levites were pious and most giving of their time and en-
ergy in the service of godly religion. For P, holiness is about status, rank, and
power—all of which God possesses supremely (see the first part of this chapter).
Correspondingly, for P, those who approach a holy God must have the highest
possible human rank, status, and power. Only the Aaronid priests are deemed
holy, and that by an act of divine consecration.
Holiness and Holy Personnel in the Book of Ezekiel
The Book of Ezekiel plays a key role in scholarly reconstructions of the priestly
writings (be they P and/or H), and this is equally true with respect to priestly
understandings of holiness as regards cultic service, sacred space, and sacred
personnel.196 Much of what one reads about holiness in the book of Ezekiel
resonates with what we have already articulated. Yet Ezekiel’s systematic ap-
proach is distinctive enough to have Gammie (1989: 45) label him the “theo-
logian of the Holiness of God.” Daniel Block (1997: 47–48) writes with similar
admiration:
Although Ezekiel avoids the title “Holy One of Israel” (qĕdôš yiśrāʾēl),197 so
common in Isaiah, the attribute of Yahweh’s holiness is high in his mind. From
the form and radiance of the inaugural vision to the concentric gradations of
holiness built into the design of the temple in the final vision (chs. 40–43), eve-
rything about Yahweh’s character and actions proclaims “Holy! Holy! Holy!”
Ezekiel’s interest in all matters cultic is certainly related to his own priestly voca-
tion (Ezek 1:3). When it comes to cultic holiness, Ezekiel articulates the textbook
definition fully in line with Leviticus 10:10. Yahweh is the sanctifying agent (D
stem of qdš) of the people (Ezek 20:12; 37:28) and of time (Ezek 20:20). God
requires a distinction to be made between the sacred and the profane (hibdîl
bên-qōdeš lĕḥōl), between clean and unclean (bên-haṭṭāmēʾ lĕṭāhôr; Ezek 22:26).
Sacred time—that is, the Sabbath (Ezek 22:8)—and sacred space should also be
distinguished (Ezek 42:20). Because former priests (kōhănîm) did “violence”
in this regard (Ezek 22:26; cf. Zeph 3:4b), Ezekiel’s restored (Zadokite) priest-
hood of the future will rectify the situation (Ezek 44:23–24).198 Priestly notions
of holy vestments (42:14; 44:19), holy offerings (42:13; 44:13), holy parapher-
nalia (44:13), holy space (41:21, 23; 42:13–14; 44:19, 27; 45:1–7; 46:19; 48:10, 12,
14, 18, 20–21)—including the “Holy of Holies” (41:4) and Jerusalem as Yahweh’s
“holy mountain”199 (Ezekiel 20:40; 40:2; 43:12)—holy time (Ezek 20:12; 22:8),
and holy contagion200 (44:19; 46:20) appear throughout the book.
Ezekiel, more than anyone else, describes Yahweh’s concern about damage
done to his “holy name” by his people through their profaning acts of illicit cult
(Ezek 20:39; 36:20–22; 39:7, 26; 43:7–8; cf. 13:19; 22:26; 39:25).201 As part of his
theodicy, Ezekiel presents these desecrating acts as causal agents resulting in the
destruction of Yahweh’s Temple in Jerusalem and the exile of Yahweh’s people.
Both of these resulted in yet another desecration of Yahweh’s reputation, for it
was easy to conclude that Yahweh was too weak or too unwilling to protect his
own people (cf. Isa 59:1) or that he had decided to forsake them (cf. Ezek 8:8;
9:9). Thus we read Ezekiel’s response:
When they came to the nations to which they came, they desecrated my holy
name, in that it was said of them, “These are Yahweh’s people, and yet they had
to go out of his land.”202 But I was moved to save my holy name that the house of
Israel had desecrated among the nations to which they came.
Therefore say to the house of Israel: Thus said Lord Yahweh: It is not for your
sake, O house of Israel, that I am about to act, but for the sake of my holy name,
which you desecrated among the nations to which you came. I will sanctify my
great name [wĕqiddaštî ʾet-šĕmî haggādôl] that has been desecrated among the
nations, which you desecrated among them; and the nations shall know that
I am Yahweh, says the Lord Yahweh, when I assert my holiness [bĕhiqqādĕšî]
through you in their sight. (Ezek 36:20–23)
Implied in the nations’ slanderous assertion in Ezekiel 36:20 is that gods are tied
to their land, over which they exercise sovereign control.203 Thus any violence
done to the people of a land implicates the god of that land.
As demonstrated through the many traditions documented at the beginning
of this chapter (see pp. 577–605), to say that Yahweh is holy is to say that he is dy-
namically powerful. Repeatedly Yahweh promotes his superlative reputation as a
holy/powerful God through delivering his people from their oppressors.204 Thus
the corollary pertaining to the events of 597 and 586 BCE is obvious: Yahweh’s
failure to protect Jerusalem (and the very Temple that constituted his “house”)—
combined with some of his people being killed and others turned into deported
refugees—can only mean that Yahweh is not holy, not powerful. Yahweh’s re-
sponse to such a misperception is twofold: first, he himself sanctifies (i.e., declares
as holy/powerful) his name, which has always remained “great” (wĕqiddaštî ʾet-
šĕmî haggādôl) despite mischaracterizations (Ezek 36:23a). Borrowing from
Ezekiel 38:23, one could say that Yahweh’s assertion of his holiness is the asser-
tion of his greatness and vice versa (wĕhitgaddiltî wĕhitqaddištî).
Second, Yahweh will again use his actions on behalf of his people (this time
with the coming restoration) to assert his holy power (bĕhiqqādĕšî) for all to see
(Ezek 36:23b). The future restoration entails Yahweh settling his people back in
their own land (again, as an act of his holy display, wĕniqdaštî bām; Ezek 28:25).
Using priestly vocabulary, Yahweh declares that he will accept his people them-
selves as a “pleasing aroma” (Ezek 20:41).205 Climactically, Yahweh will again
take up his holy dwelling (using both priestly terms miškān and miqdāš) with his
people as he did in the past (Ezek 37:26–27). This too is verbally described as an
act of Yahweh’s sanctifying power (ʾănî yhwh mĕqaddēš; Ezek 37:28; cf. 39:27).206
Ezekiel’s Zadokite Priests and Their Cultic Service
Whereas P contrasted an elite, consecrated Aaronid priesthood (coming from the

Kohathite-Amram branch of the Levites) with a second-tier non-consecrated class
of (non-Amram) Levites as temple operatives, Ezekiel titles his elite leaders “the
Levitical priests, the sons of Zadok” (hakkōhănîm halĕwiyyim bĕnê ṣādôq; 44:15).
Zadok has a storied history as one of David’s two chief priests along with Abiathar
(2 Sam 8:17; 15:24–29, 35–36; 1 Kgs 1:7–8) and then as Solomon’s favored high
priest over Abiathar (1 Kgs 1:22–39; 2:26–27, 35)—though, surprisingly, neither P
nor H has any mention of him. As we will see, the Deuteronomistic tradition had
foretold (via an anonymous “man of God” prophecy) the coming of the faithful
priest (kōhēn neʾĕmān) Zadok and his “faithful [priestly] house” (bayit neʾĕmān) in
the days of Samuel and the corrupt Shilonite priesthood (1 Sam 2:35).
As for cultic service, Ezekiel’s Zadokite priests, like P’s Aaronid priests, are hierar-
chically elevated over other lesser-ranked Levites. Whereas the Zadokites minister
to Yahweh directly, the other Levites again play an operational role. The Zadokite
priests are accorded the privilege of “drawing near to Yahweh to minister to Him”
(haqqĕrēbîm ʾel yhwh lĕšārĕtô; Ezek 40:46; 43:19; 44:15; 45:4). They are allowed to
enter holy space, but only in holy linen garments (Ezek 42:14; 44:17–19) and having
adhered to precise regulations with regard to hair cutting, drinking wine, marriage,
and contact with the dead (Ezek 44:20–27).207 Unpacked, their cultic duties in-
volve having charge over the sanctuary (44:1; cf. 40:45–46)208 and the altar (40:46).
Everything about the altar—its design and measurements, placement, purification,
and consecration—receives special attention (Ezek 43:13–27), culminating in a
seven-day sacrificial ritual and once again the all-important rites of blood manip-
ulation and kpr purgation (43:18–21, 26). Having undergone this installation pro-
cedure, the altar is able to fulfill its function as a place where Yahweh (via Zadokite
priestly sacrifice) will again accept his people (wĕrāṣiʾtî ʾetkem; Ezek 43:27).
The Zadokite priests’ “ministering” is accomplished by “attending to [lit.
standing before] Yahweh” as they present offerings that are symbolically seen as
Yahweh’s “food” at his table (44:15–16). Most remarkably, Ezekiel’s envisioning
of Zadokite priestly service makes no explicit mention of the role of a high
priest. Ezekiel has no parallel to P’s unique clothing of the high priest with “holy
vestments” (bigdê-qōdeš), from the ephod with its ḥōšen breastpiece to the ṣîṣ
nēzer diadem. There are no consecratory rituals that pour “holy anointing oil”
(šemen mišḥat-qōdeš) on his head, nor expiation rites that anoint his body and
garments with oil and blood. There are no cultic rituals described that require
a high priest’s unique service, as in the Day of Purgation (yôm kippûr) rites in
Leviticus 16. What are we to make of such omissions by Ezekielian writers who
pay such close attention to a wide variety of other cultic minutiae? How loud does
the silence speak? Frustratingly, any conclusions drawn from these omissions
(regarding a possible democratized hierocracy or the negation of the position of
high priest) are necessarily speculative.209
The Restrictions on the Levites in Ezekiel 40–48
Where the Zadokites (i.e., “the Levitical priests, the sons of Zadok”) are
described positively with language of what they can do cultically, the non-
Zadokite Levites are described with pejorative language of what they cannot
do: “The Levites . . . shall not come near to me, to serve me as priest; and they
shall not come near any of my holy areas or the most holy offerings” (Ezek
44:13). The reason given is that they formerly “went far away” from Yahweh
by “going astray after their idols” (Ezek 44:10, 12; 48:11; cf. 8:14; 14:11). The
precise historical infraction that the author has in mind is unknown,210 yet
“their abominable transgressions” (tôʿăbôtām) result in the Levites “bearing
their punishment” and “their shame” (wĕnāśĕʾû ʿăwōnām . . . wĕnāśĕʾû
kĕlimmātām; Ezek 44:10, 12b, 13). Such harsh language reflects an inter-
sacerdotal polemic similar to those we listed earlier.211 That the Levites are
restricted from accessing not just Yahweh but also “holy areas” and “the most
holy offerings” (Ezek 44:13) leads us to note yet again the truism of Olyan
(2000: 35): “Among the ranks of the cultic elite, distinctions of status . . . are
often expressed through the idiom of holiness.” And once again, we need to
balance this harsh language by juxtaposing the restrictions on the Levites
with the cultic (operational) privileges that they still retain (Ezek 44:11, 14).
Block (1998: 629) prefers to talk about “two sides of the same coin,” where
the Levites’ responsibility for their infractions is balanced with “the renewed
privilege [of] the Levites [being] reinstalled as guarantors of the sanctuary of
the temple.”
Holiness and Holy Personnel in Deuteronomy
The book of Deuteronomy presents both a challenge and a singular opportunity

for understanding divine holiness. The challenge comes from the absence of the
word “holy” (qādôš) ever being used of God in the book.212 The opportunity,
summed up by Gammie (1989: 106), is that here we find “one of the most com-
plex and impressive theologies of holiness.” Complicating and enlivening the
discussion further are the ways in which Deuteronomic traditions contrast with
Deuteronomistic views of holiness.
The book of Deuteronomy occasionally mentions cultic holiness using ex-
plicit qdš language. We read of the command to keep the Sabbath day holy
(šāmôr . . . lĕqaddĕšô) by abstaining from work (Deut 5:12), and to consecrate
firstborn males of herd and flock to Yahweh (taqdîš lĕyhwh; Deut 15:19). Holy
offerings (qodāšîm) are aligned with votive gifts (nĕdārîm) as obligations to be
presented at Yahweh’s chosen central sanctuary (Deut 12:26). Deuteronomy
23:17 speaks out against illicit cultic behavior by “holy” officiants, female and
male (qĕdēšâ/qādēš).213 None of these commands is particularly surprising. Yet
then we read instructions about the military camp being holy that are indeed
quite remarkable.
Because Yahweh your God walks about [mithallēk] within your camp—to de-
liver you and to hand over your enemies to you—so your camp must be holy
[qādôš], so that he may not see among you anything indecent and turn away
from you. (Deut 23:15 [Eng 23:14])
The context is purity of bodily functions for engaging in holy war, as seen in the
opening verse of this section, which refers to being encamped against one’s ene-
mies (Deut 23:10 [Eng 23:9]; cf. Deut 20:1; 21:10). As Jeffrey Tigay (1996: 213)
has noted, the regulations regarding the sanctity of the military camp are “even
stricter” than those pertaining to the residential encampment even with its sanc-
tuary. The rationale is that “God is directly present in the military camp.” Tigay
(1996) and Moshe Weinfeld (1992: 209) underscore how Yahweh’s presence is
not mediated through a representational object (i.e., the Ark), as happens else-
where (e.g., 1 Sam 4:6–7). Tigay (1996: 386 n. 47) rightly labels the present tra-
dition “pre-Deuteronomic,” for its anthropomorphic Yahweh walking about
(mithallēk) in the military camp (cf. too Yahweh on the march in Deut 20:4) is
very much at odds with the Deuteronomic conception of Yahweh’s “dwelling
place” (mĕqôm/mĕkôn šibtĕkā) being localized in heaven with his fiery voice
manifesting his earthly presence (cf. Deut 4:36; 1 Kgs 8:30, 39, 43, 49).214 Where
Deuteronomy 26:15 pleads with Yahweh to “look down from his holy abode that
is heaven” (hašqîpâ mimmĕʿôn qodšĕkā min-haššāmayim), the tradition here has
a holy Yahweh physically embedded with his troops at a military camp that must
be made holy by carrying out purity regulations.215
What we have here is a fascinating tradition that preserves (1) the notion of
holiness being militarily powerful, which we saw at the outset of this chapter,
(2) the framing of purity regulations to ensure holiness quite apart from priestly
cult and priestly personnel (e.g., P and H), and (3) unmediated holiness via
Yahweh’s actual presence quite apart from Ark or sanctuary. Once again we are
reminded of the cultic nature of war. Cosmically, a holy, powerful Yahweh mar-
ches to battle with a military entourage that includes “myriads of holy ones”
(ribĕbōt qōdeš; Deut 33:2–3).216 Earthly troops “consecrated themselves for war”
(qaddĕšû ʿālêhā milḥāmâ; Jer 6:4). See too the dispensation of “holy bread” to
David and his soldiers in 1 Sam 21:1–7 (Eng 21:1–6) (discussed later).
Deuteronomy’s Chosen Holy People
Similar to H’s understanding of an expansive holiness incorporating the com-

munity at large (and in contrast to P’s restrictive priestly holiness), Deuteronomy
views the people of Israel as holy. Deuteronomy frames its particular under-
standing through a theology of election. Repeatedly we read:
For you are a holy people [ʿam qādôš] to Yahweh your god; Yahweh your god
chose you [bāḥar] from among all the peoples on earth to be his treasured
people. (Deut 7:6; 14:2, 21; 26:18–19; 28:9; cf. Deut 4:20; 9:29; 27:9; 29:11–12
[Eng 29:12–13])
Jack Lundbom (2013: 336) describes election as a “bedrock concept” in the

Hebrew Bible, with examples ranging from Abraham’s call (Gen 12:1–3) and
Amos’s Israel (Amos 3:2) to Jeremiah’s prophetic office (Jer 1:5) and Second
Isaiah’s Servant Songs (Isa 41:8–9; 42:1; 43:10, 20; 44:1–2; 45:4; 49:7), where
the “election of Israel becomes a full-blown concept.” The examples from
Deuteronomy underscore how Israel was chosen from the surrounding nations,
and this fits well with the notion of “holiness” (qdš) as that which is set apart.
Yet rather than a priestly notion of being set apart for cultic use, Deuteronomy
prefers to speak of Israel as Yahweh’s “treasured” (sĕgullâ) people, which results in
them being his “possession” or “hereditary property” (naḥălâ; cf. Deut 32:8–9).
According to Deuteronomy 7:8, Yahweh’s motivation is one of love (kî mēʾahăbat
yhwh ʾetkem) and loyalty to the oath he made with Israel’s ancestors. The men-
tion of divine fidelity toward the “fathers” (ʾābôt) reminds us of the familial
aspects of Israelite religion, documented in Chapter Eight, where Yahweh, the
Divine Father, is portrayed as the caring parent. Yet as we saw there, Yahweh the
father can at the same time be Yahweh the warrior. Similarly in Deuteronomy,
a powerful Yahweh elected Israel as his people by delivering them militarily
from Egyptian oppression. Via his mighty hand (bĕyād ḥăzāqâ), outstretched
arm (bizĕrōʿăkā hannĕṭûyâ), and mighty power (bĕkōḥăkā haggādōl), Yahweh
redeems his people from the “iron smelter” that is slavery in order to constitute
them as his holy people (Deut 4:20; 7:8; 9:26, 29).217
Yet the love language used here is even more profound. As shown most lu-
cidly by William Moran (1963),218 the rhetoric of “love language” together with
familial language (e.g., “father,” “son,” “brother”) was used throughout the an-
cient Near East to describe the sociopolitical bonds of treaties. Thus it is not
a coincidence that Deuteronomy 29:9–14 (Eng 29:10–15) situates Yahweh’s es-
tablishment of Israel as his people in the context of entering into a covenant
relationship. The stipulations and mutual obligations of treaties are also woven
throughout the Deuteronomic texts that have Israel becoming Yahweh’s holy
people.219
Deuteronomy’s Levitical Priests
We have already reviewed Deuteronomy 33:8–11 (pp. 637–639), one of the

early passages where the Levites enjoyed a much more prominent role than
what is preserved in the P and H traditions. In Deuteronomy 33:8–11 we saw
that Levites, described as Yahweh’s loyal followers (ḥăsîdekā), handled the
Thummim and Urim and even offered cult to Yahweh. These cultic privileges
were directly opposed to P’s regulations restricting such activities to the
Aaronid priests.
Yahweh’s Desire to Kill Aaron in Deuteronomy 9:20
Deuteronomy 9:20 preserves another tradition that certainly did not sit well with
Aaronid proponents. In striking contrast to the verses mentioned earlier that
have Yahweh choosing and delivering Israel to be a “holy people” (ʿam qādôš),
Deuteronomy 9:6–24 has only invective for the people’s behavior. Ever since the
Exodus, they have been a stubborn, “stiff-necked people” (ʿam-qĕšēh-ʿōrep) pro-
voking Yahweh’s wrath (Deut 9:6–7, 13–14). Their rebellious (√mrh) nature led
to Yahweh becoming so angry that he was ready to destroy them (Deut 9:8; cf.
9:24). Echoing what we find in Exodus 32:7–14 (discussed earlier), the people’s
making of a golden calf is the last straw. Yahweh initially rebuffs any intercession
by Moses: “Leave me alone, that I may destroy them and blot out their name from
under heaven.220 And I will make of you a new nation mightier and greater than
they” (Deut 9:14). Moses intercedes nonetheless—even though he is afraid of
Yahweh’s fierce wrath221—and Yahweh hears his intercession (Deut 9:19). As the
narrative continues, we see that the intercessory vocabulary used by Moses relies
on the very words used elsewhere for Israel as Yahweh’s “holy people.” Moses
makes his appeal to Yahweh based on the people being his “heritage” (naḥălâ),
the descendants of the patriarchal fathers, whom he redeemed by his great power
and outstretched arm (Deut 9:26–27, 29; cf. 7:8).
The narrative then turns to Aaron and his role in the golden calf inci-
dent. Again Yahweh is so very angry with Aaron that he is ready to destroy
him (bĕʾahărōn hitʾannap yhwh mĕʾōd lĕhašmîdô). And again destruction is
averted due to Moses’ intercession (Deut 9:20). Clearly, those handing down
these traditions are not enamored with P’s holy Aaron as the illustrious fa-
ther of the holy Aaronid priesthood. The subsequent mention of Aaron’s
death and burial is terse (Deut 10:6). There is no fanfare for the original high
priest of ancient Israel. There is no hint here of P elsewhere assigning Aaron
(and every subsequent high priest) elevated authority and status and conse-
crating him with radiant garments and unique anointing rituals. Strikingly,
when juxtaposed with P’s pervasive and positive treatment, Aaron is men-
tioned in Deuteronomy only three times: in the story here about Yahweh’s
desire to kill Aaron (Deut 9:20), when Aaron and Moses break faith with
Yahweh at Meribath-qadesh (Deut 32:51), and in the curt death and burial
announcements (Deut 10:6; 32:50).222
Deuteronomy’s Sacerdotal Vocabulary
The status of priests and Levites elsewhere in Deuteronomy is complicated. The

combined terminology is twofold: (1) “the Levite priests” or “the priests, the
Levites” (hakkōhănîm halĕwîyyīm; Deut 17:9, 18; 18:1; 24:8; 27:9) and (2) “the
priests, the sons of Levi” (hakkōhănîm bĕnê lēwî; Deut 21:5; 31:9), although
one also comes across (3) just “priest/priests” (kōhēn, hakkōhănîm; Deut 18:3;
19:17), (4) just “Levite/Levites” (lēwî, hallēwî, halĕwîyyīm; Deut 10:9; 12:12, 18–
19; 14:27, 29; 16:11, 14; 18:6–7; 26:11–13; 27:12, 14; 31:25; 33:8), and (5) “tribe
of Levi” (šēbeṭ lēwî/šēbeṭ hallēwî; Deut 10:8; 18:1). The history of priesthood
in Deuteronomy (including cultic and juridical roles) is too gnarled to be
addressed here, though not for the lack of scholarship specifically devoted to
the topic. Suffice it to say that many scholars believe that Deuteronomy teaches
that all Levites are potential priests (cf. Deut 18:1–8), although others argue that
Deuteronomy can be aligned closer to P’s understanding in restricting their re-
ligious prerogatives.223 Yet others argue that economics (esp. the tithe) are the
key to seeing how Deuteronomic cult centralization (ultimately under royal au-
thority) undermined the Levites’ support and power.224 Still others (Na’aman
2008) see Deuteronomy’s Levites as a marginal, landless social group providing
cultic service who are in need of welfare from Judahite landowners. Their need-
iness is especially evident in their being grouped with sojourners, orphans,
widows, and the poor (Deut 14:29; 16:11, 14; 26:11–12).225
For our present interest in holiness, it is quite remarkable, especially when jux-
taposed with P, that the words for priest/priests (kōhēn, kōhănîm)—not to men-
tion Levite/Levites (lēwî, lĕwîyyīm)—are never modified by the adjective “holy”
(qādôš) in the entire book of Deuteronomy.226 For Deuteronomy, as we have al-
ready documented, it is the people who are holy (ʿam qādôš). They are accorded
this standing not through consecration and anointing rituals nor through their
own merit (cf. Deut 7:7), but rather by Yahweh’s election. Yet because they have
been chosen as a holy people, ritual requirements and purity codes do indeed
apply, as do a full range of covenant obligations amply documented throughout
the entire book (e.g., Deut 27:9–10). Thus in its own particular way (and without
explicitly calling Yahweh the Holy One), the book of Deuteronomy returns the
focus to Yahweh as the sole agent of chosen holiness.
Deuteronomistic Conceptions
of Divine Holiness and Holy Personnel
In the opening portion of the present chapter we looked at how DtrH incor-
porated traditions about Yahweh being powerfully holy. The Song of Hannah
proclaims how Yahweh is incomparably victorious—especially in fighting on
behalf of the unfortunate—such that the poet’s rhetorical question “Who is
holy like Yahweh?” finds its own answer in the doxology “There is no Holy One
like Yahweh” (1 Sam 2:2, 10; see pp. 588–591). We have also explored Yahweh’s
holy Ark as a war palladium whose death toll causes the Beth-Shemites to cry
out, “Who is able to stand before Yahweh, this Holy God?” (1 Sam 6:20). The
Deuteronomistic historians are fully aware of the need for Levites and cultic
precautions when handling the lethally holy Ark, as famously recounted in the
killing of Uzzah (2 Sam 6:1–11//1 Chr 13; see p. 596). Lastly, given our study of
the Isaianic “Holy One of Israel” (see pp. 599–603), it comes as no surprise that
the single reference to this epithet for Yahweh in DtrH is found on the lips of
Isaiah ben Amoṣ (2 Kgs 19:22; Williamson 2001: 32).
“You Cannot Serve a Holy Yahweh!” (Joshua 24:19)
As for divine holiness elsewhere in DtrH,227 Joshua’s response to the Israelites

during the covenant renewal at Shechem in Joshua 24 has been called “perhaps
the most shocking statement in the OT [Hebrew Bible]” (Butler 1983: 274).
Following a lengthy recitation of divine benevolence dating from patriarchal
times to the then present, Joshua challenges the people to worship Yahweh, and
memorably proclaims how he and his household will worship/serve Yahweh
(ʾānōkî ûbêtî naʿăbōd ʾet-yhwh; Josh 24:15b). The people echo Joshua as they too
reiterate Yahweh’s historic benevolence and as they proclaim: “We too will wor-
ship/serve Yahweh, for he is our God” (gam-ʾănaḥnû naʿăbōd ʾet-yhwh kî-hûʾ
ʾĕlōhênû; Josh 24:18b).228 Having secured the desired profession of faith, Joshua’s
next response is indeed shocking:
But Joshua said to the people, “You cannot serve Yahweh, for he is a holy God
[kî-ʾĕlōhîm qĕdōšîm hûʾ]. He is a jealous God [ʾēl-qannôʾ hûʾ]. He will not for-
give your transgressions or your sins. If you forsake Yahweh and serve foreign
gods, then he will turn and do you harm, and consume you [wĕhēraʿ lākem
wĕkillâ ʾetkem], after having done you good.” And the people said to Joshua,
“No, we will serve Yahweh!” (Joshua 24:19–21)
The ways in which scholars respond to this passage reveal their interests. Trent
Butler (1983: 274) has documented how those specializing in redaction history
(e.g., Noth, Möhlenbrink, Schmitt) look to either the fall of the northern or, more
often, the southern kingdom as the occasion where an earlier tradition would
have been edited to show God’s displeasure and lack of forgiveness. Theologians
(e.g., Preuss, von Rad, Eichrodt) use the combining here of Yahweh as “holy”
and “zealous/jealous” as an opportunity to describe the intensity and uncom-
promising exclusivity of Yahweh worship, for he “desire[s]‌for Israel to share his
divine status with no one.”229 Butler (1983: 274–275) argues that defining the ser-
vice of Yahweh “based on the nature of God himself ” (i.e., the “total devotion”
of “His holy purity and jealous love”) necessarily results in expectations that are
“too high” and cannot be fulfilled.
While these reflections are true of a fully monotheistic theology, the present
monolatrous context points toward Joshua using drastic vocabulary rhetori-
cally to bring about the desired result of a more passionate commitment by the
people. And such an ardent resolve is exactly what transpires (Josh 24:21–24).
Sociologically, such a resolve is precisely what the context requires, as it structures
relational obligations (socially and theologically) of the assembled tribes together
with their elders, heads, judges, and (judicial?) officers (Josh 24:1).230
Priestly Personnel in the Deuteronomistic History
In contrast to Deuteronomy’s limitation of royal power and influence over the

cult,231 DtrH preserves many traditions about the primary roles that monarchs
played in the cult, from sacrificing to temple and altar construction (see Chapter
Nine, pp. 498–503). Yet in ancient Israel, unlike in ancient Phoenicia, we have no
explicit reference to a king being called a “priest” (kōhēn).232 Even the extensive
cultic acts of King Ahaz, which include blood manipulation (elsewhere the sole
prerogative of priests), do not lead to him being referred to as a kōhēn.
It is often said that DtrH “has no particular interest in priestly concerns”
(Nelson 1991: 143). This is only partly true if one is referring to intricate cultic
vocabulary and rites. J. G. McConville’s (1999: 86) assessment is more on the
mark: “Dtr has an intrinsic interest in priesthood.” It is significant that DtrH
mentions many priests and priestly groups as well as sacerdotal land (e.g., the
Levitical cities in Josh 21).233 As discussed in the voluminous literature on the
topic,234 scholars have used DtrH to try to reconstruct the history of the following
priestly groups: Aaronids, Levites, Mushites, the priests of Nob, Shilohnites,
Zadokites, and groups known variously as “priests of the second order” (kōhănê
hammišneh; 2 Kgs 23:4), “the priests of the high places” (2 Kgs 23:20), and the
kĕmārîm priests (2 Kgs 23:5).235
Scholars have also focused their energies on the extensive list of individual
priests mentioned in DtrH. The explicit tally includes Abiathar (1 Sam 22:20–23;
23:6; 1 Kgs 2:26–27), Ahijah (1 Sam 14:3), Ahimaaz (2 Sam 15:36), Ahimelek (1
Sam 21:1; 22:11–19), Azariah, son of Zadok (1 Kgs 4:2), Eleazar (Josh 14:1; 21:1;
24:33), Eli (1 Sam 1:9), Eli’s sons Hophni and Phineas (1 Sam 1:3), Hilkiah (2 Kgs
22:4; 23:4), Ira the Jairite (2 Sam 20:26), Jehoida (2 Kgs 11–12), Phinehas (Judg
20:28), Seraiah (2 Kgs 25:18), Uriah (2 Kgs 16:10–16), Zabud, son of Nathan (1
Kgs 4:5), Zadok (1 Sam 2:35–36; 2 Sam 8:17; 15:24–29, 35; 19:11; 1 Kgs 1:7, 22–
39; 2:26–27, 35), and Zephaniah (2 Kgs 25:18).236 Even David’s sons are called
priests (2 Sam 8:18).237
The Deuteronomistic History’s Holiness and Holy Priests
As for holiness, one certainly assumes that many of the priests mentioned in DtrH
were viewed as holy by their followers. Pragmatically, one would also guess that
many of them underwent some type of a marking ritual, be it a consecration or in-
stallation rite. Yet DtrH chooses to preserve precious little in this regard. It is not that
DtrH avoids the subject of holiness. In addition to telling of a holy and lethal Yahweh
(discussed earlier), DtrH describes sacred space as holy due to divine presence. The
preternatural commander of Yahweh’s army (śar-ṣĕbāʾ yhwh) demands that Joshua
remove his sandals, “for the place where you stand is holy” (kî hammāqôm ʾăšer ʾattâ
ʿōmēd ʿālāyw qōdeš hûʾ; Josh 5:15).238 The narrative about the building of the Temple
is replete with mentions of its inner recesses constituting “the most holy place” (qōdeš
haqqŏdāšîm; 1 Kgs 6:16; 7:50; 8:6; cf. 1 Kgs 8:8, 10). Sacred space is “consecrated”
(qiddaš/hiqdîš) by monarch and deity (1 Kgs 8:64; 9:3, 7), as are solemn assemblies
(qaddĕšû ʿăṣārâ)—even if for the Canaanite god Baal (2 Kgs 10:20). Prophets such
as Elisha can be termed “a holy man of God” (ʾîš ʾĕlōhîm qādôš; 2 Kgs 4:9). People at
large are admonished to sanctify themselves when traveling with the potentially le-
thal Ark (Josh 3:5),239 when eradicating the contamination brought about through
Achan’s sin (Josh 7:13), and when preparing to sacrifice (1 Sam 16:5). Certain pre-
cious metals, votive gifts, and other cultic paraphernalia are designated as “holy
to Yahweh” (qōdeš hûʾ lĕ-yhwh; Josh 6:19; 1 Kgs 8:4; 15:15; 2 Kgs 12:4, 18) and
consecrated as such (Judg 17:3; 2 Sam 8:11; 2 Kgs 12:18).240 As for bodily purity
codes, though DtrH shares little with P’s or H’s intricate understandings, it nonethe-
less is aware of purifying states of holiness, as evidenced by Bathsheba’s removal of
menstrual impurity (mitqaddešet miṭṭumʾātâ; 2 Sam 11:4).241
Yet when it comes to using the explicit language of holiness with respect to
priests, DtrH’s references are few and far between. There are only one or two
references to the consecration of priests. 1 Samuel 7:1 refers to the consecration of
Eleazar, the son of Abinadab, to have charge of the Ark of Yahweh (wĕʾet-ʾelʿāzār
bĕnô qiddĕšû lišmōr ʾet-ʾărôn yhwh). Admittedly, Eleazar is never explicitly termed
a priest or even a Levite, and it is the people of Kiriath-jearim, not a sacerdotal
official, who carry out his act of consecration.242 The second reference is that of
Jeroboam’s double infraction of selecting non-Levite priests and installing them
for service at illicit high places (1 Kgs 12:31; 13:33; discussed further later).
Holy (Priestly) Food, Holy Bodies,

and Holy War (1 Samuel 21:1–7 [Eng 21:1–6])
DtrH contains a story about priests and holiness in a war context in 1 Samuel
21:1–7 (Eng 21:1–6; cf. Deut 23:10–15 [Eng 23:9–14]). Here David requests
food for his soldiers from the Nobite priest Ahimelek, who has charge over
“the holy bread” (leḥem qōdeš), which is also defined here as “the Bread of
Presence” (leḥem happānîm; 1 Sam 21:5, 7 [Eng 21:4, 6]). In P’s tradition, the
leḥem happānîm is “most holy” (qōdeš qŏdāšîm) and only to be consumed by
Aaronid priests within sacred space (Lev 24:5–9).243 In contrast, though DtrH’s
portrayal also emphasizes priestly prerogative, an exception can be made for
non-priests. Ahimelek’s dispensation is presented not in response to possible
starvation (cf. David’s plea), but rather on the level of sanctity required for holy
war. In Deuteronomy 23:10–15 [Eng 23:9–14], we saw how Yahweh’s embedded
presence in the military camp required holiness with regard to bodily functions,
including nocturnal emissions. In 1 Samuel 21, sexual abstinence is described
as being required for holy war, with David assuring the priest that his soldiers’
“vessels” (used euphemistically for genitalia) have been kept “holy” (1 Sam 21:6
[Eng 21:5]). A similar taboo seems to inform the story of the soldier Uriah, who
refuses to have sexual relations with his wife, Bathsheba, while home on furlough
(2 Sam 11:8–13).244
Holy Priestly Prerogatives
Another link between priests and holiness in DtrH is found in the Solomon-
centric Temple dedication in 1 Kings 8. The traditions privileging King Solomon’s
royal cult, both in DtrH and in Chronicles, have been surveyed in Chapter Nine
(pp. 500–501). Though Solomon’s illustrious cultic activities prior to construc-
tion of the Temple are fleshed out in detail (e.g., his sacrifice of a thousand ʿōlôt
offerings at the “great high place” of Gibeon in 1 Kgs 3:2–4), his construction and
dedication of the Temple in God’s chosen city of Jerusalem takes center stage.
Royal cult, with the king as the primary religious officiant, is on full display with
Solomon’s dual sacrificial activities at the Temple’s dedication (cf. esp. Knoppers
1995, 2000). Solomon’s amplified sacrifice is described at first as being far too
large to tally (1 Kgs 8:5//2 Chr 5:6) and then with extraordinarily large numbers
(22,000 oxen and 120,000 sheep as šĕlāmîm offerings, as well as ʿōlôt, grain, and
fat offerings; 1 Kgs 8:62–64//2 Chr 7:5–7). In view of this portrayal of a Solomon-
centric cult, a respect for certain priestly prerogatives stands out.
The Ark plays a central role in the Temple’s dedication. As noted earlier, DtrH
uses third-person singular verbs to give Solomon credit for building the inner-
most shrine (dĕbîr), the Holy of Holies (qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm), in which the Ark
of Yahweh was housed (1 Kgs 6:16–36; cf. 2 Chr 3:8–13). Like David, Solomon
and the people sacrifice before the Ark (2 Sam 6:17–18; 1 Kgs 8:5).245 Yet when it
comes to handling the Ark, the focus—either by authorial design and/or through
redactional skill—is squarely on priestly prerogative (1 Kgs 8:3–11).246 In this
brief unit, priests (kōhănîm) are mentioned five times, once combined with
the Levites (hakkōhănîm wĕhalĕwiyyim; 1 Kgs 8:4). It is they who are explicitly
described as transporting the Ark, the Tent of Meeting, and holy cultic parapher-
nalia (8:3–4). It is priests alone who bring the Ark to the inner sanctum (dĕbîr),
the most holy place (qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm), where it will then reside underneath
the massive wings of the impressive Mischwesen known as cherubim (1 Kgs 8:6–
7).247 While their visit is temporary, the priests alone are privileged to enter “the
Holy [place]” (haqqōdeš; 1 Kgs 8:10). Lastly, once again the ancient notion of
divine lethality is referred to (though only implicitly) as preventing the priests
from remaining within sacred space once Yahweh arrives (1 Kgs 8:11). Yet that
they risked such danger to be so close to divinity is in itself a badge of prestige.
The Lack of Priestly Consecration in the

Deuteronomistic History
Even though DtrH underscores the central role of the monarch in the cult, it
nonetheless acknowledges certain priestly prerogatives having to do with holi-
ness. Thus we are forced to ask why DtrH preserves no positive references to
priestly consecration apart from a brief nod to Eleazar (1 Sam 7:1), noted pre-
viously. During the lengthy historical timeline covered by DtrH, there were cer-
tainly many and varied rituals to mark religious officiants who were deemed
holy. As we saw from Emar, in the Levant legitimizing priestly sanctification
and installation rituals date as early as the Late Bronze Age. And, as we have al-
ready seen, P goes out of his way to detail the elaborate and gradient clothing and
anointing rituals required to secure priestly prestige, rank, and power. In con-
trast, DtrH describes no such involved rituals. When it does cross into this area
(only twice), we find DtrH employing two different rhetorical strategies, the first
to destroy a dynasty (Jeroboam’s), the second to wed the dynasties of his favored
king (David) and priest (Zadok).
Richard Nelson (1991: 144–147) observes how DtrH uses priests “as redac-
tional tools to drive home ideological truths.” A case in point is how DtrH scorns
those priests it deems illegitimate, especially Jeroboam’s non-Levites (1 Kgs
12:31; 13:33). DtrH is upset not only with Jeroboam’s selection of non-Levites
to serve illicit high places but also with Jeroboam’s lack of discrimination with
regard to the institution of priesthood itself. As king, says DtrH, he installed
“anyone who wanted be a priest” from the “entire population” (wayyaʿaś miqṣôt
hāʿām kōhănê bāmôt heḥāpēṣ yĕmallēʾ ʾet-yādô wîhî kōhănê bāmôt; 1 Kgs 13:33;
cf. 1 Kgs 12:31; 2 Kgs 17:32). The contrast between this statement and other
priestly traditions that take special care to produce genealogies to legitimize sac-
erdotal heritage could not be starker.248 For our purposes, note how DtrH uses an
illicit priestly installation ritual as a rhetorical strategy to undermine Jeroboam’s

reign. According to 1 Kings 13:33–34, it is the key evidence to demonstrate how
King Jeroboam’s refusal “to turn from his evil way” led to the destruction of his
dynasty.249
On the positive side, consider DtrH’s favored priest, Zadok, whose obscure
origin has occasioned a cottage industry of scholarly publications.250 The com-
plex “man of God” pericope in 1 Samuel 2:27–36 uses prophecy (not a consecra-
tion rite) to legitimate Zadok and his priestly house. Set during the days of Eli
and the fall of the Shilonite priesthood, Yahweh proclaims through his prophet:
I will raise up for myself a faithful priest [kōhēn neʾĕmān] who shall act in ac-
cordance with my nature and [divine] will; and I will build him a faithful
[priestly] house [bayit neʾĕmān]. He shall go in and out before my anointed one
[i.e., the king] forever. (1 Samuel 2:35)
Yahweh, according to Deuteronomy 7:9, is a “faithful God” (hāʾēl hanneʾĕmān)

who maintains covenant loyalty with his adherents. He seeks faithful servants
such as the “faithful prophet” Samuel (neʾĕmān šĕmûʾēl lĕnābîʾ lĕyhwh; 1 Sam
3:20).251 Yet for DtrH, Yahweh’s design for history culminates in his “faithful”
king David, whose dynasty is foretold not once but twice. During the Nabal
incident, Abigail proclaims to David: “Yahweh will surely make my lord a
faithful house” (bayit neʾĕmān; 1 Sam 25:28). Later Nathan, speaking with
Yahweh’s voice, famously predicts: “Your house and your kingdom shall be
made faithful forever [wĕneʾĕman bêtĕkā ûmamlaktĕkā ʿad-ʿôlām]; before
me your throne shall be established forever” (2 Sam 7:16). P. Kyle McCarter
(1980a: 93) summarizes DtrH’s wedding of David and Zadok: “The Books
of Samuel and Kings display a relentless march of history toward not only
David, the chosen king, but also Jerusalem, the chosen city, and along with
the latter, Zadok of Jerusalem, the chosen priest.”252 For our purposes, it is
clear that DtrH chooses the rhetoric of a “faithful priesthood” to legitimate
Zadok in contrast to any cultic consecration or installation ritual that would
be favored by P.
Holiness and Holy Personnel in Chronicles
One could make a strong argument for Chronicles studies being one of the most
vibrant subfields within biblical scholarship in recent times.253 Readers should
consult the voluminous secondary literature to see whether scholars think that
the Chronistic presentations align with the realia of the monarchic period, or
whether they think Chronicles retrojects practices from the present into the past,
or whether they view its portrayal as mostly imaginative (or some combination
of all three). Some of the most exciting scholarship sets Chronicles against the
backdrop of research on rewritten biblical texts. And yet, as astutely demon-
strated by Gary Knoppers (2004: 129–134), Chronicles defies categorization. It is
indeed a decidedly new work whose literary accomplishment needs to be under-
stood on its own merits.
Chronicles and Yahweh’s Holiness
Once readers understand the centrality of the Temple and sacerdotal affairs
in Chronicles, it comes as no surprise to learn that statistically Chronicles
contains the second-highest concentration of the Hebrew root qdš in the en-
tire Hebrew Bible, bettered only by the book of Leviticus. The number of times
that the root is found in Chronicles as compared to DtrH is dramatically dif-
ferent.254 Both traditions are poetic in their praise of Yahweh as holy, yet with
distinct vocabulary. DtrH incorporates the incomparability statements (“There
is no Holy One like Yahweh”; “Who is holy like Yahweh?”) from the Song of
Hannah (1 Sam 2:2, 10) and the epithet “Yahweh, the Holy One of Israel” (2
Kgs 19:22) from the Isaianic tradition. For its part, Chronicles incorporates
hymnody praising Yahweh as “radiantly holy” (hadrat-qōdeš; 1 Chr 16:29; 2
Chr 20:21) that echoes Psalm 29:2 and Psalm 96:9. As demonstrated in Chapter
Seven, hādār is one of many words that have been used to describe Yahweh
as radiantly majestic and powerful (corresponding to Otto’s fascinans and
tremendum). When combined with qōdeš, yet another term designating divine
power, the result is dramatic, as showcased in the battle narrative we find in 2
Chronicles 20.255
Prior to the battle, Jehoshaphat’s prayerful lament for divine assistance
acknowledges Yahweh’s incomparable power and might (kōaḥ ûgĕbûrâ) such
that none is able to withstand his rule (2 Chr 20:6). Israel’s history has been one
characterized by Yahweh exercising his might on their behalf. Acknowledging
their current powerlessness against their foes, the good king focuses the nation’s
eyes on Yahweh (2 Chr 20:12). An Asaphite Levite, appropriately named Jahaziel,
“God sees,” enters the scene. He prophetically proclaims Yahweh’s encourage-
ment: “Fear not, and be not dismayed at this great multitude; for the battle is not
yours but God’s” (kî lōʾ lākem hammilḥāmâ kî lēʾlōhîm; 2 Chr 20:15). The people
need not fight. As with the battle at the sea (and with Sea), they need only be
still and see how Yahweh achieves victory (2 Chr 20:17; cf. Exod 14:13–14). The
battle is engaged the next day, with Levite singers proceeding in front of the army
praising “a radiantly holy/powerful” (hadrat-qōdeš) Yahweh, who does indeed
achieve a resounding victory by having the enemies destroy one another.256
Elsewhere when Chronicles speaks of Yahweh’s holiness it does so by referring

to his consecration (hiqdîš) of the Jerusalem Temple, a sanctuary (miqdāš) where
he has chosen to have his name dwell forever (2 Chr 7:16, 20; cf. 1 Kgs 9:3, 7; 2
Chr 30:8). The parallels here with DtrH are not surprising, nor are the plethora
of references to Yahweh having Solomon (and not David) build a house for his
Name.257 Yet in three occurrences Chronicles alone borrows from known psalms
to emphasize how Yahweh’s name is “holy.” In 1 Chronicles 16:10, it is again
the Asaphite Levites who sing praises to Yahweh’s holy Name (hithalĕlû bĕšēm
qodšô; cf. Ps 105:3). And 1 Chronicles 16:35 borrows from Psalm 106:47 to plead
with Yahweh to provide rescue from the nations so that thanksgiving can be
offered to his holy name (lĕhōdôt lĕšēm qodšekā). Lastly, having provided for the
building of the Temple, David offers a prayer of thanksgiving that puts human
provisions in proper theological perspective. Everything required for building a
house for Yahweh’s holy Name (libnôt-lĕkā bayit lĕšēm qodšekā) ultimately comes
from Yahweh: “For all things come from you, and of your own we have given
you . . . all this abundance . . . comes from your hand and is all your own” (1 Chr
29:14, 16). Throughout the ancient Near East, there is a theological notion (the-
ological fiction?) that only the divine can beget the truly divine. This was best
articulated in the fashioning of divine images, where, to paraphrase the words of
Esarhaddon, “only a god can make a god.”258 Implicitly the Chronicler’s devout
prayer asserts something similar, as does the underlying ideology of consecra-
tion rituals. Though humans indeed build the physical “holy space” (miqdāš) for
Yahweh’s Name (1 Chr 22:19; 2 Chr 20:8), the language of piety can say that only
a holy Yahweh can provide for the building of a sanctuary (miqdāš) that could
house his holy Name (šēm qodšô).
Holy Personnel in Chronicles
These brief references to Levites singing the praises of a holy Yahweh are indica-
tive of what we see of holy personnel throughout Chronicles. The history of the
status and privileges of Levites is gnarled, as we have seen. The Hebrew Bible
preserves voices that are at odds with each other and reflect seemingly constant
negotiations over sacerdotal power and position. The language used to designate
privilege is that of holiness (Olyan 2000: 35). A short review is in order.
On the restrictive side, we’ve seen how P never speaks of the Levites as “holy.”
They never undergo a “consecration” ritual. Only the Aaronids (who, to be clear,
are of the Kohathite-Amram branch of the Levites) hold the position of priest
(kōhēn), and for P, only priests are holy. Only priests are consecrated. As P pow-
erfully affirms in the dramatic tale of Korah’s rebellion in Numbers 16, any at-
tempt by non-Aaronid Levites to assert that holiness is to be found outside of the
priesthood is anathema to Yahweh, so much so that it occasions a death sentence.

For P, Yahweh strictly differentiates that it is only the Aaronid priest “who belongs
to Him and who is holy” (ʾet-ʾăšer-lô wĕʾet-haqqādôš; Num 16:5). The Aaronid
priests alone are able to offer cultic service to divinity. As for the work profile
of the non-Aaronid Levites, theirs is an operational function serving (šēret) the
priests within sacred space. Their sacerdotal status is indeed quite elevated from
that of the non-sacerdotal people at large, and they constitute symbolic offerings
to Yahweh. Nonetheless, their rank falls far short of priestly holiness.259
Summarizing what we have seen, Ezekiel 40–48 (with its own particular vo-
cabulary) is similarly restrictive when it comes to Levites and their holy status.
The priests who are once again privileged in status and in function are referred
to as “the Levitical priests, the sons of Zadok.” In contrast to these Zadokites, the
Levites are once again of lesser status and function. They are not privileged to
come near to a holy Yahweh as priest, nor are they allowed access to holy space
or holy offerings (Ezek 44:13). As in P, the Levites are never referred to as “holy.”
On the expansive side, we saw how H conceptualized holiness quite differ-
ently. The Aaronid priesthood retains status and cultic privilege, and it is marked
(via additional regulations) with the highest possible degrees of sanctity. Precise
descriptions of the status of Levites depend on how widely one chooses to define
H’s corpus.260 What is clear is that the Levites are never marked for consecrated
service. And yet for H, the entire congregation of the people of Israel can achieve
holiness (“Be holy, for I, Yahweh your God, am holy”; qĕdōšîm tihyû kî qādôš ʾănî
yhwh ʾĕlōhêkem; Lev 19:2). In contrast to P’s cult-centered holiness, H’s vision of
holiness is comprehensive, covering a wide array of cultic, economic, judicial,
moral, and social parameters. To be fair, as noted earlier, P does hold out a dis-
pensation for Nazirites to be “holy to Yahweh” (Num 6:5, 8) on a temporary basis
(and as governed by priestly authority).
As we have seen, in Deuteronomy 33:8–11 Levi is granted wide cultic privileges,
and many scholars feel that Deuteronomy advocates that all Levites are poten-
tial priests, especially with its term “Levitical priests” (hakkōhănîm halĕwiyyim;
Deut 18:1–8). Yet rather than modifying “priest” or “Levite” with the adjective
“holy,” Deuteronomy also speaks of an expansive holiness. Yahweh has chosen
Israel from among all the peoples on the earth to be his holy people (Deut 7:6;
14:2, 21; 26:18–19; 28:9). Interestingly, Deuteronomy’s distinctive language of “a
holy people to Yahweh” (ʿam qādôš lĕyhwh) is never found in DtrH. People are
indeed admonished to sanctify themselves on various occasions (Josh 3:5; 7:13; 1
Sam 16:5), yet in DtrH they are not assigned this lofty title of election. As for reli-
gious officiants, DtrH does explicitly associate priests (and Levites) with holiness
(1 Sam 7:1; 21:1–7 [Eng 21:1–6]), and especially so with regard to transporting
the Ark to the most holy place (qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm), which the priests alone are
privileged to enter (1 Kgs 8:3–11). And yet, despite their sacerdotal status, DtrH
has little interest in preserving any detailed consecration rituals that would mark
their rank. Instead, when it does want to privilege a priest, DtrH uses its own dis-
tinctive and prophetic vocabulary of Yahweh establishing an enduring “faithful
house” (bayit neʾĕmān) to wed Zadokite priesthood with Davidic monarchy.
Nowhere in Chronicles do we find the language of an enduring “faithful
house” (bayit neʾĕmān) associated with priest or monarch.261 Such a contrast
with DtrH is striking. What we do find is once again the use of the word “holy”
to legitimate priestly power and influence. Though Chronicles presents distinct
functions for priests and Levites (e.g., only priests manipulate blood; 2 Chr 29:22,
24; 30:16), distinct allotments (e.g., 2 Chr 35:8–9), and distinct sacred space (2
Chr 29:15–16), both are explicitly referred to as holy. The Chronicles account
of the priest Jehoida’s power in bringing the child king Joash to the throne (and
death to Athaliah) reformulates 1 Kings 11 with a sacerdotal emphasis that has
priests and Levites (not the Carites and the royal “outrunners”) serving as the
Temple guard. The rationale is explicit: “Let no one enter the Temple of Yahweh
except the priests and serving Levites [hakkōhănîm wĕhamĕšārĕtîm lalĕwiyyim];
they may enter, for they are holy [hēmmâ yābōʾû kî-qōdeš hēmmâ]” (2 Chr 23:6;
cf. 2 Chr 30:15; 31:16; 35:5).
The expanded narrative in Chronicles about Josiah’s Passover mentions
the cultic duties of priests and Levites, with the latter explicitly called holy
(2 Chr 35:3). Sara Japhet (1993: 1047) notes how the notion of being “holy
to Yahweh” is widely used in H (for priests; Lev 21:7–8) and P (for Nazirites;
Num 6:5, 8) and even for the people at large in H (Lev 19:2) and Deuteronomy
(Deut 7:6; 14:2, 21; 26:18–19; 28:9). Yet for the Levites per se, only here in 2
Chronicles 35:3 (together with 2 Chr 23:6) are they individually marked for
holiness. A possible reason may be found in the verse itself, which notes that a
key function of the Levites (transporting Yahweh’s mobile Ark) has now come
to an end with the Ark finding a permanent home in the Jerusalem Temple (2
Chr 35:3; cf. 1 Chr 23:25–32). Thus their expanded duties—while not elevated
to that of the priests—are legitimized by having “holy” status and the priestly
authority to teach law (cf. 2 Chr 15:3). Note especially the innovative interme-
diary role they play between priest and people in conveying sacrificial blood
(2 Chr 30:16).262
Consecrated Priests in Chronicles: The Case of King Uzziah’s

Cultic Overreach (2 Chr 26:16–21)
As for priestly consecration rituals, while DtrH chose to preserve only a

single occasion with regard to Eleazar having charge over the Ark (1 Sam 7:1),
Chronicles cannot speak often enough about the centrality of consecration and
sanctification (discussed later). Yet to be clear, the consecratory vocabulary in

Chronicles never speaks of any formal priestly investiture, though the sacerdotal
language (e.g., qdš in D, tD, and C stems) is similar, and elsewhere even identical
(e.g., millēʾ yad lĕyhwh; 1 Chr 29:5; 2 Chr 29:31). There is no mention of any type
of complex clothing and anointing rituals involving oil and blood similar to what
we find in P as it promotes the enduring nature of the “consecrated” Aaronid
priesthood (cf. pp. 619–629).
The clearest example of Chronicles’ use of consecration to mark position and
privilege is found in the conflict between priests and royalty in 2 Chronicles
26:16–21. King Uzziah is the Chronicler’s parade case to prove the proverb that
“pride goes before destruction” (cf. Prov 16:18; 18:12). Where DtrH is mini-
malist about how Yahweh smote the good king with a ṣāraʿat skin disease263
that lasted until the day he died (2 Kgs 15:5), the Chronicler is expansive. DtrH
is completely silent with regard to what occasioned Yahweh’s smiting of a king
who reigned for fifty-two years, typically a sign of divine favor. In contrast, the
Chronicler is quite vocal about the king’s violation of priestly prerogatives. After
achieving great strength (agriculturally264 and especially militarily) through
Yahweh’s blessings, the king “grew proud to [his own] destruction” (gābah libbô
ʿad-lĕhašḥît; 2 Chr 26:16). Pridefully, “he wronged Yahweh” (wayyimʿal bĕyhwh)
by entering into Yahweh’s temple to offer incense on the incense altar. Despite
the widespread tradition of pre-exilic monarchs enjoying cultic privilege (see
Chapter Nine, pp. 498–503), here the king is strongly rebuked by priest and deity.
Nowhere else do we read of such a confrontation (but cf. 1 Kgs 13:1–10):
The priest Azariah went in after him, with eighty priests of Yahweh who were
men of valor. They withstood King Uzziah, and said to him, “It is not for you,
Uzziah, to burn incense to Yahweh, but [only] for the priests, the descendants of
Aaron, who are consecrated to burn incense [hamĕquddāšîm lĕhaqṭîr]. Get out
of the sanctuary [hammiqdāš]! For you have done wrong [māʿaltā]! It is not for
you to have radiance [kābôd] from the god Yahweh. (2 Chr 26:17–18)
Rhetorically, the language of holiness is used to invalidate the king’s cultic over-
reach. For only Aaronid priests who have been made holy through a consecra-
tion ritual (hamĕquddāšîm) are able to offer incense to Yahweh within the holy
space (hammiqdāš). The ritual offering of incense, as we saw earlier, demarcates
priestly privilege in P, with the death penalty for non-Aaronid violators (Num
16:35; 17:5 [Eng 16:40]). Earlier the Chronicler underscored this Aaronid pre-
rogative by appealing to Mosaic legislation (1 Chr 6:34 [Eng 1 Chr 6:49]; cf.
1 Chr 23:13). Equally fascinating is the Chronicler’s assertion that the non-
consecrated King Uzziah does not possess Yahweh’s kābôd. This too shows
an awareness of the consecrated priestly service of the Aaronids being one of
mediating Yahweh’s “radiance,” as we saw in P (Exod 28:2–3; 29:43–44; cf. Lev

10:1–3).
The drama of the Uzziah episode continues as the king angrily protests against
the priestly rebuke, taking up the censer to offer incense only to have Yahweh
smite him with the ṣāraʿat skin disease at that precise moment. King and priests
alike, understanding the polluting nature of his new affliction, rush to leave holy
space. To his dying day, the defiled king is excluded from the Temple (2 Chr
26:19–20).265 As we saw earlier with the putting down of the rebellion of Korah
and his band of Levites who strove for priestly prerogatives, nothing legitimizes
one’s hold on an office more than recounting a dramatic story of God miracu-
lously taking one’s side. Yet in Chronicles we are presented not with P’s interne-
cine Aaronid-Levite conflict but rather with a struggle between priestly and royal
cultic control. The Chronicler’s literary portrayal astutely uses consecration lan-
guage to legitimize Aaronid cultic prerogatives as it applies a lifelong polluting
ṣāraʿat affliction to delegitimize those of royalty.
Cultic Consecration: Priests and Levites
As for other consecration rituals, Chronicles follows the many other sacerdotal
traditions we have seen elsewhere, with its mention of priests and Levites needing
to sanctify themselves in order to handle the Ark of Yahweh (1 Chr 15:12, 14; cf. 2
Chr 5:4–11). Becoming ritually holy was also necessary whenever they dealt with
sacred space (2 Chr 5:11; 23:6; 29:5, 19) and especially with regard to making
sacrifices or engaging in other cultic acts such as offering incense or carrying
out purificatory rituals (2 Chr 26:18; 29:5, 15, 19, 31–34; 30:3, 15, 17, 24; 35:6).
Among these many texts there are two fascinating but opaque remarks noting
particular acts of sacerdotal consecration.
As a part of Hezekiah’s cleansing and rededication of the Temple described in 2
Chronicles 29, both priests and Levites sanctify themselves. Priests play a central
role in sacrifice and blood manipulation (2 Chr 29:20–24) and are complemented
by the Chronicler’s prominent Levite musicians, whose worship accompanies
the sacrifice (2 Chr 29:25–30).266 When the consecrated assembly subsequently
brings their sacrifices in overwhelming numbers (seventy bulls, a hundred rams,
a hundred lambs), the Chronicler notes the lack of enough priests to skin them
and the need for additional priests to undergo consecration rituals to help out.
In the meantime, the Levites assist the priests, with the Chronicler marking a
comparison: “Now the Levites were more conscientious than the priests in sanc-
tifying themselves” (kî halĕwiyyim yišrê lēbāb lĕhitqaddēš mēhakkōhănîm; 2 Chr
29:32–34). Later the Chronicler gives us a more positive portrayal of sanctifica-
tion when he remarks how “they [seemingly the priests and the Levites]267 were
enrolled with all their little children, their wives, their sons, and their daughters,
the whole multitude; for they kept themselves most holy in their [respective]
positions of trust” (kî beʾĕmûnātām yitqaddĕšû-qōdeš; 2 Chr 31:18).268
The brief remark about the Levites being more conscientious (yišrê lēbāb)
with respect to making themselves holy has occasioned a great deal of specula-
tion with regard to how Chronicles views the relationship between priests and
Levites. Those who consider the Chronicler’s overarching purpose to be advo-
cating for an elevated role for the Levites see here a proof text.269 The Levites
“were more upright in heart” (so RSV), and this can only mean that they were
superior in cult and piety to wayward priests, who must have been compromised
in their service during King Ahaz’s reign.270 Thus in comparison with the various
traditions articulating the status of the Levites noted earlier, for these scholars
the Chronicler aligns more with the book of Deuteronomy (cf. its vocabu-
lary of “Levitical priests,” hakkōhănîm halĕwiyyim) in advocating for priestly
prerogatives for the Levites. Buttressing such a reconstruction is the status of
officiating “holiness” that the Chronicler assigns to Levites (2 Chr 23:6; 35:3), an
unimaginable concept for P and Ezekiel (and likely H).
Complicating such a reconstruction are the distinct prerogatives that
Chronicles assigns to priests over against Levites. 2 Chronicles 23:6 does indeed
note that both priest and Levite are able “to enter the temple of Yahweh” due to
their holy status. Yet as for the specific parameters of sacred space, 2 Chronicles
29:16 describes how the priests entered “the inner part of the temple of Yahweh”
(pĕnîmâ bêt-yhwh)—also referred to as the “Holy of Holies” (qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm;
1 Chr 6:34)—whereas the Levites are located in “the court of the temple of
Yahweh” (ḥăṣar bêt yhwh; 2 Chr 29:16). Hierarchically, as we saw with the con-
frontation involving King Uzziah’s cultic overreach, Aaron and his sons are ad-
ditionally “consecrated to burn incense” within the sanctuary (hamĕquddāšîm
lĕhaqṭîr; 2 Chr 26:18). Whether the Levites were granted the prerogative of of-
fering incense is complicated by conflicting evidence, but many scholars do not
think that the Chronicler assigns them this right.271 Chronicles twice describes
in full the cultic actions of the Aaronids, underscoring this cultic prerogative,
and it also mentions the making of atonement:
Aaron and his sons were making offerings [maqṭîrîm] on the altar of burnt
offering and on the incense altar for every work of the Holy of Holies [qōdeš
haqqŏdāšîm] to atone for Israel according to all that Moses the servant of God
had commanded. (1 Chr 6:34 [Eng 1 Chr 6:49])
Aaron was set apart in order to consecrate the most holy objects [lĕhaqdîšô qōdeš
qodāšîm], he and his sons forever, to make offerings [lĕhaqṭîr] before Yahweh, to
serve him and to pronounce blessings in his name forever. (1 Chr 23:13)
Most importantly, as in every other tradition, only priests are described as having
the privilege to manipulate blood (2 Chr 29:22, 24; 30:16).272 The Chronicler
is clear that the Levites’ association with blood is that of conveying it to the
priests (2 Chr 30:16). Thus it seems wise to side with Knoppers’ (1999; 2003b;
2004: 613–618; 820–826) reconstruction of the Chronistic data that argues for
a complementary relationship between priests and Levites. Priests are marked
for holiness and have elevated prerogatives. The Chronicler goes out of his way
to celebrate the exemplary priest Jehoida.273 Yet notably (and quite remarkably
given the lack in other traditions), Levites are also marked for holiness (2 Chr
23:6; 2 Chr 35:3). In addition, Yahweh has chosen (bḥr) the Levites (2 Chr 29:11),
and such a term of election “is one of the clearest indications of the esteem in
which the Levites are held” (Knoppers 2004: 613).
Holy Personnel (Mostly) Missing from the

Record: Holy Prophets
Biblical texts explicitly referring to additional religious specialists thought to be

holy (or to be able to mediate divine holiness) are fragmentary, revealing once
again that the data that we have to work with are meager. Cases in point are the
few scattered references to prophets explicitly called holy.274 The call narrative in
Jeremiah 1:5 has Yahweh consecrating (hiqdaštîkā) Jeremiah for prophetic ser-
vice while he was still in his mother’s womb. Later, as an adult, Jeremiah reflects
on the ways in which he has been overwhelmed by the “immense power” of
Yahweh’s holy and fiery words (dibrê qodšô, dĕbārî kāʾēš; Jer 23:9, 29; cf. 20:9;
Lundbom 2004: 182). Yet Jeremiah is exceptional. For the most part, attestations
of “holy” prophets are missing from the biblical record even though the relation-
ship between prophets and priests is well attested, with Ezekiel held up as the
classic example.275 Moreover, while Ezekiel’s kōhēn priesthood is clearly men-
tioned (Ezek 1:3), other sacerdotal activities of prophets are not so marked. As
Zevit (2004: 202) notes with respect to the famous Mt. Carmel incident, “Both
Elijah and the prophets [of Baal] construct altars, slaughter and dress sacrifices,
and pray. The ritual involving sacrifice appears to have been sacerdotal, yet none
of the protagonists is identified as a priest.” Nor is such cultic activity referred to
as holy.
“A Holy Man of God” (2 Kgs 4:9)
Outside of Jeremiah, we have one truly exceptional reference to explicit pro-

phetic holiness, yet scholars have situated the discussion within literary and
anthropological (rather than sacerdotal) frameworks. The mention is found in

the story of Elisha and the Shunemite woman in 2 Kings 4. At the outset of the
story, even before the prophet manifests his divine power in resurrecting her
dead son, the woman is confident that the roving prophet “is a holy man of God”
(ʾîš ʾĕlōhîm qādôš hûʾ; 2 Kgs 4:9). What is said here of Elisha could be said too
of Elijah, though there is no explicit reference to the latter’s holy powers. The
traditions of these two prophets are so much alike that scholars group them to-
gether and, tellingly, categorize them under the genre of hagiography. Such leg-
endary material, writes Blenkinsopp (1996: 59), “comes to us from that remote
time in the past” and exhibits “an impression of enormous and dangerous spir-
itual power and energy.”
The list of Elijah’s divine, miraculously powerful activities is lengthy;
Elisha’s is even more so. Elijah is fed by ravens or angels (1 Kgs 17:1–7; 19:5–8),
controls the weather (1 Kgs 18:41–45), multiplies the food of a widow (1 Kgs
17:8–16), raises her dead son to life (1 Kgs 17:17–24), miraculously defeats
the prophets of Baal on Mt. Carmel using divine fire (1 Kgs 18:20–40), runs a
semi-marathon at incredible speeds (1 Kgs 18:46), experiences a Moses-like
theophany on Mt. Horeb (1 Kgs 19:9–12), brings destructive fire down from
the heavens (2 Kgs 1:9–16), and at the end of his life is carried up to heaven
in a whirlwind with a chariot of fire and horses of fire (2 Kgs 2:11–12). Elisha,
the Hebrew Bible’s miracle worker par excellence, multiplies jars of oil (2 Kgs
4:1–7), raises the Shunemite woman’s dead son to life (2 Kgs 4:8–37), makes in-
edible (poisonous?) food edible (2 Kgs 4:38–41), cleans a water supply with salt
(2 Kgs 2:19–22), provides abundant water for a military campaign (2 Kgs 3:9–
20), multiplies food (2 Kgs 4:42–44), cures the skin disease of Naaman (2 Kgs
5) and brings it upon the deceptive Gehazi (2 Kgs 5:26–27), makes a sunken
iron axe head float (2 Kgs 6:1–7), and knows the words that a distant king
speaks in his private bedroom (2 Kgs 6:12). After Elisha’s death, even his bones
have miraculous powers of revivification (2 Kgs 13:20–21). As for tapping into
divinely destructive power, where Elijah twice used deadly fire, Elisha uses a
divinely empowered curse to kill forty-two mockers (2 Kgs 2:23–25) and a di-
vine strike of blindness (together with subsequent hospitality!) to bring enemy
troops into submission (2 Kgs 6:18–23).
Three scholars have nuanced how it is that both Elijah and Elisha consti-
tute “holy men of God” even though only Elisha is explicitly called such (2 Kgs
4:9).276 Alexander Rofé (1988:16) brings attention to the genre of these types of
popular stories where the miraculous (even lethal) performance of the prophet
“is a logical consequence of the conception of the Holy displayed in these tales—
the Divine as an awesome, mighty power.” Citing Rudolph Otto, Rofé affirms that
the presence of the holy man of God “brings blessing . . . however, it constitutes
a danger too.” Preferring Clifford Geertz’s theoretical model, Thomas Overholt
(1996: 24–68) argues that social anthropology holds the key to understanding
Elijah and Elisha as “men of power,” especially in how their feats of the mirac-
ulous resonate with the actions of shamanic holy men across the world. David
Petersen (2002: 6, 228), who calls Elisha “a preternaturally powerful person,”
defines such people (Elijah too) as those who “possess the power of the holy and
hence are dangerous, powerful, and due appropriate respect.” “The holy man,”
he continues, “personifies the deity in the midst of the profane world . . . Such
powers belong to the world of the sacred” (my emphasis). In this respect we again
see what we uncovered earlier in the present chapter: to be holy is to be pow-
erful. Elijah’s and Elisha’s representation and/or mediation of divine holiness
necessarily results in power-laden, even lethal activity. The essence of this type
of holiness is not that of cultic sanctification or sacerdotal rank. It is not about
consecration rituals of clothing and anointing, or the need to demarcate the sa-
cred and the profane, or who is accorded what cultic privilege. And we see again
within Otto’s theoretical framework that the two sides of holiness are at every
turn, from the benevolence of providing a widow with the means of sustenance
(2 Kgs 4:1–7) to the lethal results of not respecting the danger of divine power (2
Kgs 2:23–25).
Holy Personnel: Women as Holy Functionaries
Women functioned as religious specialists in a variety of capacities, though they

were termed “holy” only in the case of P’s female Nazirite (see pp. 632–636)
and in the case of the often misunderstood qĕdēšâ (plural qĕdēšôt). As Susan
Ackerman (2008a, 2013, 2016) astutely points out, whereas state-sponsored
religion (for example at Jerusalem, Bethel, and Dan) restricted women’s cultic
agency,277 women found fewer constraints in regional sanctuaries and especially
in household shrines. Hannah’s performative rituals at Shiloh, which include
prayer, the making of a vow, the provision of offerings, and perhaps sacrificial
slaughter (1 Sam 1:21–28), are illustrative.278 It is Hannah’s prayer that gives us
one of our earliest declarations of Yahweh’s incomparable holiness (ʾên qādôš ka-
yhwh, mî qādôš ka-yhwh; see pp. 588–591). Other women who participated in
a variety of religious acts include those serving (ṣōbĕʾōt) at the entrance of the
Tent of Meeting (Exod 38:8; 1 Sam 2:22),279 those participating in the Queen
of Heaven cult (Jer 7:16–20; 44:15–19, 25), Zipporah’s activites connected with
blood and circumcision/expiation (Exod 4:24–26),280 Micah’s mother acting as
patron in commissioning a divine image in a household shrine (Judges 17:1–
4),281 Ma’acah making an image of Asherah (1 Kgs 15:13), Solomon’s foreign
wives offering incense and sacrificing to their gods (1 Kgs 11:8), female prophetic
intermediaries (Miriam, Deborah, Huldah, the unnamed prophetess in Isa 8:3,
Noadiah, the daughters who prophesy in Ezek 13:17–23), female necromancers

(Lev 20:27; 1 Sam 28; Isa 57:3), the women mourning for Tammuz (Ezek 8:14),
and so on.
In many other cultures some of these ritual specialists would be referred
to as holy personnel. Yet as we have seen, the presentation of “holiness” in the
Hebrew Bible is overwhelmingly ideological and androcentric. This can also be
seen in how women are never referred to as “priests” (kōhenet; kōhănôt), and
the same can be said with regard to their Late Bronze Age Ugaritic neighbors
to the north. As Ackerman (2013: 165) notes, “It is difficult to identify within
either the Ugaritic or Hebrew Bible corpora a woman, or women, who might
be said to fulfill a priestly role or assume priestly obligations.” What makes such
restrictions stand out are the prominent roles of priestesses elsewhere in the an-
cient Near East. One calls to mind the focus on the high priestess of the storm
god and the mašʾartu priestess at Late Bronze Age Emar as well as the promi-
nent role of ʾUmmîʿaštart, the fifth-century BCE Phoenican “priestess of ʿAštart”
(khnt ʿštrt).282
Cultic Prostitution?
The Hebrew Bible preserves a handful of references to “consecrated women”

(qĕdēšâ/qĕdēšôt; Gen 38:21–22; Deut 23:18 [Eng 23:17]; Hos 4:14), whose func-
tion may or may not be parallel to that of “consecrated men” (qādēš/qĕdēšim;
Deut 23:18 [Eng 23:17]; 1 Kgs 14:24; 22:47 [Eng 22:46]; 1 Kgs 15:12 [Eng 15:11];
2 Kgs 23:7). These terms have had a tortured history of interpretation.283 None
of these passages refers to Aaronid priests, Levites, or Nazirites (female or male)
who are considered holy or consecrated in other traditions. These four specific
terms (qĕdēšâ/qĕdēšôt, qādēš/qĕdēšim) never occur in the sacerdotal discussions
found in P, H, Ezekiel or Chronicles.284
Due to a mere three instances where qĕdēšâ/qĕdēšôt occurs in contexts men-
tioning zōnâ/zōnôt, “prostitute(s),” or znh, “to play the harlot; to whore” (Gen
38:15, 21–22, 24; Deut 23:18–19 [Eng 23:17–18]; Hos 14:4), all four terms have
frequently been used to argue for a Judean practice of cultic prostitution, female
and male. English editions of the Bible regularly translate these terms as “fe-
male/male cultic prostitutes.” Karel van der Toorn (1989: 201–202) notes how
this practice is typically defined as “sympathetic magic,” where the sexual en-
counter is intended “to heighten the chances of human offspring, the increase of
the flocks, and an abundant harvest.” Van der Toorn’s assessment is curt: “Sacred
prostitution understood in this sense never existed in ancient Israel.”285 Writing
on the male terminology (qādēš/qĕdēšim), Phyllis Bird (1997b: 37) concurs: “A
class of ‘male cult prostitutes’ in ancient Israel . . . is questionable on literary,
linguistic, and sociological grounds.” Kristel Nyberg (2008: 319) summarizes

that “the conclusion that widespread cultic prostitution existed in ancient Israel
is outdated,” with Jessie DeGrado (2018) stating that it’s time to put the myth of
the sacred prostitute to bed.
The majority of scholars who have synthesized the meager data that we possess
have concluded that these “consecrated” individuals were cultic functionaries
who were considered illegitimate by the Deuteronomistic Historian(s). The pejo-
rative language of harlotry and promiscuity was used to disparage their actions,
which were deemed illicit. The beginning of the book of Hosea with Gomer, the
“wife of harlotry” (ʾēšet zĕnûnîm), is a prime example of metaphorically equating
Israel’s worship of other deities with marital infidelity.286 There are attempts to
label these practitioners as “Canaanite,” though even here one cannot support
any notion of sacred prostitution from the references to qdš-functionaries in the
Ugaritic texts.287 Others have looked to the Mesopotamian sphere for parallels.
Here Mayer Gruber’s (1986: 146) summary is apt: “The Akkadian qadištu . . .
was a wetnurse, a midwife, a functionary (primarily a cultic singer) in the cult
of Adad, occasionally an archivist, and in late times even a sorceress, but by no
means a prostitute, cultic or otherwise” (cf. Westenholz 1989: 250–260).
Nonetheless, due to the clear juxtaposition of qĕdēšâ/qĕdēšôt and prostitution
in three texts (Deut 23:18; Gen 38:21–22; Hosea 4:14), the issue remains unre-
solved for many interpreters. DeGrado (2018: 23) notes how the translation of
“cultic prostitute” remains appealing precisely due to its explanatory power for
all three of these texts. She summarizes two conflicting approaches to handling
these texts. One view is to see the qĕdēšâ as a priestess who was not a prostitute
but polemically portrayed as such (e.g., Westenholz). The alternative view is to
see the qĕdēšâ as a prostitute (in line with post-biblical Hebrew usage) and not at
all a cultic functionary (e.g., Gruber).
Problematically, neither view is satisfactory for interpreting all three texts.
In response, DeGrado shows how scholars have mistakenly reduced a multiva-
lent qĕdēšâ to an all-encompassing definition without concern for diachronic
and geographic variation. DeGrado (2018: 30, 32) argues that qĕdēšâ originally
marked a cultic functionary (with no emphasis on sexual rites) and thus, so-
cially, a single woman working outside of the male-dominated household. Later,
“through a process of generalization and pejoration, the Hebrew word shifted
from designating priestesses to single women more generally, with the implica-
tion of uncontrolled sexuality.” The diachronic evolution of the word was one of
“shifting from describing a priestess to a working woman and, by the rabbinic
period, a prostitute.”288
In short, in contrast to many Bible translations, there is a clear consensus
among scholars that there is little support for cultic prostitution being practiced
in ancient Israel, especially as it is defined as a type of sympathetic magic. What
we do have are clear references to certain women in ancient Israel being referred
to as “consecrated functionaries” (qĕdēšâ/qĕdēšôt). Regrettably, we do not have
sufficient data to be able to say much more—other than that their practices ran
counter to those who preserved their history. It is also telling that the sources
that used holiness (qdš) as an ideological category of power, prestige, influence,
and status (especially P) give no hint that there were indeed qĕdēšâ/qĕdēšôt and
qādēš/qĕdēšim in ancient Israel.
Conclusion
This chapter began by quoting Ernst Sellin’s remark about the centrality of di-
vine holiness in the Hebrew Bible—how holiness was thought to “constitute the
deepest and innermost nature” of God. Such a strong assertion was then sit-
uated within the broader Northwest Semitic context to underscore the wide-
spread notion that holiness is one of the primary markers of divinity. When
exploring this divine trait in the Hebrew Bible, one cannot help but notice
how often holiness was contextualized within the fabric of society. For some
it meant the thunder of God working on their behalf, with the incomparably
powerful Holy One reversing the fortunes of the disadvantaged (1 Sam 2:1–10)
or emboldening a monarch (Ps 89:19 [Eng 89:18]). Poets embodied Yahweh’s
power, saying that he bares “his holy arm” (zĕrôaʿ qodšô) to achieve military vic-
tory for Jerusalem (Isa 52:10; Ps 98:1). Others envisioned divine power in cate-
gories of cultic lethality, rehearsing well-known tales of victims such as Nadab,
Abihu, and Uzzah. How could humans approach the Unapproachable when im-
mediate death came to those lacking ritual safeguards? For others (especially
P and Ezekiel), holiness had to do with social privilege, restricted sacerdotal
status, and the management of cult. God chose a select few to be his holy repre-
sentatives and provided detailed regulations to administer what was deemed sa-
cred (space, time, personnel, offerings, cultic paraphernalia, etc.). For yet others
(especially H), holiness was inclusive, as it placed demands on society at large
to aspire to God’s character, virtues, and desires regarding a wide variety of so-
cial, cultic, judicial, economic, and moral topics. In short, to be holy is to em-
body the principle of imitatio Dei—“to be holy as he is holy” (Lev 11:44–45; cf.
19:2; 20:7; 21:8). Any understanding of Yahweh as holy must shun reductionism
and incorporate all of the aforementioned voices, the theological as well as the
sociological.289
To conclude, we need briefly to comment on three additional aspects of holi-
ness. The first has to do with a handful of texts that have Yahweh proclaiming that
he will manifest his holiness. The second involves the broad topic of sacred space.
The third brings in voices from wisdom literature.
“Yahweh Shows Himself to Be Holy”
Linguistically, the reflexive use of the N and tD stems of qdš with God being
the subject reminds us that Yahweh was thought to show himself to be holy.
Overwhelmingly these expressions revert to the notion of Yahweh’s power that
we saw at the outset of this chapter. Due to the prevalence of Yahweh, “the Holy
One of Israel,” in the Isaianic tradition (see pp. 599–603), we are not surprised
to read that the prophet exults “the Holy God who shows himself holy” (hāʾēl
haqqādôš niqdāš) against the haughty through his justice and righteousness
(Isa 5:15–16).290 Yet, curiously, most of the reflexive usages occur in material
(P and Ezekiel) where one would assume the notion of divine holiness would
be tied to the management of cult rather than divine power. Ezekiel repeat-
edly has Yahweh manifesting his holiness to Israel and especially to the na-
tions by his powerful acts of redeeming Israel from their lands and returning
them to Judah (Ezek 20:42; 28:25–26; 36:23; 39:25–27).291 Yahweh’s destruc-
tion of Sidon (Ezek 28:22–23) and Gog (Ezek 38:16, 23) are also described
as examples of the self-manifestation of Yahweh’s holy (military) power. P’s
account of Yahweh’s revelation of his holy power takes us back to the deaths
of Nadab and Abihu. The specific vocabulary is illuminating. Yahweh’s de-
structive fire occasions Moses to remark: “This is what Yahweh meant when
he said: ‘Through those near to me [i.e., the priests)], I will manifest holiness
[ʾeqqādēš]; before all the people I will manifest kābôd [ʾekkābēd].’ ” As discussed
in Chapter Seven (pp. 358–379), Yahweh’s kābôd represents his radiant pres-
ence, power, and majesty (cf. Exod 14:4, 17–18). Thus, as in Ezekiel 28:22, these
two expressions are parallel. Yahweh’s destructive power is a manifestation of
his holiness and his radiance.
Holy (Sacred) Space
Theologically, it is Yahweh who sanctifies (qiddaš/hiqdîš) space. Functionally, re-

ligious officiants carry out the process through ritual. Existentially, as poets and
psalmists frequently proclaim, Yahweh’s presence was thought to make any space
or location holy, as seen in a wide array of sacred vocabulary: “sanctuary” (miqdāš),
“the holy [place]” (haqqōdeš), “the holy place” (māqôm haqqōdeš), “holy en-
campment” (nĕwēh qodeš), “holy dwelling” (mĕʿôn qodšô), “holy mountain” (har
haqqōdeš/har qodšî), “holy border” (gĕbûl qodšô), “holy heaven” (šĕmê qodšô), “holy
height” (mĕrôm qodšô), “holy ground” (ʾadmat-qōdeš), “holy throne” (kissēʾ qodšô),
“holy temple” (hêkal qodšô), “holy inner sanctum” (dĕbîr qodšekā), and “the most
holy place” (qōdeš haqqŏdāšîm). P would note that the place where Yahweh appears
must be sanctified due to his theophanic “radiance” (wĕnōʿadtî šāmmâ . . .wĕniqdaš
bikĕbōdî; Exod 29:43). Deuteronomistic Name Theology would argue that Yahweh
himself consecrated sacred space to make it a proper residence for the lodging of
his Name (e.g., 1 Kgs 9:3). Other voices focus on reverence: if Yahweh (or his pre-
ternatural representative) resides in space, one had better remove one’s sandals (kî
hammāqôm ʾăšer ʾattâ ʿōmēd ʿālāyw ʾadmat-qōdeš /qōdeš hûʾ; Exod 3:5; Josh 5:15).
In recent years, a plethora of research has been devoted to sacred space with re-
gard to the Hebrew Bible’s presentation and beyond. Theoretical studies abound,
from those using a naive understanding (like the classic yet now dated formula-
tion by Mircea Eliade) to those sensitive to the social dynamics of contested space
based especially on the spatial theories of Henri Lefebvre, Edward W. Soja, and
Jonathan Z. Smith. Obviously, a comprehensive overview of holy (sacred) space
is beyond the parameters of the present study. In addition to (1) the multiple lit-
erary locations of divine residence (from the Garden of Eden to the Jerusalem
Temple to cosmic and sacred mountains),292 (2) gradations of holiness as they
relate to spatial configurations,293 and (3) the various contours of spatial theory
(e.g., Lefebvre’s trifold spatial practice, representation of space, and spaces of rep-
resentation),294 a comprehensive survey would also have to include (4) a contextu-
alizing of sacred space within Israel’s perceptions of space per se (Faust 2010, 2017,
2019) and (5) the rich documentation from the archaeological record.295 For the
last of these, a look at Zevit’s (2001) impressive analysis reveals the daunting nature
of the task, especially when one considers the many and varied forms of sacred
architecture, with an ever-increasing number of examples coming from each new
season of excavations. Building on Colin Renfrew’s (1985) criteria for correlating
material culture with patterned religious behavior (i.e., “the archaeology of cult”),
Zevit (2001: 123–124) perceptively formulates a taxonomy of ten different types of
sacred space: cult place, cult room, cult corner, cult cave, cult complex, cult center,
temple, temple complex, shrines, and cult site.
The Last Word: Wisdom Literature
Having written much, we now leave the last word on Yahweh’s holiness to the
wisdom tradition (Qoh 12:12–13). The notion of Yahwistic holiness within the
wisdom tradition has not been treated at any length, for the root qdš rarely
appears in Proverbs, Qoheleth, Job, and the wisdom psalms.296 Sages certainly
taught disciples about Yahweh as a holy god and the need for humans to engage
in holy activity (cf. Gammie 1989: 125–149, 150–172). The prologue to the
Book of Job lifts up the pious and priestly Job as a prime example of someone
who sanctified his children (yĕqaddĕšēm) by sacrificing burnt offerings just in
case they had sinned (Job 1:5). The dialogue presents Job, the sufferer of un-
relenting pain, proclaiming that he “has not suppressed the words of the Holy
One” (lōʾ kiḥadtî ʾimrê qādôš; Job 6:10). The meaning is difficult, as it is not clear
if the “words” in question are by God or about God. Is Job saying that he has not
held back from articulating holy Yahweh’s precepts either in general or with
regard to his situation? Or is Job saying, as translated by NJPS, that he has not
suppressed his words of complaint against the Holy One? The latter would be
a statement of challenge, whereas the former would be a profession of piety.297
Later in the book, as Job’s words grow vehement, the author certainly pushes
the envelope in questioning divine justice (see Chapter Nine, pp. 551–557), yet
he never questions the holiness of Yahweh. For the edginess of wisdom litera-
ture challenging the social status quo, we must turn to the single occurrence
of the root qdš in Qoheleth. In a setting of sacred space (mĕqôm qādôš), the
author strikes out against the absurdly positive treatment of the wicked in con-
trast to that of the righteous.298
Proverbially, we are left with the following advice, which Michael Fox
(2000: 112) calls “the apex of ḥokmah, the highest degree of wisdom and
Torah”:
The fear of Yahweh is the beginning of wisdom, tĕḥillat ḥokmâ

yirʾat yhwh
The knowledge of the Holy One is understanding. wĕdaʿat qĕdōšîm bînâ
(Proverbs 9:10)
Though qĕdōšîm in this verse could refer to holy principles or God’s holy
attendants, Fox (2009: 855) is certainly correct that here it is used in synonymous
parallelism to refer to Yahweh as the Holy One. The plural qĕdōšîm being used
of the singular Yahweh poses no difficulties, with linguists categorizing it as a
“plural of majesty/excellence,” “an intensive plural of rank,” an “honorific” plural,
or a plural of abstraction.299 The “fear of Yahweh” reminds us of the tremendum
documented at the outset of this chapter, where divine presence and holy power
occasion fear.300 Yet where the fear of the divine in Exodus 20:15–18 (Eng 20:18–
21) kept people at a distance, here in Proverbs it is invitational, beckoning them
to live a godly life. The “knowledge of the Holy One” reminds us of the many
detailed regulations of cultic, moral, and ethical holiness documented in the
second half of this chapter. For as Fox (2000: 112) astutely observes, “know-
ledge of God, in Proverbs as elsewhere in the Bible is never mere cognition of
facts . . . [it] requires commitment as well . . . [and] this commitment must be
realized in action.”
Conclusion
The distillate described in the opening chapter sketched a process whereby the
flavor of Israelite religion could be tasted through a selective sampling. A distil-
late provides more depth than an introductory work and is thus appropriate for a
reference volume to which a reader can turn for primary and secondary research
materials. What is sacrificed is breadth of coverage, for indeed, a comprehen-
sive analysis is unattainable in a single volume (see again the many topics men-
tioned in Chapter One). And yet the synthetic samplings offered in the preceding
chapters are robust enough to present some of the core complexities of ancient
Israelite religion.
Selectively, we have chosen the following seven “tastings” as representative of
the whole: (1) the literary and cultural portrayals of El, the deity who appears in
the name of the eponymous ancestor Israel and whose worship is often family
based; (2) the ways in which El was represented via comparative iconography
and via standing stones attested archaeologically, both of which complement
our literary portrayals; (3) a historical analysis of the origin of Yahweh via the
Hebrew Bible’s foundation stories and the epigraphic record; (4) an iconographic
and literary analysis of the degrees to which Yahweh was represented anthro-
pomorphically, theriomorphically, and via abstract expressions; (5) the ways in
which Yahweh was characterized as a mythic warrior as well as a divine parent
at home in family religion; (6) the characterization of Yahweh as king within the
setting of royal cult and as judge against a backdrop of Israelite judiciaries; and
(7) an exploration of the holiness of Yahweh, with particular focus on sacerdotal
hierarchies. Of these seven parameters, the last three intentionally use divinity as
a lens by which to explore the practice of cult sociologically (e.g., family religion,
royal cult, priestly cult, prophetic perspectives, reflective traditions) together
with a variety of cultic actors, ideologies, and religious understandings.
Using divinity as an organizing principle runs a certain risk. Obviously,
Israelite divinity and religious culture were more holistic and pluralistic than
what is presented here. Out of necessity, many divine traits that readers might
consider essential have been treated minimally in the foregoing pages. Certainly
a strong case could be made for in-depth coverage of Yahweh as creator, Yahweh
as an agrarian deity, Yahweh as a transcendent god, Yahweh as an eternal god,
Yahweh as lord, Yahweh as storm god, Yahweh as “the living God,” Yahweh as a
solar deity, Yahweh as a forgiving and merciful god, Yahweh as shepherd, Yahweh
Conclusion 675
as a rock of stability, Yahweh as healer, Yahweh as one strengthening the weak,

Yahweh as a jealous god, Yahweh as a source of wisdom, Yahweh as teacher,
Yahweh as a patient god, Yahweh as divine lover, and so on. The list of divine
features is unending. How the ancients might have privileged a certain attribute
or wedded various traits will be addressed shortly. Yet first we need to revisit
Israelite divinity broadly construed.
Israelite Divinity Broadly Construed
As for pluralism, the astute reader has certainly noticed glaring omissions in our
treatment. In our opening chapter we sketched what it would take to describe the
various “structures of divinity,” to borrow a phrase from Mark Smith (2001b: 25).
In contrast to the wide panorama of divinity in ancient Israel, the scope of the
present volume concentrates on male divinity and singular divinity (i.e., El and
Yahweh). Minimal treatment is given to female divinity, the plurality of divinity,
hypostatic representations of divinity, and the many expressions of the preter-
natural both angelic and demonic.
Why?
Let me be clear: The omission of this material should not be read as a slight to
female divinity or to polytheism or to the fascinating world of the preternatural,
all of which are subjects I have explored elsewhere. The exact opposite is true.
These weighty topics are of such substance for understanding ancient Israel and
its cultural world that they deserve full-length treatments in their own right.
Excursus: ʿAštart as an Illustrative Case
Consider, for example, what it would take to analyze just one of the many rel-
evant goddesses from ancient Israel: ʿAštart, better known through her Greek
name, Astarte.1 To do the goddess justice, one must start by overturning
decades of misinterpretations that have either minimized her nature to the
point of boredom or eroticized her to the point of orgy. For the former, con-
sider the evaluation of André Caquot and Maurice Sznycer (1980: 15) that
“at Ugarit . . . Athtart was a very colourless deity. She was really no more
than a pale reflection of Anath. . . . [T]‌his inevitably makes one ask whether
‘Athtart’ was really no more than a name for ‘goddess,’ with no special myth-
ical significance at all.”2 For the latter we have William Foxwell Albright’s
(1968a: 185–186) conclusion that “Astarte was best known as the patroness
of sexual reproduction.” Elsewhere he writes: “At its worst . . . the erotic aspect
of their [i.e., Anath and Astarte’s] cult must have sunk to extremely sordid
depths of social degradation” (Albright 2006: 76–77; cf. R. Schmitt 2013: 213
n. 1). Turning to the archaeological record has frequently confused matters,
with any naked female being labeled “Astarte” and with her temples said to be
scattered everywhere. Elizabeth Bloch-Smith’s (2014: 167) critique succinctly
summarizes: “Studies of Astarte suffer from a lack of methodological rigor.”
After clearing away past debris, one could start afresh by initially treating the
data from the Hebrew Bible, where we run immediately into questions of ortho
graphy, vocalization, and etymology (not unlike the challenges faced with regard
to the meaning of the name Yahweh in Chapter Six).3 The goddess is well known
from other Levantine sources, appearing as ʿAštart (ʿštrt) in Phoenician, as ʿAthtartu
(ʿttrt)/ dIštar at Ugarit (respectively in the Ugaritic/Akkadian texts), and as dIštar
(dINANNA/dIš8-tár) at Emar. In the Hebrew Bible we have, confusingly, ʿštrt
vocalized both as a singular (ʿaštōret) and as a plural (ʿaštārôt) and with the Greek
renderings as Astartē. Just as an original Yahweh was “revocalized” by the Masoretes
by using the vowels of ʾădōnay, so too the original vocalization of the goddess (seem-
ingly ʿaštart) was revocalized to ʿaštōret by using the vowels of the pejorative bōšet,
“shame.” (A similar recasting elsewhere turned baʿal names into bōšet names.) Once
again, we have to clear away a later pejorative patina just to begin our work.
The Biblical Portrayal of ʿAštart
As noted in most studies, despite the widespread prominence of ʿAthtartu/

ʿAštart/Astarte in the Northern and Southern Levant as well as in Egypt
and the expanded Phoenician colonies (cf. Bonnet 1996; Cornelius 2004;
Christian and Schmitt 2013a; Sugimoto 2014; Wilson-Wright 2016), ʿštrt
appears a mere three times in the Hebrew Bible as a singular goddess and
six times to mark the divine plurality (but cf. 1 Sam 31:10, discussed later).
An additional eight occurrences of the plural form (ʿaštārôt) mark toponyms,
with four other instances marking a specific idiom (ʿštrt ṣōʾnekā, “the fecun-
dity of your flock”) in the book of Deuteronomy (Deut 7:13; 28:4, 18, 51). Such
a meager dataset underscores the limitations facing the historian of Israelite
religion. Moreover, redaction and ideological criticism come into play as once
again we face a pejorative framing of the goddess long before the Masoretes
touched the text. The three explicit DtrH references to the goddess associate
her with the Sidonians (1 Kgs 11:5, 33; 2 Kgs 23:13) and the cult of Solomon’s
wayward years. Yet another likely reference can be found in 1 Samuel 31:10,
where she is associated with the Philistines.4 In 2 Kings 23:13, the cult of
ʿAštart is labeled as “abominable” (šiqquṣ), an anathema that Josiah’s reform
eradicated. DtrH’s evaluations of the plural form (ʿaštārôt) are equally nega-
tive, often associating these female divinities with illicit Baal worship.
Conclusion 677
Reading between the lines, we find undeniable indications that ʿAštart was
worshipped as a vibrant goddess in some segments of ancient Israelite society,
though our data allow us to say next to nothing about how widespread her cult
was (but see the discussion later). Two lines of evidence may provide windows
into the nature of her cult, or at least help us to form hypotheses that can then
be tested. The idiom mentioned earlier (ʿštrt ṣōʾnekā) seems to be a “demyth-
ologizing” of ʿAštart, recasting her divinity to address agrarian concerns.5 The
Deuteronomic author recharacterizes not just one but three known Canaanite
deities (ʿAštart, Shagar, Dagan) in order to promote Yahweh as the sole ben-
efactor of agriculture and livestock.6 Just as our author turns a personalized
ʿAštart (actually ʿAštarts, plural)7 into a common noun, “the fecundity of your
flock” (ʿštrt ṣōʾnekā), so too Dagan becomes “your grain” (dĕgānĕkā) and
Shagar becomes “the increase of your cattle” (šĕgar-ʾălāpêkā). In context, these
three demythologized phrases sit easily beside similar phrases—“the fruit of
your womb” (pĕrî-biṭnĕkā), “the fruit of your ground” (pĕrî-ʾadmātekā), “your
wine and oil” (tîrōšĕkā wĕyiṣhārekā)—as ways in which Yahweh will love (ʾhb),
bless (brk), and multiply (rbh) his people (Deut 7:13). The following verse
summarizes the blessings: Yahweh’s people (male and female) and their live-
stock will not be barren (lōʾ-yihyeh bĕkā ʿāqār waʿăqārâ ûbibhemtekā). Thus
one could hypothesize that the ʿAštart cult that is being appropriated to serve
Yahwism had agrarian concerns that included fecund humans and animals.
A second line of potential evidence is the “Queen of Heaven” (*malkat
haššāmayim) material known from Jeremiah 7:16–20; 44:15–30. The sec-
ondary literature on the identity of this queenly goddess is too vast to survey
here.8 A reigning theory (see Day 2000: 148–150) asserts that the Queen of
Heaven should be identified as ʿAštart (or a syncretism of West Semitic ʿAštart
and East Semitic Ishtar). The nature of the Queen of Heaven cult is multifaceted.
The MT’s vocalization again presents a deliberate disparagment that refers to
mĕleket haššāmayim (“the work of heavens”) rather than *malkat haššāmayim
(“the Queen of Heaven”). According to Jeremiah 7:18, the cult seems to have
a component of family religion, with mention of women (mothers?), fathers,
and children as ritual actors and with cult being on a local/domestic scale.
Susan Ackerman (2008a: 143) thus refers to “the household-based cult of the
Queen of Heaven.” Jeremiah 44:17 likewise refers to an ancestral connection
(ʾābōt), yet also mentions royal cult (see the mention of kings [mĕlākîm] and
royal officials [śārîm] as ritual actors). Such elite cultic actors would be hierar-
chically fitting for the worship of a divine queen. If the punishment in Jeremiah
7:20 is related to the nature of the cult, then again the focus is on agriculture
(ʿēṣ haśśādeh; pĕrî hāʾădāmâ) and livestock (bĕhēmâ). In Jeremiah 44:17–18,
the Judean cult (which involved vows, offerings, and libations) was said to ad-
dress concerns over famine and war. The latter resonates with 1 Samuel 31:10,
where DtrH’s presentation of the Philistine ʿAštart includes a trophy of war

(Saul’s armor) being placed in her temple.
Using the data from these Queen of Heaven texts, one could hypothesize
that the Judean ʿAštart cult was sociologically diverse (familial and royal
cults) and addressed general concerns of prosperity, but especially food pro-
duction and safety from war.
ʿAthtartu/ʿAštart/Astarte in Syria (Emar and Ugarit),

Egypt, and Phoenicia
These meager data about the presence of ʿAštart in ancient Israel address
biblical religion only—that is, the literary (re-)presentation of ʿAštart cult as
found in a narrow slice of biblical tradition. These thin threads hardly provide
the materials needed to weave a robust picture of the goddess. Any hypoth-
eses about the deity’s nature would have to be situated within ancient Israel’s
broader cultural world. Questions of cultural contact with other ʿAštart
traditions would have to be fully explored via cognate literatures, iconog-
raphy, and archaeology, and yet with cautions against making generalizations.
Just as Chapters Four and Five situated Israelite El worship within the context
of broader cognate material (especially ʾIlu at Late Bronze Age Ugarit), even
a preliminary study of Israelite ʿAštart would have to be situated (1) within
Late Bronze Age Syrian traditions from Ugarit and Emar, (2) within Egyptian
traditions, especially in the New Kingdom, and (3) within later first-
millennium BCE Phoenician sources. A full analysis would require incorpo-
rating the extensive Neo-Assyrian Ishtar cults (cf. Ornan 2001, 2006; Allen
2015: 141–199). What follows is a preliminary sketch.
Aštartu at Emar
Thankfully, ʿAthtartu/ʿAštart/Astarte studies are undergoing a renaissance,

with scholars working in many of these areas.9 Yet, as these many studies point
out, the various ways in which the goddess was perceived transhistorically
and transculturally makes any study of cultural contact and appropriation ex-
tremely complicated. There are certainly points of similarity, especially with
regard to the warrior nature of the goddess, a feature that is only briefly noted
in the biblical portrayal (of the Queen of Heaven). At Emar, where the goddess
is a major recipient of cult taking place at a dedicated temple, we repeatedly
read of “Aštartu of Battle (ša taḫāzi)” (Fleming 1992a: 98–99, 211, 229; Smith
2014a: 187, 196; 2014b: 44–45, 56). A key ritual (Emar 370) describes the
Conclusion 679
installation of the goddess’s priestess (called the mašʾartu), whose cultic func-
tion, according to Fleming (1992a: 211, 229), involved “battle-preparation
and military success.” Aštartu “alone dominates [the] festival in her role as
war goddess.”10 In contrast to what we saw in the biblical texts, in this Emar
Aštartu ritual, “there is no sign of rural/agricultural interests.”
Astarte in Egypt
Egypt likewise features the warrior aspect of the goddess, especially in the
Eighteenth and Nineteenth Dynasties, starting with Amenhotep II (ca. 1427–
1400 BCE).11 As Thomas Schneider (2003: 160–161) has astutely pointed out
in commenting on religious ideology, “the appropriation of horse and chariot
led to the borrowing of Astarte as a goddess who protected royal horses and
chariot.” Even the core ideology of royalty was open to cultural appropriation,
as shown in the Astarte papyrus—“dated to a precise day in the 5th regnal
year of Amenophis II [that] is to be connected with the inauguration of the
Astarte sanctuary in Perunefer in Amenophis’ II 5th year.” Here we have an
Egyptian version of the Canaanite myth of Baal versus Sea reconfigured such
that “the Canaanite Baal was promoted to be a god of the Egyptian kingship
by Amenophis II!” As for Astarte, she is referred here as “the furious and
raging goddess” (nṯrt qndt nšny). Elsewhere the Egyptian iconographic record
is replete with Astarte as a war goddess in a menacing posture with weap-
onry (spear, shield, mace, blade mace, bow and arrow, battle axe) as well as
on horseback (Figure C.1) (Cornelius 2004: 81–83, 85–86, 93–94; Hoffmeier
and Kitchen 2007: 127–136; Tazawa 2009: 83–95; 2014: 106–109; R. Schmitt
2013: 222–224). In short, the cultural appropriation of West Semitic Astarte
as a war goddess into Egypt was historically contingent (cf. Wilson-Wright
2016: 27–70). And once again, as we saw with Emar Aštartu, there is no em-
phasis on Egyptian Astarte as an agrarian deity.
ʿAthtartu at Ugarit
Late Bronze Age Ugarit presents its own particular formation of the god-
dess ʿAthtartu, who was known to have had a temple, perhaps even within
the royal complex (KTU 4.219.2).12 Surprisingly, in light of what we have just
seen with the materials from Emar and Egypt (and the mention of war in Jer
44:17–18; 1 Sam 31:10), there is no explicit reference to ʿAthtartu at Ugarit as
a warrior deity fighting on behalf of a monarch. There is no mention of the
Figure C.1 Astarte as an Egyptian war goddess on horseback.

Courtesy James K. Hoffmeier.
goddess’s battle prowess legitimizing royalty, though we do know of her pres-

ence in royal cult (discussed later). This is not to say that the goddess lacks an
aggressive, even combative nature; clearly she has one, as seen in five (pos-
sibly six) mythological texts (KTU 1.180 [RIH 98/02]; KTU 1.2.1.40; KTU
1.16.6.54–57; KTU 1.2.1.7–8; KTU 1.2.4.28–30; KTU 1.83).
1. In KTU 1.180 (RIH 98/02), ʿAthtartu is described as a “mighty panther”

(nmr ḥṯrt ʿṯtrt) as well as a “lioness” (lbʾi). Two verbs refer to her “poun-
cing” (trqṣ) and “conquering” (tkšd). Militarily, we have mention of her
“quiver and bow” (ʾuṯpt wqš[t]). The tantalizing remains of this still-to-
be-published text strongly suggest that ʿAthtartu is associated with divine
combat myths (see Lewis 2011: 225–227; Wilson-Wright 2016: 130–133).13
See especially KTU 1.83 (discussed later).
2. KTU 1.2.1.40 is only a snippet of material, yet it seems to refer to ʿAthtartu
joining ʿAnatu (a warrior goddess) in restraining the god Baʿlu by seizing
his hands, which were holding smiting weapons.
Conclusion 681
3 and 4. Two almost verbatim passages (from the tale of King Kirta and
the Baʿlu Cycle) document the use of the goddess’s name in a curse: “May
ʿAthtartu-Name-of-Baʿlu smash [ṯbr] your skull” (KTU 1.16.6.54–57;
KTU 1.2.1.7–8; cf. KAI 24, line 15; KAI 14, line 18 [discussed later]). As a
fixed formula, one can extrapolate that the goddess’s ferocity and destruc-
tive nature were widely known.
5. Regarding KTU 1.2.4.28–30, I have argued elsewhere (Lewis 2011; cf.
Wilson-Wright 2015: 337; 2016: 128–129, 135) that it makes little sense
for ʿAthtartu to “rebuke/admonish” (gʿr) her brother Baʿlu in the very
midst of his battle against Yammu; rather, she is joining him in warfare by
hexing Yammu with a “blasting” (gʿr) incantation.14 Just as Kotharu-wa-
Hasisu used incantatory language to render Baʿlu’s weapons effective, so
ʿAthtartu joins Baʿlu’s efforts with an effective curse against Yammu. As a
result, she can rightly proclaim: “Yammu is our captive.”
6. KTU 1.83 refers to an unnamed goddess battling Yammu//Naharu//the
Tunnanu dragon. It is very plausible, especially in light of KTU 1.180 and
KTU 1.2.4.28–30, that ʿAthtartu is the goddess in question (see Lewis
2011: 217–218).
Another portrayal of ʿAthtartu at Ugarit, privileged by Smith (2014a: 188–

194; 2014b: 45–53), has to do with her hunting capabilities (cf. Wilson-
Wright 2016: 135–138). In a detailed study of KTU 1.92 on which the bulk of
the thesis depends (see too KTU 1.114.23–24, 26′–28′), Smith (2014a: 194;
2014b: 45, 53) argues that “the profile for the goddess” is “as huntress in
Ugaritic literary traditions.”15 In KTU 1.92 the goddess is explicitly described
as “ʿAthtartu the huntress” (ʿṯtrt ṣwd[t]), and in the beginning of the text she
hunts with her spear in the steppe land (mdbr).
A third portrayal of the goddess at Ugarit reveals an agrarian nature. This is
most clearly seen in a bilingual (Ugaritic-Hurrian) ritual text whose title is “The
Sacrifice of ʿAthtartu, Gathering at the Threshing Floor” (dbḥ ʿṯtrt qrʾat bgrn//
dbḥ ʾaṯḫlm ṯʾuṯkd; KTU 1.116.1–3).16 That agrarian threshing floors can serve as
cultic spaces, even for sacrifices, is well known, primarily due to the Chronistic
tradition about David erecting an altar and sacrificing on Ornan’s threshing
floor (1 Chr 21:15–1 Chr 22:1; 2 Chr 3:1).17 The manifestation of the goddess as
ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land (ʿṯtrt šd) also underscores her agrarian nature.
Deities were certainly multifaceted, and thus such a title need not minimize the
goddess’s connection to royalty and urban space (discussed later) or to the hunt.
To say that the goddess ʿAthtartu is tied to fields and steppe lands (ʿṯtrt šd) is
to say that she plays a significant role in food production and the textile industry
(on which see the later discussion). The word šd can designate cultivated lands
as well as steppe lands. For the former, we have a plethora of texts in various
genres documenting the symbolism of cultivated fields (šd) as well as the pro-
duce and transactions associated with their maintenance, which was so central
to the economy.18 As for steppe lands (šd and mdbr), here archaeological studies
(e.g., van Zeist and Bakker-Heeres 1985; Akkermans and Schwartz 2003) and
studies of ancient diet (e.g., Altmann 2013) prove instructive. Archaeobotanical
research reveals the complex nature of steppe lands. Though lacking in rainfall,
seasonal “shrub steppe” and “dry” vegetation led to the predominance of sheep
and goat pastoralism, supplemented by hunting activity.19
For the connection to royal cult, note how two of the texts that mention
ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land (and a third that mentions ʿAthtartu-
ḫurri)20 are so-called entry rituals, involving the procession of the divine
image of the goddess into the royal palace (bt mlk; KTU 1.43.1; KTU 1.91.10;
1.148.18–22). KTU 1.43 mentions (the cult statues of) ʿAthtartu-ḫurri and
the Gatharuma “entering” (ʿrb) the royal palace, followed by offerings and
a banquet. The king has a prominent role in the procession, welcoming the
gods and walking seven times (in a sevenfold circuit?) after their statues.21
KTU 1.91 refers to ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land and (two?) Rashap
(statues) entering the royal palace in conjunction with royal sacrifices. In
KTU 1.148.18–22, after ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land enters the royal
palace, numerous offerings are presented.
Though these urban rituals take place in royal space (bt mlk), this certainly
does not minimize the agrarian nature of ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land.22
Indeed, ideologically, agricultural sustenance per se is due to the blessings
of the gods and the administration of king and state (Lewis forthcoming a).
Moreover, entry rituals typically involved the procession of the deity’s divine
image from one temple to another, and there are indications that the home
sanctuary of ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land may have been located in a
rural area.23 Here KTU 1.48 and KTU 1.148 (cf. KTU 4.182.55, 58) are partic-
ularly informative. KTU 1.48 seems to mention two non-royal human actors
(mzy bn [PN] and slḫʾu) and a gittu farm complex together with familial lan-
guage (ṯpḥ = špḥ). We learn from texts such as KTU 1.79 and 1.80 that a gittu
is a rural agricultural community often under control of the king.24 Moreover,
such gittus can contain “houses/local sanctuaries” (bt) where the cult took
place.25 Thus Wilson-Wright rightly underscores the connection between
ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land and the “agricultural setting” of KTU 1.48.26
A dedicated section of the royal entry ritual in KTU 1.148.18–22 describes
the actual cult associated with ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land (ʿṯtrt šd).
It is telling that these offerings have to do with livestock (sheep), agriculture
(oil), and other produce (balsam, honey) from rural areas that resonate with
the goddess’s name (šd). Four different types of garments are mentioned,
along with three hundred units of wool (šʿrt). An economic text detailing
divine offerings twice mentions ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land (KTU
Conclusion 683
4.182.55, 58).27 As with KTU 1.148.18–22, it likewise mentions a wide va-

riety of garments, with special emphasis on wool, both in quantity (seven
hundred units) and type (esp. ʾiqnʾu, lapis [blue] wool) along with linen (pṯt,
flax) garments. Weaving (mḫṣ) is also mentioned here in conjunction with the
goddess. When we situate such data with what we know about the importance
of the textile industry for the overall economy of Ugarit including its religious
economy, we come away even more impressed with the vitality and impor-
tance of the cult surrounding ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land.28
Lastly, though Ugaritic iconography is notoriously difficult to analyze (see
Lewis 2005a), the portrayal of a so-called Mistress of Animals from Minet
el Beida (Figure C.2) that has been attributed to ʿAnatu, Qudshu, and even
ʾAthiratu may in fact be that of ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land.29 Note in
particular the presence of the motifs of both cultivated land (stalks of grain)
and steppe land (goat) pastoralism.30 Realizing how ʿAthtartu is also associ-
ated with the finest of textiles, one wonders if the elegant female with the long,
expertly braided dress (Figure C.3) from the royal precinct of Ras Shamra’s
Figure C.2 A lid of an ivory box from Late Bronze Age Ugarit (Minet el-Beida)
depicting the “mistress of animals.”
Figure C.3 An elite female wearing a long, expertly braided dress from the royal
precinct of Ras Shamra’s Hurrian Temple.
Hurrian Temple might also be a rendering of our goddess (also known as

ʿAthtartu-ḫurri).31
ʿAštart in Phoenicia and Its Extended World
With the DtrH’s references to ʿAštart, the goddess of the Sidonians (1 Kgs 11:5,
33; 2 Kgs 23:13), our expectations run high for finding the best comparanda in
Phoenician sources. Here we are not disappointed when it comes to the preva-
lence of ʿAštart worship in time and space. Claude Doumet-Serhal (2017: 26–27)
notes the presence of a model ʿAštart shrine (with a head of a lion, her symbolic
animal) in the imposing temple at Sidon built around 1500 BCE. Using both
archaeology and epigraphy, Bloch-Smith (2014) summarizes: “The earliest
Phoenician temples for Astarte worship appear in 10th century BCE Trye/Sidon
followed by 9th century BCE Kition-Kathari. Phoenician Astarte’s worship peaks
in the 5–4th centuries and dwindles through the 3rd and 2nd centuries BCE.”
Conclusion 685
Yet our rich dataset is less than forthcoming when it comes to the specific
nature of Phoenician ʿAštart. A seventh-century BCE treaty between the Neo-
Assyrian king Esarhaddon and King Baal of Tyre depicts the warrior nature of
the goddess that we have repeatedly seen elsewhere. Esarhaddon invokes the
following curse should the treaty be violated: “May ʿAštartu [das-tar-tú] break
your bow in the thick of battle and have you crouch at the feet of your enemy”
(SAA 02 005, line r.e.18; Parpola and Watanabe 1988: 27). Yet elsewhere we
have little Phoenician evidence for the militant side of ʿAštart.32
Instead we find substantial evidence of ʿAštart as a patron deity to whom
a wide range of cult was offered at temples and smaller shrines throughout
Phoenicia’s extended reach on the mainland (esp. Tyre and Sidon) and overseas
sites.33As Bloch-Smith (2014: 169–176) demonstrates, two texts from Kition
(eastern Cyprus) are extremely informative with regard to the ritual perfor-
mance surrounding ʿAštart. What we have preserved of the older of the two
texts (the Kition Bowl from ca. the eighth century BCE) involves a tonsure rite
and a prayer ritual devoted to ʿAštart, together with (seemingly) the offering
of sheep, lambs, and the individual’s hair.34 That the rite may be familial is
suggested by the mention of a lamb being offered for the family of the individual
(ʾyt bt PN šʾ).35 The second text, from the fifth century BCE, is remarkable for
documenting the expenditures related to the cultic personnel associated with
ʿAštart’s temple.36 Here the goddess is called “holy queen” (mlkt qdšt; KAI 37,
A 7, 10), and the functionaries include a chief scribe (rb sprm), bakers (ʾpm),
cultic barbers (glbm pʿl ʿl mlʾkt), female musicians playing frame drums (ʿlmt;
see Ackerman 2013: 177–178), guards(?) (prkm, ʾadmm), sacrificers (zbḥm),
sculptors/engravers (ḥršm), singers (šrm), temple builders (bnm ʾš bn ʾyt bt),
water masters (bʿl mym), and non-specified servants/officiants (nʿrm, prmn, npš
bt). The number of these individuals allows us to imagine the scope of the fes-
tival, while their varied functions allow us to imagine the temple ritual’s diverse
activities and perhaps the ways in which they were gendered.37
As for the mainland, three exceptional texts (KAI 13, 14, 15) provide us
windows into the royal cult associated with ʿAštart from sixth-/fifth-century
BCE Sidon.38 As at Kition, the royal and elevated nature of the goddess is
emphasized with her epithets. She is “the great one” (rbt) and “the queen”
(hmlkt) who is “enthroned in the mighty heavens” (yšb!n ʾyt ʿštrt šmm ʾdrm)
(KAI 14, lines 15–16). She also bears the epithet “Name of Baal” (ʿštrt šm bʿl;
KAI 14, line 18), which underscores her close relationship to the mighty storm
god (cf. KTU 1.16.6.54–57; 1.2.1.7–8; Lewis 2011). Iconographically, we have
the inscribing of the “great ʿAštart” (rbt ʿštrt) on a small votive throne flanked
by winged cherubs found just south of Tyre (KAI 17; Davila and Zuckerman
1993; Bonnet 1996: planche V).
The Sidonian royalty in question are (in chronological order): King
Eshmunazor I (KAI 13, 14), King Tabnit (KAI 13, 14), the co-regent Queen
ʾUmmîʿaštart (or ʾImmîʿaštart) (KAI 14), King Eshmunazor II (KAI 14), and
King Bodʿaštart (KAI 15–16; CIS I, 4). What little we know of Eshmunazor
I comes from inscriptions written by his descendants. His son Tabnit, when
listing his own lineage on his sarcophagus (Figure C.4), identifies his father
as a “priest of ʿAštart” (khn ʿštrt) prior to adding his father’s royal title, “King
of the Sidonians” (mlk ṣdnm)—and Tabnit notes that he too bore both titles,
again listing his sacerdotal office before his royal capacity (KAI 13, lines 1–
2). One assumes the office was that of chief priest and was hereditary. We
learn elsewhere (KAI 14, line 15) that Tabnit had a high-ranking “priestess
of ʿAštart” (khnt ʿštrt) for a sister (appropriately named ʾUmmîʿaštart, “My
[divine] mother is ʿAštart”), whose office was also perhaps hereditary.39 These
(brother and sister) officiants marry and produce an heir, Eshmunazor II,
who, curiously, is not called a priest despite his triple blessing of having both
parents as well as his grandfather as priests. Yet Eshmunazor II does build
multiple temples, along with his mother, two of which were explicitly for the
goddess ʿAštart in her differing manifestations (KAI 14, lines 16, 18). Yet an-
other descendent who is named after the goddess, Bodʿaštart (grandson of
Eshmunazor I and nephew of Tabnit and ʾUmmîʿaštart), also builds monu-
mental architecture that he dedicates “to his [go]ddess ʿAštart” (l[ʾ]ly lʿštrt;
CIS I, 4; Bonnet 1996: 33–34; Zamora 2007; Peckham 2014: 379).
Figure C.4 The sarcophagus of the Phoenician king Tabnit, who was also a “priest
of ʿAštart.”
Courtesy Homonihilis. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Safrcophagi_in_the_Istanbul_
Archaeological_Museum.JPG.
Conclusion 687
ʾUmmîʿaštart, the priestess of ʿAštart, deserves special comment. As most

scholars have recognized, a close reading of KAI 14 reveals that her role in the
cult was equal to (or likely more prominent than) that of her son, Eshmunazor
II. Moreover, in Brian Peckham’s (2014: 378) words, “as co-regent, she could
slip in a word or two on her son’s coffin” to emphasize her achievements. In
KTU 1.14, lines 15–18, speaking in the first-person plural, our female co-regent
describes how “surely it was we [together]” who engaged in temple building, in-
cluding the two temples to “our Lady” Queen ʿAštart (ʿštrt rbtn hmlkt . . .ʾm bnn
. . . wyšrn . . . wʾnḥn ʾš bnn . . . wʾnḥn ʾš bnn). Stunningly, she also highlights her
sacerdotal role as she erases those of her father and husband. Whereas KAI 13
twice mentions the prominent sacerdotal role of both Eshmunazor I and Tabnit
as “priests of ʿAštart,” neither king is accorded the title in KAI 14. Instead, the
only mention of such activity is that of ʾUmmîʿaštart, “the priestess of ʿAštart”
(khnt ʿštrt; KAI 14, line 15). Both male figures receive their royal epithets (mlk
ṣdnm; KAI 14, line 14), with nary a mention of their sacerdotal titles.40 Such
a striking “editing” (if that is indeed what we have here) is not without war-
rant. For, according to Ackerman’s (2013: 171) study of our inscription in its
broader context, “there is something in particular about the Astarte cult that
facilitates women’s priestly engagement,” and especially “aristocratic women’s
priestly engagement.” Ackerman (2013: 171–172, 175–178) is quick to add an
anthropological perspective, noting that women did not engage in blood sac-
rifice. Nonetheless, it occasions no surprise that “Queen” (mlkt) ʿAštart should
have a queenly priestess in ʾUmmîʿaštart.
Reassessing the Biblical Portrayal of ʿAštart in Context
Having contextualized the worlds of ʿAthtartu/ʿAštart/Astarte worship, we

now return to the biblical portrayal. What first stands out is the paucity of
the evidence, with a mere three (probably four) occurrences of the singular
ʿAštart in the Hebrew Bible. It should come as no surprise that writers and
editors favoring Yahweh would omit positive narratives about the goddess.
Yet as polemics go, if the goddess was ubiquitous, one might expect a slew of
apologetic defenses to show that the goddess is ineffectual, similar to what we
find in the counter-response to the charge in Jeremiah 44:18 (discussed later).
Thus it is quite understandable to assume that ʿAštart worship was on the de-
cline. Smith (2014b: 82; cf. 2014a: 323) writes of “a general trend toward the
demise of ʿAštart’s cult,” with the goddess being “largely a coastal phenom-
enon in this period [Iron II] while she seems to be fading in Israel and further
inland.” In what follows we will try to nuance this situation with an eye toward
showing how the goddess was worshipped more than one might think, and
how her legacy remained influential even among her detractors.
Historical Musings
As noted earlier, the Hebrew Bible’s three explicit DtrH references to the god-
dess associate her with the Sidonians of Solomon’s time (1 Kgs 11:5, 33) and
with Josiah’s eradication of a Sidonian ʿAštart sanctuary east of Jerusalem
in the seventh century BCE (2 Kgs 23:13). Whatever historians do with the
historical Solomon and the so-called tenth-century question, they still need
to posit a historical time period, occasion (trade and diplomacy facilitated
through syncretistic religion?), and ideology that would resonate with a cul-
tural memory of a Solomonic royal cult that provided a sanctuary for “ʿAštart
of the Sidonians.” As noted earlier, Bloch-Smith has documented the en-
during traditions of ʿAštart worship at Sidon. Though our clearest evidence of
a royal cult of Sidonian ʿAštart worship comes from the Eshmunazor dynasty
(in the sixth/fifth centuries BCE), we also have an eighth-century BCE in-
scription on a krater from Sidon mentioning the goddess and her priesthood
(kh<n>t ʿštrt).41 As for iconography, both the model shrine with a head of
a lion from the mid-second-millennium BCE temple at Sidon and another
mid-eighth-century BCE krater “decorated with the tree of life and flanked by
goats” (Doumet-Serhal 2017: 29) may depict ʿAštart. All of these texts and ico-
nography underscore the long duration of ʿAštart’s cult, which elsewhere (in
Northern Syria and Egypt) had a substantial Late Bronze Age pedigree. As for
the realia of Sidonian ʿAštart worship in the tenth century BCE in Jerusalem,
we cannot say yet the cultural continuum of ʿAštart worship is beyond doubt.
King Josiah’s seventh- century BCE interactions with Sidonian ʿAštart
(2 Kgs 23:13) are tantalizing in light of widespread ʿAštart worship, amply
attested from the eighth through the fourth centuries BCE for the Phoenician
mainland cites and their extended colonies. Coming inland, note how a late
seventh-century BCE Transjordanian Ammonite seal inscription that refers
to an individual making a vow to “ʿAsht[art] in Sidon” (ʿšt<rt> bṣdn) shows
how the goddess’ fame was known beyond the coastal areas.42 As noted earlier,
the seventh-century BCE Neo-Assyrian king Esarhaddon refers to a militant
ʿAštartu in his treaty with nearby Tyre. These data certainly cannot prove the
existence of an actual temple for the goddess located east of Jerusalem, yet the
prominence of Phoenician ʿAštart elsewhere (even in inland northern Israel
in the sixth century BCE)43 cautions us not to reject the idea. When we then
factor in the Queen of Heaven cult mentioned in Jeremiah 44:17–18, the no-
tion becomes more appealing, especially if the Queen of Heaven cult is indeed
devoted to ʿAštart (a near consensus). Here in the sixth century BCE we have
mention of an older royal (ʿAštart) cult of more than one generation (note the
plural mĕlākîm) that was (forcibly?) stopped. It is hard not to conclude, as many
have, that reference is being made to the seventh-century BCE cult practices
of Manasseh and Amon followed by the centralizing restrictions of Josiah.44
Conclusion 689
Jack Lundbom (2004: 163) suggests that “Manasseh’s long and peaceful reign”
was nostalgically in mind when the people referenced the bounty and peaceful
prosperity that they attributed to the Queen of Heaven (Jer 44:17b).
Lastly (or better firstly), consider the ever-growing iconographic doc-
umentation for the goddess’s presence in the southern Levant. In light of
Ugarit ʿAthtartu being called a lioness (lbʾi) in the recently published KTU
1.180 (RIH 98/02), Smith (2014a: 208) suggests that the goddess holding the
ears of two lions on the tenth century BCE Taanach cult stand may in fact be
ʿAštart.45 Consider too ʿAštart/Ishtar on a tenth-/ninth-century BCE bronze
plaque from Tel Dan, on several eighth-/seventh-century BCE seals from
Israel (Shechem, Tel Dor, Nahal Issachar, Beth-Shean), and on a seventh-
century BCE silver pendant from Tel Miqne-Ekron (cf. the reference to
Philistine ʿAštart in 1 Sam 31:10). As discussed by Tallay Ornan (2001,
2006), we often have a blending of Assyrian, Syrian, and Phoenician Ishtar/
ʿAštart iconography together with local inspirations that she terms “a process
of visual syncretism” (2006: 303). In view of this visual narrative, perhaps we
should call the DtrH’s portrayal of Solomon’s blending of the foreign and the
local in 1 Kings 11 a process of literary syncretism.
The Biblical Portrayal of ʿAštart’s Features:

The Queen of Heaven
As noted at the outset of our discussion, the description of the worship of the
Queen of Heaven in Jeremiah 7:18; 44:17–18 is portrayed as both a royal cult
and a household-based cult (to use Ackerman’s phrase). Treating the former
first, we have seen ample evidence that elsewhere the goddess ʿAthtartu/
ʿAštart/Astarte is regularly tied to monarchic concerns, religiously and ideo-
logically (in Egypt, Ugarit, Emar, and Phoenicia). As we saw in Chapter Nine,
monarchs are regularly involved in cult, often as the primary ritual actor.46 This
is especially the case for Late Bronze Age Ugarit, with the king’s role (sacrificial
and otherwise) in “entry rituals” that involved the divine image of ʿAthtartu
proceeding into the royal palace. Yet the trophy for outstanding royal ʿAštart
cult goes to the five Sidonian rulers of the Eshmunazor dynasty, who built mul-
tiple sanctuaries to the goddess (and who date slightly later than Jeremiah).
Three of these individuals (two kings and one queen as co-regent) used their
epithets of priest (khn) and priestess (khnt) of ʿAštart to highlight how their
sacerdotal service to the goddess comes before all else. In summation, it is safe
to say that the royal nature of the Queen of Heaven cult (of ʿAštart) portrayed
in Jeremiah 44:17–18 reads perfectly naturally. After all, she is a queen.
According to the adherents of the Queen of Heaven, the goddess was effec-
tual with regard to war (“the sword”) and famine (baḥereb ubārāʿāb; Jer 44:18).
As demonstrated earlier, the warrior and aggressive side of the goddess is a

constant in the Northern Levant (Emar and Ugarit) and Egypt as well as in the
estimation of the Neo-Assyrian king Esarhaddon—and yet with surprisingly
little mention in Phoenician sources. Should one rightly blend in the warrior
traditions of Neo-Assyrian Ishtar (cf. the hybrid iconography noted earlier),
it is easy to understand how worshippers of the Queen of Heaven felt that she
was a goddess of military prowess who wielded the sword on their behalf.
With regard to providing food, we see the imbalance of portrayals shifted
again, with little emphasis of Emar Aštartu and Egyptian Astarte as agrarian
deities in contrast to a substantial agrarian emphasis for Ugaritic ʿAthtartu.
(The familial ʿAštart cult at Kition deserves honorable mention.) As previ-
ously noted, the Ugaritic goddess ʿAthtartu in one manifestation is associated
with sacrifices at an agrarian threshing floor, while in another she is distinctly
tied to food production (as reflected in her epithet ʿAthtartu of the Field/
Steppe Land), and in yet another with providing game (as ʿAthtartu the hunt-
ress). As the goddess associated with cultivated lands and steppe lands, she
was the patron of the major sources of food production (agriculture, sheep
and goat pastoralism, and hunting activity).
As we saw in Chapter Eight, there are porous boundaries between elite and
non-elite religion when it comes to family/household religion. Thus the de-
piction of the Queen of Heaven cult as involving family religion alongside
royal cult causes no concern. In a series of treatments,47 Susan Ackerman
(2008: 143) has stressed how “women played a particularly significant role”
“in this household-based cult.”48 Ackerman (1989: 113–116) notes especially
the role of food production and ʿAštart religion. (Note the phrase “we had
plenty of food” in Jer 44:17.) She unpacks the mention of kawwānîm cakes in
Jeremiah 7:18, 44:19, with its Akkadian cognate (kamānu cake) being used
in Ishtar cults, and a similar mention of baked goods (ḥlt) mentioned in the
temple expenditures of the Kition ʿAštart cult (see earlier discussion of KAI
37, A 10; so too Peckham 1968: 314). Carol Meyers (2003a: 430–432, 435–436;
1988: 146–148; 2010) provides additional support through her ethnographic
and socioeconomic analysis of women’s prominent role in food production,
emphasizing a more heterarchical (rather than hierarchical) model for under-
standing the agrarian nature of Iron Age settlements.
In addition, Meyers’ (2003a: 432–436; 1988: 147–148; 2013a: 133) re-
search underscores a similar prominent role for women in textile pro-
duction. Once again, Ackerman (2008) astutely fleshes out the religious
implications, concluding that goddesses were the likely patrons of the tex-
tile industry. Based on a single reference from the Baal Cycle that describes
ʾAthiratu holding a plk spindle (KTU 1.4.2.3–4), Ackerman (2008: 8–9)
concludes that the Ugaritic goddess “had a special association with spinning
Conclusion 691
and weaving.” She then uses this and other evidence (e.g., the Taanach cult
stand, fabrics from Kuntillet ʿAjrud, loom weights from Tel Miqne-Ekron)
to extrapolate that Asherah was “the goddess of spinning and weaving in
the Late Bronze Age and Iron Age West Semitic world” (2008: 29). While
there is much to appreciate here, the conclusions are overly reductionist.
Different genres yield different information.49 Ackerman’s reliance on the
Ugaritic mythological texts to reconstruct (a literary portrayal of) cult
needs to be balanced with the Ugaritic ritual texts and economic texts that
give us windows into which deities actually received cult and of what type
and in what quantity. As has been demonstrated, the cultic and economic
realia of ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land (ʿṯtrt šd) involved various types
of wool (šʿrt) of substantial quantity, linen (pṯt, flax) and weaving (mḫṣ),
not to mention an impressive number of garments of varying types.
The Biblical Portrayal of ʿAštart’s Features: The

Deuteronomic Appropriation
Deuteronomy’s ideological portrayal of non-Yahwistic divinity is similar to

and yet quite different from what we see in the Deuteronomistic History.50
Consider again the language used by the latter to portray Josiah’s polemic:
The king defiled the high places that were east of Jerusalem . . . which King
Solomon of Israel had built for ʿAštart, the detestation [šiqquṣ] of the Sidonians,
for Chemosh the detestation [šiqquṣ] of Moab, and for Milcom the abomination
[tôʿēbâ] of the Ammonites. (2 Kgs 23:13; cf. 1 Kgs 11:5, 7)
Here DtrH’s rhetorical approach is to use a language of contempt (šiqquṣ,

tôʿēbâ) to delegitimize non-Yahwistic divinity. The book of Deuteronomy
does likewise, yet then adds an altogether different (theological/philosoph-
ical) rhetorical strategy.
Commenting on ʿAštart, Judith Hadley (2007: 163) astutely observes: “Although
the Deuteronomistic History has treated the goddess negatively and in a polem-
ical way, it is still possible to discern the presence of a deity in the references.”
In contrast, writes Hadley (2007: 157), though “the author of Deuteronomy
recognizes that other deities do in fact exist”—compare expressions like “the
gods of the nations” (ʾĕlōhê haggôyîm; Deut 29:17 [Eng 29:18])—he “avoids
mentioning deities (other than Yahweh) by name, preferring instead the des-
ignation ‘other gods’ (ʾĕlōhîm ʾăḥērîm) . . . or ‘foreign’ or ‘strange gods’ (ʾĕlōhê
nēkar).”51 Though this omission looks minor on the surface, it constitutes an
intentional rhetorical strategy that turns even more cunning.
According to the pragmatic author of Deuteronomy 29:17 (Eng 29:18),

worshipping deities other than Yahweh was a viable option both for indi-
vidual worship and for corporate allegiance (i.e., for “a man or a woman, or
a family or a tribe”; ʾîš ʾô-ʾiššâ ʾô mišpāḥâ ʾô-šēbeṭ). Such socially widespread
cults were not just those of an errant Solomon gone bad; they resonate with
the broad-based Queen of Heaven cult. Our Deuteronomic author considers
the threat to be invasive, referring to devotees of “the gods of the nations” as
constituting “a root sprouting poisonous and bitter growth” (šōreš pōreh rōʾš
wĕlaʿănâ).
Deuteronomy’s strategy is threefold. Similar to the DtrH, the author of the
Deuteronomic polemic first reduces the gods to profane objects (wood, stone,
silver, gold) of human construction.52 Then he vilifies them with the language
of “detestation” (šiqqûṣ), “abomination” (tôʿēbâ), and “filth” (gillul), similar to
the rhetoric of the DtrH.53 If used of a person, one would call such harsh rhet-
oric “dehumanizing.” Used of deities, it is a rhetoric of “depersonalizing,” a
divesting of worth and individuality.
Deuteronomy’s third and most cunning stroke is to strip away the dei-
ties’ personal names and by so doing strip away their essence—once again
turning the sacred into the profane. As mentioned at the outset of our dis-
cussion, in four instances Deuteronomy turns a personalized ʿAštart into a
common noun, “the fecundity of your flock” (ʿštrt ṣōʾnekā; Deut 7:13; 28:4,
18, 51). A personalized Dagan becomes “your grain” (dĕgānĕkā), and a per-
sonalized Shagar becomes “the increase of your cattle” (šĕgar-ʾălāpêkā). The
author is treating the personal names of these foreign deities as if they were
nonexistent. One wonders if our author is committing the very verbal as-
sault against these deities that he forbids being used of Yahweh: “You shall
not mention [lit. raise (to one’s lips)] the name of Yahweh, your God to
[i.e., as if it were] nothing [laššāwʾ]” (Deut 5:11; cf. Exod 20:7).54 Elsewhere
Deuteronomy sharply labels any non-Yahwistic deity (idol) as “that which
is no God” (lōʾ ʾēl; Deut 32:21) because, logically, “there is no other god”
besides Yahweh (ʾên ʾĕlōhîm ʿimmādî; Deut 32:39)
I have argued elsewhere that the blasphemous language of “piercing
[√nqb] God’s name” in Leviticus 24:11, 16 is telling in that it was referencing
a type of linguistic deicide where one would blot out the name of a deity and
thereby his essence (see Lewis 2017). In effect, this is exactly what the book of
Deuteronomy is doing with the goddess ʿAštart.
For humans, names are integral to one’s sense of self and family, and cen-
tral to identity formation as people navigate their place in society. How we
use and treat the names of others is equally telling about social perception
and negotiation. Due to such significance, the obliteration of one’s name is
a profound act. Only extreme situations occasion individuals to employ the
Conclusion 693
severe rhetoric of blotting out (mḥh), cutting off (krt), or destroying (ʾbd, šmd)
a person’s or a people’s name—and with it their identity, essence, and memory
(for examples, see Lewis 2017). The seriousness of causing injury to one’s name
through performative speech (perceived to be powerful and efficacious) is
evidenced by capital punishment being assigned to the cursing of God and
king (Exod 22;27 [Eng 22:28]; 1 Sam 3:13–14; 1 Kgs 21:10, 13; Isa 8:21–22).
In every biblical episode cautioning against impious blasphemy, the ref-
erent is Yahweh and only Yahweh. In contrast, other (foreign) gods are fair
game for attack in biblical polemics. Indeed, Deuteronomy 12:3 commands
the physical destruction of divine images representing illicit gods such that
their names are metaphorically destroyed (wĕʾibbadtem ʾet-šĕmām). With
literary dexterity, this is precisely what is happening when Deuteronomy
depersonalizes ʿAštart, Dagan, and Shagar (Deut 7:13; 28:4, 18, 51), turning
the once sacred into the profane. There is no performative speech here.55 It is
an act of literary deicide.56
Such an astute rhetorical strategy sets the stage for Deuteronomy’s cultural ap-
propriation. As we have seen, ʿAštart is well attested as a goddess of food produc-
tion and the textile industry. Compare especially Ugaritic ʿAthtartu as a goddess of
agriculture, sheep and goat pastoralism, and hunting activity as well as Jeremiah’s
Queen of Heaven, who is efficacious in providing “plenty of food” to eliminate
famine. Realizing ʿAštart’s appeal for his audience, our Deuteronomic author
appropriates the goddess’s patronage of sheep and goats for Yahweh. Through an
adroit etymological sleight of hand, he coins the expression ʿštrt ṣōʾn to refer to the
fecundity of sheep and goats. What was once a divine epithet of ovine husbandry
(ʿAštart of Flocks) becomes a profane reference to ovine fertility (“the fecundity
of flocks”). Deuteronomy’s newly created idiom depicts an earthly blessing of
Yahweh that fits perfectly with his other gifts of children, cattle fecundity (consid-
ered by some a blessing of Shagar), grain (considered by some a blessing of Dagan),
wine, and oil—all constituting ways in which Yahweh (and not ʿAštart, Dagan, or
Shagar) will love (ʾhb), bless (brk) and multiply (rbh) his people (Deut 7:13).57
Summary of Excursus on ʿAštart in Ancient Israelite Religion
This excursus has been devoted to articulating in brief what it would take to
analyze just one of the many relevant goddesses from ancient Israel: ʿAštart.
Our initial demonstration of findings included the following:
• On its own, the Hebrew Bible presents meager data to analyze the question.
The texts at our disposal are pejorative literary presentations of ʿAštart and
an unnamed goddess (the Queen of Heaven) who may indeed be ʿAštart.
• Acquiring extra data from archaeology is a desideratum for such a study.

An ever- growing iconographic corpus reveals visually syncretistic
portrayals of the goddess blending Assyrian, Syrian, and Phoenician
features together with local inspirations.
• Analyzing extra data from the surrounding cultural world is a desid-
eratum, with significant material coming from the Northern Levant
(Late Bronze Age Emar and Ugarit), Egypt (especially Eighteenth-and
Nineteeth- Dynasty New Kingdom), and the first- millennium BCE
Phoenician mainland (especially sixth-/fifth-century BCE Sidon) as
well as its extended colonies (especially eighth-and fifth-century BCE
Kition). A full analysis would require incorporating the extensive Neo-
Assyrian Ishtar cults.
• Representations of the goddess in cognate cultures reveal that a given cul-
ture can have a multifaceted portrait of the goddess (e.g., the three distinct
portrayals of Ugaritic ʿAthtartu). Conceptual designs must be flexible to
allow for multiple manifestations of the goddess.
• Representations of the different natures of the goddess should caution
against any generalization of the goddess and against reductionism.
(Compare here the past sins of reducing ʿAštart to a “fertility goddess.”)
There is no single “essence” of the goddess that can be generalized
transhistorically and transculturally.
• Nonetheless, there are some features of the goddess that regularly ap-
pear such that they seem to be dominant characteristics, though they are
historically and geographically contingent (i.e., they are not universal).
These include a military/aggressive nature (Emar, Egypt, Ugarit); a con-
nection with agriculture as well as steppe land pastoralism of sheep and
goats (Ugarit); a patronage of hunting, also in the steppe land (Ugarit);
and a vibrant association with royal cult (Ugarit, Egypt, Phoenicia).
If we use cognate Near Eastern cultures (assuming a broadly construed cul-

tural continuum, as described in Chapter Six) together with the iconographic
record of hybrid Ishtar/ʿAštart images in ancient Israel, we can give tentative
answers to the hypotheses stated at the outset.
• ʿAštart was worshipped as a vibrant goddess in some segments of ancient

Israelite society, though our data allow us to say very little about historical
particulars and the extent of her cult. The widespread attestation of tenth-
through seventh-century BCE Ishtar/ʿAštart iconography in Israel (and at
seventh-century BCE Tel Miqne-Ekron), together with a royal ʿAštart cult
in neighboring first-millennium BCE Phoenicia, form a historical back-
drop for the literary presentation of a royal ʿAštart cult associated with
Conclusion 695
DtrH’s Solomon and Josiah, and the kings (Manasseh and Amon?) men-
tioned in Jeremiah’s Queen of Heaven (ʿAštart) cult.
• The hypothesis that a Judean Queen of Heaven (ʿAštart) cult could be so-
ciologically diverse (involving familial and royal cults) aligns with what
we know of the porous boundaries between elite and non-elite religion
elsewhere. The Ugaritic cult of ʿAthtartu of the Field/Steppe Land provides
a nice analogue. In particular, the goddess’s association with food pro-
duction and the textile industry that intersected the rural and the royal
(together with ethnographic studies of women as key administrators)
resonates with the central role of women in the Queen of Heaven
(ʿAštart) cult.
• The hypothesis that a Judean ʿAštart cult had agrarian concerns that in-
cluded fecund humans and animals as well as agricultural bounty finds an
analogue with (again) the Ugaritic cult surrounding ʿAthtartu of the Field/
Steppe Land.
• The hypothesis that a Judean Queen of Heaven (ʿAštart) cult looked to a
deity who had such military prowess that she could provide safety in times of
war resonates with similar widespread notions in Emar, Egypt, and Ugarit.
• Other aspects of the goddess (e.g., associations with apotropaic magic
[Ugarit, Egypt] and Chaoskampf traditions [Ugarit]) find little if any foot-
print in our extant data from ancient Israel.58
In summation, once one frames the research project to encapsulate a full study
of the many details only sketched in this excursus, it is clear that the Israelite
goddess ʿAštart deserves her own full-length treatment. Conceptually, one
would need also to address the goddess’s association with other goddesses (cf.
Cornelius 2004; Smith 2014a: 200–201; 2014b: 64–65, 74–77; Tazawa 2009: 163–
165; 2014) and whether the data point to a unified or a divided portrait (see
Wilson-Wright 2016: 8–11). Several volumes have attempted more comprehen-
sive and comparative analyses (e.g., Bonnet 1996; Christian and Schmitt 2013a;
Sugimoto 2014; Wilson-Wright 2016), though still with limited coverage.
A similar assessment applies to the thirty-some Iron Age Levantine deities
mentioned in the Introduction (Chapter One, p. 2), each of which deserves
a full-scale treatment that provides windows into the practice of Israelite
religion. The same can be said for the study of the plurality of divinity and
other preternatural beings. Acknowledging the scope of such necessary and
yet daunting research, the present volume is restricted to providing coverage
of only El and Yahweh traditions. It is hoped that many other historians of
Israelite religion will continue to fill this gap.
There are splendid models that provide an overview of this material, such
as Zevit’s (2001: 513, 583–585) look at “non-Yahwistic cults (and cultic
phenomena and complex rituals) celebrated by Israelites” in his magisterial

study of the multiplicity of ancient Israelite religions; Smith’s many studies
(esp. 2001b, 2002a, 2008, 2014a, 2016) that situate Israelite and Judean
Yahwism in its broader cultural context; Day’s (2000) juxtaposing of Yahweh
over against the gods and goddesses of Canaan; and the look at religious di-
versity in the volume edited by Stavrakopoulou and Barton (2010). Yet the
need for comprehensive volumes dedicated to each and every Canaanite deity
remains.
Yahweh Traditions: Data-Rich (and Yet Limited)
Our decision to concentrate on El worship and even more so on the deity Yahweh
and the observance of his cult is data-driven and pragmatic. The parameters of
Israelite religion for which we have the richest data are Yahweh-centric. And be-
cause Yahweh is unattested outside of ancient Israel—apart from the tantalizing
though minimal Shasu texts and the “shepherd of Yah” reference (see Chapter
Six, pp. 229–233)—there is little comparative work to do. Unlike what we just
observed with ʿAštart, there is no need to explore questions of cultural contact
and appropriation. Though the challenges of studying the religious expressions
surrounding Yahweh are extensive, because Yahweh was an indigenous deity
they are not nearly as complicated as they could be. (The same cannot be said of
El religion.)
Our data-driven analysis has also concentrated on the bulk of the evidence
that is Judean. Though these materials represent dominant traditions, they are
only a partial look at the breadth of the religion experienced within ancient
Israel. Such a Judean-centric portrayal needs to be complemented, data permit-
ting, by comprehensive studies of local Yahweh cults elsewhere. Again, we have
splendid glances at this material, such as that of P. Kyle McCarter (1987) and that
of Jeremy Hutton (2010b), who look to Mesopotamian and Ugaritic analogues.
Yet regrettably, even with what we find at Kuntillet ʿAjrud (see Chapter Six), this
area of study remains in its infancy (and will for the foreseeable future) due to
the lack of textual and archaeological resources. We do not have, for example,
a dataset that would compare to the one we have for the local cults of Hittite
Anatolia of the Late Empire period (esp. the thirteenth-century BCE reigns of
Ḫattušili III and Tutḫaliya IV). There we find numerous religious texts regarding
the interaction between the central royal administration and the cults of pro-
vincial villages. In particular, we have “cult inventories” that provide an unpar-
alleled look at the actual practices of local religion. In Michele Cammarosano’s
(2018: 1) words, the cult inventories “offer an all-around report on the state of
Conclusion 697
local shrines, cult images, festivals, and cult offerings” that provide a window
into the “composition of local panthea, materiality of cult images and iconog-
raphy of the gods, religious beliefs at different levels of the society, local festivals,
theory and practice of the offering system, agricultural calendar, cult administra-
tion and record-keeping.”59 We have nothing of this sort to reconstruct the local
cults of Yahweh worship.
Conceptualizing Yahweh: Wedding and Privileging
A significant percentage of the world’s population conceptualizes religion

through a theistic lens, especially those inheriting Abrahamic traditions. How we
(like the ancients) conceptualize our deity is a twofold process of wedding cer-
tain divine traits and privileging (consciously and subconsciously) those of our
liking. Thus what we (like the ancients) think of God has very much to do with
ourselves as we express our sociological and psychological needs and desires. Do
we (did they) think of God as a righteous king to whom one may appeal for jus-
tice or as a tender mother drying one’s tears? Or do we (did they) think of an
intimidating force whose love has ceased, whose promises go unfulfilled, who
has forgotten to be gracious, whose anger has stifled his compassion (Ps 77:8–
10 [Eng 77:7–9])? In short, is God near or far off (haʾĕlōhê miqqārōb . . . ʾĕlōhê
mērāḥōq; Jer 23:23)?
How did the ancients (elite and non-elite, individually and corporately) wed
divine traits when it came to Yahweh? Did intellectuals weave many threads
into a seamless garment, as would a modern systematic theologian? Did ritual
specialists petition God on behalf of the corporate body with a litany of divine
epithets? Were private prayers similar, or did a situational need have a supplicant
favoring a single divine attribute aligned with her plight? How often did people
juxtapose opposing metaphors to describe God as both a warrior and a mother
in the travails of labor (Isa 42:13–14)?
We have little way of knowing. If we cannot know the inner psyche of modern
Jews or Christians as to how they daily integrate the many attributes of God, how
much less possible is that with the ancients? Occasionally well-known corporate
prayers such as the Jewish mourner’s Kaddish or the Christian’s Lord’s Prayer
provide some insight, yet private prayer remains private.60
Certainly the many passages treated in this volume reveal particularistic
desires to view Yahweh primarily as divine warrior, as king, as judge, as holy,
or as a parent relating to Israel, his child—or as a silent deity whose inactivity
occasions cries of despair and theodicean dissent. Other authors luxuriated in
wedding divine traits, often in doxologies. A Chronistic post-exilic tradition says
of David:
Then David blessed Yahweh in the presence of all the assembly; David
said: “Blessed are you, O Yahweh, the God of our ancestor Israel, forever and ever.
Yours, O Yahweh, are the greatness, the power, the glory, the victory, and the maj-
esty; for all that is in the heavens and on the earth is yours; yours is the kingdom, O
Yahweh, and you are exalted as head above all. Riches and honor come from you,
and you rule over all. In your hand are power and might; and it is in your hand to
make great and to give strength to all. And now, our God, we give thanks to you
and praise your glorious Name . . . All things come from you. . . . O Yahweh, our
God, all of this abundance for building a house for your Holy Name comes from
your hand . . . [M]‌y God, you search the heart, and take pleasure in righteousness/
justice. . . . O Yahweh, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, our ancestors . . . di-
rect the hearts [of your people] toward you. (1 Chr 29:1–18; cf. 1 Chr 16:7–36)
Here in a single utterance we have interlaced attributes of Yahweh, the God of

Israel. He is both a personal deity (“my God,” ʾĕlōhay) and a corporate deity (“our
God,” ʾĕlōhênû), defined first as a god of their ancestors (ʾābînû), a god of family re-
ligion. (See Chapter Eight, pp. 473–494.) Our author reaches into the distant past,
tracing the affirmation of his god to a time-honored, multigenerational heritage
(yhwh ʾĕlōhê ʾabrāhām yiṣḥāq wĕyiśrāʾēl ʾăbōtênû). He looks back especially to
the eponymous ancestor, the patriarch Israel (yhwh ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl ʾābînû), whose
name confesses how El strives on his behalf. A proclamation about Yahweh’s
eternal nature immediately follows (mēʿôlām wĕʿad-ʿôlām), reminding us of aged
El Olam and Yahweh El Olam traditions. (See Chapter Four, pp. 97–99.)
Yet this god of the family did not remain provincial with the advent of state
formation. Thus here he is also proclaimed to be an absolute monarch who rules
over all (wĕʾattâ môšēl bakōl). Royal epithets are used to celebrate his military
prowess with words of power (gĕbûrâ), might (kōaḥ), victory (nēṣaḥ), and maj-
esty (hôd). (See Chapters Eight, pp. 453–460, and Nine, pp. 495–513.) As abso-
lute judge he tests his peoples’ hearts, taking pleasure in justice (mêšārîm tirṣeh).
(See Chapter Nine, pp. 513–574.)
Probing, our poet urges further reflection: human analogies are inadequate
to describe Yahweh fully. He is more than even the most illustrious father, king,
and judge. His essence must be described with abstract superlatives of “great-
ness” (gĕdullâ), “radiance” (tipʾeret), and “holiness” (qōdeš). (See Chapters
Seven, pp. 358–379, and Ten, pp. 575–606.) Mysteriously, Yahweh’s essence can
be encapsulated in his hypostatic Name, which is equally radiant and holy (šēm
tipʾartekā; šēm qodšekā). (See Chapter Seven, pp. 379–392.)
Finally, what list of attributes would be complete without the mention
of a deity’s creative powers and sovereignty over heaven and earth (kî-kōl
baššāmayim ûbāʾāreṣ lĕkā)? Remarkably, for our poet, all of Yahweh’s attributes—
from Creator and Father to King, Judge, and Holy Other—serve his benevolent
Conclusion 699
nature. God extends his radiant richness to his people (hāʿōšer wĕhakkābôd
millĕpānêkā), granting them the blessings of “all things” (kî-mimmĕkā hakōl).
He impartially magnifies and strengthens all (bĕyādĕkā lĕgaddēl ûlĕḥazzēq lakōl).
Such benevolence reminds us again of the oldest of Israelite lore, of Yahweh/El
the Compassionate (ʾēl rahûm). (See Chapter Eight, pp. 477–482.)
This multi-layered confession defies a reductionist approach to conceptual-
izing divinity. Though a particular attribute of God can be emphasized to meet a
particular need (sociologically or psychologically), the overall witness of ancient
Israel’s religious expression is that God cannot be reduced to a single attribute, a
single explanation. God’s traits do not exist in isolation from one another. They
are holistic and integrated. They are simultaneous expressions of a God who is
both near and far (Jer 23:23; Lundbom 2004: 201).
Concluding Remarks
The use of doxologies as concluding remarks is known from the Psalter (Ps 41:14
[Eng 41:13]; 72:19; 89:53 [Eng 89:52]; 106:48; Wilson 1985: 182–186) and the
performance of cult. Thus I am certain that the ancients would agree that it is
only fitting to conclude a book about God and his people, even a scholarly tome,
with a benediction:
bārûk-yhwh ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl

min-hāʿôlām wĕʿad hāʿôlām
wĕʾāmar kol-hāʿām ʾāmēn
Blessed be Yahweh, the God of Israel,

from everlasting to everlasting.
And let all the people say, “Amen.”
(Ps 106:48)
Notes
Chapter 1
1. Compare Yahweh of Jerusalem/Zion vis-à-vis Yahweh of Samaria vis-à-vis Yahweh of
Teman vis-à-vis Yahweh in Hebron. Similar multiplications could be tabulated for El
and even more so for Baal in his various manifestations. See McCarter 1987: 139–143;
Hutton 2010b; and more broadly Sommer 2009.
2. Asherah has received the lion’s share of analysis due to her appearance in the Ugaritic
texts (as ʾAthiratu) as well as in inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud and Khirbet el Qom.
The secondary bibliography is overwhelming. Influential treatments include Maier
1987; Olyan 1988; Dietrich and Loretz 1992; Wiggins 1993; Frevel 1995; Kletter 1996;
Binger 1997; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 177–281; Hadley 2000; Day 2000: 42–67; Smith
2002a: 108–147; Cornelius 2004; Dever 2005; Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 62–65; Darby
2014: 34–46; Römer 2015: 160–172; and Schmidt 2016. See additional literature in
Chapter 2, note 87. For the presence of “Yahweh and Asherah” in the iconographic re-
cord, including Kuntillet ʿAjrud, see Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.
3. See the preliminary study of ʿAštart in the Conclusion, pp. 675–696.
4. Throughout this volume the use of the term “cult” designates the performance of reli-
gion and is not value-laden (cf. Latin cultus, “care, worship”; Lang 1993: 475–477).
5. See Chapter Ten for bibliography addressing these topics (e.g., works by Gilders,
Klawans, Milgrom, and Feder).
6. See Fox 2000: 28–43 on the various words for wisdom and for folly used in the book of
Proverbs.
7. See Greenstein 2016 and Holm 2013.
8. The choice to restrict the present treatment to El and Yahweh with minimal coverage
of female divinity, other Southern Levantine male gods, and the plurality of divinity is
pragmatic out of respect for what such an endeavor would entail. These topics deserve
full-scale treatments. See additional comments in the Conclusion, pp. 675–696.
Chapter 2
1. Greenspahn (1987: 245) documents how “many of the methods and concerns most
typical of contemporary scholarship can be found already among medieval Jews.”
The late Moshe Held was fond of challenging students with the assertion that the best
insights of modern biblical and Talmudic scholars were already to be found in the
medievals.
2. On Herder, see Iggers 1968; Willi 1971; and Knight 1973: 58–60.
702 Notes
3. See Oden’s (1987: 4ff.) remarks about the need for a sociological study of biblical
scholarship. In particular, he notes the Christian institutional settings of the majority
of influential German scholars of the nineteenth century.
4. It is common to find scholars choosing the 1787 inaugural address of Johann Gabler
(1753–1826) as the initial reference point for articulating Germanic scholarship, es-
pecially as it relates to Old Testament theology. Cf. Hayes and Prussner 1985: 2–5;
Albertz 1994: 3; and Preuss 1995: 1–2. Compare the title of Gabler’s address: “On
the Proper Distinction Between Biblical and Dogmatic Theology and the Specific
Objectives of Each.” Albertz (1994: 3) has noted that Gabler’s program “in no way
led to a really historical account of biblical religion . . . which began to become an
independent area of study in the subsequent period.” In addition, many Christian
and Jewish scholars prior to Gabler had wrestled with similar methods. Hayes and
Prussner (1985: 4–34) point to the Protestant reformers and Spinoza as predecessors
as well as C. Haymann, S. Schmidt, and J. Cocceius.
Were the present work a complete history of scholarship, one would have to include
discussions of many other predecessors, such as Richard Simon (1638–1712) and
Jean Astruc (1684–1766). Readers are directed to many of the works on the history
of scholarship, including Knight 1973; Clements 1976; Zimmerli 1979b; Miller 1985;
Hayes and Prussner 1985; Oden 1987: 1–39; Preuss 1995: 1–19; and Dozeman 2017.
5. For more on de Wette, see Reventlow 2010: 231–245. For more on the “discov-
ered scroll” in the ancient Near East and its legitimation of Josiah’s cult reform, see
Na’aman 2011a.
6. At the same time, it should be noted that there were more than a few disagreements
between these two scholars, with de Wette being quite critical of Vatke’s approach and
partly responsible, along with Hengstenberg, for Vatke’s lack of receiving ordinarius
professorial stature (cf. Hayes and Prussner 1985: 101; Albertz 1994: 5).
7. On Vatke, see Perlitt 1965.
8. Vatke’s works lost their voice primarily due to his Hegelian overlay. Indeed, Graf
came to his conclusions not through Vatke but through building on de Wette and his
teacher Eduard Reuss (see Wellhausen 1965: 3–4; Morgan and Barton 1988: 79). One
of the first scholars to execute the Grafian theory of Israelite history was A. Kuenen
(1828–1891) of Leiden. See Dirksen and van der Kooij 1993.
9. See Berman 2014b: 39, who asserts that Graf ’s study of the legal collections of P and
D as statutory codes (as opposed to common law) earns him the title of “the father of
the modern study of biblical law.”
10. Wellhausen (1965: 368) remarks later in his book: “I always go back to the centralisa-
tion of the cultus, and deduce from it the particular divergences. My whole position is
contained in my first chapter.”
11. In particular, see Miller’s (1983: 63) and Oden’s (1987: 21) comments on Wellhausen’s
value judgments. As for Bultmann, his comments are eerie to read in light of charges
of anti-Judaism. For a history of the issue, see De Valerio (1994).
12. I owe this quote to Oden (1987: 24).
13. Geller has perceptively pointed out Wellhausen’s methodological failures. Due in
part to “a paucity of external, archaeological evidence for biblical and ancient Near
Notes 703
Eastern history, Wellhausen . . . created an essentially literary theory” (1985: 42).

See too Knight’s (1973: 68) comments on Wellhausen’s failure to grasp the “traditio-
historical possibility.”
14. Cf. Blenkinsopp 1983: 29, who notes how Ewald ended up in one of Bismarck’s
prisons, not to mention being removed from his teaching post at Göttingen.
15. I am indebted to Wilson (1980: 3) for this assessment of Ewald. Wilson also remarks
that for Bernhard Duhm, another one of Ewald’s students and a close friend of
Wellhausen, the prophets “raised the level of Israelite religion to new moral and eth-
ical heights.” Blenkinsopp (1983: 28) concurs, commenting that for Duhm “the eth-
ical idealism of the prophets represents the essence of true religion.” Blenkinsopp
states his “suspicion that the ghost of Hegel is hovering nearby.”
16. For evaluations of Robertson Smith’s life and legacy, see Bediako 1997; Johnstone
1995; Hendel 1989; and Beidelman 1975.
17. On Wellhausen’s admiration of Robertson Smith’s Lectures on the Religion of the
Semites, see Smend 1995: 239. Of course, I am not stating that the field of sociology
per se started with Robertson Smith. See Rogerson 1985.
18. Cited by Oden (1987: 24), to whom I am indebted.
19. Day 1995: 28– 29; Oden 1987: 25– 26. Elsewhere Robertson Smith (1972: 14)
writes: “In many respects the religion of heathen Arabia . . . displays an extremely
primitive type, corresponding to the primitive and unchanging character of nomadic
life.” Robertson Smith (1972: 49) also described “the character of the Semitic ge-
nius”—“deficient in plastic power and in the faculty of sustained and orderly effort”—
as being the reason the Semites were never able to develop a mythological epic poetry
like the Greeks.
See too the famous monograph of Said (1991) that charged Robertson Smith with
being guilty of “Orientalism,” a prejudice of European superiority that denigrates the
Eastern as primitive and thereby inferior (with the ultimate goal of domination in a
Foucauldian sense). See the rejoinder by Skinner in Johnstone 1995: 376–382.
Another scholar who, like Wellhausen and Robertson Smith, championed the
primitive nature of ancient Hebraic religion was Smend (1893), who wrote one of the
earliest full treatments using the new Graf-Wellhausen paradigm.
20. Cf. Robertson Smith’s more popular works The Old Testament in the Jewish Church
and The Prophets of Israel, which attempted to mediate the critical scholarship of his
day, including Wellhausen, with a general Christian audience. See the various articles
in Johnstone 1995 dealing with Robertson Smith’s relations to the Free Church in
Scotland and biblical scholars at large.
21. For further information on Gunkel and the history of the religionsgeschichtliche
Schule, see Klatt 1969; Kraus 1969: 341–367; Gressman 1914; Rogerson 1974: 57–65;
Oden 1987: 29–39; Hayes and Prussner 1985: 128–136; and Scurlock and Beal 2013.
22. This not to say, as some have asserted, that Wellhausen and Robertson Smith were
ignorant of Assyriology. Manuscripts of the second and third parts of Robertson
Smith’s Burnett lectures (published by John Day) reveal his acquaintance with the
newly emerging field of Mesopotamian studies (in particular the creation myth
Enuma Elish) prior to Gunkel’s famous treatment (Day 1995: 29). It should be noted
704 Notes
that Gunkel had no formal training in Assyriology and relied on the expertise of the
Assyriologist H. Zimmern.
For additional analysis of Gunkel and the Chaoskampf traditions, see Chapter
Eight, pp. 443–461.
23. For further reading on the interface of Wellhausen and Gunkel, see McKane
1979: 225–228 and O’Neill 1995.
24. See Larsen 1995 (with bibliography). See also Finkelstein 1958; Huffmon 1987;
Johanning 1988; and Lehmann 1994.
25. For an annotated bibliography of some of the Assyriological material that was already
in print at this time, see Carena 1989: 21–45.
26. See Cecil’s (1989–1996) biography of Wilhelm II.
27. It should be noted, however, that Gunkel objected to the way in which Delitzsch den-
igrated biblical tradition, which Gunkel tried to elevate through his comparative ap-
proach. See Oden 1987: 32–33.
28. All three lectures were combined and published as Babel and Bible: Three Lecture on
the Significance of Assyriological Research for Religion, Embodying the Most Important
Criticisms and the Author’s Replies (Chicago: Open Court, 1906). Several contem-
porary reactions to the first two lectures (including those of Wilhelm II, Harnack,
Halevy, and Cornill) and Delitzch’s replies are included in this work. For further anal-
ysis of anti-Semitic tendencies in these lectures and Delitzsch’s subsequent work Die
grosse Täuschung, see Larsen 1995: 103–106.
29. See Carena 1989: 96–111.
30. I owe each of these quotes to Oden 1987: 32.
31. See Carena’s (1989: 102–110) description of “non-supporters of Panbabylonism.”
32. See Landsberger 1976 and Hess 1994: 8–11.
33. Pals 2015: 108–109. Harrison (1969: 50) argues that explaining “all phenomena in
terms of one relatively uncomplicated single feature, process, or principle” was “the
basic defect of the nineteenth-century Zeitgeist.”
Along with Durkheim, one should also mention M. Weber’s Sociology of Religion
(itself a part of his larger Economy and Society). In contrast to Durkheim, Weber’s
system still left room for animated spirits and deities, although it was so economically
oriented (“the most elementary forms of behavior motivated by religious or magical
factors are oriented to this world”) that it proved too empirical for the worldview
of theologians. See the bibliographies in the following critiques: Samuelsson 1964;
Kimbrough 1972; Schäfer-Lichtenberger 1991; Pals 2015: 143–184.
Finally, from Scandinavia, see the anthropological/ phenomenological work of
J. Pedersen, whose four-volume work Israel, Its Life and Culture appeared first in 1926.
34. Childs 1970b: 14–31. On the various societal issues at this time in America, see Noll
1992: 364–436; Marsden 1994; and Larson 1997.
35. The presentation here is only a sketch. For broader contextualization, see Ackerman
1991 and Bell 1997: 3–22.
36. In addition to the major works written and edited by Hooke (1933, 1935, 1938, 1958,
1963), see Rogerson 1974: 66–84. On Mowinckel, see the bibliography assembled by
Kvale and Rian (1988) as well as the other articles in this issue of the Scandinavian
Notes 705
Journal of the Old Testament, which is devoted to Mowinckel’s scholarship; cf. too
Kapelrud 1967; Ap-Thomas 1966; and Gnuse and Knight 1992.
37. A thirteenth volume was added as a supplement in 1936, and an abridged single
volume by which The Golden Bough became popular with a much wider audience
first appeared in 1922.
38. On divine kingship, see note 40 and Chapter Nine, pp. 503–507.
39. See Brandon 1958: 261–291; Fontenrose 1966; Kirk 1970: 8–31; Rogerson 1974;
Talmon 1978b; and Smith 1994c.
40. See the bibliography in Rogerson 1974: 81–84 as well as van der Toorn 1991b;
Black 1981; and Hecker 1974: 1–23. Note too Lambert’s (1965: 295) succinct com-
ment: “Too much has been made of the recitation of Enūma Eliš in the New Year
rites.” Michalowski (2008: 33, 41–42) writes of how the study of divine kingship in
Mesopotamia is still haunted by the “lingering ghosts, James Frazer and Edward
Evans-Prichard.” In contrast to the “highly overrated” and “highly overstated” views
of “Frazer and his successors,” Michalowski (2008: 33–34, 41–42) argues that any no-
tion of divine kingship had a “short shelf life” and was due to historically specific
phenomena. We are better off emphasizing how “all kings are sacred and mediate
between sacred and profane, but not all kings are gods.” See additional discussion in
Chapter Nine, pp. 503–507.
41. Additional assessments of Frazer’s impact and the critique of his theory can be found
in Ackerman 2002 and Smith 1978: 208–239.
42. See Ringgren 1966, 1972, 1977. For an appreciation, see Frerichs 1987. See too
Albertz 1994: 9.
43. For the history of the excavations at Ras Shamra, see the frequent publications in
Syria, Ugaritica, and RSO (Ras Shamra Ougarit) as well as the summary in Yon 2006.
See too the entries on C. Schaeffer and C. Virolleaud in Meyers 1997: 4:496–497,
5:304) as well as the many publications by the Mission archéologique syro-française
de Ras Shamra: https://www.mission-ougarit.fr.
44. For further details, see Chapter Six, pp. 259–264.
45. Early works (in chronological order) include those of Virolleaud, Albright,
Montgomery, Jack, Nielsen, Schaeffer, Dussaud, Ginsberg, Pedersen, Eissfeldt, de
Langhe, Gordon, Obermann, Cassuto, Gaster, Kapelrud, van Selms, Pope, G. R.
Driver, Gray, Caquot and Jacob. For bibliographic details of these early works, see
Dietrich 1973 and Dietrich and Loretz 1996.
46. See Chapter Six, pp. 256–264, for a more properly nuanced description of the
Canaanite religious continuum between Late Bronze Age Ugarit and Iron Age Israel.
47. See Childs 1970b: 47–49; Miller 1985: 202–203; and Albright 1940, 1957. See also
the entries on these three scholars with bibliographies in Meyers 1997: 1:61–62,
2:344, 3:205.
48. Albright’s influence was felt through more than a thousand publications, through
three decades of teaching at the Johns Hopkins University (1929–1958), through
thirty-eight years as the editor of the Bulletin of the American School of Oriental
Research (1930–1968), and through twelve years of service as the director of the
American School of Oriental Research in Jerusalem (1920–1929, 1933–1936). This
706 Notes
archaeological institute, founded in 1900, constitutes the oldest American research

center for ancient Near Eastern studies in the Middle East. In 1970 it was renamed
the W. F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research (AIAR). Lastly, it should also
be underscored that Albright, together with his student and later colleague Samuel
Iwry, were two of the earliest scholars to authenticate the Dead Sea Scrolls. For two of
the many overviews of Albright’s contributions, see Machinist 1996 and Lewis 2006b,
which include further bibliography.
49. As noted by Beaulieu (2002: 12), “Between 1912, when his first contribution appeared
in a scholarly journal, and 1926, he [Albright] published some thirty-five articles on
Mesopotamian religion, literature, chronology, philology, and history, roughly one
third of his total output.”
50. In this brief survey of scholarship on ancient Israelite religion we are certainly
slighting giants who have made monumental contributions. Such was Harold Louis
Ginsberg’s (1903–1990) role in early Ugaritic studies. For an appropriate appreciation
(including the highest praise from Albright), see Smith 2001a: 25–26, 45 n. 104.
51. For Albright’s work on Ugaritic at the Johns Hopkins University, prewar and postwar,
see Smith 2001a: 24–25, 67–73. See too Smith’s (2002b) retrospective summary of
Albright’s work in Ugaritic studies as it impacted Israelite religion.
52. Alongside Albright’s commanding presence we find other giants, especially among
Israeli archaeologists (e.g., B. Mazar, Y. Yadin, Y. Aharoni). Key to Albright’s method
was the study of typology (be it for scripts, pottery, or architecture). According to
Frank Moore Cross (1989: 17), who inherited and perfected Albright’s command of
epigraphy and paleography, “Albright was a master of the typological sciences.”
53. Cf., e.g., Albright’s (2006: 176) comment that “only through archaeological research
can biblical history become a scientific discipline, since history can in general be-
come scientific only by the consistent application of archaeology or other equally rig-
orous methodology.”
Albright would also use the “science” of archaeology to combat what he saw as
the ahistorical approach of many of the German critics listed earlier. For Albright
(2006: 3), one cannot understand history via internal literary analysis alone. In his
words, “history . . . is a complex web of interacting patterns.” Moreover, “the evolu-
tion of historical patterns is highly complex and variable; it may move on any direc-
tion and it cannot be explained by any deterministic theory.” Albright argued that
Wellhausen’s brand of source criticism employed without archaeological control
would result in an ahistorical and skewed portrait. According to Albright, the “or-
ganismic nature of history makes unilinear ‘historicism’ unsuitable as a clue to the
complexities of the history of religion. For this reason, Wellhausen’s Hegelian method
was utterly unsuited to become the master key with which scholars might enter the
sanctuary of Israelite religion and acquire a satisfying understanding of it.”
In contrast, Albright (2006: 176) boldly asserted that “there can be no doubt
that archaeology has confirmed the substantial historicity of Old Testament tradi-
tion.” Because of such comments, Albright is sometimes unfairly dismissed as being
narrow, unduly influenced by his theological conservatism. A close reading reveals
that Albright was a critical scholar. On Albright’s brand of conservatism (presenting
Notes 707
the Bible “in terms of the history of ideas”) and how he was equally frustrated by
“radicals who challenged the whole historical premise of biblical religion” as well as
by “ultra-conservatives who made it an article of faith, thus allowing no possibility
of fruitful discussion,” see Freedman 1989: 35–38. Albright (2006: 177) asserted that
“neither radicalism nor ultra-conservatism receives any support from the discoveries
and the deductions of the archaeologist.”
Though he was very critical of the Wellhausian theoretical paradigm, Albright was
no textual fundamentalist. In Albright’s (2006: 3) opinion, one could not deny that
Wellhausen’s source criticism was “a useful tool for historical research.” Albright was
critical of “those scholars who reject the Documentary Hypothesis in toto.” “There
can be no doubt,” Albright (1968a: 30) would write elsewhere, “that nineteenth-
century scholarship was correct in recognizing different blocks of material in the
Pentateuch.” See also Albright’s (1957: 249–254) discussion of “the Documentary
Sources” in his From Stone Age to Christianity. Monotheism and the Historical Process.
Anyone who has worked through Albright’s articles on what he determined to be the
oldest poetic corpus in the Hebrew Bible is well aware of the way he would specula-
tively repoint, realign, or even rewrite the Masoretic Text of the Hebrew Bible. See, for
example, Albright 1944: 207–233; 1950b: 1–18; 1950–1951: 1–39; 1959: 339–346.
54. It is easy to see the battle lines drawn between Albright’s method, which analyzed
ancient Near Eastern sources in the service of highlighting Israel and its Bible, and
the Eigenbegrifflichkeit methodology of Benno Landsberger, which asserted that the
ancient Near East was no mere handmaid to biblical studies and must be studied
and appreciated on its own. See Landsberger’s 1926 Die Eigenbegrifflichkeit der
babylonischen Welt, later published in English in 1976 as The Conceptual Autonomy of
the Babylonian World.
55. Regrettably, Albright also played a key role in demonizing Canaanite religion, as he
underscored the supremacy of biblical religion. See Chapter Six, pp. 259–260.
56. In a positive tribute, Greenberg (1964: 77–89) calls Kaufmann the “foremost Jewish
biblicist of our time.” See similar assessments by Levenson (1987: 290–291) and
Sommer (2009: 2). Contrast the views of Dever (1990: 51), who labels Kaufmann
as an “Israeli scholar of conservative bent” with presuppositions “almost identical
to those of some Protestant fundamentalists.” Geller (1985: 45) calls him a “semi-
fundamentalist.” Morgan and Barton (1988) fail to have an entry for Kaufmann!
Sommer (2009: 260– 261 n. 5) notes Albertz’s “stunning” failure to mention
Kaufmann, “the most important historian of Israelite religion in the twentieth cen-
tury.” For more on Kaufmann, consider the work of Jindo, Sommer, and Staubli
(2017: xi), who assert: “No other figure, not even Martin Buber, has had such a pro-
found influence on the work of Jewish scholars of the Bible.”
57. Kaufmann 1956, 1972. See also his article on the Bible and mythological polytheism
(1951).
58. Perhaps this is due to the inaccessibility of his works, which are written in Hebrew,
yet an abridged translation of his history has been available since 1960. While well
recognized as a biblical scholar, Kaufmann writes more with the heart of a philoso-
pher than that of a theologian. His prior training and work in philosophy is evident
708 Notes
throughout his work. Greenberg (1964: 77) notes that Kaufmann’s Berne disserta-
tion was a philosophic “treatise on the sufficient reason” (Eine Abhandlung über den
Zurreichenden Grund). The label “Jewish apologist” is often attributed to Kaufmann,
yet he prefaces his work by stating that “it is not undertaken in an apologetic spirit.”
Indeed, Kaufmann’s embrace of critical scholarship offended Orthodox Judaism and
brought him much religious and political reproach. Neither was Kaufmann a de-
fender of biblical literalness, as he is sometimes made out to be. Whereas Kaufmann,
unlike classical critics, did embrace the biblical claims for early monotheism, he nev-
ertheless considered the prophetic and historiographic claims of polytheism as mere
hyperbole, to be taken with a grain of salt. Kaufmann’s later works (e.g., his view of
the conquest/settlement, commentaries on Joshua/Judges) were more idiosyncratic
and did not meet with a great deal of acceptance. Once again, for a greater apprecia-
tion, see Jindo, Sommer, and Staubli 2017.
59. Kaufmann 1951: 193. See too Tigay’s (1996: 433–436) excursus on Moses and
monotheism.
60. Moshe Greenberg (1964: 87), Kaufmann’s translator, admits that Kaufmann himself
qualified his categorical statements: “The qualification . . . usually makes its appear-
ance sooner or later.”
61. Smith (2014a: 36, 40) evaluates Cross as producing “the best scholarship of his gen-
eration” on early Israel while also describing his theorizing about epic as “a question-
able scaffolding.”
62. Cross 1973: viii; 1983b: 13–19; 1998; 2009. In a summary of critiques of Cross’ use of
epic, Smith (2014a: 38–40) notes “the problem of scale; epic is generally considered
a poem of considerable length, and there simply is no such epic poem attested in the
Hebrew Bible . . . Cross seems to be saying that this early war poetry [Exod 15; Judg 5]
is not so much epic as lyric, which at most draws on known epic elements.”
63. Albright’s (1968a: 185) wording echoes Kaufmann’s sentiments: “It may be confi-
dently stated that there is no true mythology anywhere in the Hebrew Bible. What
we have consists of vestiges—what may be called the ‘débris’ of past religious culture.”
In Albright’s assessment, these vestiges, though great in number, were “minor.” As far
as the attenuation of myth in the Bible, Albright (1968a: 193) argued that “Israelite
thought was indeed influenced by Canaanite mythological patterns . . . [but] such
Canaanite patterns were depotentized and demythologized rapidly, so that by the end
of Old Testament times official Yahwist religion had been demythologized to a rather
extreme degree.”
64. Kirk 1970; Rogerson 1974; Doty 1986; Puhvel 1987; Oden 1992; Batto 1992: 4–12;
Smith 1994c; Ballentine 2015. See especially Ballentine’s (2015: 1– 21) chapter
“Theorizing Myth in Ancient West Asian Studies.” For a study of mythology in
Mesopotamian literature and art as well as that of Anatolian cultures, see the
entry “Mythologie” by Heimpel, Green, Beckman, and van Loon in Edzard et al.
1997: 537–589.
65. See Oden 1992: 946; Batto 1992: 6.
66. Ballentine (2015) builds on the theoretical work of Jonathan Z. Smith, Bruce Lincoln,
and Russell T. McCutcheon.
Notes 709
67. Note the astute critique of Rogerson (1974: 173), who noted how scholars have often
been more preoccupied with finding an all-purpose definition of “myth” than with
understanding the cultures we face. Catherine Bell (2007: 283), writing on the search
for the perfect definition of ritual, comments: “No field ever moves forward because
a good number of people agree on the definition of some central concept that then
allows them to get down to work.”
68. I owe this quote to Smith (1994c: 305).
69. See, for example, the works of Gressmann (1909) and Pritchard (1969a, 1969b).
70. For the numerous volumes in the Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis series, see https://www.
zora.uzh.ch/view/subjects/OBO.html. On using seals for reconstructing ancient
Israelite religion, see Avigad 1987.
71. Keel and Uehlinger 1992; Caubet 1995; Green 1995; Hornung 1995; Cornelius 1999;
Wyatt 1999b: 580–583; de Hulster, Strawn, and Bonfiglio 2015.
Yet not all signs are promising. Contrast Keel and Uehlinger’s (1992) extensive
treatment with the entry on “Iconography and the Bible” in the New Interpreter’s
Dictionary of the Bible (Sakenfeld et al. 2008: 5–7). The latter’s extremely brief treat-
ment (a single page!) deals mostly with early Christian art (with a small nod to the
Dura Europos synagogue). The Hebrew Bible and ancient Israel is left out entirely!
On the positive side, the field of ancient Near Eastern iconographic studies is
maturing, as seen in new works (e.g., Gansell and Shafer 2020) that ask us to reex-
amine the canon of our material.
72. See the many contributors to the forthcoming Iconography of Deities and Demons
in the Ancient Near East, http://www.religionswissenschaft.uzh.ch/idd. See too the
Bibel+Orient Datenbank Online: http://www.bible-orient-museum.ch/bodo.
73. For a brief description of subsequent literature from the 1980s to the present—
admittedly written by the chief critic of the revisionist approach— see Dever
2017: 19–24, 34–36, 45–58.
74. For revisionist historians of this generation applying their method to Israelite re-
ligion, see Lemche 1991b: 97–115; Thompson 1995; and Edelman 1995. See the
reviews of Edelman by Smith (1996) and Emerton (1997).
75. See the following for a representative sample: T. Thompson 1974, 1992, 1995,
1999; Van Seters 1975, 1983, 1992, 1994; Lemche 1985, 1991a, 1991b, 1993, 1996a;
Ahlström 1986, 1991, 1993; Whitelam 1986, 1996; Coote and Whitelam 1987;
Garbini 1988; Coote 1990; Davies 1992, 1995; and Gelinas 1995. The controversial
nature of these scholars’ work spilled over into the pages of more popular works on
Bible and archaeology. See Davies 1994; Halpern 1995; Hackett 1997; Shanks 1997a,
1997b; Na’aman 1997.
76. The literature cannot be detailed here due to its volume. It certainly demonstrates
how the revisionist historians struck a sensitive nerve. See Knoppers 1997 (with bib-
liography). For archaeologists’ critiques, see Dever 1995, 1996a, 1996b; Bloch-Smith
1997. Minimalist historians got the attention of the epigraphic community when they
challenged the presence of King David’s mention in the Tell Dan inscription and,
even more so, when they challenged the eighth-century BCE dating of the Siloam
inscription. For bibliography on the Tell Dan inscription, see Knoppers 1997: 37–40.
710 Notes
For the Siloam inscription, see the who’s who of leading epigraphists (F. M. Cross,
A. Lemaire, P. K. McCarter, J. A. Hackett, A. Yardeni, E. Eshel, and A. Hurvitz) assem-
bled to denounce what was labeled pseudo-scholarship. And see Hackett 1997 and
Hendel 1996.
Finally, cf. the critiques of Na’aman (1994a) and Rainey (1996b) against Lemche’s
(1991a) handling of the biblical historiographers’ understanding of Canaan and the
Canaanites.
77. There is no adequate intellectual history of biblical/Syro-Palestinian archaeology,
especially with regard to the contributions of Israeli archaeologists (e.g. Y. Aharoni,
R. Amiran, M. Avi-Yonah, N. Avigad, G. Barkay, S. Bechar, D. Ben-Ami, A. Biran,
A. Ben-Tor, T. Dothan, A. Faust, I. Finkelstein, Y. Garfinkel, S. Gitin, Z. Herzog,
D. Ilan, O. Lipschits, A. Maeir, A. Mazar, B. Mazar, E. Mazar, Z. Meshel, E. Netzer,
R. Reich, E. Shukron, E. Stern, D. Ussishkin, Y. Yadin, A. Zertal, S. Zuckerman). See,
provisionally, Silberman 1982; Moorey 1992; Dever 1985, 2017; and Davis 2004; see
also King’s (1983) history of the American Schools of Oriental Research.
78. For more recent studies, see Faust 2012 and Schloen 2016. See too how the title
Exploring the Longue Durée was used for the 2009 Festschrift for L. E. Stager
(Schloen 2009).
79. For early works of this emerging trend, see Binford 1962, 1989; Bintliff 1991; Renfrew
and Bahn 1991; Hodder 1985, 1992a, 1992b; Shanks and Tilley 1987; and Tilley 1993.
80. See Hodder 1989, 1992a, 1992b; Preucel 1991.
81. It is beyond the scope of the present volume to address ongoing debates about the
use of archaeology for matters of state formation and Israel’s ethnogenesis, yet works
such as Faust 2006 exhibit a markedly different anthropological approach. Readers
are directed to specialists working with this material. See, for example, the 2007 issue
of Near Eastern Archaeology that features a forum discussing the opposing views of
Finkelstein and Faust, and the updated discussion in Dever 2017.
82. See Holladay 1987, 1995.
83. See Dever 1987, 1991, 1994, 2005, 2017; general references to religion in the Iron
Age in Weippert 1988 and Mazar 1990; and the methodological treatise in Ahlström
1991. For a sampling of works that have integrated archaeology and textual analysis
with respect to religious studies, see Stager’s studies of Judges 5 and the family (1985a,
1988) as well as the Midianite hypothesis (1998: 142–149); Bloch-Smith’s work on
burial practices (1992a, 1992b), temples (1994), and standing stones (2005, 2006,
2015); Hadley’s (1994, 2000) use of the Kuntillet ʿAjrud excavations; Mettinger’s
(1995) detailed study of standing stones; the Fribourg school’s (see discussion in
this chapter) use of iconography, especially as it applies to divine images (Keel and
Uehlinger 1998; Uehlinger 1997); McCarter’s use of epigraphic data (1987); Tigay’s
(1986) use of onomastic evidence; Meyers’ (1988, 2002, 2003a, 2005) use of archae-
ology for unpacking the religious life of women; Lewis’ (1998, 2005a) study of divine
images and beliefs about the dead (2002); and the most impressive work in recent
years, Zevit’s (2001) “parallactic” study of ancient Israelite religions.
84. Gottwald 1993; Eilberg-Schwartz 1990: 1–28; Herion 1986; Rogerson 1985; Rodd
1981.
Notes 711
85. Cf. Bird 1987. Bird notes how this is particularly important methodologically for un-
derstanding the religious roles of women.
86. Regrettably, the final report of the excavations at Kuntillet ʿAjrud did not appear until
thirty-seven years after the initial excavations. See Meshel 2012.
87. In addition to the literature cited in Chapter 1, note 2, see the following treatments
of this material: Ackerman 1993, 1998a; Bird 1987, 1991; Collins 2005: 99–129;
Frymer-Kensky 1992; Hestrin 1987; Meyers 1988, 2002, 2005; and Winter 1983. For
an updated treatment written after the publication of the final report, see Schmidt
2016. For more recent studies of the divine profile at Kuntillet ʿAjrud that incorporate
the new readings of plaster inscription 4.2, see LeMon and Strawn 2013 and Lewis
2020. And see Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587.
88. For Albertz’s discussion of “internal religious pluralism,” see Chapter Three, p. 50.
89. Cf. the review in Lewis 2014b.
90. Linafelt (1999: 503) tabulates that “147 out of 198 essays bear her initials.”
91. See too Trible’s (1984) study of “texts of terror.”
92. For surveys, see J. Collins 2005: 75–98; Scholz 2013–2017; and Ackerman 2016.
Three decades ago, Meyers (1988: 6) wrote that “hardly a week goes by without
the appearance of a new publication dealing with ‘women and religion.’ ” With
the advent of electronic publication, the pace has quickened even more, such that
Ackerman (2016) refers to the “exponential” increase of feminist Hebrew Bible
scholarship. Ackerman notes the continuing publication (2011–) of the twenty-
one-volume The Bible and Women: An Encyclopaedia of Exegesis and Cultural
History.
93. Meyers (2002: 278) notes how “some studies, eager to claim biblical authority for
women’s present-day aspirations, are highly positive if not apologetic,” while other
studies are “highly critical assessments, indignant at what is perceived as male domi-
nation and female subordination and thereby asserting that the Bible represents irre-
trievably misogynist views.”
94. For probing discussions with additional bibliography, see Marsman 2003: 1–31 and
Fuchs 2008.
95. Bach (1993: 198–199) argues that feminist literary studies have a limited future.
96. See note 87 in this chapter as well as Meyers 1983, 1988, 1991; Bird 1987, 1991, 1997a;
Hackett 1989; Frymer-Kensky 1981, 1989, 1992; Westenholz 1990; and Henshaw
1994.
97. See Meyers 1988, 2002, 2003a, 2005, 2010, 2013a; Meyers and Meyers 1987, 1993. For
more extensive appreciation of Meyers’ work and legacy, see Ackerman, Carter, and
Nakhai 2015.
98. A huge stumbling block, writes Meyers (2003a: 434), is our “present-mindedness,”
whereby contemporary middle-class Western values are overlaid on premodern soci-
eties: “This is most salient in the tacit appraisal of what is masculine as inherently
powerful and/or prestigious, with women’s activities considered supportive and sec-
ondary, thereby being trivialized and marginalized.” Due to “the removal of signif-
icant economic processes from the household as part of the industrial revolution,”
“women’s unpaid tasks came to be seen as simply housekeeping chores, the economic
712 Notes
value and concomitant social power and prestige of premodern women’s household
labor tended to become obscured.”
99. See Meyers 2003b, esp. 189.
Chapter 3
1. For a lucid example exploring the Hebrew Bible’s philosophical ideas, see Davies
2011. Contrast Zevit’s (2001: 79) argument that “as a matter of research strategy” one
should “avoid emphasizing sources that are most prone to theological interpretation.”
Sources that make “normative types of statements,” argues Zevit, may be addressed,
but “only within a history of ideas (and not a theological) discourse.”
For an insightful debate regarding the historical reading of the Bible vis-à-vis a
philosophical reading, see Levenson 2017; Diamond 2017.
2. Though it is healthy to interrogate our categories (cf. Nongbri 2013), I still find the
term “religion” to be a useful analytical category, as do scholars in many other discip-
lines (anthropology, sociology, history, folklore, and religious studies). As the pages
that follow will make clear, I agree with Nongbri’s main assertion that there was not a
separation of the “religious” from the “secular” in antiquity.
Should the reader find it imperative to have a succinct working definition of “reli-
gion,” here are two offered by current historians of Israelite religion:
Israelite religions are the varied, symbolic expression of and appropriate re-
sponse to the deities and powers that groups or communities deliberately
affirmed as being of unrestricted value to them within their worldview. (Zevit
2001: 15)
The service and worship of the divine or supernatural through a system of
attitudes, beliefs, and practices. (Hess 2007b: 15)
Zevit (2001: 15–16) includes a list of “pithy definitions” of religion from Durkheim
to Tylor. As the current work is also devoted to study of divinity, those seeking a frame-
work for defining the divine can find no better introduction than that by Smith (2001b).
3. Cf. Zevit’s (2001: 690) conclusion (entitled “Reductio”) to his volume on Israelite
religions, where he writes: “The multiplicity of Israelite religions . . . can all be
explained reductively as bio-psychological expressions of citizenship in a cosmos
perceived of as disharmonious.”
4. For an introduction to the way in which Eliade was able to assert such a statement
while (contra Durkheim) holding to the irreducible nature of religious phenomena,
see John Clifford Holt’s introduction to the 1996 edition of Eliade’s Patterns in
Comparative Religion.
5. Bellow 1953: 17. I owe this quote to Andrew R. Davis.
6. In order to find genuine Israelite traditions, Fleming sets up criteria to determine
the basic sense of Israel’s nature and to highlight its political features. According to
Fleming (2012: 20), the political assumptions of historical Israel and historical Judah
are “strikingly different” to such a degree that they can be used as valid diagnostic
criteria. Fleming (2012: 24–27) proposes that “biblical content originating in Israel
Notes 713
can be distinguished from the dominant content from Judah” by (1) contrasting po-
litical assumptions (e.g., Israel was known for its relative decentralization), (2) geog-
raphy, and (3) the absence of Judah-oriented themes (e.g., the palace-Temple linkage
in Jerusalem, whereas “royal capitals are never identified with Israel’s principal sa-
cred centers” (p. 26). Despite Fleming’s thorough treatment, the examples of Bethel
(Amos 7:13) and Samaria (1 Kgs 16:29–34; 2 Kgs 10:18–27) remain problematic.
7. To solve the mechanism question, Fleming (2012: 310) posits an Israelite refugee pop-
ulation constituting an “exile” community in Jerusalem that was “involved in creating
a body of [genuine] Israelite written tradition.” To support this position, he relies on
Sanders’ (2009: 130–133) theory of craft scribes working independently of the royal
(Judean) court. For possible settings for maintaining the continuity of Israelite tra-
dition, Fleming (2012: 310–312) points to communal religious festivals (e.g., 1 Sam
1) and, even more intriguing, the mustering of military troops that could occasion
contacts between people across greater distances. As for dating, Fleming (2012: 47–
49, 308) comes to the very reasonable conclusion that 720 BCE may reflect a signifi-
cant moment in consolidation and preservation of ideas about what Israel had been.
If he is correct, this would go a long way toward addressing the very knotty problem
that he notes on p. 319: “How long would the survivors of the Israelite kingdom re-
tain a coherent sense of its political character as distinct from that of Judah?” Fleming
(2012: 320) is quite correct that “memory would tend to drift with the assumptions of
newer political circumstances.”
8. Simple illustrations can be found in the large number of epigraphic articles included
in Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross (Miller, Hanson,
and McBride 1987) and the large amount of epigraphy (including line drawings) in
Zevit’s The Religions of Ancient Israel (2001). For a history of Northwest Semitic epig-
raphy overall, see Lemaire 2014.
9. For a sampling of the epigraphic literature on forgeries, see Naveh 1982; Cross 2003a;
Rollston and Vaughn 2005; and Rollston 2003, 2004, 2006, 2013a, 2014, 2015b.
10. The pioneering works of Tallqvist (1906, 1966) and Stamm (1939) also deserve spe-
cial mention.
11. See Sanders 2014, 2015; Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2012: 128–133; Albertz and
Schmitt 2012: 245–386; Rechenmacher 2012, 1997; Hutton 2010a: 153–156; Hess
2007a; 2007b: 269-274; Smith 2002a: 4–5, 35; 2001b: 139, 141; Zevit 2001: 586–609,
631–635, 648–652, 687; Day 2000: 226–228; Callaway 1999; van der Toorn 1996a;
1996b: 225-231; Zadok 1988; Fowler 1988; Tigay 1986, 1987; Albertz 1978: 49–77;
Cross 1973: 60–71.
12. For ancient Near Eastern historians, onomastic study is combined with lexicog-
raphy that involves the classification of a wide range of topics (including building
installations, cult functionaries, deity lists, flora, fauna, lexical lists, medicine, sacred
objects, etc.) that could be used in scribal curricula. See Civil 1995. For contextual-
izing the production of the Hebrew Bible within the scribal culture of the ancient
Near East, see van der Toorn 2007.
13. For an optimistic attempt at correlating the epigraphic and biblical material, see
Mykytiuk 2004, 2009.
714 Notes
14. On forgeries in the epigraphic record, see note 9. On the unprovenanced nature of
many of the seals and seal impressions that we work with, see Vaughn and Dobler
2006 and Bordreuil 2014. Of the sixteen hundred West Semitic inscribed seals that he
studied, Bordreuil (2014: 138) estimates that he can be certain of the genuineness of
only about 10 percent!
15. Such features can be very important for determining meaning, with, for example, a
long ā in qātil marking an active participle (*sāpir-→ sōpēr, “scribe”) as opposed to a
qatil adjective (*daqin- → zāqēn, “old”), or a doubled letter such as the middle letter
in a *qattal pattern representing a noun of occupation (e.g., *dayyan- → dayyān,
“judge”).
16. For an introduction to the onomastic evidence from Ugarit, see the overview in Hess
1999, which includes a full bibliography. Note in particular the works by D. Pardee,
D. Sivan, F. Gröndahl, W. H. van Soldt, and W. G. E. Watson.
17. Pardee (1988b: 141) humorously asks if those who named their child Resheph in 1
Chr 7:25 might have meant “Sparky” without any awareness of the deity Ršp.
18. Cf. again Pardee 1988b, which compares Hebrew, Phoenician-Punic, Ugaritic, and
Eblaite onomastica. See too Sanders 2014, 2015, which broaden Albertz’s approach to
include royal material. For Sanders (2014: 220, 224; cf. 2015: 81), “large-scale patterns
in naming provide one way of mediating between royal, regional and state level reli-
gion.” He hypothesizes: “Judahite and perhaps also Israelite rulers made the uncon-
ventional move to select as their dynastic god one already strongly associated with
the people they intended to rule,” i.e., the “dynastic god Yahweh [who was] also a
dominant family god.”
19. “Verbal sentence names,” summarizes Zadok (1997: 93), are “the most important
type of names in Akkadian.”
20. Erisman’s (2013: 552) description of “the fractured state of the discipline” is ironic in
light of Carr’s influential 1996 volume, entitled Reading the Fractures of Genesis.
21. Sparks (2002) has collected the works up until 2002, and thus they will not be men-
tioned here. Subsequent works include Dozeman 2017; Gertz et al. 2016; Van Seters
2013; Baden 2012, 2009; Carr 2011, 1996; Dozeman, Römer, and Schmid 2011;
Dozeman, Schmid, and Schwartz 2011; Hutton 2009; Ska 2009, 2006; Levinson 2008;
Knoppers and Levinson 2007; Römer 2007; Stackert 2007; Dozeman and Schmid
2006; Friedman 2005; Nicholson 2003; Gertz, Schmid, and Witte 2002.
22. Already decades ago, Pardee (1988b: 123 n. 15) would speak of “the present cloud
over source criticism.”
23. The first two sources were traditionally thought to present corresponding legal codes,
with the Covenant Code aligned with the E source in response to J’s Ritual Decalogue.
Categorizing biblical law collections as legal “codes” has been challenged (Levinson
2008: 31), as has the assumption that biblical law is statutory in nature (codifed) in
contrast to common law (Berman 2014b, 2016).
Should one desire to probe further, the Samaritan Pentateuch on Exodus 23:19
includes an expansion stating that when one engages in this activity as an act of sac-
rifice, he is forgetting and enraging the God of Jacob (ky ʿśh zʾt kzbḥ škḥ wʿbrh hyʾ
lʾlhy yʿqb).
Notes 715
24. See Propp’s (2006: 285–286) summary and Ratner and Zuckerman’s (1986) epi-
graphic analysis, which poured cold water on the enthusiasm for using KTU 1.23 as a
“Canaanite” parallel.
25. For a comparative analysis, past scholarship often accused all Canaanites of engaging
in widespread child sacrifice, due to biblical polemics (e.g., Lev 18:21; Deut 12:31; 2
Kgs 3:27; 21:6; 23:10) and later expansions by classical and patristic writers who exco-
riated tophet cult sites. Today scholars are more circumspect, acknowledging that,
at least for the Ugaritians, such a notion cannot be supported from the extant ritual
texts. There may be a reference to sacrificing a “firstborn” ([b]kr) to Baal in KTU
1.119.31ʹ, yet it is in all likelihood the sacrifice of a firstborn animal. This is not to say
that there was no child sacrifice in the Levant, perhaps even in Syria. Cf. the actions of
the Sepharvites mentioned in 2 Kgs 17:31, whom some scholars place in late eighth-
century BCE Syria. Yet our best evidence comes from Phoenician religion, notably
among the Carthaginians. Even here, scholars disagree over whether ritual infanti-
cide was an exceptional and localized custom used in extreme circumstances or a
regular practice. See Gras, Rouillard, and Teixidor 1991; Schwartz et al. 2012; Xella
et al. 2013; Quinn 2018: 91–112. More generally, see Porter and Schwartz 2012.
26. A case in point is Dozeman’s (2017) otherwise excellent introduction, The
Pentateuch: Introducing the Torah. Though Dozeman is fully aware of the many
scholars who still work within a four-source framework (see pp. 179–199), his
volume often presents the data in a P/non-P format that flattens out the data (yet
cf. pp. 265–266). Should the introductory reader want to explore basic issues (e.g.,
whether there is such a source as what is traditionally labeled “J” or “E”), she has no
way of seeing such data through the use of non-P terminology.
27. As will be apparent throughout the volume (e.g., Chapter Six, note 210; Chapter Eight,
note 68), I agree with Hebraists and Semitists (e.g., Cohen, Fassberg, Garr, Gianto,
Hornkohl, Hurvitz, Joosten, Kofoed, Medill, Miller- Naudé, Polak, Rendsburg,
Schniedewind, Sommer, Zevit) and most Hebrew grammarians (e.g., Blau 2010: 7–9;
Mandell 2013; Pat-El and Wilson-Wright 2013; Hornkohl 2013) who argue that historical
linguistics can be used to study biblical Hebrew diachronically (e.g., the stages of Archaic
Biblical Hebrew [ABH], Standard Biblical Hebrew [SBH], and Late Biblical Hebrew
[LBH]). The challenges by Young, Rezetko, and Ehrensvärd (2008) and Vern (2011) repre-
sent a minor position. See Sommer 2011: 104 n. 53 for a bibliography, to which one should
add the various articles in Miller-Naudé and Zevit 2012 as well as Joosten 2012, Mandell
2013, Pat-El and Wilson-Wright 2013, Hornkohl 2013, and Garr and Fassberg 2016.
28. Personal communication.
29. On sacred space, see Chapter Ten, pp. 671–672.
30. ANET = Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (Pritchard
1969a). LAPO = Littératures anciennes du Proche- Orient (https://www.orient-
mediterranee.com/spip.php?rubrique794&lang=fr). TUAT = Texte aus der Umwelt
des Alten Testaments (https://www.degruyter.com/view/serial/533938). LAS = The
Literature of Ancient Sumer (2006) by Jeremy Black, Graham Cunningham, Eleanor
Robson, and Gábor Zólyomi. CDLI = Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative (https://
cdli.ucla.edu). CCP = Cuneiform Commentaries Project (https://ccp.yale.edu).
716 Notes
ETCSL = The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature (http://etcsl.orinst.

ox.ac.uk). Oracc = The Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus (http://oracc.mu-
seum.upenn.edu).
31. Occasionally we are presented with tight historical and geographical parameters
that allow a narrow analysis. Cases in point would be the study of Deuteronomy set
against the backdrop of treaty language and the study of the book of Ezekiel in its
narrow Neo-Babylonian context.
Ever since Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST) was first published by Wiseman
in 1958, but even more so with Lauinger’s Tayinat publication in 2012, scholars have
debated whether EST can serve as a literary model for Deuteronomy (esp. chapters 13
and 28), either for emulation or for subversion. For studies on Deuteronomy and the
Neo-Assyrian adê tradition, see the writings of Levinson, Steymans, Pakkala, and
Crouch in Lauinger 2019.
The comparative study of the book of Ezekiel within its narrow sixth-century BCE
Neo-Babylonian context has benefited from ever-increasing data about the lives of
Judeans in exile (e.g., Pearce and Wunsch 2014). For a summary of comparative data
with respect to vocabulary, literary motifs, and iconography, see Liebermann 2019.
Chapter 4
1. Consider too the theoretical difficulties presented by Hoffmann (1994: 103–104).

2. For female divinity, see the Conclusion, pp. 675–696.
3. See Chapter Three on the relevance of theophoric elements in personal names for
reconstructing religious belief. For an older bibliography and discussion of the name
Israel and its etymology, see Zobel 1990. The earliest reference to Israel as a histor-
ical entity is found in the well-known Merneptah stela of ca. 1207 BCE. See Kitchen
1982: 12–19; Hasel 1994, with additional bibliography. Krebernik (1996: 248, item
46) suggests that Iš-ra-il at Ebla “most probably corresponds to biblical Yiśrāʾēl.” Cf.
Sanders 2015: 74–75. If such an etymological correspondence is valid, it points to
Israel as an El name with an ancient pedigree. Cf. too yšril at Ugarit (KTU 4.623.3).
Diachronically, one must underscore that the name Israel as designating a political
entity evolves considerably from the late thirteenth century BCE through the fifth
century BCE. See especially Monroe and Fleming’s (2019) description of an early
“Little Israel” in contrast to a “Greater Israel” of the ninth century BCE.
4. Pope (1955: 16) underscores what he calls “the futility of the endeavor” with the fol-
lowing comment: “Much ink has been expended on the problem of the etymology of
ilu/ʾel with no sure results except the emphasis of uncertainty.”
5. For a discussion of which came first, see Pope 1955: 1–6.
6. Cross 1973: 13–14; 1974a: 243–244. Contrast Cross’s view (1973: 14) that the use of
ʾIl as a proper name “belongs to Proto-Semitic as well as its use as a generic appella-
tive” with that of Herrmann (1999: 275), who asserts that “in Ancient Mesopotamia
ilu is attested as an appellative for deities, though a deity Il is not attested.” Cross relies
on Gelb (1961: 6), who writes: “We may note the very common use of the element
Notes 717
Il in the Akkadian theophorous names, which seems to indicate that the god Il (=
later Semitic ʾEl) was the chief divinity of the Mesopotamian Semites in the Pre-
Sargonic period.” Cf. too Edzard 1976. In contrast, Di Vito’s (1993: 242) study of
third-millennium personal names concludes that “the element il in the onomastic
evidence . . . does not represent a DN Il, but a writing of the common noun ilum,
probably a ‘Kish’-type logogram.”
For the Amorite material, see Huffmon 1965: 162–165; Gelb 1980: 58; Layton
1996: 610. The Amorite name Ḫinni-El (“O the grace of El”) also occurs in an OB ad-
ministrative text from Hazor (Horowitz and Shaffer 1992: 28). It should be noted that
the Amorite material played a significant role in the work of some mid-twentieth-
century scholars associated with the Albright school. Their “Amorite hypothesis” as-
sociated such West Semitic names with the migrations of the patriarchs in the Ur III
period. See de Vaux 1978: 58–64 and the opposition by Thompson (1974), van Seters
(1975), Westermann (1985: 61–62), and Grabbe (2017: 50–52, 57–60).
7. An example of how acute this ambiguity can be is the Foundation Inscription of
Yaḫdunlim, King of Mari, which contains the phrase ištu ūm ṣât alam Mariki DINGIR
inbû (I.34–35). While some scholars translate it as “Since time immemorial when the
god [most likely Dagan] built Mari,” others make West Semitic El the “founder” of
this major city and see evidence of a “Canaanism.” See Malamat 1992: 213 n. 12.
8. For convenience, see the entry ilu by Moran in CAD I/J (1960: 91–103).
9. It is not even certain that Ildayyi is a Semitic name. So says Moran (1992: 261, 382),
but cf. Na’aman 1988: 188 n. 41. Even if Ildayyi is an El worshipper, he still adopts the
protocol of calling the Egyptian pharaoh his king, lord, and god (EA 175). Note how
Rainey (2015) reconstructs the name as Ilu-Dayyān[i]‌.
10. Unless he thought that the deity Milku was his god, another way to render his name.
11. See the semantic categories relating to deities in Hess 1993: 191–194.
12. For discussion of this material, see Hamilton 1995: 178–179; Ahlström 1993: 230;
Zobel 1990: 189; Aḥituv 1984: 200; Freedman 1963; and Yeivin 1959. The location
of Yaqub-ilu is unknown, though Ahlström suggests a Transjordanian site in the vi-
cinity of Gadara. In addition to the Egyptian material, Hamilton (1995: 179) notes
how the name Yaqub-ilu also occurs in Mesopotamian texts (in the Chagar Bazar
inscriptions, and at Qattuna, Kish, and Tell Ḥarmal). The full name Jacob-el is un-
known in the Hebrew Bible, but compare Freedman 1963, which argues for its occur-
rence in Deut 33:28.
13. In 1975 Rainey read ʾd d ʿlm for the second title. Dijkstra read zu šiba(ti), “the Grey-
haired One,” and n[g]‌d.pʿlm, “the overseer of the workers.” See Rainey 1975: 115 and
Dijkstra 1997: 92–93; 1987; 1983: 35–36, 38 fig. 2). P. K. McCarter (personal commu-
nication, November 2003) writes:
The photograph that led Cross to propose his reading of Sinai 358 was contam-
inated with red dust that obscured the second sign of the right-hand column,
which is in fact the fish, not the shepherd’s crook. Thus the reading is ʾalep-
dalet-edh-ʿayin-lamed-mem. . . . The inscription is too short to offer a decipher-
ment, especially since it’s uncertain that there were not more letters preceding
and/or succeeding this sequence. There’s at least a decent chance that the word
718 Notes
ʿalam-, “perpetuity,” appears, but the ʿayin-lamed-mem sequence could belong

to other words, too.
Hamilton’s detailed volume The Origins of the West Semitic Alphabet in Egyptian
Scripts also reads ʾddʿlm (2006: 357–358).
14. To help grant the Ugaritic data their own independence (especially when in the past
they have been used as mere handmaids to Biblical studies), I use the name ʾIlu for
the Ugaritic deity and the name El for the Israelite deity. Yet all quotations of other
scholars’ work (most of which refer to Ugaritic El) will remain verbatim. In the same
manner, I use Baʿlu for Baal, ʾAṯiratu for Asherah, ʿAnatu for Anat, and so on.
15. A detailed analysis of using the Ugaritic material to illustrate the Canaanite cultural
continuum of the Levant can be found in Chapter Six, pp. 259–264.
16. The meaning of these terms is debatable. See Naccache 1996; Smith 1994b: 225–234;
Mullen 1980: 281–283; Cross 1973: 36–39; Lipiński 1971a; and Pope 1955: 95–96 for
discussions of the various locales of ʾIlu’s abode (including the meeting place of two
cosmic oceans, the underground streams of ʾIlu’s mountain, the headwaters of the
netherworld, Mt. Lebanon, etc.), as well as the relevance of this material for the loca-
tion of the divine council. Smith also documents attempts by Pope and Keel to docu-
ment ʾIlu’s/El’s abode through iconography (on which see Chapter Five).
17. For the language of family applied to Ugaritic conceptions of the divine, see Korpel
1990: 232–264; Smith 2001b: 54–80; Lewis 2008a; Watson 2013; and Chapter Eight
(pp. 473–477), which also treats divine parentage (god as father and mother).
For older literature on family relations at Ugarit, see Selms 1954 and Rainey 1965,
the latter being based on his more extensive 1962 Brandeis dissertation, “The Social
Stratification of Ugarit.” Cf. too the Hebrew rendition (Rainey 1967).
According to Pardee and Bordreuil (1992: 709), KTU 1.65 describes the “house-
hold of El” in hierarchical fashion: “El, the sons of El, the circle of the sons of El, the
assembly of the sons of El, Thukamuna-wa-Shunama, El and Athirat.” Cf. too Smith
2001b: 43–44. KTU 1.65.4 reads trmn wšnm, which is a mistake for tkmn w šnm. See
similarly in KTU 1.40.
18. KTU 1.3.5.8; 1.4.4.24; 1.5.6.2; 1.6.1.36; etc. I prefer this traditional understanding of
ʾab šnm over Pardee’s suggestion that šnm refers to a deity (thus ʾIlu is the “father
of Shunama”) based on KTU 1.114, which describes the double deity Tukamuna-
wa-Šunama playing the role of a son bringing ʾIlu home when he is drunk (cf. the
refrain in KTU 1.17.1.31–32, which is repeated three more times). Cf. Tukamuna-
wa-Šunama in the “household of ʾIlu” in KTU 1.65 and 1.40. See Pardee 1997c: 245;
1988b. This view was previously advocated by Gordon and Lipiński. See Margalit
1983: 90–91 for bibliography and a less likely suggestion that ʾab šnm refers to ʾIlu as
“the father of the exalted ones” based on an Arabic cognate (cf. Pope 1955: 33).
Cross (1973: 16; 1974a: 245) and L’Heureux (1979: 169–171) considered rpu mlk
ʿlm in KTU 1.108.1 to be referring to ʾIlu as “the Hale One, King Everlasting” (see
too the works of J. Blau, J. C. Greenfield, and J. Day), yet the identity of rpu is far
from certain, with other scholars suggesting Baʿlu, Milku/Maliku, and a deity in its
own right, Rapiu. See Rouillard 1999 for bibliography, especially the works of Pardee
Notes 719
(1988a: 85–90) and van der Toorn (1991a: 55–60). Finally, cf. KTU 1.10.3.6–7, which
may refer to ʾIlu as eternal (ʿl[m?]), but the text is broken.
19. See the epithets qny (KTU 1.10.3.5) and bny bnwt, “creator of creatures” (KTU
1.4.2.11; 1.4.3.32; 1.6.3.5; 1.17.1.24), and the phrase ʾil mlk dyknnh, “king El who
installed/created(?) him” (KTU 1.3.5.35–36; 1.4.4.48; cf. 1.10.3.6–7). Contra Kraus
(1986: 29), ʾIlu is not called qn ʾrṣ at Ugarit. Compare the discussions of Pope
(1955: 50–54; 1987: 220, 222), Cross (1973: 15), de Moor (1980: 173–176; 182–183),
Clifford (1994: 117–133), Herrmann (1999), and Lewis (2013a: 191–194; 2014a). See
also the Hittite Elkunirsha myth described later.
See too Deuteronomy 32, which Greenfield (1987b: 554) has described as
containing antecedent literary traditions about El.
20. Pope 1955: 49–50; 1987: 221. I have taken the liberty of updating Pope’s 1955 quote
with his remarks from his 1987 article. The latter successfully counters the more ex-
cessive claims of de Moor (1980).
21. The biblical references for this famous motif are Genesis 2:7 and Job 10:9; 33:6, with
Job 33:6 (qoraṣtî) using the same cognate verb as in KTU 1.16.5.29 (yqrṣ) and as in
the Akkadian phraseology of “pinching off ” or “nipping” of the clay (karāṣu + ṭiddu/
ṭīdu) to make humans. For the numerous Akkadian texts, as well as how ʾIlu (like
Enki) also uses magic to create the exorcist Shaʿtiqatu, see Lewis 2013a, 2014a.
22. For the full text plus an introduction to the critical questions surrounding its inter-
pretation, see Pardee 1997e: 274–283; Lewis 1997: 205–214; forthcoming a; and es-
pecially Smith 2006. I argue (in Lewis forthcoming a) that ideologically KTU 1.23 is
ʾIlu-centric, and the picture it paints of him together with his wives contains images
(male and female) that construct and reinforce the power and prestige of Ugaritic roy-
alty. The very nature of agricultural sustenance comes from ʾIlu, the Guardian of the
sown land (nǵr mdrʿ). See pp. 103–104. The use of royal imagery for ʾIlu throughout
KTU 1.23 promotes the interests (and vital necessity) of god, king, and state.
23. The meaning of the root mnn (repeatedly used in KTU 1.23.37, 40 44, 47) is quite
difficult. The parallel line refers to ʾIlu lowering his “scepter,” designating a king’s
act of invitation (cf. Esth 4:11; 5:2). Using a blatant double entendre, I see in the
paired line a reference to ʾIlu being equally “generous” (mnn) and inviting with
the “staff in his hand.” For support, cf. Arabic √mnn, “to be generous,” the use of
maninnu in Akkadian to designate exchange gifts that promoted good relations
between kings, and the Hebrew (mān, mann-) and Aramaic (mannāʾ) words for
manna, showcasing divine benevolence. Thus, contrary to Smith’s suggestion
(2006: 85), I am not following Cross’s line of interpretation. For a full explanation,
see Lewis forthcoming b.
24. On ʾIlu as deus otiosus, see Pope 1979 and Casadio 1987; on the use of KTU 1.23 for
the deus otiosus theory, see Lewis 1997: 206; forthcoming a. Nor does KTU 1.1.5 refer
to the castration of ʾIlu, as argued by Pope and Oldenburg. See Smith 1994b: 129–130.
25. KTU 1.23 gives agency to the two women as to whether they see ʾIlu as a virile hus-
band or as a father figure. ʾIlu is decidedly masculine in this text. There is no warrant
for using KTU 1.23.32–33 to suggest an androgynous character for ʾIlu. See Chapter
Eight, pp. 478–479.
720 Notes
26. See Smith 1994b: 128, which notes other occurrences as well as the PN tr, possibly a
hypocoristicon for ʾiltr, “El is bull.”
27. See the broader study by Thomas (2019) that equates the god Gad (whose name
indicates that he determines fate and fortune) with El.
28. See note 31.
29. Pardee (1997c: 245 n. 28), who notes the Arabic cognates of both terms, states that
the Arabic denotes “aspects of the heart as an organ and seat of various abstract
concepts (mind, spirit, courage . . .).” He thus concludes: “Without usages closer to
Ug. it is impossible to know whether it there denoted primarily courage or gener-
osity (cf. ‘big-hearted’), or some other notion.”
30. KTU 1.16.1.11, 21–22; 1.2.1.21; 1.2.3.20. It is preferable to see qdš as a title of ʾIlu
(“the Holy One”) rather than as a noun (“holiness”) referring to Qudshu, a puta-
tive title of the goddess ʾAthiratu in all these passages (so too Pardee 1997c: 246,
248; 1997a: 339). It would be more likely to have a feminine form (qdšt) if the god-
dess was meant (cf. Wyatt 1999c: 100). Those arguing for the presence of Qudshu
include Albright (1968a: 121, 146), Cross (1973: 33–35), and some of Cross’
students—Mullen (1980: 119), Maier (1986: 27–28, 42–44, 81–96), and Olyan
(1987b: 163 n. 15; 1988: 2, 40), as well as Gibson (1978: 156), Day (1986: 388–389,
399), and Margalit (1990: 291–292). For a thorough argument against this position,
see Wiggins 1991: 386–389. Note especially KTU 1.14.4.34, where the syntax and
poetic structure require that King Kirta is arriving “at the sanctuary of ʾAsherah
of Tyre” (so too Pardee 1997a: 336; Coogan and Smith 2012: 78). This is not to
deny the presence of Qudshu/Qedeshet in Egypt (see Chapter Ten, pp. 575–576).
Yet the Egyptian material should not be privileged in reconstructing the Ugaritic
pantheon.
For a full discussion of what it means for a deity to be “holy”—especially with re-
spect to Yahweh—see Chapter Ten.
31. The name of the exorcist is Shaʿtiqatu, and she is a significant character in the story,
for (working at ʾIlu’s behest) she cures the mortally ill king when none of the gods is ei-
ther willing or able to do so. Indeed, through her physical handling of the king’s body
as well as through her actions as an expeller of illness (ydt mrṣ gršt zbln), she removes
the illness and causes Death to take flight. Her victory is then celebrated (“Death is
crushed! As Shaʿtiqatu is powerful!”) with vocabulary that echoes Baʿlu’s victory over
the god Motu. For an analysis of the narrative (in KTU 1.16.5.10–1.16.6.14) and the
identity and function of Shaʿtiqatu, see Lewis 2013a, 2014a.
For ʾIlu’s connection to healing elsewhere, see too the presence of his name at the
head of twelve deities invoked in a therapeutic text dealing with snakebite (KTU
1.100). Yet in this text ʾIlu does not provide the necessary remedy (incantation), which
comes from another deity, Horanu, more skilled in such matters. Horanu was the last
of the twelve deities to be addressed, and thus the rhetoric shows the tale to be etio-
logical, as noted by Levine. Levine also argues that because Horanu is so successful in
exercising spells here and elsewhere, he receives a “promotion” in another snakebite
text (KTU 1.107.38ʹ), where he is paired alongside ʾIlu. See Levine and de Tarragon
1988: 506.
Notes 721
32. See Lewis 1989: 80– 94; 2008a: 74– 76; Smith 1994b: 140– 144; Pardee 1996;
McLaughlin 1991, 2001; McGeough 2003; and Greer 2007. Though the institution
is variously spelled (Lewis 1989: 81–82), scholarly convention defaults to using the
Hebrew term marzeaḥ.
33. According to Pardee (1997b: 303), the Ugaritic marziḥu may be associated with the
so-called Temple aux Rhytons discovered at Ugarit. A small stone statue of what
seems to be ʾIlu was also discovered here; see Figure 5.20. It should be noted that, in
addition to ʾIlu, other deities were seen as patrons of various marzeaḥ organizations
(Lewis 1989: 84; Smith 1994b: 142). On ʾIlu’s presence at vintage rites, see Levine and
de Tarragon 1993: 105. On ʾIlu’s involvement in other cultic rituals, see KTU 1.23,
1.40, 1.65; Lewis forthcoming a.
34. As pointed out by Pardee (1997b: 304 n. 13), the double deity here fulfills one of the
duties of the good son mentioned in KTU 1.17.1.31–32; 1.17.2.5–6, 19–20, namely, to
assist one’s father when he has too much to drink.
35. “Earth” here designates the underworld.
36. Schloen 1993b. A very sensible analysis of the conflict theory can be found in Smith
1994b: 87–114.
37. Classified as such (list [gods]) by KTU in each of these entries. Cf. Pardee 2000: 291–
319, 520–531, 659–660; 2002a: 11–24.
38. See, for example, the imbedded lists in the snake incantations KTU 1.100 and 1.107.
Cf. de Moor 1970, which collects and analyzes most of the relevant material. As for
the offering lists, Pope (1955: 85) writes: “The lists of offerings to El in the ritual texts
do not show him to have had a markedly preferred status as compared with the other
gods.” Now see the statistics in Pardee 2002a: 222.
39. Much has been made of this text in the past. As a corrective to Eissfeldt’s overenthu-
siasm (making ʾIlu here the “god of gods,” who contains the “essence” of all the gods),
see Pope 1955: 85–91. See also note 17.
40. On the royal ideology of KTU 1.23, see note 22.
41. Herrmann 1999: 279. ʾIlu even lives in a palace (hkl), to which he invites the shades
for a banquet in KTU 1.20–22 and the gods in general for a marzeaḥ feast in KTU
1.114. Seow (1989: 34–37) sees similar motifs in the El cult at Shiloh.
42. Cf. Mullen 1980: 84, stating that ʾIlu is “the only god given the title malku, ‘king.’ ”
43. Smith 1994b: 95–96. Cf. Mullen 1980: 84–85; Casadio 1987; Handy 1994.
44. Cf. Miller 1967; 1973: 48– 62; Cross 1973: 40; 1974a: 251; Freedman 1976:
66 = 1980: 87; Seow 1989: 18–19; Toews 1993: 60–61; Vaughn 1993. Cf. Pardee 1997c:
263 n. 192. To this material should be added Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster inscription 4.2,
which describes a militaristic wilderness theophany mentioning “when El shines
forth . . . the name of El on the day of wa[r]‌.” See Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587, and Lewis
2020. Cf. too the etymology of “Israel,” which is often taken to mean “El reigns su-
preme” or “El contends” (see note 3).
45. See Hoffner 1965; 1990: 69–70; Handy 1994: 34–37; Beckman 1997; and Singer 2007.
For an additional Anatolian reference to El, see Yakubovich 2010: 385: “The content
of the Iron Age Luwian inscription TÜNP 1 leaves no doubt that its author saw El as a
part of his own cultural universe, not an exotic foreign deity.” See note 50.
722 Notes
46. The rendering of the sibilant as š is not as bothersome as it might seem (cf. Seow’s
mention of “certain phonological problems” [1989: 20 n. 52]) because there is only
one s in Hittite. Only š signs are used.
47. For photograph and line drawing, see Aḥituv 2005: 30–31; 2008: 40–42.
48. See the Elyon discussion; cf. too the PN Elqanah, for which see Seow 1989: 19–22.
49. For voices of dissent, cf. Della Vida 1944: 1 and Vawter 1980; 1986. For biblical
passages arguing for qnh referring to creation, cf. Gen 4:1; Deut 32:6; Ps 139:13;
Prov 8:22. See the detailed discussion in Fox 2000: 279–280, to which can now be
added the opening line of the Katumuwa inscription from Zincirli that is inscribed
on a stela bearing Katumuwa’s likeness: “I am Katumuwa, the servant of Panamuwa,
who made for myself [qnt ly] [this] stele during my lifetime.” One could argue
that as an elite figure, Katumuwa certainly did not fashion the stela himself. He
commissioned the stela to be made by a craftsman. Pardee (2009: 59) notes the use
of qn as fashioning a concrete object in KAI 25, and suggests that the sense of the
Zincirli text is that Katumuwa “personally oversaw the production of ” the stela.
Yet Hogue (2019: 200) has shown that qnt ly is likely a calque of a Luwian phrase,
and “the pronoun [‘I’] “emphasizes the speaker’s activity.” Using theories on mon-
umentality (see Osborne 2014), Hogue concludes: “As the key ritual participant
in monumentalization, the monumenter [Katumuwa] claimed the sole preroga-
tive in all the monumenting acts. He is thus the monument’s creator, installer, and
inaugurator.”
50. See the discussions that follow, which include the mention of El in the Hadad in-
scription (KAI 214), the Panamuwa inscription (KAI 215), the Kulamuwa inscrip-
tion (KAI 24, if either Baal-Hamon and/or Rakib-El refers to El), one of the Sefire
inscriptions (KAI 222), the Deir ʿAlla texts, and the plaster inscription 4.2 found at
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, not to mention the widespread attestation of the title “El, the cre-
ator of the earth” from places such as Karatepe (KAI 26), Palmyra (KAI 244), and
even Jerusalem (restored). Tyrian El may be reflected in Ezek 28 (see Pope 1955: 98–
99; Zimmerli 1983: 77–78; Loretz 1989; Greenberg 1997: 573; Smith 2002a: 63). El
also occurs in a host of Iron Age anthroponyms and toponyms as early as the twelfth
century BCE. (See ʾyʾl, “Where is El?,” in the Qubūr el-Walaydah inscription [Cross
1980: 2–3; Smith 2002a: 28].) See Tigay 1986: 12, 83–85; Fowler 1988; de Moor
1997: 10–40; and especially the exhaustive treatment of personal names in Albertz
and Schmitt 2012.
El may also be present in disguise if deities such as Baal Hamon and Baal Shamem
refer to him, as some scholars argue (e.g., Cross 1973: 10, 26–28, 35–36; Olyan
1988: 12, 52–53; Oden 1977; cf. Niehr 1990). Yet these equations have not been
demonstrated conclusively. On Cross and Olyan’s Baal Hamon thesis, see Lipiński
1983: 309; Day 1989: 37–40; and Smith 1994a: 209–211. On Oden’s Baal Shamem
thesis, see Olyan 1988: 62–64; Niehr 1990; and Chase 1994: 113–114, 134, 172–173,
183, 225; Chase’s work provides a complete treatment of Baal Shamem in the epi-
graphic material.
This is not to say that El figures are never associated with the heavens. See Smith
2001b: 61–66; 1994a: 212–214 on the astral background of El’s family at Ugarit and
Notes 723
Yakubovich’s (2010) analysis of the phrase “above the sky belongs to El” in a mid-
eighth-century BCE Luwian land contract (TÜNP 1) from Gaziantep.
51. For treatments of divinity in Aramean religion, see Lipiński 2000: 599–636; Niehr
2013, 2014a; and, briefly, Chapter Six, pp. 264–268.
52. There is some debate about the presence of El in Ammonite onomastica, and Aufrecht
(1999: 159) admits that he is working with “meager and ambiguous evidence.” He
makes his case by contrasting the 150 occurrences of ʾl with the 9 occurrences of
mlkm, by comparing the presence of El at Deir ʿAlla, by seeing the Atef-crowned
Ammonite statuary as representative of El, and by referencing similar analogues
within the biblical record of Yahweh and El traditions. There is obviously the possi-
bility that ʾl could be a generic term for deity (see Hess 2007a: 304). For further dis-
cussion, see Tigay 1987: 171, 187 n. 66; Aufrecht 1989: 356–376; 1999; Zevit 2001: 651
n. 75; Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 340–342, 354–355, 510 (table 5.10).
53. Yet contrast the study of forty-seven Iron Age I arrowheads by Hess (2007c: 116–117),
which has only a single example (ʾlbʿl = El is [my] lord”) that could be interpreted dif-
ferently (i.e., “Baal is [my] god”). Granted, these arrowheads do not come from con-
trolled excavations and thus their relevance is diminished.
54. It will be argued in Chapter Eight that Yahweh, in addition to connections with
royal religion, is also intimately associated with family religion, having absorbed El
traditions. Albertz and Schmitt (2012: 357) also note how Yahweh could be “divested
of military and political characteristics that had been so important for the state reli-
gion. Yahweh thus became a typical family god.” They posit that “the process through
which the national god YHWH became the most prominent family god in Israel and
Judah” took place after the eighth century BCE (2012: 55).
55. E.g., Cross 1973: 13–75; 1974a; Levine 1985; Seow 1989: 9–78; Wyatt 1992; Smith
1994a: 206–214; Day 1994: 35–40; Kottsieper 1997; Albertz and Schmitt 2012.
56. Many of these articles are collected together in Freedman 1980. In this volume, note
in particular those articles originally published as Freedman 1975, 1976, 1977, and
1979. For Freedman’s later contribution on using early poetry to reconstruct Israelite
religion, see Freedman 1987.
57. Cross’s work concentrates on epigraphy, which provides a historical framework for
dating ancient biblical poetry. See a partial bibliography of Cross’s works through the
mid-1980s in Miller, Hanson, and McBride 1987 and some of his collected epigraphic
papers in Cross 2003b. The earlier studies that provided the foundation for their fu-
ture work are Cross and Freedman 1952, 1972, and 1975.
58. See Chapter Three, p. 715, note 27.
59. See Smith 2012; 2014a: 211–266 for his subsequent discussions of “old poetry” espe-
cially with respect to Judges 5.
60. It seems likely that only one deity would have played the role of treaty partner and
patron in a single locality, and thus we must choose between El Berith and Baal Berith
as the Shechemite deity of Judg 8–9. That El Berith should be given preference is
supported by (1) the Israelite tradition of Gen 33:20 (“El, the god of Israel”), (2) the
occurrence of the title il brt in a Hurrian hymn to El found at Ugarit (RS 24.278;
KTU 1.128.14–15; but cf. Dijkstra 1993), (3) Cross’s argument that the role of divine
724 Notes
covenant partner is an extension of the role of a deity as a divine kinsman (typically

an El figure; see Lewis 1996a: 415 n. 79), and (4) the possible El typology of certain
bronze figurines associated with Tell Balâṭah.
61. This phrase is often translated “blessed be Abram by El Elyon,” with the l-designating
the agent of the passive verb. On the expression brk l-designating a verbal blessing
directed to a deity, see Pardee 1976: 221–223.
62. L’Heureux (1979: 46) and Seow (1989: 52 n. 146) argue that the waw in ʾl wʿlyn may be
a waw explicativum: “El, that is, [the] Elyon.”
63. See Levine 1985: 336: “Indeed the Sheol oracle of Isaiah 14 is El literature.”
64. The common translation “the Upper Beth Horon” could just as easily be translated
“the temple of Horon Elyon,” but cf. 1 Chr 7:24, which mentions the upper and lower
(hattaḥtôn weʾet hāʿelyôn) Beth Horon. 2 Chr 8:5 also has the article prior to the ad-
jective: bêt ḥôrôn hāʿelyôn. Despite the mention of what may be the temple of Beth
Horon in one of the Tell Qasile ostraca, Horon is never attested as the head of a pan-
theon and thus worthy of the Elyon (“the Most High”) attribute.
65. Compare compelling parallel passages such as the modified Ps 68:8–9 (Eng 68:7–8)
with the exact wording in the unmodified Judg 5:4–5. The Elohistic Psalter is the sub-
ject of renewed study, with varying hypotheses to account for the data. See Wilson
1985: 196–197; Millard 1994: 169–188; 1998: 75–110; Rösel 1999; Joffe 2001, 2002;
Zevit 2001: 674–678; Hossfeld and Zenger 2003; 2005: 4–5; Süssenbach 2005; Burnett
2006; and Ben-Dov 2011. For a synthesis of the history of scholarship with bibliog-
raphy, see Hossfeld and Zenger 2003: 35–40; Süssenbach 2005; and Burnett 2006.
For a defense of Delitzsch’s view that the use of ʾĕlōhîm is compositional rather than
redactional, see Wardlaw 2015 and the critique by Kselman (2016), who underscores
how the double usages of ʾĕlōhîm (e.g., Ps 43:4; 45:8; 51:19) are better solved by redac-
tional theories.
See too the single and only use of mālak ʾĕlōhîm in Ps 47:9 (Eng 47:8), which if
read as mālak yhwh then joins the four other uses of yhwh mālak in the so-called
enthronement psalms as well as elsewhere. See discussion in Chapter Nine,
pp. 511–513.
66. That is, if the editor of the Elohistic Psalter has replaced an original Yahweh with
ʾĕlōhîm (discussed later).
67. Reading the root as ḥlh, “to be sick” (cf. the versions), as opposed to MT, which mis-
takenly inserts a dagesh, resulting in the root ḥll, “to pierce.”
68. Freedman (1980: 89) has correctly argued that Num 24:16 represents the original
form of the couplet, whereas 24:4 is “a defective, and erroneously revised, version of
the former.”
69. Levine 1985; 1991: 58, 72; 1993: 48, 63. See p. 116.
70. A fuller discussion of the Deir ʿAlla texts (especially questions of dialect) can be
found in Chapter Six, pp. 268–269.
71. See the reconstructions by Hamilton (in Hackett reference), Hackett (1980: 25, 27, 29,
33), and Puech (1985: 356), followed by Greenfield (1987a: 77 n. 35), which incorpo-
rate Fragments V (e) and XV (c). Contrast Lemaire’s (1985: 318) reading: w[ymllw.ʾlw]
h kml[y]‌ʾ ʾl, “and they spoke to him according to these words.” See too Van der Kooij
Notes 725
1991: 247. Weippert (1991: 154–155) retains El but not the visions in his [wyʾmrw l]h
kmšʾ ʾl, “[And they spoke to] him according to the utterance of El.”
See too Hackett’s (1987: 134) comments that “the interpretation of ʾl as El in I,2,
and II,6, is not at all certain.” Levine (1985: 328) argues that El plays a prominent role
at Deir ʿAlla and that “the Iron Age temple at Deir ʿAlla was an El temple.”
72. For an exhaustive treatment of Deut 32 as a whole, see Sanders 1996. Among the
many studies of Deut 32:8–9, see Smith 2008: 195–212; Machinist 2011: 225–230,
238, 240; and Schmidt 2016: 163–186.
73. Following Tigay (1996: 302, 402 n. 38) and others in seeing knn as referring to crea-
tion (cf. Ps 119:73). On qnh and knn, see notes 19 and 49.
74. Reading bĕnê ʾĕlōhîm with 4QDeutj (cf. LXX) as opposed to MT’s bĕnê yiśrāʾēl. See
Duncan 1995: 90, Plate XXIII for the Qumran reading. See Tigay 1996: 546 n. 2 and
Himbaza 2002 for the history of previous analyses, including the incorrect recon-
struction “the sons of El” (cf. BHS). See Tigay 1996: 514–515 for the rationale that
led later scribes to replace the original bĕnê ʾĕlōhîm with bĕnê yiśrāʾēl. For a similar
tendency to omit ʾĕlōhîm from Deut 32:43a, see 4QDeutq and Tigay 1996: 516–518.
Though speculative, Joosten’s (2007) appealing suggestion that the original
text read “the sons of Bull El” (bĕnê šōr ʾēl) would better account graphically for
the reading of bĕnê yiśrāʾēl that we find in the MT. For additional support, Joosten
mentions Tur-Sinai’s “inspired emendation” that kî mî šōr ʾēl (“For, who is Bull El”)
was the original text behind the MT kî miyyiśrāʾēl (“for from Israel”) in Hos 8:6. As
Joosten (2007: 552–552) admits, the epithet “Bull El” never appears in the Hebrew
Bible, the phrase “the sons of Bull El” never appears in the Ugaritic texts, and the
reading that he reconstructs never appears in any textual witness.
75. One must choose between a stative and a fientive use (“being”/“becoming”) of the
verb “to be” in this verse. The former is reflected in the RSV and JPS translations: “the
Lord’s portion is his people.” The latter, which seems to be original, can be seen in
Tigay 1996: 303.
76. Cf. Collins 1993: 374, which notes how similar notions are found in the Rabshakeh
taunt in 2 Kgs 18:35 = Isa 36:20 and in Dan 10:13.
77. See Albertz 1994: 271 n. 69, which notes how Ugaritic deities also have cities that are
described as “lands of inheritance” (ʾarṣ nḥlt), presumably assigned by the deity ʾIlu.
78. For a detailed look at Ps 82, see Chapter Nine, pp. 565–569.
79. Cf. the assertion in Ps 82:7 that the gods will die like mortals (kĕʾādām tĕmûtûn) with
the question of Kirta’s son in KTU 1.16.1.22: “Do gods die?” (ʾu ʾilm tmtn).
Yahweh Elyon is especially associated with nationalistic tendencies. Because
Yahweh is Elyon, he is then able to establish Israel as Elyon over all the nations of the
earth (cf. Deut 26:19; 28:1).
80. Seow (1989: 50–52) has previously collected some of this material and applied it to
the cult at Shiloh.
81. Or, following Kraus (1988: 167–168), one could omit Yahweh here on prosodic
grounds and translate “I will sing the name of Elyon.”
82. Cf. Freedman 1980: 13, which notes the parallel with 1 Sam 2:10. On the textual his-
tory of the Song of Hannah, see Lewis 1994.
726 Notes
83. It is likely that šimkā is a later addition occasioned by Ps 83:17b (Eng 83:16b).
84. The text is difficult and commentators typically change one of the suffixes to harmo-
nize the parallelism of the passage (yet cf. JPS). See Eissfeldt 1966a.
85. It is possible that Yahweh was originally omitted here.
86. It is likely that Job 7:8 alludes to this passage. See Seow 2013: 504–505.
87. Cf. Koenen 1988.
88. On the setting of the story and the history of scholarship on Gen 16 (including
traditional source criticism, which ascribes the bulk of the narrative to J), see
Westermann 1985: 234–237. On a womanist interpretation that highlights the
forced nature of Hagar’s impregnation and the sexual abuse and exploitation of so
many enslaved women, see Gafney 2017: 33–45, 72–82. Gafney (2017: 41), building
on the work of Renita Weems and Delores Williams, notes how Hagar “is on the
underside of all the power curves in operation at that time . . . she is female, foreign,
enslaved.”
89. Cf. Num 24:16: “he who hears [šōmēaʿ] the words of El [ʾimrê ʾēl].” Cf. too the fre-
quent personal names yšmʿʾl and ʾlšmʿ in Israelite onomastica (Tigay 1986: 84–85).
90. Wyatt 1996: 236; cf. Loretz 1976. Elsewhere Wyatt (1994: 145) argues that Gen 16 and
KTU 1.23 represent “two versions of a common myth,” but this is far from clear.
91. Both Loretz (1976: 453 n. 1) and Hamilton (1990: 454) point to 1 Sam 1:20 (“She
called his name Samuel for she said, “I have asked him of Yahweh”) for a parallel to
the MT of Gen 16:11 (“you shall call his name Ishmael because Yahweh has heard of
your distress”) because they both contain an “X plus El name being explained with
a phrase using the tetragrammaton.” Yet the analogy of 1 Sam 1:20 is complicated
by the incongruence between “Samuel” (šĕmûʾēl) and the verb “to ask” (šʾl). Many
scholars have wondered whether the name Saul (šāʾûl), which is based on the same
root, rather than Samuel, might have been involved in the original wordplay (cf. 1
Sam 1:20, 27–28; cf. also McCarter 1980: 62–63; Mandell 1996).
92. Note the wordplay in Gen 16:7, where the “God of seeing” meets Hagar at “the spring
[ʿayin, which can also mean ‘eye’] on the way to Shur.” Cf. Gen 21:19; contra Van
Seter’s (1975: 199) comment that the well “functions only as a meeting place in the
desert.” Cf. Noth 1981: 107–109.
93. On the expression ʾel ḥay, “the living God” (Boling [1982: 164], following Freedman,
translates Josh 3:10 as “El the living”), its relation to the discussion of dying and rising
gods, and its denotation of a deity who intervenes in personal and national affairs, see
Mettinger 1988: 82–91.
94. While still problematic, more likely translations include JPS’s “Have I not [reading
hālōʾ for hălōm?] gone on seeing after He saw me?” and Hamilton’s (1990: 455–
457) “Have I really seen the back [reading ʾaḥărê as a substantive] of him who sees
me?” (following Lindblom) or “Have I really looked upon [rāʾâ ʾaḥărê] the one who
sees me?”
95. The most comprehensive treatments of the word ʿôlām, including cognate material,
are still to be found in the works of Jenni (1952, 1953, 1984).
96. See note 13. A great many scholars have relied on this material, including Dahood
(1968a: 215–216), Sarna (1989: 150), Hamilton (1995: 94), and Tigay (1996: 334).
Notes 727
97. Cf. Heider 1985: 118–123; Pardee 1988a: 85–90, 2002a: 192-195, 204 n. 6; Cooper
1987; and van der Toorn 1991a: 57–59.
98. For the content and dialect of the Arslan Tash incantations, see Chapter Six, p. 268.
For discussions of their authenticity, see Teixidor 1983; Amiet 1983; Dijk 1992;
Lewis 1996a: 408–410; Pardee 1998; and Cross and Saley 2003: 269. Bibliographic
details can be found in Cross and Saley 2003: 269 nn. 49, 51.
99. On the phrase mlk ʿlm, see further Cooper 1987.
100. Cf. the Egyptian terminology for “Lord of Eternity” (nb nḥḥ, ḥḳ3 d.t) as documented
by Cooper (1987: 2–3). Cooper (1987: 7) astutely observes that “the substantive ʿlm
never entirely loses its connections with death and the netherworld.” Though the
dead continue to exist in the afterworld and could even be referred to as ʾĕlōhîm,
they do not have the type of immortality that would be described as ḥay lĕʿōlām
(Gen 3:22). Perhaps they are best described as the mēt lĕʿōlām, “eternal dead” (cf.
mētê ʿôlām in Ps 143:3//Lam 3:6 and ʿam ʿôlām in Ezek 26:20 describing those who
“descend to the Pit” and “dwell in the netherworld among the primeval ruins”; cf.
too rpʾim qdmym in KTU 1.161.8). They exist, in Qoheleth’s words, in an “eternal
home” (bêt ʿôlām; cf. Qoh 12:5; byt ʿlmn at Deir ʿAlla, and bʿlm in the Ahiram in-
scription). See further DNWSI s.v. byt2 (vol. I, p. 160); Negev 1971: 50–51.
Because of the many nuances and applications of the word ʿôlām, one need not
restrict its use, thereby suggesting that the epithet is “especially fit for solar deities”
and that “El-olam should be seen in the context of the ‘solarization’ of the system of
religious symbols” (see de Pury 1999b: 290).
101. See too the title šarru dšamaš dārītum, “the king, the Eternal Sun,” used to describe
Pharaoh in the Amarna letters (EA 155: 6, 47; reconstructed in EA 146: 6–7; cf. EA
149: 24ff.), as already pointed out by Jenni (1953: 7 n. 1), Gevirtz (1961: 143 n. 5),
Cross (1962a: 237), and Cooper (1987: 3). It should be noted that an individual
named nmry (Nimmuriya = Amenophis III?) is also called mlk ʿlm in this same text
(KTU 2.42.9).
102. Cf. Pury 1999b: 290, which suggests that ʾlt ʿlm at Arslan Tash designates “the god-
dess, the everlasting,” but it would seem better to see a reference to a covenant here
(Cross and Saley 1970; Zevit 1977; Lewis 1996a).
103. Such a usage may occur in the toponym Beth ʿOlam, which occurs among the
Hebrew place names in Shishak I’s (945–924 BCE) topographical list from Karnak
(btʿrm, #36; Aḥituv 1984: 77). Many have taken ʿrm here as a reference to the deity
(Cross 1962a: 236; Wyatt: 1994: 142), though the expression bêt ʿôlām in Qoh 12:5
and its cognate at Deir ʿAlla (see note 100) makes one wonder if the toponym here
is a reference to a necropolis. In any event, one should not be tempted, as is Wyatt
(1994: 142), to identify the location of Beth ʿOlam (or possibly even Beth ʿAruma;
cf. Kitchen 1986: 436 n. 66) with Beersheba based on the biblical narrative. As
shown by Kitchen, this part of the list of toponyms spans the area from Megiddo
south to Socoh in the eastern Sharon.
104. Compare the same dilemma with “the last words of David” found in 2 Sam 23:5.
Freedman (1980: 95–96; 1976: 73–74) has argued that the designation bĕrît ʿôlām
is late and thus this earlier poem should be rendered as “Utterly secure is my
728 Notes
dynasty with El [ʾēl], for the Eternal has executed a covenant in my behalf ” (kî
bĕrît ʿôlām śām lî).
105. See Cross’s (1973: 48 n. 18) remark that “had he found fewer instances his case
would appear stronger.” Yet Cross (1962a: 234 n. 31) was of the opinion that Dahood
was “no doubt correct” in regard to his reconstruction of Psalm 75:10.
106. One would expect the verb ngd to govern an accusative, as in Ps 9:12 (Eng 9:11),
where we have the same paired verbs: “Sing to Yahweh [zammĕrû lyhwh] who
dwells in Zion//Tell his deeds [haggîdû . . . ʿălîlôtāyw] among the peoples.”
107. Dahood 1964: 397. For the Piel form of gdl, used of magnifying God, see Ps 69:31
(Eng 69:30) (with accusative suffix) and Ps 34:4 (Eng 34:3) (with lĕ-).
108. Contrast Dahood 1968a: 186, 191 with Kraus 1989: 83.
109. Cross and Freedman 1948: 209 n. 85; 1975: 102–103, 120–121; Cross 1962a: 236;
1973: 48, 157; Freedman 1976: 92; 1980: 114; Van den Branden 1990: 36; Tigay
1996: 334. On the dating of Deut 33, see Smith 2002a: 54 n. 102.
110. The translation here follows most scholars who view MT’s kāʾēl (“like the god of ”)
as a secondary pious correction for an original kĕʾēl (“like El”). Wyatt (1978: 103),
followed by van der Toorn (1996b: 258), argues that “the article has been added
in an attempt to destroy the titular use of the term here, altering its sense from
‘El’ to ‘the god (of) . . .’ ” Alternatively, one could read a haplography (“there is
no god like El, O Jeshurun /like the god of Jeshurun,” ʾên <ʾēl> kĕʾēl), following
Cassuto (1926: 249–250; 1973: 102, 120) and Cross and Freedman (1948: 209;
1975: 102, 120).
111. Alternatively, Cross and Freedman (1947) redivide MT’s bʿzrk to read “Who rides
the heavens mightily [bʿz], who rides [rk<b>] gloriously the clouds.” On the deity
Rakib-El in the Zincirli inscriptions, see note 156.
112. Numerous proposals have been offered for this crux interpretum (see literature in
note 109), yet it remains unsolved.
113. Cross (1962a: 236; 1973: 48 n. 18) notes that one could retain the word “arm” here as
a hypostasis of divine power. Cf. the “arm of Yahweh” (zĕrôaʿ yhwh) in Isa 51:9ff. and
the common expression zĕrôaʿ nĕṭûyâ, referring to Yahweh’s arm as an instrument
of deliverance and judgment.
114. See Lundbom 2013: 937–938 and note 156.
115. Studies on the Jacob narratives are almost beyond counting. For a taste of more re-
cent works, see Dozeman 2017: 251–267; Chapman 2016: 173–183, 206–209; and
Carr 1996: 256–271, 298–300, 340.
116. Elsewhere Bethel is hypostasized and itself becomes an object of worship.
Hypostasization, which was evidently common in the ancient Near East, involves
the personification of objects or ideas associated with the divine, be they sanctu-
aries, cult objects, attributes, or abstract features. It can be taken to such an extent
that the resultant hypostasis functions as a surrogate for the deity. See the discus-
sion in Chapter Seven.
A divine Bethel is attested in the treaty between Baal, king of Tyre, and
Esarhaddon; in the succession treaty of Esarhaddon; in the Demotic Papyrus
Amherst 63 (in Aramaic); in the Aramaic texts from fifth-century BCE Elephantine;
Notes 729
and in a host of Greek material. In the Hebrew Bible, compare Jer 48:13, where
Bethel appears to designate a deity (parallel to Chemosh). On the mushrooming
literature on Bethel, see the following works and their more complete attestations
and bibliographies: Hyatt 1939; Porten 1969; Vleeming and Wesselius 1984; van der
Toorn 1986, 1992a, 2019; McCarter 1987: 147; Na’aman 1987; Mettinger 1995: 35,
130–132; Röllig 1999b; Ribichini 1999; Blenkinsopp 2003; and Knauf 2006.
117. See note 110. Cf. Joosten 2007: 549, 551.
118. Na’aman (1987: 14) suggests that Beth Aven (ʾāwen), “House of Wickedness/
Idolatry,” which occurs seven times in the Bible (notably in Hos 4:15; 5:8; and 10:5),
may have been a wordplay on Beth Aben (ʾāben), “House of the Stone Pillar,” which
was the original name for Bethel (cf. Amos 5:5).
119. On the use of masseboth as divine symbols, see Mettinger 1995; Lewis 1998; and the
iconographic discussion in Chapters Five and Seven.
120. In the past, dreams were thought to typify the E source, but in today’s source criti-
cism this is called into question (Westermann 1985: 453).
121. The same wordplay on Shadday and day (meaning “enough,” referring to God’s
limiting the spreading of heaven and earth) is found in Gen Rab (V8 on Gen
1:11; XLVI 3 on Gen 17:1). Another wordplay on Shadday from Gen Rab refers
to suffering “enough” (XCII 1 on Gen 43:14). The passage that did contribute to
the notion of God’s self-sufficiency is Gen Rab XLVI 3 (on Gen 17:1). It is stated
here that it should be “enough” for Abraham that God is his god and patron.
While this does not refer explicitly to God speaking of his own self-sufficiency
or omnipotence, it could be understood in this sense (cf. Rashi on Gen 17:1).
Biblical Hebrew does not use day (“sufficiency”) in relation to God’s nature. The
origin for this notion may have come from Aquila and Symmachus, who trans-
late Shadday with the Greek word hikanos, “sufficient, able.” See further Bertram
1958, 1959.
122. Albright 1935; Weippert 1961a; 1984; Cross 1962a: 244– 250; 1973: 52– 60;
Bailey 1968; Koch 1976; Wifall 1980; Knauf 1985; 1999; Mendenhall 1987: 354;
Mettinger 1988: 69–72; Albertz 1994: 31; Caquot 1995; Day 2000: 32–34; Niehr and
Steins 2004.
123. See Clifford 1972: 35–57; 158–160. Cf. harĕrê ʾel in Ps 36:7 (Eng 36:6). In Ps 80:11
(Eng 80:10) mountains are paralleled with the “cedars of El” (ʾarzê ʾēl), the latter
eventually denoting the superlative “mightiest cedars” (Waltke and O’Connor
1990: §14.5b #17). Cross (1973: 56–57) acknowledges that El Shadday would be
“an appropriate epithet” for Canaanite (Ugaritic) ʾIlu but ultimately concludes that
“there is [not] sufficient evidence to establish such a thesis.” He opts for seeing El
Shadday as “an epithet of Amorite ʾEl in his role as divine warrior, identified by the
Fathers with Canaanite ʾEl.” For more on mountains and their use in marking sa-
cred space, see Talmon 1978a.
124. Num 1:6; 2:12; 7:36, 41; 10:19. ṣûrî-šadday forms an exact parallel to ṣûrî-ʾēl, “El
is my Rock” (Num 3:35; cf. the PN ʾelî-ṣûr, son of šĕdê[*šadday]-ʾûr, “Shadday is a
Light”). From numerous poems we learn that ṣûr, “rock,” refers to the deity not as a
mountain dweller but as a protector and redeemer.
730 Notes
125. For ʾil šd(y), see KTU 1.108.12. For the ways in which ʿAthtartu was tied to fields
and steppe lands (ʿṯtrt šd) as well as food production and the textile industry, see the
Conclusion, pp. 681–683.
126. Depending on how one translates KTU 1.23.13, the text could explicitly make the
connection between ʾAthiratu’s field and that of ʾIlu. This would involve analyzing
šd ʾilm as šadû ʾili-ma, “the field of ʾIlu” (ʾIlu + enclitic m). Cf. Smith 2006: 51,
which notes that “the pairing of El and Athirat wa-Rahmay makes excellent
sense.” Alternatively, one can just as easily see this as “the field of the gods,” šadû
ʾilīma.
127. Cross (1973: 58) is correct when he adds that Shadday may have received these
traits due to his assimilation to Yahweh.
128. See note 44.
129. For further discussion of the šdyn at Deir ʿAlla, see McCarter 1980b: 57; Weippert
and Weippert 1982: 88–92; Weippert 1991: 170; and Smith 2002a: 58. Hackett
(1980: 88–89; 1987: 133–134) and Stavrakopoulou (2004: 261–272) suggest that the
Shaddayin may also be connected to child sacrifice at Deir ʿAlla, but see the critique
of Dewrell (2017: 59–64).
130. The use of ʾeben, “stone,” to designate the deity in the Hebrew Bible is unexpected
and occurs only here. The term is also absent as a theophoric element in personal
names. In contrast, compare the personal name ʾIlu-ʾAbnu, “ʾIlu is a rock,” attested
at Ugarit (KTU 4.226.3). See Lipiński’s (2000: 602–604) description of Amorite
cults of betyls.
In our passage, one would expect the frequent ṣûr to designate the deity as
a “rock” (see Korpel 1999a, 1999b). Due to the strangeness of this usage, a lectio
difficilior argument (followed here) would retain the title as an ancient variant that
fell out of use. Cf. Sarna 1989: 344, which notes the Jacob traditions that involve set-
ting up a stone as a maṣṣēbâ at Bethel (Gen 28:12, 22; 35:14). A less likely alternative
is to emend ʾeben to bĕnê, “sons of Israel.” See Cross and Freedman 1975: 75, 90–91.
131. Many scholars (e.g., Vawter 1955: 12; Cross and Freedman 1975: 75, 91; Cross
1973: 9 n. 23; Freedman 1976: 86; O’Connor 1980: 177; Westerman 1986: 219–220;
Mettinger 1988: 50) restore ʾēl šadday for MT’s ʾēt šadday. The letters l and t are
not at all similar through all periods, so a graphic confusion is unlikely. Early po-
etic texts are known for their lack of prosaic particles, and thus it seems that the
original text of Gen 49:25 lacked ʾēt entirely. It seems to have been introduced as a
prosaizing addition at a later time in the transmission process. After this insertion,
the variant tradition arose (Sam, Gk, Syr) of substituting ʾēl for ʾēt to make an orig-
inal šadday conform to the ʾēl šadday usage elsewhere (especially in patriarchal
worship; cf. Gen 17:1; 28:3; 35:11; 43:14; 48:3; Ex 6:3) and to form a more synony-
mous pair with ʾēl ʾăbîkā. (The alternative explanation does not make text-critical
sense. Assuming that the text originally read ʾēl šadday, and acknowledging that l
and t are hard to confuse graphically, what would motivate a scribe to change ʾēl
šadday to ʾēt šadday?)
132. If scholars are correct that the etymology of the name Shadday has to do with
breasts, there is a nice symmetry between šadday yēbārĕkekā (49:25a) and birkōt
Notes 731
šādayīm (49:25c). Some scholars suggest that the phrase “breasts and womb” is
a divine epithet of Asherah, who is paralleled to El in this passage as his consort.
See Vawter 1955: 12–17; Cross 1973: 56 n. 44; Freedman 1976: 87; 1987: 324–325;
O’Connor 1980: 178; Smith 2002a: 48–52; and Lutzky 1998: 24–25. Asherah may
be associated with “breasts and womb,” but this phrase does not constitute an ep-
ithet. Asherah is nowhere (at Ugarit or elsewhere) called “Breasts and Womb” (or,
more properly, “She of the Breasts and Womb”). Lutzky (1998) goes so far as to see
Shadday itself as an epithet for a goddess, although this is very speculative.
133. See the discussion by Levine (1993: 136–137), whose analysis is followed here for
the most part.
134. The origin of the “god of the fathers” traditions most likely combined both El
traditions (as in Gen 49:25, where the parallel term “Shadday” argues for translating
“El” and not “god”) and ancestor worship (see van der Toorn’s work on ilib [1993;
1996b: 155–169]).
135. See also Freedman 1976, 1977. Contrast de Hoop 1999: 62, which argues that “the
early date of Genesis 49 is no longer taken for granted.” For additional treatments
of Genesis 49, see Vawter 1955; Cross and Freedman 1975: 69–93; O’Connor
1980: 169–178; Westermann 1986: 215–244; Sarna 1989: 331–346; de Hoop 1999;
and Smith 2002a: 48–52; 2014a: 43. Freedman (1987: 321) underscores the diffi-
culty of this poem when he writes that “we are laboring here largely in the dark, and
the prospects are relatively unpromising.” On the Oracles of Balaam, see Albright
1944; Freedman 1987: 331–334; 1976: 88–90; O’Connor 1980: 185–193; Milgrom
1990: 467–476; and Levine 1993: 73–74.
136. See Albertz 1994: 252 n. 33 and 34 and his critique of Köckert.
137. See the excursus on Num 1:5–15 by Kellermann (1970: 155–159) followed by Knauf
(1999: 751).
138. Those unaware of P’s periodization of history (crafted around three eternal
covenants, each with a specific deity and sign) should consult Anderson 1986: 463–
464 for an introductory treatment.
139. The literature on the Amurru is immense. For overviews situated with the biblical
material, see Westermann 1985: 61–66 and Grabbe 2017: 50–52.
140. Mettinger 1988: 71, building on the work of Bailey (1968) and Ouellette (1969).
141. See note 6.
142. Cf. also the possible mention of “El the creator/establisher of Saphon” (ʾir3 k3nʾi
d3p3n = ʾl qny ṣpn?) at Sheik Saʿd in the Transjordan in the so-called Job stone of
Ramses II. Also Giveon 1965: 197–200; de Moor 1997: 148–149; and Cornelius
1994: 145.
143. See Smith 1994b: 122–123; 232–233; 286–287, which includes a discussion of
references to Jebel el Aqra in the ancient Near East, a bibliography debating whether
the Saphon of Isa 14:3 and Ps 48:3 should be equated with Mt. Saphon of Uqaritic
fame, and a discussion of the Yahwistic appropriation of El and Baal motifs. See too
the works of Roberts cited by Smith.
144. For an attempt at correlating a relative chronology for divine names and titles with
ancient poetry, see Freedman 1976.
732 Notes
145. In contrast to Albertz (1994: 30), who says that some of the El deities (El Elyon, El-
Bethel, and El-Olam) “can be understood as a local manifestation of the great god of
heaven, El” (emphasis mine).
146. As noted (p. 77), KTU 1.23 does describe ʾIlu fathering two astral deities, Dawn and Dusk.
147. See Trible 1978: 62–64. Trible rightly notes that those translations that render “the
God who fathered you” (e.g., JB) are “inadmissible” (1978: 70 n. 9). As noted too by
Tigay (1996: 307), yālad “is used far more often for giving birth than fathering,” and
the Polel of ḥwl “refers literally to the mother’s labor pains.”
On family religion and divine parentage, as well as God (and kings) as mother
and father, see Chapter Eight, pp. 473–494.
148. Cf. the similar wording of Canaanite religion, but portrayed negatively and with a
reversal of gender in Jer 2:27 that is playing off Deut 32:18: “Who say to a tree, ‘you
are my father’; [Who say] to a stone: ‘You gave me birth’ ” ([ʾōmĕrîm] lāʾeben ʾat
yĕlidtinî). Cf. Holladay 1986: 103–104.
149. Van der Toorn 1996b: 206–265, esp. 255. For further treatments of cults of the dead
from both archaeological and textual perspectives, see Bloch-Smith 1992a, 1992b
and Lewis 1989, 2002 and their bibliographies.
150. See further Lewis 2002: 173 on the characteristic P phraseology of the dead being
“gathered to his kin,” wayyēʾāsēp ʾel ʿammāyw (Gen 25:8, 17; 35:29; 49:29, 33;
Num 20:24, 26; 27:13; 31:2; Deut 32:50) and the Deuteronomist’s “lying with one’s
ancestors,” šākab ʿim ʾăbôtāyw.
151. For bibliography on the name Yaqub-ilu, see note 12.
152. See Gen 49:25 and Ps 77:10 (Eng 77:9); Chapman 2016: 113–116; and Chapter
Eight, p. 492. Compare Yĕraḥmĕʾēl (“May El/the god have compassion”) and the
gentilic yĕraḥmĕʾēlî (“the Yerahmeelites”). For the use of personal names using El
and Yahweh with √ḥnn, “to have compassion,” see Chapter Eight, p. 481.
153. Ps 77:14 (Eng 77:13). As noted, in its present form this verse refers to Yahweh, with
the following ʾĕlōhîm being the result of the editor of the Elohistic Psalter.
154. See note 3.
155. On the ʾăbîr/ʾabbîr problem, see later discussion. For literature on El as warrior, see
note 44.
156. See Deut 33:26, which (if we are correct that MT’s kāʾēl is a secondary pious correc-
tion for an original kĕʾēl) seems to describe El “riding through the heavens” (rōkēb
šāmayîm) followed by a description of an ancient divine figure that may be a reflex
of El Olam (as has been discussed). Cross (1973: 157 n. 52) argues that Deut 33:26
juxtaposes El epithets with those of Baal. Compare Elyon’s connection to thunder
in Ps 18:14 (Eng 18:13) = 2 Sam 22:14, but it is clear in this verse that Elyon refers to
Yahweh, not El.
For the notion of a divine cloud rider, compare Ugaritic rkb ʿrpt (referring to Baʿlu
frequently), Israelite rōkēb bāʿărābôt (referring to Yahweh in Ps 68:5 [Eng 68:4]; cf.
Ps 104:3), and the divine name Rakib-El, which occurs regularly in the inscriptions
from Zincirli (cf. the Hadad inscription [KAI 214.2–3, 11, 18] and the Panamuwa
inscription [KAI 215.22]). In the Panamuwa (KAI 215.22) and Kulamuwa (KAI
24.15–16) inscriptions, Rakib-El is referred to as the dynastic god (bʿl byt, bʿl bt).
Notes 733
See Greenfield 1987: 69. Cross (1973: 10 n. 32) argues for an identification with the
lunar god Yarih.
157. Num 23:22; 24:8; cf. 23:8. See the conclusion of this chapter for a discussion of those
who see El as the original god of the exodus tradition.
158. I do not agree with the view suggested by de Pury (1999b: 290) that “ ‘patriarch’
religion is the form of national religion—another form of Yahwism—that was prev-
alent among the tribal elites of Israel down to the monarchic period . . . in Northern
Israel where the Jacob legend functioned as a national legend of origin of its own.”
On the other hand, I do not mean to deny that royal images may have been used
of El’s cult at Shiloh, as nicely articulated in Seow 1989.
159. On the ways in which royal wives (divine and human) were used ideologically in
KTU 1.23, see Lewis forthcoming a.
160. On the divine assembly, see Chapter Nine, p. 565.
161. The question of Phoenician/Punic El’s association with human sacrifice is tied up to
how one identifies Molek and Baal Hamon and the veracity of source material such
as Philo of Byblos (discussed previously). See, for example, Cross 1973: 10, 26–28,
35–36; Olyan 1988: 12, 52–53; and Ackerman 1992: 157–159. These topics will be
treated later. It should be noted that Ugaritic ʾIlu was not associated with human
sacrifice even though Ugarit had cults dedicated to deceased ancestors. The same
can be said for Israelite El.
Gen 22 (the Aqedah) is sometimes used to draw the connection between patriarchal
religion and human sacrifice, with some scholars arguing that the practice was widely
accepted (e.g., Levenson 1993). First, for the present discussion, it should be noted that
El does not occur in the narrative. As for the putative ubiquity of human sacrifice, com-
pare Hendel 1995: 15, which argues that the rhetoric of Genesis 22 must be taken in
the opposite direction: “If the sacrifice of the first-born son was commonly accepted
in Israel, then where is Abraham’s greatness? He would be no greater than any other
child-sacrificer. . . . The greatness of Abraham argues that he be willing to do what or-
dinary men are incapable of doing. . . . If the sacrifice of the first-born were an ordinary
act, then Abraham would be an ordinary man.” For a comprehensive analysis of child
sacrifice in ancient Israel and a reassessment of the Molek material, see Dewrell 2017.
162. We do not know the exact location of Beer Lahai Roi nor its two adjacent cities men-
tioned in Gen 16:14. Biblical tradition places them in the southern wilderness “on
the way to Shur” (Gen 16:7), so perhaps Qadesh refers to Qadesh-Barnea in north-
east Sinai. Bered occurs only in Gen 16:14. See again Num 23:22. There is no clear
evidence that “El Elyon is a southern form of El,” as suggested by Wyatt (1992: 85).
On the presence of El at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, see Lewis 2020.
163. In Exod 34:14 and elsewhere ʾēl qannā is used of Yahweh. See the study by Guinn-
Villareal (2018), who argues against seeing the term qinʾâ as solely one of emotion
in light of its clear use in sociolegal contexts.
164. See, for example, the deities mentioned in the inscriptions found in note 50.
165. The closest we come in Gen 49:25, but see note 132.
166. See pp. 80–81, 104–105. See too the discussion of Ps 68 in Chapter Ten, p. 581
and note 26.
734 Notes
167. See note 44.

168. Mettinger is by no means alone in such musings. See Wyatt 1992 and Smith
1994a: 207–208. More recently, Smith (2001b: 147) builds on the work of Seow to
underscore Moses’s connection to an El cult, especially at Shiloh.
169. Cf. too Evans 1995: 203–205, esp. 202, building on the work of Mettinger and Toews
as well as that of Coats (1987: 4–7) on Ps 22:22b (Eng 22:21b) to suggest that “there
are reasons to believe that a calf or bull image was used in Yahweh worship prior to
the time of Jeroboam I.”
170. Andersen (2001: 292) comments well: “The language of Habakkuk 3 is so shrouded
in mythological imagery that historical statements are hard to nail down in it. But
its historical memories are closer to the Exodus than to any other known event. It
does not describe the conquest of Canaan.”
171. On Habakkuk 3 as well as the remarkable parallels with Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster in-
scription 4.2, see Chapter Six, pp. 280–281; Chapter Seven, pp. 359–360; Chapter
Eight, pp. 451–452; Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587; and Lewis 2020.
172. Compare Ps 29; Exod 15:1–5; Isa 27:1; 51:9–11; Ps 18:7–16 (Eng 18:6–15); Ps
74:12–14 (reading yhwh rather than MT’s ʾĕlōhîm, which reflects the editing of the
Elohistic Psalter); Ps 89:9–11 (Eng 89:8–10); Ps 104:1–9. But compare Job 6:4, 9;
7:12; 9:13; and 40:9, 19.
For a detailed discussion of the way in which cosmic combat myths were used in
the ancient Near East and especially assigned to Yahweh in biblical tradition (rather
than to El), see Chapter Eight, pp. 428–461.
Chapter 5
1. Contrast the frequent literary representations of divinity. See Chapter Seven.

2. Though not treated in any detail here, the study of semiotics is very important
for understanding the biblical notion of legitimate versus illegitimate images. See
Halbertal and Margalit 1992; Evans 1995. Such scholars use Charles Sanders Peirce’s
semiotics to describe the nature of representation of the divine. In short, biblical
tradition forbids similarity-based representations of God, but it allows metonymic
representations.
3. Parts of what follows appeared originally in Lewis 2005a. I thank Andrew G. Vaughn
and the American Schools of Oriental Research for their permission to reuse the
material here.
4. Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 11. See note 190 on Pakkala’s (2008) attempt to under-
stand Jeroboam’s bull images without any reference to iconography.
5. The bibliography on Asherah is overwhelmingly large. For an overview, see
Hadley 2000.
6. For more information on the IDD and online prepublication of many entries, see
http://www.religionswissenschaft.uzh.ch/idd.
7. For example, Caquot and Sznycer’s Ugaritic Religion (1980), which appears in the
Groningen Iconography of Religions series, has little analysis of iconography.
Notes 735
8. Yon 1997: 158–159 and KTU 6.62. On the presence of Reshef in New Kingdom Egypt,
see Tazawa 2009.
9. For a sample of dragons and Mischwesen monsters elsewhere in the ancient Near
East, see Chapter Eight. The lack of certain artifacts is due to both the lack of (and
poverty of) production in Iron Age Israel and the nature of the archaeological enter-
prise. These questions are explored in detail in Chapter Seven, which wrestles with
the question of what accounts for the absence of male divine figures in the Iron Age
archaeological record.
10. See note 141.
11. For older collections of the Judean pillar figurines, see Kletter 1996 and Gilbert-Peretz
1996. The most thorough study is Darby 2014. See too the conclusion by Albertz and
Schmitt (2012: 64–65) that the Judean pillar-figurines functioned as “multipurposed
ritual objects,” not representations of goddesses.
12. See Lewis 1998: 45–46 and bibliography therein.
13. Yon 1997: 156. Cf. KTU 1.14.2.6–26; KTU 1.119.13–16: “A flame-sacrifice [ʾurm] and
a presentation sacrifice [šnpt] the king must offer [at] the temple of ʾIlu: a npš for
ʾI[lu?], a npš for Baʿlu[ . . . ] and a donkey (ʿr) for [ . . . ].” See Pardee 1997d: 284.
14. Yon 1997: 156; 2006: 146–147. See the additional description of this mug on pp. 144–146.
15. Dever 1984; 1990: 144–148.
16. A full critique of Dever’s position can be found in Hadley 1994: 245– 249;
2000: 144–152.
17. Dever 1983: 583. See detailed discussion of this figurine on pp. 157–159.
18. Specifically, this small item (Field II, Area 3, Locus 3192) was found “in destruction
debris of Str. 6B on a 6B surface” (Dever 1974: 67). Locus 3187 (stratum 6B), which
has been dated to the tenth-ninth century BCE, contains “some later intrusive elem-
ents from Trenches 3044 and 3113” (Dever 1974: 126). Trench 3113 contains mostly
seventh-/sixth-century BCE material (Dever 1974: 123). Trench 3044 contains con-
siderable Iron II/Persian material and even Hellenistic material of the third/second
centuries BCE (Dever 1974: 120). Thus if either of these trenches is responsible for
the chalk altar in question, its dating to the tenth century BCE would be unfounded.
(My thanks to Sy Gitin [personal communication] for raising these questions.)
19. Pardee (2002a: 224) notes from his study of the ritual texts that “the prestige [of El] is
enough . . . to discount attempts to make of him a deus otiose in Ugaritic religion.” See
Pardee 2000: 900, 963.
20. The astute reader will recognize how the biblical material is woven through this ge-
neral look at the ancient Near Eastern view of divine images. This is intentional in
order to help combat the misperception lying behind references such as “the Bible/
Ancient Israel and the Ancient Near East,” as if the former were not a part of the latter.
21. Oppenheim 1964: 183. Winter (1992: 36 n. 1) offered her treatment of royal images as
a “foundation for such an undertaking.”
22. For Mesopotamia, see Walker and Dick 1999, 2001; Berlejung 1997; and Hurowitz
2006. For Egypt, see Ritner 1997a and Lorton 1999.
23. I am indebted to Ben-Tor (2006: 3) for the New Kingdom reference, which may
be found in Lichtheim 1976: 198. The fuller text (known as “The Destruction of
736 Notes
Mankind”) reads: “Re, the self-created . . . Mankind plotted against him, while his
majesty had grown old, his bones being silver, his flesh gold, his hair true lapis lazuli.”
The Inanna reference is found in her descent into the underworld (lines 43–46). Here
I am indebted to Hurowitz (2006: 6–7), who is in turn dependent on Buccellati and
Gaebelein. Hurowitz’s treatment discusses mēsu wood at length.
24. Hurowitz 2006. Did the use of such a base material as clay designate a lesser deity
(e.g., the clay figurines of the minister god Ninshubur) or even the lack of divinity
(cf. protective clay figures such as the “creatures of the Abzu”)?
25. Arnaud 1991: 143–44; text 87. See too Avalos 1995b: 623.
26. Because this material is fairly straightforward, I have omitted the figurines that were
produced in my original presentation. For this documentation, see Lewis 2005a: figs.
4.2, 4.3, 4.7, 4.18, 4.19, 4.20, 4.21.
27. Once again, I have omitted the specific figurines. See the documentation in my orig-
inal presentation: Lewis 2005a: figs. 4.1, 4.6, 4.22, 4.23, 4.24, 4.25, 4.26, 4.27.
28. A type of inventory list is found in Exod 35:5–9. RSV’s translation reads: “gold, silver,
and bronze; blue and purple and scarlet stuff and fine twined linen; goats’ hair, tanned
rams’ skins, and goatskins; acacia wood, oil for the light, spices for the anointing oil
and for the fragrant incense, and onyx stones and stones for setting.” Yet this list has
to do with the ephod and breastpiece, not a divine image per se.
29. Clay images are mentioned in the Apocrypha (Bel and the Dragon, verse 7; Wisdom
of Solomon 15:6–17). I am indebted to Hurowitz for these references.
30. On the use of clay to make humans, and especially the expression “the pinching off ”
or “nipping” of clay,” see Lewis 2014a: 3–8, 24, 27.
31. See Walker and Dick 1999: 66, 116–117 for a discussion of the debate between Borger
and Landsberger regarding the translation of (w)alādu.
32. Walker and Dick 1999; 2001, with summary in 1999: 114–116. See also Ashur 418 (=
Ebeling 1931: §27, 108–114), which differs from other “mouth washing” texts in that
it uses diagrams to illustrate the actual placement of the cultic apparatus (e.g., reed
mats, paṭiru-altars, bricks, and curtains).
33. Cf. Sanmartín 1995; Vita 1999: 486–490.
34. Walker and Dick 1999: 62. Cf. KTU 1.43.8, which mentions Kothar in one of the
Ugaritic “entry” texts.
35. Num 21:8–9; Exod 32:1–4, 8, 20, 23–24; Judg 8:24–27. In the Numbers passage,
Moses is actually commanded by the deity to fashion the bronze serpent.
36. Its huge size (60 cubits [approx. 90 ft.] high, 6 cubits [approx. 9 ft.] wide) reminds
one of monumental architecture in Egypt and Mesopotamia, and the 3-ft.-long
footprints at Ayn Dara in Syria (on which see Chapter Seven). Known from texts
only, we have Baʿlu’s large throne (KTU 1.6.1.56–65) and Yahweh’s cherub throne
(10 cubits by 10 cubits). Later parallels more fitting to the date of the book of Daniel
are also known; see Collins 1993: 162, 180. On the size of Yahweh’s throne in the
Solomonic temple and ancient Near Eastern parallels, see Bloch-Smith 1994: 25. As
Bloch-Smith notes, “A god of cosmic size is omnipotent, omnipresent, and reigns
for eternity.”
37. In contrast, note that the large statue in Dan 2:31–36 represents the course of history
rather than a deity.
Notes 737
38. See the so-called Verse Account of Nabonidus, translated by Oppenheim (1969: 313),
as noted by Collins (1993: 180–181).
39. I owe this reference to Beckman 2011: 101. The installation of a newly constructed di-
vine image is described as follows: “They smear the golden divine image, the wall [of
the temple], and all of the implements of the new [deity] with blood so that the [new]
deity and the temple will be pure” (KUB 29.4 IV 38–40 [CTH 481]).
40. Yet compare the description of God vivifying the human clay in Gen 2:7.
41. All of this bears little resemblance to the Mesopotamian mīs pî ritual. Scholars
often cite how this “ceremony of dedication of the image . . . can be illustrated from
Babylonian and Assyrian inscriptions” (Porteous 1965: 57). At best, this may be a type
of cultural memory of Mesopotamian dedication ceremonies. Cf. “mnemohistory” as
articulated by scholars such as Assmann (1997).
42. Elsewhere this pillar is described as receiving anointing (Gen 31:13) and libations
(Gen 35:14). Yet is it clear that the massebah in these narratives is commemorative in
nature. In anthropological terms, it marks sacred space where an adherent witnesses
a theophany. The massebah marks “the place where he spoke with him” (Gen 35:14).
The place in question is Bethel (Gen 35:7, 15), where sacred vows were made (Gen
31:13). “Bethel” is a complicated word in that it later becomes a hypostasis for deity.
43. See Walker and Dick 2001.
44. Avishur 2000: 193.
45. Younger 1998: 19, 36–40; 2000a: 150.
46. See Virolleaud 1957: xxxi–xxxii, 137–142; texts #106 (RS 15.115), #107 (RS 15.82).
47. Pardee 2002a: 226, 109 n. 98. The goddess ʿAthartu is particularly associated with
textiles. See the Conclusion, pp. 681–683.
48. Whether this garment was intended to clothe the image is not stated. Line 22
is broken. See del Olmo Lete 1999: 260, 286 n. 96, 308–309 for the idea that such
passages do refer to the “ritual attire of the gods.”
49. 2 Sam 12:30. See McCarter 1984: 311–13 for the textual criticism on this passage.
Cf. the mention of the ephod in connection with Micah’s image in Judg 17–18. Cf.
Andersen and Freedman’s (1980: 242) comments on Hos 2:10, a passage that finds a
close parallel in Ezek 16. It is plausible that the author of Ezek 16 used the imagery of
dressing a cult image in his description of Yahweh dressing Jerusalem.
50. Andersen and Freedman (1980: 631–32) argue that the (majestic) plural “calves”
refers to the singular image of Baal as a young bull.
51. It is often said that “Tushratta of Mitanni twice sent the statue of Ishtar of Nineveh
to Egypt to help heal the pharaoh” (Bienkowski 2000: 200). See too Wilhelm
1995: 1251: “On . . . hearing of an illness of the pharaoh [Amenhotep], Tushratta sent
him the statue of the famous goddess Shawushka of Nineveh, as his father Shuttarna
had already done before him.”
In contrast, Moran (1992: 61–62) argues that the statue was not sent to heal the
aging king. “This explanation rests purely on analogy and finds no support in this
letter. . . . More likely, it seems, is a connection with the solemnities associated with
the marriage of Tushratta’s daughter.” The text (EA 23:13–17) says simply: “Thus
Shaushka, of Nineveh, mistress of all lands: ‘I wish to go to Egypt, a country that
I love, and then return.’ Now I [Tushratta] herewith send her and she is on her way.”
738 Notes
52. Foster 1993: 382, 385. For a discussion of the “theology of travel,” see Meier 2007:
193–194.
53. Note how del Olmo Lete (1999: 283 n. 86) says that “we have no idea precisely why
they [the statues of the gods] were carried around in Ugarit.”
54. Pardee 2000: 214–264; 2002a: 69–72; del Olmo Lete 1999: 285–291.
55. Merlo and Xella (1999: 294–95) note how this ritual, “which is focused completely
on the procession of divine statues,” has “the role carried out by the king and his
family . . . completely in the foreground.”
56. Pardee 2000: 489–519; 2002a: 214–216; del Olmo Lete 1999: 257; Merlo and Xella
1999: 295.
57. Pardee 2000: 779–806; 2002a: 44–49; del Olmo Lete 1999: 132.
58. Pardee 2000: 630–642; 2002a: 36–38; del Olmo Lete 1999: 140, 245.
59. Aziru, son of Abdi-Ashirta, to Tutu (an Egyptian official): “Here are my gods and my
messenger . . . thus you are to be put under oath to my gods.”
60. See Hallo 1983: 14–15, which notes that Deutero-Isaiah has Nabonidus in mind.
61. Some scholars think the cultic images known as teraphim were healing in nature. Yet
not one of the fifteen occurrences of the word in the Hebrew Bible notes this function.
See Lewis 1999: 848.
62. Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 219–222. See too the discussion of Bes with regard to the
Kuntillet ʿAjrud drawings in Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.
63. In KTU 1.23.23–24, 59, 61, the gracious gods “suck the teats of ʾAthiratu’s breasts.”
There is also a reference in KTU 1.15.2.26–28 to two goddesses serving as wet nurses
to Yassib, King Kirta’s son. Yet the broken nature of the text has resulted in various
readings. Traditionally scholars read ʾAthiratu in the first line and reconstructed
[Anatu] in the parallel line. Based on new photographic evidence, Greenstein
(1997: 25, 45 n. 66) read the first line as ʿAthtartu (Astarte). Pardee presented a
new tablet join at the 2008 meetings of the American Oriental Society that has us
now read the first line as nrt, “the Luminary,” a reference to the goddess Shapshu.
See Pardee 2012a: 184–185, 194–195. For Anat’s putative role as wet nurse, see Walls
1992: 152–154.
64. Whether the winged goddess depicted here is Anat cannot be determined with cer-
tainty. See Ward 1969 and Walls 1992: 153–154.
65. On the function and identity of Shaʿtiqatu, see Lewis 2013a, 2014a.
66. Perhaps a marriage gift due to the use of the word mhr. See del Olmo Lete 1999: 369;
Parker 1997: 223 n. 10.
67. In addition to figurines, Levine and Tarragon (1988) note the serpents on the Ain
Samia goblet. See Avalos 1995a: 342 n. 161 for bibliography. For snake figurines and
the namburbi rituals, see Avalos 1995a: 342ff.
68. See Avalos 1995a: 337–349 on this passage and the temple as a therapeutic locus.
Avalos (1995a: 347) notes that the Nehushtan “was regarded as a deity itself.”
69. Beckman 2006: 219–221. For the capture of foreign gods as war booty in Hittite liter-
ature, see Schwemer 2008b.
70. See Younger 2000b: 294; see further Cogan’s (1974: 22–41) discussion of “Assyrian
spoliation of divine images.”
Notes 739
71. For additional images of the looting of divine statues, see Ornan 2005a: 259–260, figs.
117–120.
72. Recognized already by Cogan (1974: 116–117). Naaman, in his attempt to continue to
worship Yahweh in his homeland, Syria, takes with him two loads of Israelite earth (2
Kgs 6:17). Seemingly there was no opportunity to secure an image of (the aniconic?)
Yahweh.
73. Cogan 1974: 22–41. The Bavian Rock inscription of Sennacherib describes the cap-
ture and destruction of Babylon: “My men took the [images of the] gods who dwell
there and smashed them. . . . Adad and Shala, the gods of Ekallate, which Marduk-
nadin-ahhe, king of Babylon had taken and carried off to Babylon during the reign
of Tiglath-pileser [I]‌, king of Assyria, I brought out of Babylon and returned them to
their place in Ekallate.” See Cogan 2000a. See too the enigmatic Papyrus Amherst 63
(the so-called Aramaic Text in Demotic Script), which describes the trampling and
smashing of the divine statue (XIII.9–17). See Steiner’s (1997a: 319) translation as
well as those of van der Toorn (2018a: 11, 69–70, 177–185; column XIV.9–17) and
Holm (forthcoming).
74. On the precise language used in Moses’ destruction of the young bull, see Knoppers
1995b: 102 n. 28, building on the work of Loewenstamm and Begg.
75. Note Cogan 1974: 116, showing how David did not do this in 2 Sam 12:30.
76. One judge acts similarly. Gideon tears down the altar of Baal (no mention of his
image) and cuts down the asherah (Judg 6:25–32).
77. Cogan (1974: 116) writes: “2 Sam 5:21 reports that after successfully routing the
Philistines at Baal Perazim, David and his men carried off the idols left behind by the
retreating Philistines.” Cogan is certainly correct that the plain sense of the passage
indicates that “David actually despoiled the Philistine images.” The Chronicler has
David burning the images (1 Chr 14:12).
78. For the textual criticism on this passage, see McCarter 1984: 311–313.
79. See Chapter Seven, p. 788, note 32 on using the language of “desacralizing” to de-
scribe such treatment of divine figurines.
80. As has been noted, clay can certainly be used for divine images. Solid examples would
include the terra-cotta goddess seated on a throne from Emar, the nude female on
the bottom register of the Taanach cult stand, and the horned goddess from Horvat
Qitmit. For pictures, see Lewis 2005a: figs. 4.1, 4.21, and 4.27.
The notion that the investment of resources can correlate with prestige is certainly
true (and thus the norm is to find divine figures made of precious metals), yet one
must factor in how poorer individuals would have accessed divine images. They cer-
tainly would have used more affordable media such as clay or wood. Yet using such
materials to demarcate between the sacred and the profane is much more difficult
precisely because they are so abundant in everyday use.
81. Though horns regularly mark divinity, we must be careful not to insist on their es-
sentiality. Compare, for example, the exquisitely made bronze figure from Hazor
documented in Figure 5.36 that is lacking horns but clearly divine.
82. Regrettably, we have precious few examples of inscriptions with images in the Levant
such as the Old Aramaic Hadad inscription (KAI 214, line 14; cf. lines 1, 16), where
740 Notes
King Panamuwa I has the words “a statue for this Hadad” carved on a large (approx.
13 ft. [4 m] high) horned statue of the god Hadad. (I thank Adam Bean for reminding
me of this.) See too how most scholars affirm that the letters ʾlt (written left to
right!) on the Late Bronze Age Lachish ewer do indeed designate the goddess Elat,
as represented by a sacred tree drawn immediately beneath (see the summary pro-
vided in Hadley 2000: 156–161). In contrast, scholars are very divided about whether
the inscription “Yahweh and his asherah” should be equated with the drawings of
the two standing figures on the Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos A (see Figure 7.15). That the
crown of the left standing figure goes straight through the inscription (at the very
point of two names nonetheless) argues strongly for two different hands, and thus
raises the bar quite high against any linkage between the iconography and the in-
scription. Moreover, the distinct Bes-like character of the two standing figures makes
any such equation almost impossible. See the full discussion of this important mate-
rial in Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.
83. Cf. Negbi 1976: 46–57 and Moorey and Fleming 1984: 70. The treatment here, con-
centrating on examples from Late Bronze Age Ugarit, is necessarily brief. For an
earlier Middle Bronze Age example of a seated El figure (flanked by offering table,
worshipper, and priest) on a serpentine cylinder seal coming from a burial cave near
Ras ʿAli in Naḥal Zippori, see Brandl 2014: 7–9. Brandl dates this seal to the sixteenth
century BCE and argues that it is a product of “ ‘Greater Canaan,’ perhaps a workshop
in Ugarit.”
84. See the studies of bronze figurines mentioned in note 113.
85. Cf. also Nebgi (1976: #1441), an Egyptianizing figurine that also comes from Ugarit.
In contrast to our figurines, this one does not have a beard. Cf. a similar beardless
figurine from Byblos (Negbi 1976: #1443) and the beardless figurines in Figures 5.35,
5.36, 5.38, 5.39, 5.41, and 5.42—but note the beard on Figure 5.40 from Megiddo.
86. See Lewis 2008a. Analysis of the South City Trench and insights into domestic architec-
ture and how this part of the city was planned can be found in RSO I (Callot 1983) and
RSO X (Callot 1994). For an easily accessible description of the South City Trench, see
Yon 2006: 91–97. The elite nature of some of these homes can be seen in Block X, House
B, the so-called House of Literary Tablets (Callot 1994: 53–61). These Ugaritic and
Akkadian texts included portions of the Gilgamesh Epic and wisdom literature.
Of course, one could emphasize that this part of the city contained a metallur-
gical workshop. Indeed, an earlier designation had labeled this area “the House of the
Bronze Smith.” Yet according to Yon (2006: 96), “this interpretation . . . lacks sufficient
basis.” See further Callot 1994: 186–188.
87. This bronze statuette with gold foil covering is Museum No. Damascus S3573 (RS
23.394). Its find spot: South City Trench, block XIII, Locus 38, topographic point
2755. See Callot 1994: 187, 224, 414 fig. 393, Yon 2006: 133. Its dimensions: height: 5.3
in. (13.5 cm); width: 2 in. (5 cm); depth: 3.5 in. (9 cm). Early treatments of this fig-
urine include Caquot and Sznycer 1980: 23, plate VIII, and Negbi 1976: 171, #1442.
88. This stela, found in the eighth campaign in 1936, is currently housed in the Aleppo
Museum (A 4622 = RS 8.295). The most complete treatment is that of Yon (1991: 305–
307, 336 fig. 16). In addition to Yon’s bibliography, see Wyatt 1983.
Notes 741
89. This mug was found on the South Acropolis in 1961 and is now in the Damascus
Museum (no. 6881 = RS 24.440). For a brief summary of the numerous reli-
gious objects (especially divinatory) in the House of the Magician-Priest, see Yon
2006: 100.
90. On Yon’s interpretation, see p. 123 and notes 13 and 14. For the ritual texts, see
Pardee 2000, 2002a. The literature on royal cult is vast. See, for example, Tarragon
1980: 79–129; Merlo and Xella 1999: 296–300; and Lewis forthcoming a. Even
the sacrifice of a foreign king is mentioned in KTU 2.40.14–17. See Clemens
2001: 223–233.
91. On the meaning of prln as “diviner” corresponding to Akkadian bārû, see van
Soldt 1989: 367–368 and the bibliography in Clemens 2001: 876–877. On ʾAttānu-
purulini, see further Lipiński 1988: 131–133.
92. For the history of scholarship on the term ḫrṣn, now taken by most scholars to be a
personal name, see Lipiński 1988: 126–131 and Clemens 2001: 489–491.
93. See Lipiński 1988: 133–137.
94. Excavations took place between 1978 and 1982. See Yon 1996.
95. This stela, found in 1988, is currently housed in the Latakia Museum (RS 88.70). See
Yon and Gachet 1989; Yon 1991, 1993, 2006: 130–131.
96. But Pope (1955: 36) has ʾIlu twiddling his fingers.
97. See Keel 1997: 47–49; 1986: 309; Keel and Schroer 2015: 35–36, fig. 19; and Amiet
1960. For further analysis of this seal, see the bibliography of works by Parrot,
Amiet, and Vanel listed in Green 2003: 160 n. 20.
98. Amiet (1960: 220) even connects the deity with the pointed lance with Ugarit’s
Baal au foudre stela, and Keel connects the two stars with “the stars of El” in Isaiah
14:13. Smith (1994b: 226) gives tentative approval to Keel’s theory. Hess (2007b: 83,
86) also sees the depiction here as “an aged El-type deity enthroned on a mountain,”
and “if it is indeed El in his abode, then perhaps Baal is the one who pierces that wa-
ters (Yamm, ‘Sea’).”
99. See Pritchard 1969: 160; §464; Keel and Uehlinger 1998; and Day 1992.
100. See Miller 1970; Dohmen 1987: 147– 153; Schroer 1987: 81– 104; Evans
1995: 201–205.
101. Figure 5.22 can be found in Collins 2005: 41, fig. 2.12. This image and its function
were previously noticed by Olyan (1988: 31). Collins (2005: 40), in commenting on
Tudhaliya IV’s restoration of divine images, notes that “the majority of replacements
is toward theriomorphic forms—specifically, storm gods are given images in the
form of bulls.”
102. See Cornelius 1994: §2.2.2.3; §4.3; 2004.
103. This list is by no means complete. For a catalogue of Neo-Assyrian and Neo-
Babylonian seals in the British Museum with the “god on a bull” motif, see Collon
2001: 141–147; §276–284. For a more recent catalogue of storm god figures riding
bulls, see Bunnens 2006. For additional examples of bull riders beyond what we
have presented here, see Bunnens 2006, fig. 33 (from Emar), fig. 34 (from Emar),
fig. 57 (from Karaçay Köy), fig. 71 (from Ankara Museum), fig. 117 (from Tasliköy),
fig. 119 (from Tilhalit), fig. 120 (from Gölpinar), fig. 121 (in Aleppo Museum), and
742 Notes
fig. 122 (from Arslan Tash). For examples of goddesses on bulls, see Chapter Seven,
note 62.
As for storm gods with chariots, cf. the mention of Baal hitching his chariot (bʿl
ʾsr mrkbty) in Arslan Tash Incantation II, lines 1–2.
104. ANEP §534; cf. too the two kilted deities that stand on two aladlammu creatures
(i.e., human-headed winged bulls) in an eighth-century BCE Neo-Assyrian cyl-
inder seal. See Collon 2001: 142–143, §277; Danrey 2004: 137–138, fig. 10.
105. The find spot of this bronze is the same as Figure 5.16, i.e., South City Trench, Block
XIII, Locus 38, topographic point 2755. See Callot 1994: 187, 224, 414 fig. 393; Yon
2006: 133. See earlier Caquot and Sznycer 1980: 22–23.
106. Caquot and Sznycer 1980: 22.
107. Cf. KTU 1.12.2.53–55, where Baʿlu falls like a bull (npl bʿl km ṯr).
108. See Caquot and Sznycer 1980: plates IX, X; Cornelius 1994: 165. There is also the
possibility of foreign imports. On bull cults and weather deities in the Anatolian
and Mesopotamian spheres, see Haas 1994: 315–338.
109. If Cornelius is correct, this would argue against A. Mazar’s critique (1982: 32) of
Schaeffer’s view. Mazar had argued that the bull figurine could represent Baal due
to the striding figurine also found in South City Trench, Block XIII, Locus 38, topo-
graphic point 2755.
110. It should be mentioned that Beck (1989: 337) entertained the idea that the bull rider
from Hazor Temple H Str 1B (Figure 5.27) may have been El. Yet it is more likely
that here we have a storm deity with lunar traits, as we have at Bethsaida. So Bernett
and Keel 1998: 37 as well as Ornan 2001: 17–18.
Many more bulls are attested elsewhere, although, according to Mazar (1982: 29),
“only a few bronze bull figures are known from the Levant.” See the various
references in Moorey 1971 and Mazar 1982: 29–31.
111. Stager (2008: 579) suggests that the Ashkelon figurine depicts “a male calf about a
year old.”
112. Stager (2008: 579–580) argues for Baʿal Ṣaphon.
113. Cf. Collon 1972; Negbi 1976, 1989; Muhly 1980; Seeden 1980, 1982; Moorey and
Fleming 1984; Keel and Uehlinger 1998; Cornelius 1994; Uehlinger 1997.
114. Dever 1983: 574 (emphasis mine).
115. On the question of proto-Israelites at Hazor, see Ben-Tor 1998; 2016: 113–126;
Dever 1995; 2017: 95–96, 157–158.
116. Ahlström 1970–1971; 1975.
117. Keel 1973: 325–336; Hallo 1983: 1–2. More recently, see Ben-Ami 2006: 127 and
Zuckerman 2011: 390.
118. Dever 1983: 583 as well as personal communication; Negbi 1989: 360; Ben-Ami
2006: 127; Zuckerman 2011: 390.
119. Later biblical tradition records the face, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, and tongue of the
deity, but no cheeks, chin, or beard. See Korpel 1990: 100–108.
120. Ornan 2011: 278–279 uses the “uniquely large” size of this image and its exquisite
manufacture to argue that it is a “cult statue” of the deity (i.e., an object that was the
focus of veneration and the recipient of cult) and not a votive offering to the deity.
Notes 743
121. Ornan (2011: 255–258) argues that the highly unusual portrayal of the right arm
may be due to the manufacturing process “to promote the flow of metal into the
mold,” especially in view of the statue being cast in one piece.
Ornan (2011: 273) suggests that the lack of a beard may be diagnostic for identi-
fying this figurine as Baal rather than El. Yet caution must be exercised in making
any particular feature an essential aspect of a divine profile (see note 81)—especially
when one considers how the same god can be perceived differently over space
and time. If Ornan is correct, then one should also reclassify the various beardless
enthroned figures in this chapter as other than El (e.g., Fig. 5.35, 5.38, 5.39, 5.41,
5.42). See Ornan 2011: 273, where she acknowledges that, taking the seated posture
with its “more eminent and dignified pose” into consideration, “the identification of
Levantine enthroned metal figures as El seems plausible.”
122. For another example of male (bull) imagery juxtaposed with an ibex, see the
remnants of a storage jar found at Khirbet Ataruz that was decorated with seven
bulls and one ibex (Figure 5.72). Regrettably, its broken state doesn’t reveal any in-
formation about the presence of a sacred tree.
123. For pictures of each of these, see Cornelius and Niehr 2004: 30, abb. 45; 46, abb. 71.
124. In addition to Lewis forthcoming a, see Chapter Four, pp. 103–104, with the appli-
cation of this material for El-Shadday. Note too the Middle Bronze Age cylinder
seal from Ras ʿAli in Naḥal Zippori that portrays a quadruped animal standing on a
table (altar?) before a seated deity, likely El. See note 83.
While it is speculative, note how Keel and Uehlinger associate El as “Lord of the
Animals” with a hunting scene on a seal from Beth Shean. See pp. 166–170.
125. Figure 5.38 was tentatively identified as Baal or Reseph by Ben-Tor and Rubiato
(1999: 36). Hazor’s wealth of divine figures also includes a yet-to-be-published large
(4 ft. [1.2 m]) basalt statue found in the courtyard of Area A close to the palace en-
trance. In a preliminary note, Ben-Tor described this figurine (= reg. no. A/15227)
as “the largest Bronze Age statue of a deity to have been found in the country to
date.” The notion that we have a Canaanite deity here is due to an emblem depicting
a circle filled with rays and a crescent. See Ben-Tor 1995: 285, fig. 2; 2006: 6, no. 10.
It is clear that not all of the Hazor anthropomorphic bronze figurines were divine,
as seen in the depiction of an enthroned ruler/dignitary from Locus 7420 (reg. no.
A/44949). See Ben-Tor 2016: 110, fig. 74.1, and Ornan 2011: 254 n. 3 with addi-
tional bibliography.
126. See Horowitz, Oshima, and Sanders 2006: 65–87.
127. For the various deities attested in personal names, see note 163.
128. In addition to this bronze, a cult stand from twelfth-century BCE Megiddo has a
robed, seated male figure on each of its four sides. Another male stands opposite.
See Dayagi-Mendels 1986: 154–155, §74: “The lack of details and the crude execu-
tion make it difficult to detect any divine attributes, and therefore it is impossible
to determine whether these scenes represent a deity worshipped by an adorant or a
ruler receiving homage.”
129. The bronze, first published by Hansen (1957), was acquired in Jerusalem from
N. Ohan in 1906 by D. G. Lyon. From the records of purchase, it would seem that
744 Notes
Ohan kept quite detailed accounts of the proveniences. Acquisitions from antiq-
uities dealers are notoriously suspicious, especially those said to come from
well-publicized excavations. In this case the identification might be a little more be-
lievable because the first excavations at Tell Balâtah, under the direction of E. Sellin,
did not begin until 1913. The lack of archaeological context should be underscored
and any conclusions, even cautiously drawn, must be held in check. Compare
Negbi’s (1976: 48) uncritical reference to this figure as “the Shechem figurine” and
“the figurine from Shechem.”
130. Negbi 1976: 49, 57; Hansen 1957: 15.
131. Grant and Wright 1939: 154.
132. Personal communication.
133. Negbi (1976: 48) notes parallels with New Kingdom representations of Osiris but
concludes that the Beth Shean figurine’s appearance “bears closer resemblance to
the Canaanite god Mekal.”
134. Contrast the observations by Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 58) that “it is too facile a
solution to identify all enthroned gods as El and all striding gods as Baal” with the
detailed study of the markers for the gods Baal and Reshef by Cornelius (1994).
135. See Lewis 1996a. Textual analysis underscores the preeminence of the deity El-
Berith at pre-Israelite Shechem, but the lack of secure context for the Harvard
Semitic bronze prevents us from going any further. The deity does hold a cup in his
right hand, which reminds one of ʾIlu’s excessive drinking in the Ugaritic text KTU
1.114 (see Chapter Four). Yet drinking is certainly not restricted to ʾIlu at Ugarit
(cf. Baʿlu in KTU 1.3.1.10–11) and elsewhere (cf. Judg 9:13).
136. While Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 312 n. 30) date this seal to the end of the eighth
century BCE or early seventh century BCE, the uncertainty of both its location and
its date needs to be underscored.
137. Without textual support, we have no way of knowing or confirming whether the
cultic symbol here functioned “to mediate the blessing” of a god.
138. I have replaced Keel and Uehlinger’s vocabulary of “deity” here so as not to preju-
dice the conclusion from the outset.
139. See also the critique by Hartenstein (1995: 82–84). Uehlinger’s (1997: 142) later
comments conclude that this seal “cannot be regarded as decisive evidence,” yet it
remains “suggestive” and gives “some welcome support.”
140. The early use of byt ʾlhyʾ (bātay ʾilāhayyaʾ) to refer to stelae—but note with the
plural, “the houses of the gods”—occurs in the eighth-century BCE Old Aramaic
treaty text from Sefire (Sefire II C [= KAI 223], lines 2–3, 7, 9–10). On the use of
the term “betyl” in classical literature, see Fitzmyer 1995: 131–132 and Mettinger
1995: 35 n. 102.
141. When discussing this material, scholars use the conventional terms massebah (sin-
gular) and masseboth (plural) without the diacritics of the Hebrew terms maṣṣēbâ
and maṣṣēbôt.
Avner (1984, 1993, 1996, 2018; Avner et al. 2016) has shown that the use of standing
stones dates back as early as the eleventh millennium BCE and is well attested in de-
sert areas of the Southern Levant from the sixth to the third millennia, especially in
Notes 745
the Southern Negev. The number of desert cult sites with standing stones is staggering.
Avner (2018: 29) notes more than 450! See especially Avner’s probing of what might
be inferred from context (standing stones in open-air sanctuaries vs. standing stones
incorporated into tombs) and the properties of the stones themselves. These include
orientation (more likely to the east than to the west), shape (with broad stones per-
haps indicating female and narrow stones perhaps indicating male), and numbers
(most often singular, pairs, and triads, but also groups of five, seven, and nine).
See too Graesser 1969, 1972; Mettinger 1995: 33–34, 168–174; Zevit 2001: 256–
259; and LaRocca-Pitts 2001. Standing stones were equated with deities elsewhere
in the ancient Near East, as seen in the sikkānu standing stones at Late Bronze Age
Emar. See note 156 and Chapter Ten, pp. 627–628. As Michel (2013) observes, such
stones could be used of all the gods, male and female.
142. For example, the ten large standing stones at MB Gezer, according to Dever
(2014: 53), were “large-scale public monuments” that “functioned to commemorate
a covenant-renewal ceremony . . . among 10 towns or tribes in the vicinity.”
143. Even this could be elliptical, where the “pillar of Baal” could refer to a pillar ded-
icated to Baal in thanks for his beneficence or to mark his theophany without
necessarily denoting the actual cultic symbol of Baal, but this is improbable. The
Covenant Code is ambiguous when it states, “You shall not bow down to their gods
[i.e., those of the prior inhabitants of the land], nor serve them . . . but you shall ut-
terly overthrow them and break their [i.e., the inhabitants’ or the gods’?] masseboth
in pieces” (Exod. 23:24). The most natural reading would suggest the inhabitants’
masseboth and not the masseboth of the deities. Lev 26:1 is less explicit. It prohibits
“bowing down” to an ʾeben maśkît (on which cf. Hurowitz 1999) in connection with
not erecting a massebah.
There are other passages in which masseboth are dedicated to foreign gods but
not explicitly called symbols of the deities. Jer 43:13 mentions the maṣṣĕbôt bêt
šemeš, “the stone pillars of the Sun temple.”
144. For splendid examples of standing stones in grave complexes, see the rich collec-
tion of material from Avner’s many studies of Southern Negev sites from the sixth
through third millennia (see note 141) as well as the Wadi Fidan 40 cemetery in the
Faynan region in southern Jordan that Levy connects with the Sashu nomads. (On
the latter, see Chapter Six, pp. 229–232.) In addition to standing stones in circular
mortuary monuments, note especially the presence of “highly abstract anthropo-
morphic standing stones with stylized nose and ear features.” See Levy 2005: 471–
473; 2009a: 258; Levy, Adams, and Shafiq 1999.
145. Yet if one wanted to adopt a minimalist perspective, even here they could have been
seen as markers of sacred space where one came into contact with the deity/deities
(similar to Jacob’s use of a massebah in Gen 28:18–22).
146. A preliminary report of the 2013 excavations at Tel Rechesh in the Tabor River
Reserve in northern Israel documented “a Canaanite massebah-like stone or stele of
basalt that was in secondary use.” See Hasegawa and Paz 2015, fig. 7.
147. Here Stager (1999, 2003) is challenging earlier interpretations such as those of
G. E. Wright, the American excavator of Shechem, who had placed Temple 1 in the
746 Notes
Middle Bronze Age IIC period (1650–1550 BCE). See too Campbell 2002: 169–185
and G. R. H. Wright 2002: 97–104.
148. Stager 1999: 233. For detailed discussions and pictures of these two stele, see
Wright 1965: 82–83, 87, 93, 99, figs. 36–37, and Graesser 1969: 180–181. Graesser
writes: “As cultic stones they marked the area as sacred and also served as
boundary stones, indicating the limits of the special sacredness of the temple. . . .
[They] formed the focal point for ritual enacted at the entrance to the temple.
The duality of the stones was probably not intended to indicate a pair of deities. It
seems rather to stem from a feeling for symmetry, and perhaps from imitation of
the use of pairs of other objects before entryways, such as guardian winged beasts,
pillars, etc.”
149. Stager (1999: 233; 2003: 33) notes how writing on plaster is documented by the
eighth-/s eventh-century BCE Trans-Jordanian Deir ʿAlla texts (which may have
even been written on a stela rather than walls, as usually assumed), as does Richter
(2007: 359–360), who also points out the plaster inscriptions from the eighth-
century BCE inscriptions at Kuntillet ʿAjrud (see Chapter Six, pp. 268–269; Chapter
Ten, pp. 583–585).
150. Yet note how the author of Deut 27 consciously does not use the vocabulary of
masseboth to designate his plastered stones (ʾăbānîm); this fits with Deut 16:22,
which outlaws the setting up of a massebah, “which Yahweh your God hates.”
Likewise, the verb for erecting the stones is the hiphil of qwm (Deut 27:2, hăqēmōtā;
27:4, tāqîmû), not nṣb, which also would be associated with the masseboth.
151. Similar to Deut 27 (see note 150), again note how the vocabulary in Josh 24:26–27
uses ʾeben rather than maṣṣēbāh and the verb qwm rather than nṣb.
152. The MT’s notion of a tree being “erected” (muṣṣāb = Hophal ptc) makes little sense.
As our translation indicates, we follow those who associate muṣṣāb with maṣṣēbāh.
See the suggestion by LaRocca-Pitts (2001: 58) that the author’s slight change in vo-
cabulary could “serve to free the author to paint [the Abimelek] episode negatively
while at the same time reduce the possibility that any of the negative taint which
characterizes Judg 9:6 might rub off of this story onto the traditions of Joshua 24
and its stone of ‘witness.’ ” For a discussion of the textual debate as well as the in-
terplay between Josh 24 and Judg 9 and including the archaeological material, see
Campbell 1983.
153. See Chapter Four, notes 124 and 130. There is no need to change the text from ʾeben
yiśrāʾēl to bĕnê yiśrāʾēl, “the sons of Israel,” as do Cross and Freedman (1975: 53,
62). To the charge that ʾeben “is nowhere else used as a divine name or in associa-
tion with God” (Sarna 1989: 344), see 1 Sam 7:12. Sarna is more on track when he
suggests that “ ‘Stone of Israel’ may have been a very ancient title . . . derived from
the traditions about Jacob setting up a stone pillar at Bethel.”
154. Mazar (1982: 36, 39, fig. 11) tentatively suggests that the “undefined bronze object”
(“a folded piece of flat bronze sheet containing a fragment of a bronze handle”) may
be “a bronze mirror of Egyptian type.” As for the cult vessel (“a fragment of a large
ceramic cult object”), Mazar (1982: 36, 39 fig. 10) suggests that it “could be either an
incense burner . . . or a ‘model shrine.’ ”
Notes 747
155. Alternatively, though his material is much earlier, Avner argues that the many
examples of broad stones from the Southern Negev are indicators of female divinity.
See note 141.
156. Intriguingly, Jacob names the location of this sacred stone site Bethel, a name that
will later come to be used hypostatically as a surrogate for the deity. See Chapter
Four, note 116.
As for the lack of foodstuffs associated with sacred stones, one could also compare
(though admittedly far afield) Avner’s desert sites and the use of sikkānu stelae at
Emar. Fleming (1992a: 78) has written about the role of sikkānu stelae in the Emar
zukru ritual “with special connection to the gods.” “A sikkānu of dNIN.URTA makes
an appearance at the beginning of the zukru festival, and the gate of the sikkānu’s . . . is
perhaps the central sacred site of the whole feast. This gate is where the gods are
brought out from the city, and a chariot bearing statues of the gods is driven ‘between
the stelae’ (bērat sikkānāti) at several points in the ritual. They are anointed with oil
and blood at least twice.” See too Fleming 1992a: 17, 52 [= lines 34–35]; Dietrich,
Loretz, and Mayer 1989: 134; Sommer 2009: 49–50; and Michel 2013.
157. Ben-Ami (2006: 42, 45) argues that the stones here “are found in a clear cultic con-
text.” Of special note are three female figurines (one of silver, two of bronze) that
must be factored into our analyses. For pictures, see Ben-Ami 2006: 40–41 and Ben-
Tor 2016: 53 fig. 29. Yet Ben-Ami also notes that the large number of standing stones
(“more than 30 clustered together”) “can hardly fit any of the artistic descriptions
of gods in Near Eastern iconography.” Thus he concludes that these “were prob-
ably designed to commemorate some high-ranking individuals who were part of
the government bureaucracy . . . The masseboth were not meant for the eyes of the
worshippers, but for those of the deity, and they served here as a constant reminder
in front of the latter” (my emphasis; note Ben-Ami’s use of the singular “deity”).
158. Zuckerman (2011: 391–393) documents a wide variety of “ruin cults” elsewhere.
Borrowing vocabulary from Sara Morris’ descriptions of Troy, Zuckerman refers to
these as “value-laden” sites that should be considered “landscapes of memory.”
159. It has been suggested that Shelley’s poem was inspired by news that the British
Museum had acquired the broken top half of Ramses II’s impressive statue from
Thebes.
160. In addition to Ben-Tor 1996; 2016: 177, 181 fig. 131; Ben-Tor and Yadin 1989: 80–
81, brief discussions can be found in Gilmour 1995: 23–34; Ilan 1999: 154–156;
Zevit 2001: 202–205; Ben-Ami 2006: 125–127; and Zuckerman 2011.
161. One stand came from room 3283, while the adjacent rooms 3275 and 3307 each
contained two cult stands.
162. Contrast Gilmour 1995: 23–34, yet note that Gilmour penned his treatment prior to
the 1996 restoration project.
163. See Horowitz, Oshima, and Sanders 2006: 74–77, which updates some of the
readings in the earlier yet more comprehensive preliminary edition found in
Horowitz and Shaffer 1992: 21–33. See too Ben-Tor 2016: 70–71. As noted by
Horowitz and Shaffer, the tablet, written in cursive Old Babylonian, contains the
theophoric elements El, Addu/Hadad, and the moon god Erah. Of these, Addu/
748 Notes
Hadad predominates (Horowitz and Shaffer 1992: 22), and Ben-Tor (2016: 71)
suggests that he was the main god of the city. In contrast, assuming that Hadad
and Erah were associated with the Area H and Area C temples, respectively, Bonfil
(1997: 101, followed by Hesse [2008: 163]) suggested that the LB Northern Temple
of Area A was dedicated to the god El. Granted, our evidence is minimal and thus all
such associations are speculative.
As for personal names, despite the genre of the text, one cannot be absolutely
certain that the people involved are locals. Distinguishing Amorite names from
straightforward Akkadian names is difficult. Even enticing names such as Ishpuṭ-
Addu that exhibit a West Semitic vocalization (i.e., *yašpuṭ; cf. Mari išpiṭ; ARM
14.48) nonetheless are written with Ish-, not Yash-. (I am indebted to personal
conversations with Herb Huffmon.)
By emphasizing West Semitic/Canaanite deities for the Area B standing stone, we
are not implying that East Semitic/Mesopotamian deities were never worshipped,
for indeed we have the mention of Ishtar and Nergal written on an earlier Middle/
Late Bronze Age fragment of a liver model found at Hazor (see Horowitz, Oshima,
and Sanders 2006: 66–68).
By reducing our candidates to El and Addu, we are not suggesting that Canaanite
goddesses were unknown. Horowitz, Oshima, and Sanders (2006: 66–68) note the
possibility of the goddess Anat in two personal names (Bin-Hanuta, Sum-Hanuta)
in a court record from Hazor. Yet the presence of the male statuette would eliminate
a goddess as candidate for the standing stone. Moreover, standing stones are pre-
dominantly male in orientation.
164. For summary descriptions of the Iron IIB temple, the masseboth, the two incense
altars (with burnt organic remains), the altar, and the Judean pillar figurines at
Arad, see Bloch-Smith 2015: 101–106; Herzog 2013: 38–41; and Darby 2014: 257
n. 220. On the different ways of interpreting the two inscribed bowls from stratum
X, see Chapter Ten, note 12.
165. See the following bibliography: Aharoni 1967; 1968; 1982: 229–234; Herzog
et al. 1984; Herzog, Aharoni, and Rainey 1987; Herzog 1987, 1997a, 1997b, 2001,
2002, 2006, 2010, 2013; Ussishkin 1988; Manor and Herion 1992; Mettinger
1995: 143–149; Na’aman 1999a: 405–408; 2006a: 324–327; Zevit 2001: 156–171;
Singer-Avitz 2002; Uehlinger 2006; Bloch-Smith 2005: 32–33; 2006: 76–77;
2015: 101–106, 112–115. Bloch-Smith (2015: 105) concludes: “Dates for either
the temple’s construction or its demise cannot be conclusively ascertained. The
most persuasive evidence is the Str. X ceramics, dated to the late ninth and eighth
centuries.”
166. Herzog 2006: 221; 2010: 174–175; 2013: 40. Herzog goes on to comment: “A second
stele, often misinterpreted as simultaneously used, was in fact inserted into the
back wall of the niche.” See Herzog 2010 for assigning this phase to stratum IX (not
X or XI).
167. See Graesser’s comments in note 148 with regard to the Shechem temple.
168. For bibliography on Area T stratum III (ninth century BCE) and stratum II (eighth
century BCE) as well as a synthetic analysis, see Davis 2013.
Notes 749
169. The Israelite gates in Areas A and AB are documented in Biran, Ilan, and Greenberg
1996: plan 2.
170. Cf. too note 156 on the use of the cultic use of sikkānu stelae at Emar’s gate complex.
171. Biran 1994: 239–241; Laughlin 2007: 12. For part of the debate, especially as it
interacts with the gate shrine at Bethsaida, see Blomquist 1999: 63–64.
172. As noted by Ji and Bates (2014: 48–49), Ataroth (ʿăṭārōt) is mentioned in the
Hebrew Bible as being rebuilt by the Gadites (Num 32:34) and in the Mesha in-
scription (KAI 181, lines 10–13), which describes “the men of Gad who had dwelt
at Ataroth from of old” (wʾš gd yšb bʾrṣ ʿṭrt mʿlm). The same text includes a remark
about how Omri, the ninth-century BCE ruler of the northern kingdom of Israel,
had built Ataroth for himself (wybn lh mlk yśrʾl ʾt ʿṭrt), and how subsequently the
Moabite king Mesha conquered the city, destroyed its inhabitants, and repopulated
it (wʾltḥm bqr wʾḥzh wʾhrg ʾt kl hʿm). Mention is made of resacralizing the town in
the name of the Moabite deity Chemosh. Putting this description together with the
material remains, Ji and Bates (2014: 49) conclude that the “new population con-
tinued to reuse part of the temple that had been originally built by Omri.”
173. Preliminary publications indicate that another single standing stone (4.3 ft. [1.3
m] high) was found in the Western Courtyard near the “Western High Place.” See
Ji 2012: 210, 212. Ji (2012: 212–213) comments on the widespread distribution of
standing stones in the vicinity dating back to the Chalcolithic and Early Bronze Age
I periods and with prominent examples in the Late Bronze Age II and Iron Age
periods—thus demonstrating that the two standing stones at Ataruz “were not iso-
lated examples but represented a long and widespread tradition of monolith cults in
the central Jordan.”
174. Note the following comment by de Vaux (1961: 285–286):
As an object of cult, it [i.e., the massebah] recalled a manifestation of a god, and
was the sign of the divine presence. . . . It was a short step from this reasoning
to accepting the stone itself as a representation of the divinity, and there was no
need for the stone to be hewn into the form of a statue: even in its crude, natural
shape, it was a symbol of the divinity.
175. Contrast the lunar symbol on a small Late Bronze Age stela in Hazor Area C. On the
bull cult at Khirbet Ataruz, see pp. 202–205. As for Arad, Bloch-Smith (2015: 112)
notes the presence of Baal worship in biblical literature and suggests that “per-
haps the [Arad standing-] stone stood for Baal rather than Yhwh.” The three Arad
inscriptions that invoke Yahweh (#16, #18, #21) come from the late seventh/early
sixth centuries BCE. Thus Bloch-Smith writes: ”Accordingly, the large limestone
massebah in the (late ninth-to) early eighth-century Arad temple niche arguably
made manifest either Baal or Yhwh.” Complicating such an analysis are the ex-
clusively Yahwistic personal names that come from the eighth-century BCE Arad
inscriptions found in strata X–VIII. These include inscriptions #67, #68 (stratum
X); #60 (stratum IX); #40, 41, 49, 51, 56 (stratum VIII). On the exclusive use of
Yahweh and not Baal names at Arad, see Tigay 1986: 47–63, appendix A. For the ep-
igraphic dating of this material, see Parker 2013: 217 and fig. 34. Cf. too the restored
name [Yahu]aḥ in Arad #79 that comes from stratum XI (ninth century BCE).
750 Notes
176. If Thomas (2019) is correct that the god Gad is to be equated with El, then references
to the cult offered at the standing stone at Ataroth by early Gadites could have been
to El (see note 172).
177. In contrast, an example of multiple gods being attested both in literature and in
physical reliefs can be seen in the Hittite pantheon known especially for its “1,000
gods.” See Beckman 1989 and the numerous deities depicted in the reliefs from
Yazılıkaya.
178. See Cooke 1903: 295; §133, line 1.
179. See Porten and Yardeni 1986: 68–75 = TAD 1.A4.7.8–12 //1.A4.8.7–11.
180. I write “near-fixed” due to the following minor variations:
Hadad Inscription Hadad Inscription Hadad Inscription Hadad Inscription
line 2 lines 2–3 line 11 line 18
Hadad Hadad Hadad Hadad

El El El El
Rashap Rakib-El Rakib-El Rakib-El
Rakib-El Shamash Shamash Shamash
Shamash Rashap ʾArqu-Rashap [Rashap]
181. It should be pointed out that the rulers of Sam’al (Zincirli) were not of one accord
politically with the rulers of Aram-Damascus, whom we read as having contact
with Tel Dan. Note how Panamuwa II died when fighting on the side of Tiglath-
Pileser III in his battle against Damascus in 732 BCE. See further Lewis 2019.
182. Biran 1998: 45–46. It should be noted that cults of betyls are common throughout
Aramean religion (see Lipiński 2000: 599–604).
183. On Ariel, see Feigin 1920; Albright 1920; Godbey 1924; Petzold 1969; Zimmerli
1983: 424–427; Block 1998: 600; Wildberger 2002: 71–72; and Strawn 2005: 69–
74. While it seems clear that we are dealing with various etymologies for the var-
ious forms of Ariel (not just “the lion of El”/“El is a lion”), Albright’s (2006: 151)
suggestion that harʾēl in Ezekiel 43:15 is “a slight popular etymology of the A[kk]
adian loan-word” arallû is brought into question by Zimmerli (1983: 426–427).
Other suggested etymologies can be found in the various lexica (e.g., HALOT,
vol. 1, p. 87).
184. Strawn (2005: 90–92) notes the connection of many seals to Egyptian Amun but
suggests (following Keel and Uehlinger) that “the cult of Amun may nevertheless
have influenced the cults of Canaanite El and/or Yahweh.” On the use of leonine
imagery in Iron Age II royal seals, see Strawn 2005: 101–105. Note in particular his
discussion of the famous “Shemaʿ, the servant of Jeroboam” jasper seal from the
1904 excavations at Megiddo and whether it refers to Jeroboam I or Jeroboam II.
McCarter (1996: 145) argues that “its archaic Hebrew script fits neatly into the reign
of Jeroboam II.”
185. At Arad we have a small bronze lion statuette “found beside the sacrificial altar”
(Herzog, Aharoni, and Rainey 1987: 30, 32). The large basalt lion orthostat from
the temple of Area H at Hazor is well known (Yadin 1961: plate CXX; 1972: plate
Notes 751
XVIIIa; Beck 1989: 327–328) and its twin was found in the summer of 1997 (Ben-
Tor 2016: 108, fig. 72). A small lion orthostat was found in secondary use in the
“Stelae Temple” of Area C buried under a stela (Yadin 1958: plates XXIX–XXX;
1972: 72, plate XVIIIb; fig. 17). All three are associated with entrance gates, with the
two large lions functioning as guardians.
One of the most amazing discoveries was that of an actual lion skull at ancient
Jaffa. The debates about the dating of the strata (Late Bronze Age II or Iron Age I) as
well as whether the context was cultic (a “lion temple”?) keep us from drawing de-
finitive conclusions about whether this skull should be associated with a particular
deity. See Kaplan and Ritter-Kaplan 1993: 658, with photograph of skull on p. 656;
Dessel 1997: 206; and Strawn 2005: 93–94 with further bibliography.
Cf. too the lion statue and lion-headed libation tray from Tell Beit Mirsim that
may come from the Iron Age rather than the Late Bronze Age. See Amiran 1976 and
Chapter Seven, p. 315. For a critique of Amiran, see Holladay 1987: 293–294 n. 125.
For an exhaustive collection of the various lions found in the archaeological re-
cord, see Strawn’s (2005: 77–128) splendid catalogue.
186. See Chapter Seven, pp. 315–317. Preliminary reports note “a lion-like animal” on
terra-cotta cult stand/model from Iron Age II Ataruz. See Ji 2012: 213; taf. 47B.
187. See Strawn 2005: 100.
188. Strawn (2005: 252–268) hypothesizes that Yahweh absorbed leonine aspects prima-
rily from the goddesses Ishtar and Sekhmet.
189. See Müller 2004: 243–247 and HALOT 1996: 1163–1164. The latter concludes
that “in the OT rĕʾēm is bos primigenius, but in MHeb. and the Targum it is Oryx
leucoryx.” Though their etymologies are inexact, for the former cf. Akk rīmu, “wild
bull,” and for the latter cf. Arb riʾm, “white antelope.”
190. Moreover, interacting with the hundreds of years of commentary would require a
monograph of its own. Thus readers interested in the various intricacies of exegesis
(from textual to source to form to tradition criticism) and the priority of one ac-
count over another (Jeroboam’s versus Moses’) can find treatments in the standard
commentaries and other secondary literature such as Kennedy 1901: 340–343;
Aberbach and Smolar 1967; Sasson 1968; Halpern 1976; Bailey 1971; Hahn 1981;
Moberly 1983: 161–171; Dohmen 1987: 147–153; Schroer 1987: 81–104; Curtis
1990; Janzen 1990; White 1990; Wyatt 1992; Frankel 1994; Amit 2000: 99–129;
Burnett 2001: 79–105; Berlejung 2009; Römer 2017; and Davis 2019. In particular,
see Knoppers 1995b, an insightful article that also includes a nice overview of var-
ious source-critical issues.
The present approach tries to understand the literary traditions in the context of
the ancient Near East and its richly documented bull iconography. At the outset of
this chapter we noted the pitfall of textual scholars who fail to consider the contribu-
tion of the field of iconography. An example for the subject at hand is Pakkala’s 2008
article, which is purely literary. Because Pakkala does not interact with the religious
use of bull iconography throughout the ancient Near East and especially within the
Late Bronze and Iron Age Levant, it is little wonder that the article reduces any ref-
erence to Jeroboam’s bull images to “a late literary construct” not integral to the
original text. See too Zevit’s (2001: 451 n. 25) remarks against other scholars (e.g.,
752 Notes
van Seters, Hoffman, Davies) who consider most if not all of the Jeroboam episode
“a contrived literary artifice bereft of historical value.”
This is not to say that 1 Kgs 12:25–33 is lacking in rhetoric. Using parallels of two
Sam’alian kings of the eighth century BCE (Panamuwa and Bar Rakib), Davis (2019)
argues that the royal rhetoric we have here is that of renovating a cult place rather
than founding one. As such, Davis posits, the presentation in 1 Kgs 12:25, 28–29,
32a—which references Jeroboam I’s El worship for ideological continuity—is that of
the eighth-century BCE reigns of Joash and/or Jeroboam II, who use it as a historical
precedent. I thank Davis for sharing his research with me prior to publication.
191. Those advocating that Jeroboam’s cult was devoted to Yahweh rather than El, as the
present thesis holds, would present as an obvious critique that Aaron proclaims
a “feast to Yahweh” (ḥag lyhwh) immediately after fashioning the young bull and
building an altar before it (Exod 32:5).
In reply, the El hypothesis would underscore that mention of the “feast to
Yahweh” is an addition by the P source, the “function” of which, writes Bailey
(1971: 99), “is to ‘rehabilitate’ Aaron from his heinous apostasy.” Bailey (1971: 99
n. 12) continues: “P’s attempt to exonerate Aaron is visible in [Exod 32:] 21–24, 5b,
the switch to the plural in the verbs of 4 and 6, and the contradictory verb ‘made’
in 35. It might be remembered that Aaron plays a minor role in J, is mentioned but
twice in D (where God wants to kill him for making the calf [Deut 9:20], and when
he dies [10:6]), but suddenly assumes total authoritative control of the priesthood
in P, necessitating desperate attempts to excuse his behavior in Exod. 32.”
192. Cross 1973: 75. Cross writes: “It is wholly implausible that an insecure usurper, in the
attempt to secure his throne and to woo his subjects[,]‌would flout fierce Yahwists
by installing a foreign or novel god in his national shrine.” Kaufman (1972: 270) also
argues that “the story does not link the calves with any foreign deity.” Scholars typi-
cally point out the silence of any reference to Jeroboam’s cult being devoted to Baal
by passionate critics of Baal worship such as Elijah, Elisha, and Amos. Of particular
note is Jehu, who destroys Baal worship with a vengeance (2 Kgs 10:18–28) and yet
does not include Jeroboam’s two bull images in his purge (2 Kgs 10:29). For a de-
tailed elaboration of Kaufmann and Cross’ thesis, see Toews 1993: 42ff.
An obvious complication is found in 1 Kgs 14:9, where the prophet Ahijah
accuses Jeroboam of making “other gods, molten images, provoking Yahweh to
anger” (cf. 2 Kgs 17:7–23, esp. vv. 16, 21–23). This datum is either skipped over as a
later, southern viewpoint (e.g., Kaufman 1972: 270) or used to invalidate the entire
consensus view (cf. Bailey 1971, advocating for the deity Sin). A similar judgment
would have to be made for Exod 32:20. As Knoppers (1995b: 102) has pointed out,
in the redacted text as we have it, Moses is portrayed “deliberate[ly]” as treating the
bull image “as taboo . . . as a foreign cult symbol.”
Another strong southern polemic against Jeroboam’s cultic measures can be
found placed on the lips of the Judean king Abijah in 2 Chr 13:4–12. In particular,
Abijah proclaims that Yahweh gave kingship to the Davidides (2 Chr 13:5) and
that Jeroboam cannot prevail against “the Kingdom of Yahweh in the hands of the
Davidides” in the coming battle by relying on “the golden bulls [ʿeglê zāhāb] that
Notes 753
Jeroboam made for you for gods [ʾĕlōhîm]” (2 Chr 13:8). The Chronicler considers
the bulls to be “no gods” (lōʾ ʾĕlōhîm, 2 Chr 13:9), as did Hosea (lōʾ ʾĕlōhîm hûʾ, 8:6), on
which see Chapter Seven, pp. 320–321. Finally, see Josiah’s desecration of Bethel as
part of his cultic reforms in 2 Kgs 23:15–20. Specific mention is made of Jeroboam’s
“altar at Bethel” and “high place” (2 Kgs 23:15), but the bulls go unmentioned.
193. Wellhausen (1957: 283) already noted in his 1878 prolegomena that “Jeroboam did
nothing more than Solomon had done before him; only he had firmer ground under
his feet than Solomon, Bethel and Dan being old sanctuaries, which Jerusalem
was not.” Propp (2006: 551) goes further in pointing out that “as far as we can tell,
Jeroboam was more monolatrous than Solomon (cf. 1 Kgs 11:1–10).” On Jeroboam’s
archaizing use of El worship, see Cross 1973: 198–199; Toews 1993; and Chalmers
2008: 26–52, 127–133.
Burnett (2001: 80–105) adds yet another take on Jeroboam’s archaizing by
suggesting that by using the “ʾĕlōhîm formula” he was “appropriating a well estab-
lished cult formula.”
194. For an alternative theory, see Berlejung 2009 and Römer 2017; both argue that the
activities attributed to Jeroboam I in 1 Kgs 12 are from the time of Jeroboam II.
195. It should be underscored that the consensus of scholars takes Exod 32 to be a re-
flection of and attack against Jeroboam’s cultic activities. For a clear demarcation
between historical and literary issues, see Knoppers 1995b: 93–94: “From a histor-
ical vantage point, Jeroboam’s calves may explain Aaron’s calf; but from a literary
vantage point, Aaron’s calf predates Jeroboam’s calves.”
As for the Deuteronomist describing Jeroboam’s rituals as dyotheistic, see again
Knoppers 1995b: 101: “This is not misunderstanding, but invective.”
196. Cf. ʿēgel massēkâ in Exod 32:4, 8; Deut 9:16; šĕnê ʿeglê zāhāb in 1 Kgs 12:28; ʿēgel in
Exod 32:19, 20, 24, 35; Deut 9:21; ʿăgālîm in 1 Kgs 12:32; massēkâ in Deut 9:12. For
the variant readings in the LXX and suggestions about understanding the textual
history of the MT vis-à-vis the LXX, see Propp 2006: 542.
197. Noth 1962: 248, followed in part by Propp (2006: 550), who notes a similar dispar-
aging use of “heifer” in Hos 10:5.
198. Cassuto (1967: 412) specifically asserts that ʿēgel “is not a pejorative term for an
ox, as many surmised. It denotes a young ox, an ox in the full vigour of its youth.”
Cassuto cites various references for the use of ʿēgel and its female counterpart to
designate mature aurochs. Propp (2006: 550) too has an extensive analysis, to which
I am indebted. Note Propp’s analogy to the similar imprecision and confusion with
the Hebrew term naʿar, which can refer to youths and young adult males.
As for these two passages, note Ps 106:19–20, where ʿēgel//šôr specifically refers to the
Horeb incident, and Ps 29:6, where ʿēgel//rĕʾēm likely does too, especially if the author is
referring to God “pulverizing” (LXX leads one to posit the Hebrew Vorlage yādiqqēm)
like he did with the bull at Sinai rather than “causing to dance” (MT’s yarkîdēm). See
further Loewenstamm’s (1992: 280–291) section “The Historical Background to the
Septuagint Translation of Psalm 29:5–6” in his From Babylon to Canaan.
199. Of these two options, I would lean toward the former due to the more pervasive
view of El as a non-warrior deity (see Chapter Four). Yet the iconography of a
754 Notes
mounted figure (typically used of striding storm and warrior gods) would lend
further support to the notion that El was the original deity who led Israel out
of Egypt.
200. See Yadin 1961: plate CCCXLI 1–4; Negbi 1989: 350–351.
201. See Ben-Tor 1996: 264–266, fig. 3; 2016: 105, 109, fig. 73.3.
202. Mazar 1982; 1983; Dever 1994: 110–111; 1990: 129–131.
203. Mazar 1982: 27, 32. Similarly, Dever (1994: 110; cf. 2017: 159–160, 178) stated that
this is a “reasonably certain Israelite cult installation of the period of the Judges.”
For a summation of the Einun pottery debate between Finkelstein and Mazar and
its relevance for dating the Bull Site, see Finkelstein 1998; Mazar 1999; and Zevit
2001: 178 n. 95.
204. Coogan 1987b. See too Mazar’s response to Coogan (1988: 45).
205. Ahlström (1990: 80) has remarked: “If, however, the settlers came from the north,
then Yahweh would be ruled out.”
206. Though not functioning as a divine image in a cultic niche, one must underscore the
appearance of a plethora of bovines on numerous cult stands as well as zoomorphic
vessels likely used for cultic libations from the Philistine repository pit at Yavneh
dated between 850 and 750 BCE. See Kletter, Ziffer, and Zwickel 2010, 2015 and the
analyses of the bull iconography by Ziffer (2010: 69–73) and Horwitz (2015: 152–
153). According to Horwitz (2015: 152–153), the bovine figures are domestic cattle,
either short-horned Bos indicus (zebu) or long-horned Bos tauros, but not wild au-
rochs (Bos primigenius). She also “raises the possibility that zebu cows and not bulls
are portrayed on the Yavneh cult stands.”
207. Cf. too a terra-cotta cult stand (or model shrine) also found in the Main Sanctuary Room
that depicts two male figures, one of which “holds the horn of either a bull or a calf with
its left hand” (Ji 2012: 213; Tafel 47 A–C). A cylindrical stone incense altar was also dis-
covered with what seems to be a late ninth-century Moabite inscription. Though this is
extremely provisional, Rollston, the epigrapher in charge of its publication, suggests that
one word could be read as prn, “which could, of course, refer to a category of offering,
‘bull’ or the like.” See http://www.rollstonepigraphy.com/?p=631. Rollston also notes how
the reading could be grn, “sojourners,” an attractive suggestion in light of its presence in
the Mesha stela. Now see Bean, Rollston, McCarter and Wimmer (2019: 7, 10–11).
208. Bourke (2012: 165 n. 2) comments that the Ugaritic texts imply this notion. Yet as
seen from the discussion of the iconography of ʾIlu, this is not the case.
209. Farther afield, compare the clay figurines from the precinct of the Temple of Apollo
at Kourion that depict religious personnel wearing bull masks. See Karageorghis
1976: 105, plate 82.
210. Ji (2012: 212) comments that “bull and calf were tied to the principal god of Baal
or El,” yet he mistakenly writes that “the Ugarit materials often call El and Baal ‘the
bull’ in order to signify their strength and fertility.” At Ugarit it is ʾIlu (not Baʿlu)
who is consistently called ṯôru, “the bull” (KTU 1.1.4.12; 1.2.1.16; 1.3.4.54; 1.3.5.10,
35; 1.4.1.4, 1.4.2.10, 1.4.4.47, etc.). See Chapter Four, p. 78. Granted, iconography
shows Baʿlu with small horns, and in our narrative evidence Baʿlu is mentioned
along with horns in two broken texts (KTU 1.3.4.25–27; KTU 1.101.6), has a
Notes 755
bull-calf//ox (ʾibr//rʾum) born to him (KTU 1.10.3.35–36), slaughters bulls (ṯrm)

for a divine banquet (KTU 1.4.6.40–43), and even “falls down like a bull” (npl bʿl km
ṯr) (KTU 1.12.2.54). In one ritual text a bull (ṯr) is put in fire for Baʿlu (KTU 1.48.8–
9). Yet it is ʾIlu alone who was accorded the epithet “the Bull” (ṯôru).
211. In the Mesha inscription, see the mentions of Chemosh (esp. lines 11–12, men-
tioning Ataroth), Ashtar of Chemosh (line 17), Baal (cf. Baal-meon in line 9 and
the mention of Omride influence, esp. lines 10–11), and Yahweh (lines 17–18). See
Chapter Six, pp. 235, 251.
For Athtar elsewhere, see Smith 2001b: 65, which suggests that at Ugarit Athtar is
a “full-fledged son of El” with astral associations. See further Smith 2014a: 168–169;
2001b: 62, 65, 136–137; 1995.
Chapter 6
1. For ʾlyw and ʾlyhw, see Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 130–131, 287, 297–298. See espe-
cially §BLei 6 and §KAjr 21 (= Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2012: 100–101). For yhwʾl
and ywʾl, see Renz and Röllig 2003: 237; §10.25 (= CWSS 205: 523; Lachish) and
Renz and Röllig 2003: 244; §10.46 (= CWSS 107:186; unprovenanced).
Methodologically, in addition to discounting the unprovenanced ywʾl (yet cf.
yôʾēl, “Joel,” in the Hebrew Bible), one needs to keep in mind that ʾl can be a ge-
neric designation such that the meaning of the names can be “The god is Yah[weh]”
or “Yah[weh] is my god” as easily as “El is Yah[weh] or “Yah[weh] is El.” Yet see
Albertz’s (in Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 348–350, 576–581) discussion of the phe-
nomenon he calls “equating names.” Contrast Rechenmacher 1997: 11–24. Zevit
(2001: 687) and Finet (1993: 20) suggest that there are similar equations already in
Amorite anthroponyms with explicit comparative names (yahwi-ki-addu, “Yahweh
is like Addu”; yahwi-ki-an, “Yahweh is like El”) alongside implicit equating names
(yawi-addu, yawi-dagan). Yet Zevit is quick to caution against using the Amorite
data to fill the gap leading up to the presence of Yahweh in the late tenth century
BCE: “They would actually be vacuous verbal bridges between the unknown and
the already-hypothesized uncertain.”
Literarily, it should be noted that the phenomenon of a single deity bearing two
names in the same narrative (often synonymously parallel) is well attested in the an-
cient Near East. The parallel of Baal and Hadad for the storm/warrior god at Ugarit
comes easily to mind, as does the double-named craft deity Kotharu wa Hasisu.
2. The two paradigmatic texts used by historians who try to tease out an earlier du-
alism from the texts that have come down to us would be Deut 32:8–9 (on which see
Chapter Four, pp. 91–92; cf. Smith 2001b: 143) and Ps 82 (see Chapter Nine and the
thesis of Frankel 2010). See too Hab 3:2–3.
3. On Yahweh as divine warrior, see Chapter Eight. On Yahweh as king and judge, see
Chapter Nine. On the priesthood attending Yahweh, see Chapter Ten.
4. Reading yhwh rather than MT’s ʾĕlōhîm, which reflects the editing of the Elohistic
Psalter. See Chapter Four, p. 724, note 65.
756 Notes
5. The older studies by Tigay (1986: 15; 1987: 194) tabulated a distribution of 94.1 percent
Yahwistic names and 5.9 percent non-Yahwistic names occurring in the full inscriptional
record (onomastic and non-onomastic evidence). Sanders (2015: 77) notes that if Tigay
had included provenanced El names, the percentage would shift to “80% Yahwistic and
20% other (including El and other gods).” Elsewhere Tigay (1987: 161–162) writes of
the percentage of the epigraphic onomasticon of pre-exilic Israelites being 47.6 percent
Yahwistic (351 out of 738 individuals). Fowler’s (1988: 366–367) subsequent study of
Hebrew Bible names tallied 36 percent Yahwistic names during the United Monarchy
(71 out of 197 names) and 74.3 percent during the Divided Monarchy (194 out of 261
names). Cf. Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 340 n. 209. Zevit (2001: 608 n. 95), using Zadok’s
(1988) dataset of 2,202 Israelite names, “guesstimate[s]‌that the percentage of Israelites
with non-Yahwistic theophoric names would not exceed 20 per cent.” Hess’ (2007a: 310)
updated discussion “certainly supports Zevit’s estimate.” Hess then adds that the per-
centage at Samaria “is fewer than 12 percent and this drops to between zero and 2 percent
in late pre-exilic Judah.” Albertz (Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 341, 508) figures 67.6 per-
cent of the Hebrew onomasticon (1,978 names) to contain references to Yahweh.
As to what can be precisely concluded from the onomastic material, see the methodo-
logical remarks in Chapter Three, pp. 56–60. Few of our tallies are pristine, with most not
controlling for unprovenanced material. See Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 249, 260–262 and
the critique in Sanders 2014: 222. A notable exception is Golub (2014, 2017), who restricts
her analysis to names coming from controlled excavations. Golub’s (2014: 638) analysis
of 799 names from sixty-six sites argues for “the very limited use of god names other than
Yahweh and [that] supports Tigay’s conclusions.” Yet her conclusions are more nuanced,
noting how “yhw is the dominant theophoric element only in the later centuries” where
“in the earlier centuries, yw was the most common element.” Golub’s (2017: 29) analysis
of 625 names from a distinct subset of forty Iron Age II Judean sites reveals that “the ex-
tremely limited use of divine names other than YHWH or El (1%), the absence of bʿl, a
remarkably high use of yhw (74%), and a very limited use of yh are unique to Judah.”
Methodologically, see Chapter Eight (p. 494) on Carol Meyers’ remarks about how
women’s names (and thus the deities they worshipped) are severely underrepresented.
See Meyers 1998: 251–252.
6. Similarly, compare how the etymology of divine names plays an overly important role
in Jacobsen’s (1976) reconstruction of Mesopotamian religion.
7. In contrast to Albertz (1994: 50–51, following Rose [1978: 34]), who states that “it is
relatively improbable that Israel was still aware of the meaning of the name Yahweh.”
8. In ancient Israel, the name of Yahweh was revered. It was also used daily. Such rev-
erence and utility can be difficult for different segments of our modern culture to
comprehend. How can those in our society who curse and cuss with the name of God
appreciate the reverence that the ancient Hebrews showed for God’s sacred name? The
problem of blasphemy is rarely a subject of our postmodern discourse. Even pious
theists reduce the divine name to the casual. At the other end of the spectrum, how can
those members of the post-rabbinic Jewish community who find the mere mentioning
of God’s name in speech or writing to be a violation of the Fourth Commandment ap-
preciate that the name Yahweh was used on a daily basis in Iron Age Israel?
Notes 757
Consider too the care with which the divine name is treated once it is written. Even
academicians bow to the genizah tradition, which forbids the destruction of ritual
objects containing the name of God. For example, the late great Semitist M. H. Goshen-
Gottstein (1979: 145)—in an article on the Aleppo Codex in a scholarly journal—
appended the following personal request for his readers: “This article contains some
reproductions from the Aleppo Codex for your convenience. In accordance with re-
ligious custom, as explained in Maimonides’ Code, biblical texts—even though only
reproductions—should not be discarded in such a way that the divine name might be
profaned. Kindly make sure that you keep this issue in a specially safe place.”
Biblical texts and onomastica alike show that the ancients did not write “G-d” or
some substitute (adonay, ha-shem, adoshem, etc.) to avoid using the name of the god
whom they worshipped. The “hedge around the Torah” of the Pirqe Avot had yet to
be built. The Master of the Universe was called by his name, Yahweh. Once again, the
gap between the Iron Age and ours is apparent. Yet maybe the gap is not so great after
all. Societies by nature are pluralistic in their religion expressions. Iron Age Israel was
not monolithic. It contained both those who penned laws against blasphemers (Lev
24:16) and, by inference, those to whom such laws were directed. On the severity of
blasphemy, see Lewis 2017.
9. For a discussion of the yawi-/y ahwi- forms in the Amorite onomastica and what
seems to be the Akkadian equivalent, ibašši-ilum (“the god exists”), see Huffmon
1965: 70–73, 160, 191–192; Cross 1973: 62–64; de Vaux 1978: 342–343; Freedman and
O’Connor 1986: 511–513; Hess 1991: 187; van der Toorn 1995: 244; and Kitz 2019.
The Amorite material and Greek transcriptions argue against Tropper’s (2001) re-
construction (based on Neo-Babylonian personal names) that vocalizes the name of
the deity as *Yahwa, a nominal lexeme of the qatl-pattern with the final -h of yhwh
functioning as a matres lectionis to mark the case ending a.
10. Maas (1910: 329) finds the earliest reference to Jehovah in Raymund Martin’s “Pugio
fidei” of circa 1270 CE.
11. A similar practice occurs when yhwh and ʾădōnay occur together. If the former were
pointed following the usual practice, a redundancy would result (ʾădōnay ʾădōnay).
The Masoretes solved this problem by taking the vowels from Elohim (“God”) and
placing them on yhwh.
12. A splendid overview of the tetragrammaton can be found in Suriano 2013.
13. I am indebted here to de Vaux (1970: 56–57; 1978: 343–344), whose work in tracking
down and debunking this material has saved many hours for us all. See also McCarthy
1978: 313.
14. For a slightly sympathetic appreciation of this etymology and a small bibliography of
adherents, see de Vaux 1978: 344–345. Yet de Vaux ultimately sets it aside as unlikely.
15. Contrast Tropper 2001, who sees a nominal qatl-form based on vocalizations of
Neo-Babylonian personal names that contain the theophoric element ia-a-ma that
Tropper reads as ia-a-wa6 (/yaw/). See note 9.
16. So Andersen and Freedman 1980: 143, 198–199. Cf. too Mettinger 1988: 34–36;
Mettinger, following Schoneveld, suggests that Ehyeh may simply be God’s name
declaration in Exod 3:14. This analysis (rendering God’s reply as “Ehyeh! Because
758 Notes
I am”) is strained due to the necessity of treating ʾăšer as a relative conjunction with a
casual sense. While this usage is not unattested (cf. Joüon and Muraoka 1991: §170 e),
it is rare and one would expect kî.
17. The examples usually put forth to document a tautology expressing uncertainty or
imprecision are Exod 4:13; 16:23; 1 Sam 23:13; 2 Sam 15:20; 2 Kgs 8:1; and Ezek 12:25;
36:20. See the discussions in de Vaux 1978: 351–352 and Mettinger 1988: 34–35. De
Vaux argues that such paronomastic expressions can also indicate “totality or inten-
sity” (cf. Exod 33:19; Ezek 12:25; 36:20).
18. Some of the earliest biblical scholars arguing for this view based on their studies
of Hebrew syntax included Knobel (1857) and Reuss (1879). For more recent
treatments, see Schild 1954; Lindblom 1964; de Vaux 1978: 353–355; and McCarthy
1978: 316–318.
19. See also the grammatical problems raised by Albrektson (1968) and addressed by
McCarthy (1978: 316–317).
20. See note 9. This material was already noted by von Soden (1965: 177–187). Hyatt
(1967: 373) suggests that the “existence” being described is “the confidence that the
deity is actively present in the birth of the child, or . . . that the deity may be actively
present in the continuing life of the child.”
21. Old Babylonian Version, OB VA + BM (“Meissner Fragment”) iii, 3–5. See George
2003: 278–279 and Moran 1995: 2329.
22. George’s (2003: 192ff.) sigla for this Old Babylonian Yale tablet is OB III and the rel-
evant section is column iv, lines 140–143 (= Gilg Y. IV, 5–8). Tigay (1982: 164) also
notes the Sumerian version’s remark that “a man, (even) the tallest, cannot reach
heaven; A man, (even) the widest, cannot cover the earth” (GLL A, 28–29).
23. Dead gods, like dead humans, can even have ghosts (Moran 1970: 54). On the
death of gods and deicide, see Machinist 2011 and Lewis 2017. The Phoenician
Pyrgi inscription (KAI 277, lines 8–9) even describes the burial of the deity or
a divine image (bym qbr ʾlm)—unless Knoppers is correct that this refers to an
ancestral figure. See Knoppers 1992b; Smith 2001b: 118–119; and Peckham
2014: 162–163.
24. For more on the creation of humans, especially via “pinching off ” or “nipping” of clay
(kāraṣu + ṭiddu/ṭīdu; cf. mēḥomer qoraṣtî in Job 33:6), see Lewis 2014a: 4–8.
25. Cf. the discussion of Yahweh-El-Olam in Chapter Four, pp. 97–99. See Gen 21:33; Isa
40:28; Jer 40:10.
26. See too Mettinger 2001, which reassesses the dying and god motif in response to J. Z.
Smith and Mark S. Smith.
27. Granted, according to traditional source criticism, we are dealing with two different
sources, with Exod 3:12, 14 assigned to E and Exod 4:12, 15 to J. The juxtaposition
then would be attributed to the redactor of these two sources.
28. The prefixal ya-is also attested in Classical Arabic and Amorite personal names from
Mari (cf. Huffmon 1965: 63ff.), yet this evidence is inconclusive because there is no
evidence in these languages of the Barth-Ginsberg correlation (where *yaqtal became
yiqtal). On traces of an i-preradical in early Arabic, see Testen 1994: 431 n. 10. See
Barth’s (1894: 4–6) original formulation, Ginsberg’s (1939: 318–322) and Gordon’s
Notes 759
(1965: 71) application to Ugaritic, and Rainey’s (1978; 1996a: 2:1–16) handling of the
Amarna material. For a discussion of the Barth-Ginsberg correlation in the context
of the I-w verbal class, see Testen 1994: 430–431 and especially Kitz 2019.
29. See note 9.
30. This view did not originate with Albright, who is following the lead of his teacher
Paul Haupt. See Albright 1924: 375, which notes that treating Yahweh as a causative
was suggested by Le Clerc (Clericus) in 1700.
31. There are other instances of finite verbs used as theonyms, although they are infre-
quent. See the discussion in Cross 1973: 67 and van der Toorn 1999b: 913–914.
32. In Albright’s early writings (prior to the publication of the Amorite onomastica) he
argued that these could be traced “unmistakably to Egyptian models of thought and
expression.” See Albright 1924: 377–378.
33. Contrast Albright’s (1924: 376–377) more drastic emendation ʾahyeh ʾăšer yihyeh, “I
cause to be what comes into existence,” which he then rendered in the third person
as yahyeh (older yahweh) ʾăšer yihyeh, “He causes to be what comes into existence.”
Once again Albright was taking his lead from Haupt.
34. Granted, the non-causative G stem of the root is used in P’s creation account, serving,
in Bernhardt’s (1978: 378) words, “to express a theory of the process of creation that
sees God’s commanding word as the critical mark of his creative activity and accord-
ingly interprets the earlier account of what God did by means of an account of what
God said.”
35. I do not feel the weight of Albertz’s (1994: 259 n. 45) criticism that “the minimal sig-
nificance that creation initially had in the religion of Israel tells against [the Cross-
Freedman explanation].” It is inadvisable to assume that the minimal texts that are
preserved in the biblical record constitute the full view of the ancient Israelites on a
given subject. See Chapter Three, p. 66.
36. Wellhausen 1897: 25. For more recent advocates, see Knauf 1984: 469; 1988: 43–48
and van der Toorn 1999b: 915–916. Additional bibliography can be found in de Vaux
1978: 345 n. 111. Other scholars, such as Goitein (1956), have used Arabic cognates
meaning “to love” to reconstruct Yahweh’s origin as a god of passion.
37. I am not denying that the verb hwʾ with the meaning “to fall” may be attested once in
Job 37:6 (cf. the nominal forms hawwāh, “destruction,” and hôwāh, “disaster”; Pope
1965: 280; de Vaux 1978: 345). For the fullest analysis, see Dhorme’s commentary
(1967: 561–562).
38. Job 37:5–6 would be the type of passage that could have played on Yahweh as the
god who thunders with his voice/lightning and causes snow to fall (hwʾ). But neither
here (the text reads El) nor elsewhere—even with rain as the object—do we read of
Yahweh acting as a storm god in conjunction with the verb hwh in the sense of its
Arabic cognate.
39. Propp (1999: 276) astutely notes that whereas the occurrence of the name Yochebed
(“Yo [= Yahweh] is Glory” or “Yo is glorified”) presents no problem for the pre-
Mosaic Yahwistic redactor in Exod 6:20, it is indeed very curious to find it in P (in
Num 26:59). He further notes how elsewhere P likely changed the name of Joshua to
Hoshea in Num 13:8–16.
760 Notes
40. See, for example, Keil 1986: 467–468 as well as the works by Cassuto, Kikawada,
Quinn, and Radday mentioned in Pike 1990: 34.
41. The connection between P and the book of Ezekiel is well known. Cf. Ezekiel 37:26,
where Ezekiel also uses the phrase bĕrît ʿôlām for his united kingdoms (//bĕrît šālôm)
and he too has an ʾôt sign in the same verse. Perhaps then in 37:26 we should not be so
quick to repoint MT’s ʾôtām to ʾittām even with the LXX evidence (met' autōn).
42. Pike (1990: 71 n. 30) does note that this could be due to “the phenomenon of ‘culture
lag,’ seen even in onomastics.”
43. Westermann 1984: 340. Sandmel (1961: 27) traces this interpretation to Dillmann.
See too early rabbinic exegesis, which analyzed hûḥal in Gen 4:26 to be from ḥll, “to
profane, pollute” (cf. Targum Onkelos, Pseudo-Jonathan, Rashi, etc.) and saw here a
reference to idolatry. The LXX translators (cf. Philo) seem to have read yḥl, “He hoped
to call on the name of the Lord God.” See Sandmel 1961 for the history of exegesis on
Genesis 4:26.
44. Retrospective writing and editing, and the anachronisms that can result, are replete
in the Bible. (As but one example among many, consider 1 Kgs 1:38, where Jeroboam
is promised a lengthy dynasty as long as David’s when, according to the storyline,
only one king, Solomon, has ruled to date.) The presence of anachronisms is a nat-
ural feature of any literature that undergoes a long editorial process. This is especially
true of literature that holds communal value and is thus preserved and updated over
time. Scriptures fall into this category until a time of fixation occurs, a process that
develops long before formal canonization.
45. Compare the reverse situation with the Elohistic Psalter, where Elohim seems to have
been systematically substituted for Yahweh. See Chapter Four, p. 724, note 65.
46. See “The Politics of Ebla” (Biblical Archaeology Review 4 [1978]: 2–6), written by the
pseudonymous “Adam Mikaya.”
47. Pettinato 1976: 48; 1980: 203–205.
48. Scholars studying onomastica often refer to hypocoristic (or, rarely, caritative)
suffixes or label a personal name as a hypocorism. By this they mean the addi-
tion of a suffix such as -y in the English names Bobby (for Bob), Scotty (for Scott),
Danny (for Dan[iel]), etc. Such an ending can serve several purposes, including
acting as a term of endearment, a diminutive, a euphemism, or a nickname. Other
hypocoristica, rather than bearing a suffix, are apocopated forms, where the orig-
inal consisted of a longer form (Ted for Theodore) or one with two or more elem-
ents. For a discussion of abbreviations in the Hebrew onomasticon, see Fowler
1988: 149–169.
49. The three interpretations are conveniently summarized with bibliography in
Muntingh 1988: 168– 169. See too Müller 1980: 83; 1981: 306– 307; Lambert
1988: 140–141; Biggs 1992: 265; and van der Toorn 1999b: 910–911.
50. For bibliography and history of scholarship, see Gray 1953 and Rowley 1950: 148 nn.
4 and 5. Gordon (1965: 410 §1084) called Virolleaud’s observation a “pioneer insight”
that “has been brushed aside too hastily.”
51. Contrast de Moor’s more recent work (1990: 113–118; 1995b: 220–223) with his pre-
vious position (1971: 119; 1987: 25 n. 116).
Notes 761
52. De Moor 1990: 136–151. A fuller account can be found in de Moor 1997: 214–227.
For further literature and critique, see Yon 1992: 119–120 and Malamat 1997: 24–25.
Adrom and Müller (2017: 109) harshly refer to de Moor’s thesis as one that takes us
“purely into the realm of imagination.”
53. For the relevant six place names, see Adrom and Müller 2017; Schneider 2007: 114;
and Giveon 1971: nos. 6a and 16a. The Amenhotep III text is a geographical list from
the temple of Amon at Soleb in Nubia (Sudan). Ramses II’s list (which comes from
Amara-West in Nubia) was copied from it. See note 59.
The literature on the Shasu is vast due to their relevance for discussions of the
emergence of Israel with competing theories, especially with regard to pastoral and
sedentarizing nomadism and agrarianism. For a sampling, see Giveon 1964, 1971;
Weippert 1971: 106 n. 14; 1974a; 1974b; Lorton 1971–1972 (review of Giveon); Ward
1972; 1992; Hermann 1981: 76–77; 1973: 24–31; de Vaux 1978: 334; Astour 1979;
Yurco 1978, 1986, 1990, 1991, 1997; Gottwald 1979; Aḥituv 1984: 121–122; Stager
1985b; Redford 1986: 199–200; 1992: 269–280; Ahlström 1986: 59–60; Mazar 1981: 7;
Weinfeld 1987: 304, 312 n. 8; Coote and Whitelam 1987: 106–109; Axelsson 1987;
Finkelstein 1988; de Moor 1990: 111–112; Coote 1990: 75–85; Rainey 1991; Rainey
and Notley 2006: 92–96, 103, 111–112; Kitchen 1992; Hopkins 1993; MacDonald
1994; Edelman 1995: 8–9; Hasel 2003; Faust 2006: 170–187; Grabbe 2017: 53–55,
123–130; Dever 2017: 102, 200–207, 249–253; Adrom and Müller 2017; Smith
2017: 23–29; and Fleming forthcoming.
54. See Seti I’s battle reliefs, portrayed on the northern outer wall of the Hypostyle Hall,
and Merneptah’s battle reliefs, depicted on the western face of the enclosure wall
of the Cour du Cachetter. See Rainey and Notley 2006: 92–96, 103; 2001a; Hasel
2003: 28–31; and Yurco 1990: 33–35.
55. The parallels with Gen 12:10 and 42:2ff have been pointed out by Na’aman
(1994b: 244–245). Compare Redford 1987: 141–142 and Kitchen 1992: 27.
56. Na’aman (1992) argues similarly. Weinfeld (1987: 310) also refers to the excavations
at Timna (19 mi. [30 km] north of the Gulf of Aqabah) with its Midianite sanctuary
and copper snake.
57. Edelman 1995: 8 n. 34 contains additional bibliography on theories regarding the lo-
cation of Seir.
58. Cross 1973: 62, following Helck. Albright (1968a: 171) previously vocalized it as
Y(a)hw(e?), and Weippert (1971: 106 n. 14) vocalized Jah(u)wi’. Aḥituv, Eshel, and
Meshel (2012: 129) give the following phonetic options: ya/i/u-h-wa/i/u.
59. I still view the š3sw sʿrr material here to be relevant. Yet readers are directed to a forth-
coming probing study by Daniel Fleming that argues that our oldest evidence asso-
ciated with Amenhotep III was reinterpreted in light of the later Ramses II material
with its connection to Seir and the southern wilderness. In short, Fleming argues
that we should reconstruct the early history of Yhw3 without Seir. For Fleming, the
Egytian Shasu Yhw3 is almost certainly a people and one that predated Israel. I thank
him for sharing his perceptive analysis with me prior to publication.
60. Redford 1992: 272 n. 67, 273 n. 72. Weinfeld (1987: 312 n. 8) is also unduly harsh
when he calls Weippert and Astour’s objections “hypercritical and far-fetched.” For a
762 Notes
review of the data, see Adrom and Müller 2017: 111; their conclusion is that “schol-
arship has not advanced much further” than in the days of Astour, with many of the
same questions remaining unresolved.
61. ANET 262, Kitchen 1992: 27. Cf. EA 288 (so Edelman 1995: 9).
62. One of Schneider’s onomastic specialties is the study of Asiatic personal names in
New Kingdom sources. See esp. Schneider 1992.
63. See Zivie-Coche 2011; Tazawa 2009; Cornelius 1994, 2004; Redford 1992: 125–237.
See too the discussion of Egyptian Astarte in the Conclusion, p. 679.
64. Credit for disproving the older reading “Azriyau of Yaudi” (known to many as
Azriyau the Judean and equated with Azariah/Uzziah of Judah) and all that goes with
it (namely, that the Judean king Azariah was strong enough to lead a massive anti-
Assyrian coalition of north Syrian states against Tiglath-pileser) goes to Na’aman
(1974). In addition to Dalley, see the treatments by Tadmor (1961); Gray (1965: 181–
182); Pitard (1987: 181 n. 90); Cogan and Tadmor (1988: 165–166); Pike (1990: 40),
and especially Kuan (1995: 149–150), who has a full history of scholarship of the
“Azriyau episode.”
65. Cogan and Tadmor 1988: 166; van der Toorn 1992a: 90.
66. By this I do not mean to imply that the proto-Israelites were made up primarily of
nomads. See Dever’s critiques and the other literature, especially that of Faust, in
note 53.
67. For example, Rollston 2015a; 2013b: 377–382; Levin 2014; and Garfinkel et al.
2015: 230. Cf. Tigay 1986: 68–69. Whether Qeiyafa has a Judean (cf. Garfinkel
2017) or north Israelite affiliation (cf. Fantalkin and Finkelstein 2017) does not
settle the debate about the identity of bʿl. Yet as noted by Golub (2017: 29 n. 15), the
Qeiyafa PN constitutes “the first occurrence of the element bʿl in a name found in
a Judaean site.” Cf. the sole occurrence of bʿl at Kuntillet ʿAjrud in the plaster text
KA 4.2 and similar debates about its referent. See Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587 and
Lewis 2020.
68. Sanders (2009: 114) notes how it is also “the first known alphabetic inscription to ad-
dress an audience in the first-person voice of the king.”
69. See line 18 of the inscription as well as our discussion in note 125. Rather than
reconstructing ʾ[t k]ly yhwh, “vessels of Yahweh” (cf. Isa 52:11), some scholars sug-
gest ʾ[rʾ]ly yhwh, “Ariels of Yahweh,” or ʾ[y]ly yhwh, “rams/strong men of Yahweh.” See
Jackson and Dearman 1989: 94 n. 5. Lemaire (1994: 33), who is preparing the editio
princeps of the Mesha stela once planned but never realized by Clermont-Ganneau
in the late nineteenth century, translates “the altar-hearths of YHWH,” seemingly
reading ʾ[rʾ]ly. Some scholars (e.g., McCarter 1996: 91) also reconstruct a missing
[Yahweh] in line 8, yielding “<Yahweh> resided there [wyšb bh] there during his
[Omri’s] days . . . but Chemosh resided there [wyšbh] in my days.” Other scholars
(e.g., Lemaire 1994: 33; Jackson 1989: 97) translate wyšbh as from šwb, “to return,”
and come up with “He [i.e., Omri] lived there during his days . . . ; but Chemosh
restored it in my days.” See Jackson 1989: 110 for discussion and bibliography.
70. For more on the use of divine ḥrm-warfare in the Mesha stela and elsewhere (e.g.,
KTU 1.13.3–7; the Sabaean texts RES 3945 and DAI Ṣirwāḥ 2005-50), see Chapter
Notes 763
Eight, pp. 462–463. On the use of the Mesha inscription as a historical source, see
Emerton’s (2002) judicious critique of T. L. Thomson.
71. Bordreuil, Israel, and Pardee 1996, 1998. See also the translation in Pardee 2002d: 86
and Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 567–573.
72. Shanks 1997c: 31–32; Eph’al and Naveh 1998; Rollston 1998: 8–9; 2003: 146, 158–173;
Zevit 2001: 364; Lindenberger 2003: 109, 112.
73. For the final report on Kuntillet ʿAjrud, see Meshel 2012. Previously, see Meshel
1992; 1993: 1458–1464; Beck 1982: 3–86, plates 1–16; Hadley 1987: 213f; 2000: 106–
155; Davies 1991: 78–82; Renz and Röllig 1995: 47–64; McCarter 1996: 105–110;
2000: 171–173; Gogel 1998: 413–415; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 210–248; Zevit
2001: 370–404; Mastin 2004, 2005, 2009; Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 277–298; and
especially Aḥituv 1992: 152–162; 2005; 2008. Aḥituv’s later views are replicated in the
final report.
For analyses (with many additional bibliographies) since the publication of the
final report, see Lewis 2020; Schniedewind 2017, 2014; Ornan 2016; Schmidt 2016;
Puech 2014; Blum 2013; Lemaire 2013; and Parker 2013: 109–116, 263–278.
For a discussion of the Bes-like figures from Kuntillet ʿAjrud Pithos A and whether
they represent Yahweh and Asherah, see Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.
74. For the paleographic dating of the inscriptions to the late ninth and early eighth cen-
turies BCE, see Meshel 2012: 73–142, esp. 73–75, and Parker 2013: 263–278, esp. 265
n. 1235 with bibliography. Schniedewind (2017: 138) uses the distinctly different let-
ters h and t from plaster inscriptions 4.1, 4.2, and 4.3 to argue that we have at least
three different scribal hands. The pottery assemblage found at the site has been dated
to the late ninth and early eighth centuries BCE (Ayalon 2012: 205–274; 1995: 198)
and is in line with the range of dates yielded by the carbon-14 data (Carmi and Segal
2012: 61–63; 1996). See Schniedewind 2017: 142–144 for the argument that the
carbon-14 data allow for his suggested earlier phase.
75. Meshel 1993: 1463–1464; 1997: 312; Hadley 1993. For the final report of the phases of
architecture, written by Ze’ev Meshel and Avner Goren, see Meshel 2012: 11–59.
76. Zevit 2001: 374, 378–381. But see too Mastin 2004: 329–330.
77. Yet see the strong critiques by Zevit (2001: 374–375, n. 47), Schmidt (2002: 96, 98–
99), and Na’aman and Lissovsky 2008: 187–190.
78. There is no way of proving or disproving Na’aman and Lissovsky’s (2008: 190) “daring
hypothesis.” It is quite speculative to suggest that “Kuntillet ‘Ajrud was probably dedi-
cated to the goddess [Asherah]” and constructed by “a (possibly Israelite) king . . . for
the sancta and treasures of the goddess Asherata” (Na’aman and Lissovsky 2008: 200–
201). There is no indication that Asherah was the preferred deity at this site, especially
with the mention of the gods El and Baal/baal, and even more so with the multiple
references to only Yahweh as the god granting blessings (discussed later).
79. For a full list of the onomastic record, see Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2012: 128–129.
As for male divinity, apart from KA 4.2 (on which see Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587, and
Lewis 2020), only Yahweh occurs both as an independent proper name and as a theo-
phoric element in personal names. The full DN yhwh occurs five times (in KA 3.1; 3.6;
3.9; 4.1.1 [twice]), with the shortened DN yhw occurring two times (in KA 1.2; 3.9).
764 Notes
Of some twenty-six personal names, thirteen contain theophoric elements, of which

100 percent are Yahwistic: ʾlyw, ʾmryw, ḥlyw, ywʿśh, yw[], ʿbdyw, ʿbd[yw] ʿzyw, rʾy[w],
šknyw, smʿyw, smʿy[w], šmryw. Granted, four of these thirteen are reconstructed
(yw[], ʿbd[yw], rʾy[w], šmʿy[w]), yet such reconstructions are likely. If they are not
included, the 100 percent statistic remains the same.
80. Meshel 2012: 76–77 = Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: §KAjr 9. Dobbs-Allsopp et al.
2005: 277–278 includes a cross-reference to the text numbers in the earlier editions
by Meshel, Davis, and Renz.
The personal name ʿObadyaw with its - yw theophoric element is distinctly
northern, in contrast to the southern -yhw. The divine name yhw here is unusual.
We would expect the form yhwh that is well attested in the other inscriptions from
Kuntillet ʿAjrud, although yhw does also appear in Pithos B (mentioned later). It is
possible that we have a scribal error where the engraver left off the final -h (Lemaire
1984; McCarter 1996: 110) or defective writing (Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 284). See
too Zevit 2001: 381, 399. Bibliography can be found in Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 284.
For the idiom “blessed be X of DN” (brk hʾ lyhw), see Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 284,
citing several parallels from the Hebrew Bible (Ruth 2:20; Judg 17:2; 1 Sam 15:13, etc.).
81. Meshel 2012: 87–91, figs. 5.26, 5.27, 5.28 = Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: §KAjr 18. Some
scholars (e.g., Weinfeld [1980: 284], Meshel [1992: 107], and McCarter [2000:a 171 n. 1])
reconstruct ʾšyw hmlk so that the unknown speaker would refer to ʾAshyaw (= biblical
Yawʾash/Joash), the king of Israel, whose reign (ca. 802–787 BCE) would fit nicely with
the date of the Kuntillet ʿAjrud inscriptions. On the transposition of theophoric and verbal
elements, see McCarter 2000a: 171 n. 1.
82. On the syntax of the expression “DN of GN” (which is rare according to biblical
Hebrew grammar), see McCarter 1987: 139–143 and the expanded discussion in
Smith 2016: 71–98.
83. For El and Baal, see their mention in one of the texts written on plaster (see details on
KA 4.2 in note 79). Meshel (2012: 133) leans toward viewing these terms as indicators
of the syncretistic worship of Yahweh. For a full discussion, see Lewis 2020.
84. Lemaire (1984: 133) suggests that the author was a northern Israelite. For an elabora-
tion of this thesis, see Mastin 2004: 330–331.
85. Meshel 2012: 92–103, figs 5.36–5.46. Cf. Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 293–298,
KAjr 19–21. The inscription described in the present text (Figure 6.7) is Meshel’s
inscription 3.6.
86. Meshel 2012: 95–97. See too Meshel 1978 and various commentators: e.g., Weinfeld
1984: 125; Chase 1982: 63; Davies 1991: 81, §8.021; Aḥituv 1992: 157–158; 2008: 320–321;
Renz and Röllig 1995: 62; Zevit 2001: 394; Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 293, §KAjr 19.
Curiously, Pithos B also contains four incomplete abcedaries, partially overlap-
ping the main inscription (Meshel 2012: 102–103; inscriptions 3.11–3.14). The pre-
cise function of these abcedaries in unknown. Zevit (2001: 398), following Naveh,
suggests “that they might be a form of a charm.” He concludes that “the Ajrud
inscriptions may provide the earliest examples of the alphabet in magic use.” In con-
trast, Schiedewind (2014: 277–280, 284–285) argues that they give evidence of a
scribal curriculum.
Notes 765
87. Meshel 2012: 127– 128; Schniedewind 2014: 290; Smoak 2015: 63. Cf. Naveh
1979: 28–29, which deals only with the root brk. See Lindenberger 2003: 9 on the
absence of Kuntillet ʿAjrud’s fuller elaborate greeting formula found elsewhere in
Hebrew letters. Contrast a similar sentiment yet with distinctly different vocabulary
in Ugaritic’s yšlm lk ʾilm [lšlm] tǵrk tšlmk, “May it be well with you. May the gods pro-
tect you and keep you well.” For attestations, see Loewenstamm 1969: 52 nn. 5, 6, to
which now add RS 92.2005 and RS 92.2010. See Bordreuil and Pardee 2001: 371–379
and Pardee 2002b: 112.
88. The presence of third-person masculine singular verbs and hence only one blessing
agent (Yahweh) has been pointed out previously (e.g., Tigay 1987: 190; Emerton
1999: 320), although frequently overlooked in subsequent (and especially popular)
publications. The final report from Kuntillet ʿAjrud does indeed stress the masculine
singular verbs, underscoring that this is “no trivial matter,” as it has implications for
the nature of the word ʾšrth, which “seems to refer to a sacred object rather than the
goddess Asherah” (Meshel 2012: 132).
89. Na’aman and Lissovsky 2008: 200– 201, emphasis mine. Though Na’aman and
Lissovsky view the Kuntillet ʿAjrud complex as being built “for the sancta and
treasures of the goddess Asherata” (on which see note 78 and Schniedewind
2014: 273–274), here they tone down her role, asserting that the goddess “may have
acted as a divine intercessor between individuals and YHWH.”
90. Cf. too Keel and Uehlinger’s (1998: 237) conclusion underscoring the subordinate
nature of the asherah: “Neither the iconography nor the texts [at Kuntillet ʿAjrud]
force us to interpret the relationship between ‘Yahweh . . . and his asherah’ in Iron Age
IIB in the sense of a (sexually-determined) relationship of two forces that are paired
and thus compel us to assume that the asherah has the status of a partner. ‘Yahweh’s
asherah’ does not have equal rank with Yahweh but is rather a mediating entity that
brings his blessing and is conceived in the mind in the shape of a stylized tree that was
thus subordinate to Yahweh.”
91. Meshel 2012: 98–100, inscription 3.9.
92. Note the presence of the article here (htmn, “the Teman”), which could easily desig-
nate “the Southland.” See the grammatical parallels in the Hebrew Bible listed in Zevit
2001: 399. See too McCarter 2000a: 172 n. 1 on the northern (Israelite) form tmn in
contrast to the southern (Judahite) tymn, which also occurs at Kuntillet ʿAjrud in one
of the plaster texts (described later). For a sampling of some of the further analysis of
the phrase “Yahweh of Teman,” see Emerton 1982: 9–13; McCarter 1987: 139–143;
Hadley 2000: 127–129; Zevit 2001: 395–396; Mastin 2004: 332; and Lewis 2020.
93. For this exact idiom, cf. Ps 20:5. The divine name yhw here, rather than the full yhwh
that appears in this same inscription, also occurs in the stone basin. See note 80.
Just prior to this is a reference to a person (ʾš ḥnn) acting benevolently that has
previously been read as a reference to Yahweh being a compassionate god (ʾl ḥnn)
(McCarter 2000a: 172 n. 3, followed by Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 296). While we
do have yhwh (and yh) being referred to as ʾl ḥnn at Khirbet Beit Lei (see note 111),
the reading here (ʾš ḥnn and not ʾl ḥnn) seems clear (Meshel 2012: 98–100; Parker
2013: 270–271).
766 Notes
94. See inscriptions 4.1–4.6 in Meshel 2012: 105–121 as well as the treatments by Mastin
(2009); Parker (2013: 109–116); Blum (2013); Lemaire (2013); Puech (2014); and
Lewis (2020).
95. This text survives in a very broken state. My translation here reflects the readings
on the photograph ([yʾ]rk.ymm . wyśbʾw/hyṭb.yhwh.[]y) from Meshel 2012: 106,
fig. 5.50b; see also Renz and Röllig 1995: 58. Similarly, see McCarter 2000a: 172;
Gogel 1998: 413, §K. Ajrud 7; and Davies 1991: 80, §8.015. Other renderings (e.g.,
Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 285, §KAjr 14; Zevit 2001: 373; Meshel 1993: 1462;
Aḥituv 1992: 158–159) include an extra middle line that has references to Yahweh
and Asherah (l[y]‌hwh []tmn wl[]ʾšrt) based on other fragments. The blessings
mentioned in this prayer are echoed with strikingly similar vocabulary in Deut
4:40, 5:16, and 22:7 as rewards for obedient living (cf. Deut 5:26, 12:25).
96. The two plural verbs in this text (wyśbʾw, [wy]tnw) refer to humans, not deities.
97. Aḥituv 2014: 36–37.
98. See Cross 1983, which dates the seal to the first half of the eighth century BCE. See
too Avigad and Sass 1997: 25–26, 59, 466, and Avigad 1987: 197–198.
99. For the precise location of Khirbet el-Qom, see Dever’s detailed map of Iron Age
sites in the central Judean hills (1969–1970: 141, fig. I).
100. There has been some confusion in reporting where the inscription was found.
Holladay (1992: 98) remarks that it came from Tomb I, while Dever (1997: 391) says
that it came from Tomb III. Personal communication with Dever confirms that it
was from Tomb II, as originally stated in Dever 1969–1970: 146.
101. Those scholars who have argued for an apotropaic function include Schroer (1983),
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 237), Puech (1992: 128), Hadley (2000: 103–104), Zevit
(2001: 368–369), Lewis (2012: 109–112), Schmidt (2016: 149–162), Mandell and
Smoak (2016: 242; 2017a: 190, 192), and Suriano (2018: 117). Note too the so-called
ghost letters (i.e., the doubling and tripling of letters) in line 3, which have made this
line extremely difficult to interpret. Zevit (2001: 362) notes how such letters “are
found in much later incantations.”
Mandell and Smoak’s (2017a) study also emphasizes the tomb as an interactive
physical space that included non-linguistic modes of communication. Visual aes-
thetics (including the skeleton, architecture, and funerary objects as well as the
darkness of the tomb itself) and olfactory sensations would have communicated
through a “physical syntax.”
102. Notable studies include Lemaire 1977; Naveh 1979; Miller 1981; Mittman 1981;
Dever 1984; Zevit 1984; Hadley 1987; 1994: 242–245; Shea 1990; Hess 1991: 23–26;
Renz and Röllig 1995: 199–211; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 237–240; McCarter
2000d: 179; Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 408–414; Aḥituv 2008: 220–224; Smoak
2015: 54–55; Schmidt 2016: 144–162; Mandell and Smoak 2017a; and Suriano
2018: 112–117.
103. Zevit (2001: 360 n. 10) argues that the correct reading is brkt, “I blessed.”
104. Personal communication, Daniel Fleming.
105. See conveniently Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 405–419, 575–578 and Aḥituv 2008:
226–230. For the editio princeps, see Naveh 2001: 194–207. See too Lemaire
2006: 231–238.
Notes 767
106. Mettinger (1988: 125, 152) notes that divine name Yahweh Sebaoth occurs 284
times in the Hebrew Bible, mostly (88 percent) in the prophets, and often in con-
nection with the Jerusalem Temple.
107. The various dates assigned to these inscriptions range from the eighth to the sixth
century BCE. Lemaire favors an eighth-century BCE date, while Zevit (2001: 420)
follows Naveh in dating them ca. 700 BCE. Suriano (2018: 79, 122) dates them to
the seventh century BCE, while Cross (1970) and McCarter (2000b: 180) date the
texts to the beginning of the sixth century BCE. For bibliography, see Mandell and
Smoak 2016: 194 n. 9, 211–213.
See Zevit 2001: 405– 438 for a detailed study of the epigraphy of these
inscriptions. See too Niditch 2015: 92–99 and Mandell and Smoak 2016 for ana-
lyses of the overall materiality of the funerary complex, and Suriano 2018: 78–80,
117–123 for an analysis of the inscriptions in the context of the care for the dead
at Khirbet Beit Lei. Mandell and Smoak make a strong case against the “refugee
hypothesis,” which argued that the inscriptions were written by later refugees and
thus unrelated to the burials. Instead, Mandell and Smoak (2016: 244) argue that
“the inscriptions and drawings were an integral element in the construction and
design of the tomb.”
108. This is a representative sampling. For further bibliography including the analyses of
Miller and Mittmann, see Renz and Röllig 1995: 242–251 and Dobbs-Allsopp et al.
2005: 125–132.
109. Cf. Zevit’s (2001: 429–430) reading, which does not reconstruct the missing y of
Yahweh: hwšʿ hwh, “Save. Destruction.”
110. Our texts are admittedly difficult to read. Cf. the following representative sampling
of interpretations:
Naveh 1963: 84–86:
Yahve [is] the God of the whole earth [yhwh ʾlhy kl hʾrṣ]; the mountains of Judah
belong to him, to the God of Jerusalem [hry yhd lw lʾlhy yršlm]. /The [Mount
of] Moriah Thou hast favoured, the dwelling of Yah, Yahveh [hmwryh ʾth ḥnnt
nwh yh yhwh].
Cross 1970: 300–302:
I am Yahweh thy God [[ʾ]ny yhw ʾlhyk]: I will accept the cities of Judah and will
redeem Jerusalem [ʾrṣh ʿry yhdh wgʾlty yršlm]. /Absolve [us] O merciful God!
Absolve [us] O Yahweh [nqh yh ʾl ḥnn nqh yh yhwh].
Lemaire 1976: 558–560, followed by Suriano 2018: 120:
YHWH is the God of all the earth [yhwh ʾlhy kl hʾrṣ]; the mountains of Judah
belong to the God of Jerusalem [hry yhwdh lʾlhy yršlm]. Intervene, merciful
YHWH; absolve Yh-YHWH [pqd yhwh ḥnn nqh yh yhwh].
McCarter 2000b: 179–180:
Yahweh is the god of the whole earth [yhwh ʾlhy kl hʾrṣ]. The highlands of Judah
belong to the god of Jerusalem [hry yhdh lʾlhy yršlm]. Intervene, O compas-
sionate god! Absolve, O Yahweh [pqd yh ʾl ḥnn nqh yh yhwh].
Zevit 2001: 417–427:
YWHW, my god, exposed/laid bare his land ]yhwh ʾlhy glh ʾrṣh]. A terror he
led for his own sake to Jerusalem [ʿrṣ yhd lw ʾl yršlm]. /The source smote
768 Notes
the hand. Absolve [from culpability] the hand, YHWH [hmqr yd hyh nqh
yh yhwh].
Note how a single letter in the first line is the difference between whether we have
a confessional statement that Yahweh is the God of “the entire earth” (kl hʾrṣ)
(Naveh, Lemaire, McCarter) or, in Zevit’s words, “the first extra-biblical documen-
tation reflecting the notion that the god of Israel used other nations” to “expose
[the nakedness]” of his land (glh ʾrṣh). That the biblical idiom for the latter typically
(always?) has the word ʿerwāh following the verb glh (i.e., “to expose the naked-
ness”) makes one lean toward the former confessional interpretation.
111. Cross and McCarter read ʾl ḥnn, whereas Lemaire reads yhwh ḥnn. Both Cross and
McCarter prefer to see the double use of yh as a vocative particle rather than a short
form for Yah(weh).
112. The bibliography for older treatments can be found in Dobbs-Allsopp et al.
2005: 150–151. For the most complete treatment, including a composite drawing
based on new photographs and readings, see Zevit 2001: 351–359 as well as Aḥituv
2008: 236–239.
113. Zevit (2001: 356–357) presents two different interpretations for the curse men-
tioned in line 1 of the inscription pictured here, which reads ʾrr ʾšr ymḥh. Either
the curse is against a person who might deface an inscription or it is against the
Assyrians.
114. Yet Aḥituv (2008: 237–239) reads yhw[] as the theophoric element of a personal
name and [h]mlk, “[the] king.” Thus for Aḥituv, Yahweh does not appear in this text.
115. Aharoni 1966. For a brief description of the Arad inscriptions and their contents,
see Lemaire 1997: 176–177. For collections of the Arad texts, see Aharoni and
Naveh 1981; Pardee 1982; Davies 1991: 11–38; Aḥituv 1992: 54–96; 2008: 92–
153; Renz and Röllig 1995: 347–403; Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 5–108. For con-
venient translations of selected texts, see Pardee 2002e: 81–85 and Lindenberger
2003: 113–124.
116. For other uses of the expression bêt-yhwh referring to sanctuaries other than
Jerusalem, cf. Josh 6:24 and 1 Sam 1:7.
117. The first announcement of the inscriptions appeared in Hebrew in Cathedra
(Barkay 1989: 37–76), with the formal expanded editio princeps appearing in
English in the journal Tel Aviv three years later (Barkay 1992: 139–192). In between
Ada Yardeni (1991) published one of the first substantial studies of the text. In 2004,
a team of epigraphers (Bruce Zuckerman, Marilyn Lundberg, and Andrew Vaughn)
teamed up with Gabriel Barkay, the lead excavator of Ketef Hinnom, to produce “a
substantial revision and rereading” on which the present treatment is based. See
Barkay et al. 2004. See too Aḥituv’s (2012) response to Na’aman and Berlejung’s
attempts to date the inscriptions in the Persian period. For more recent studies of
the inscriptions within their broader funerary context, see Smoak 2015; Schmidt
2016: 123–144; and Suriano 2018: 88–90, 123–127. Suriano too views the seventh-
century BCE date as secure.
118. On the elite nature of the tombs, see Dever 1999: 10*.
Notes 769
119. See Chapter Four, pp. 85–86, on the deity El Berit.

120. For the epigraphic analysis of KH II. 2–5, see Barkay et al. 2004: 41–71. For the use
of the Ketef Hinnom inscriptions as incantations (and an analysis of the key verb gʿr
and the Dead Sea Scroll material), see Lewis 2012.
121. On the apotropaic character of the Khirbet el-Qom inscription, see note 101.
Compare too the frequent appearance of (Egyptian) amulets in Judean tombs of the
Iron II period. See Bloch-Smith 1992a: 85–86; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 350; Lewis
2012: 103–104; and Schmidt 2016: 124–128, 140–144.
122. Barkay et al. (2004: 68) also contrast the social context here with that lying be-
hind Num 6: “The use of the confessional statement in Ketef Hinnom I, however,
introduces a context associated with personal piety and family life—that of family
tomb and burial of an individual. The blessing itself [i.e., Num 6:24–26], which is
found in a cultic context in the MT, is thus shown by these inscriptions also to have
been used in personal and family context.” For more on incantations and family re-
ligion, see Lewis 2008a: 76–77; 2012.
123. For an introduction to the Lachish inscriptions and various studies concerning their
language and content (including the editio princeps of texts #1–18 by Torczyner),
see Pardee 1997f: 323–324. For collections of the Lachish texts, see Pardee 1982;
Davies 1991: 1–10; Aḥituv 1992: 31–54; 2008: 56–91; Renz and Röllig 1995: 405–
440; Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 299–347. For convenient translations of selected
texts, see Pardee 2002f: 78–81 and Lindenberger 2003: 124–131.
124. See in particular Lachish letter #3, which has been called “The Letter of a Literate
Soldier,” and Schniedewind’s (2013: 106–110) comments about illiteracy being so-
cially stigmatized.
125. See the Ataroth material discussed in Chapter Five, note 172. Cross’ treat-
ment (which follows the reconstruction “[ve]ssels of Yahweh,” [k]ly yhwh, in line
18) forms a part of his reformulation and updating of the Midianite hypothesis (on
which see pp. 276–277). The other traditional reconstruction (“the a[ltar-hea]rths
of Yahweh,” ʾ[rʾ]ly yhwh) is based on the unbroken occurrence of ʾrʾl in line 12. See,
for example, Rainey’s analysis in Rainey 2001b and Rainey and Notley 2006: 203–
204, 211–212. Rainey (in Rainey and Notley 2006: 204) understands Nebo as “an
isolated Israelite place” from which “Mesha was able to confiscate more cult objects
of YHWH.” The altar hearth served as “an enemy cult object captured” [as . . . ] war
booty . . . presented to the conquering [deity] Chemosh” (Rainey 2001b: 304). Cf.
lines 10–13, where Mesha acted similarly at Ataroth, what Rainey terms “an original
YHWH shrine facing a shrine to Chemosh” (Rainey and Notley 2006: 204). Rainey
reads line 12 as “its Davidic altar hearth” (ʾrʾl dwdh), yet the possessive suffix on a
personal name would be highly unusual.
Another reconstruction that has found less of a following is that of Lipiński
(1971b: 335; cf. Kang 1989: 80), who reads “the [ra]ms of Yahweh” (ʾ[t. ʾl]y yhwh).
This too would likely be cultic in nature, referring to animals sacrificed. Lipiński
refers to Isa 1:11 and Mic 6:6–7a, which mention ram offerings to Yahweh.
According to Lipiński, who cites 2 Kgs 3:4, the “rams of Yahweh” here refer to
Moabite tribute that “belonged most likely to the Israelite royal temple of Bethel.”
770 Notes
Thus he remarks that “one cannot conclude from the Moabite inscription that Nebo
possessed a sanctuary of Yahweh.” In other words, “the rams of Yahweh” were rams
taken from Nebo (Mesha line 17, “and I took from there,” wʾqḥ mšm, clearly marks
Nebo as the antecedent) but used for cultic activity elsewhere.
126. Compare Zevit 2001: 687, which likewise concludes: “YHWH was worshipped
in some parts of Israel by the tenth century and . . . his cult spread and was pan-
Israelite by the end of that century.”
127. For a detailed list of these texts and secondary literature, see McCarter 2008b:
48–49.
128. Cf. Cross 2003: 198–199, fig. 29.5, which mentions the “provisional” reading of
ywḥnn (“Yah[weh] is gracious”) on an Old Canaanite arrowhead. If the reading is
correct, Cross (2003: 199) notes how it would constitute “the earliest extra-biblical
occurrence” “of a Yahwistic name” and one with “orthography following early
(North) Israelite practice.” Yet note Cross’ caution that “there is still need for a
careful study.” Cf. too Bordreuil’s (1992: 208, fig. 2) decidedly different reading.
129. See McCarter 1996: 77–80; Cross 2003: 200–202, 333; and Hess 2007c: 116–120.
If the reading ʾlʾb is secure on an Old Canaanite inscription from Lachish (Cross
2003: 293–296), then we would have a southern reference to the divine term ʾilʾib,
which frequently designates either the divine ancestor or the god worshipped by
one’s ancestor at Ugarit. For the distinction, see Lewis 2008a: 69–70; for relevant
Ugaritic texts, see Lewis 2008a: 84 n. 50–51; 1989: 56–59.
The theophoric element lbʾt, “Lioness,” occurs, yet it is uncertain whether the
name designates Asherah, Anat, or Astarte (cf. Hess 2007: 119–120). Hess also lists
additional possibilities, yet they are ambiguous: mlk = Milku? king?; rpʾ = Rapi’u?
(DN) heals?
130. Tappy et al. (2006: 41) note how “the importance of having recovered the inscribed
Tel Zayit stone from a secure archaeological context can hardly be overstated.”
Tappy (Tappy and McCarter 2008: 4), the director of excavations at Tel Zayit, also
notes that the inscription was found “in a secondary (or perhaps even tertiary) ar-
chaeological context” and thus was written even “prior to its use in the construction
of the 10th-century wall.”
131. Carr 2008: 124–125. With respect to documenting the presence of Yahweh di-
achronically, we are speaking of “literacy” in narrow terms, as that which is the
result of some type of scribal production. More recently, the broader discus-
sion has become better nuanced, with scholars differentiating between different
types of literacies, including functional literacy, semi-literacy, professional lit-
eracy, and especially multimodal features (e.g., visual aesthetics, spatial theory)
that communicate extra-linguistically beyond the world of skilled scribes. For
social linguistics and Northwest Semitic epigraphy, see Mandell and Smoak
2017a, 2017b.
132. The identification “nascent Old Hebrew script” is Rollston’s description of
McCarter’s view. See pp. 234–235 on the possibility that the reading of bʿl in the late
eleventh-/early tenth-century BCE inscription from Khirbet Qeiyafa may refer to
Yahweh.
Notes 771
133. According to Garr’s (1985: 229–230) study of the dialect geography of Syria-
Palestine, “Hebrew was a minor linguistic center within the Canaanite domain.”
134. See Dearman 2006: 533 for a convenient but brief listing of the specific references
to “the land,” “cities,” and “province” of Canaan in the Amarna letters via corre-
spondence coming from Alashia, Babylon, Byblos, Egypt, and Tyre. References in
Ugaritic to Canaan will be discussed later in this chapter. A reference to “the land of
Canaan” also appears on the statue of Idrimi, the king of Alalakh, as a place where
the king temporarily goes into exile.
A more detailed assemblage (including translations) of these texts can be found
in Lemche 1991a. The most exhaustive and authoritative linguistic treatment is
found in the monumental four volumes of Rainey 1996a. See too Rainey’s (2015)
new edition of the entire corpus.
135. A well-written narrative about the origin of the Canaanites and the term “Canaan”
can be found in Tubb 1998: 13–24.
136. The bulk of these inscriptions are collected in Corpus Inscriptionum Semiticarum
(CIS), which was begun in 1867 with Ernest Renan serving as the initial editor
and completed in 1962 by J. B. Chabot and J. G. Février. For a survey of the extant
corpus, see Schmitz 2004: 545–547.
137. This is not to say that such myths about Melqart of Tyre or Adonis of Byblos cannot
be reconstructed from piecemeal Phoenician references and a wide array of outside
sources. For a detailed and well-balanced overview of the data, see Mettinger 2001.
138. Convenient translations of some of the major the Phoenician (and Phoenician-
related) monumental inscriptions and mortuary inscriptions can be found in Hallo
and Younger (2000). These include the following inscriptions (and the following
explicit mention of deities [i.e., setting aside the use of theophoric elements in per-
sonal names]):
Yahimilk—KAI 4 (assembly of holy gods, Baal Shamem, Baalat)

Yehawmilk—KAI 10 (Baalat, all gods of By[blos])
Kulamuwa inscription—KAI 24 (Baal Semed, Baal Hammon, Rakib-El)
Azitawada/Karatepe—KAI 26 (Baal, Baal Shamem, El, Reshep, Shemesh, the
gods)
Ahiram—KAI 1 (none mentioned)
Tabnit—KAI 13 (ʿAshtart, Rephaim)
Eshmunazor—KAI 14 (ʿAshtart, ʿAshtart-Name-of-Baal, Baal, ʾEshmun, holy
gods, gods of Sidon, Rephaim)
Pyrgi—(ʿAshtart)
A translation of the Punic “Marseilles” Sacrificial Tariff (KAI 69) mentioning
the temple of Baal-Saphon can be found in Hallo and Younger 1997: 305–309,
§1.98. The seventh-century BCE treaty between Esarhaddon and King Baal of Tyre
(Parpola and Watanabe 1988: 24–27; ANET: 533–534) mentions the following
West Semitic/Tyrian deities: Anat-baytel, Ashtart, Baʿl Shamem, Baʿl Malage, Baʿl
Saphon, Baytel, Eshmun, and Melqart.
139. Though the origin of the god Bes is in Egypt, it would be unfair to omit him from this
list due to his ubiquitous presence in the Levant. See Chapter Seven, pp. 325–330.
772 Notes
140. See Gras, Rouillard, and Teixidor 1991; Smith et al. 2011; Schwartz et al. 2012; and
Xella et al. 2013. For biblicists interacting with the Phoenician material as they
wrestle with the question of child sacrifice in ancient Israel, see Dewrell 2017.
141. The Elyon passage is 1.10.15–30; see Attridge and Oden 1981: 46–55.
142. See too Barr 1974 and Lipiński 1983.
143. For a vigorous defense of the translation “rulers of foreign lands” rather than
“shepherds” or “tribal leaders,” see Rainey and Notley 2006: 57–60.
144. For a general introduction to MB and more recent terminology, see Burke 2014.
For Middle Bronze Age IIA, cf. Cohen 2002; for an overview of the flowering of
Canaanite culture in Middle Bronze Age IIB-C, cf. Tubb 1998: 55–69. Our emphasis
on Egyptian cultural interactions is not to minimize what Schniedewind (2013: 31–
32) refers to as the “long shadow” that Mesopotamian cuneiform culture cast over
Canaan, as evidenced by the numerous cuneiform texts found at the MB city of
Hazor (see Horowitz, Oshima, and Sanders 2006).
145. Cf. Redford 1992: 98–122; Oren 1997; Ryholt 1997: 118–150; Bietak 2001, 2010,
2016. These questions remain a vibrant area of exploration, as can be seen through
the Egyptological ERC Advanced Grant awarded to the Hyksos Enigma project
under the direction of Manfred Bietak under the auspices of the Austrian Academy
of Sciences, with its bioarchaeological research component under the direction of
Holger Schutkowski under the auspices of Bournemouth University, UK. See http://
thehyksosenigma.oeaw.ac.at/news.
146. For translations of the New Kingdom Legend of Astarte and the Tribute of the Sea,
see Wilson 1969b: 17–18 and Ritner 1997b: 35–36 as well as more recent research
(e.g., Ayali-Darshan 2010, 2015). Ritner (1997b: 35) writes: “While this legend has
been shown to have an indigenous Egyptian setting, it is yet parallel to, and likely
inspired by, the Ugaritic story of the Fight between Baal and the sea god Yam, whose
Semitic name is also used for the threatening deity in the Egyptian tale.” See Ayali-
Darshan 2015 on variant textual traditions across the ancient Near East.
On the syncretistic Egyptian/Canaanite pantheon attested in Proto-Sinaitic
inscriptions at Serabit el-Khadim, see Chapter Four, pp. 75–76.
147. See, for example, Chapter Five, note 83, which describes a Middle Bronze Age seal
depicting a seated El figure on a cylinder seal coming from a burial cave near Ras
ʿAli in Naḥal Zippori.
148. Past studies include McGovern 1985; Bloch-Smith 1992a; Keel and Uehlinger
1992, 1996, 1998; Keel 1997; Zevit 2001; and the most comprehensive study to date,
Christian Herrmann’s multiple volume Ägyptische Amulette aus Palästina/Israel
(1994, 2002, 2006, 2016). Zevit (2001: 344), using Herrmann’s database, synthesizes
the situation well:
Egyptian amulets found at Israelite Iron Age sites reveal a remarkably restricted
repertoire of gods and icons: Isis and the infant Horus; Sekhmet or Bastet; Bes;
Ptah; and the divine eye, Udjet. Although Egyptian in design, the popularity of
these particular figures may be indicative about the Israelites who purchased
them. . . . These figures in Israelite comprehension and interpretation comprise
a type of insurance against various ills that could befall the living. Inasmuch as
Notes 773
such amulets were sometimes used as grave goods, they may have also figured
in Israelite conceptions of postmortem reality.
As for the reverse situation, Steiner (1992) has analyzed a handful of brief
Northwest Semitic incantations found (transcribed in hieratic syllabic script) in
the fourteenth-century BCE Egyptian texts known as the London Medical Papyrus.
Some of these texts may also be found in Steiner 1997b: 328–329. The texts are brief,
often fragmentary, and written in a Mischsprache type of language (e.g., Phoenician
and Aramaic linguistic features) that remains puzzling. Nonetheless, it is clear that
incantations were offered to several Semitic deities (e.g., Eshmun, Astarte) who
were thought to be healing gods.
When first published, Steiner labeled these fourteenth-century BCE texts “the
earliest Semitic texts written in an Egyptian script.” In 2011 Steiner made news on a
similar front by deciphering similar Semitic texts written in Egyptian but dating far
earlier, to the twenty-fourth century BCE. See Steiner 2011, which notes that these
incantations were used to prevent snakes from approaching the king’s mummy. In
particular, suggests Steiner, we are dealing with Byblian snakes that only under-
stand incantations that are spoken in a Canaanite dialect and that appeal to the effi-
cacious power of Semitic deities!
149. This institution has been well documented by many researchers, including this
author, with ongoing studies incorporating new epigraphic sources. See Lewis
2008a: 74–76; 1989: 83–84; McLaughlin 2001; Greer 2007; and Dvorjetski 2016, the
last of which includes a splendid survey and more recent bibliography.
150. Remarkably, the marzeaḥ institution is attested for nearly two millennia throughout
the Levant and with consistent features. In addition to its presence at Late Bronze
Age Ugarit (in Akkadian and Ugaritic texts), it is also attested in biblical texts (Amos
and Jeremiah), Phoenician texts from Carthage and Piraeus, Aramaic texts from
Elephantine, Palmyra, and Nabatea, rabbinical references by both the Tannaim and
Amoraim, and the mosaic map at Madeba (sixth century CE). Though not homog-
enous, consistent features include the marzeaḥ organizations being associated with
a particular patron deity, and with drinking (especially religious in orientation) as
a primary activity. Marzeaḥ groups are gendered masculine, with the leader of the
association consistently being referred to as the “head” (rb mrzḥ) and members re-
ferred to as the “men of the marzeaḥ” (mt mrzḥ) or the “sons of the marzeaḥ” (bny
mrzḥ). Their activities regularly take place in a “marzeaḥ house” (bt mrzḥ), and real
estate holdings can include vineyards.
151. For a general overview of Ugaritic studies, see Smith 2001a.
152. Smith (2002b) singles out the subtitle to W. F. Albright’s book Yahweh and the Gods
of Canaan: A Historical Analysis of Two Contrasting Faiths. Elsewhere, Albright
(1961: 438) spoke of
the extremely low level of Canaanite religion, which inherited a relatively
primitive mythology and had adopted some of the most demoralizing cultic
practices then existing in the Near East . . . The brutality of Canaanite my-
thology . . . passes belief.
774 Notes
Smith also refers to the following representative quotes by Gray and Oldenburg:
The Canaanite literature never reaches the moral plane of the Old Testament. . . .
The moral limitation of Canaanite religion was probably due to its preoccupa-
tion with ritual related to the phases of the agricultural year. This religion was
essentially magical and, as such, a-moral. (Gray 1965: 257)
The more I studied pre-Israelite religion, the more I was amazed with its utter
depravity and wickedness. Indeed, there was nothing in it to inspire the sub-
lime faith of Yahweh. His coming is like the rising sun dispelling the darkness of
Canaanite superstition. (Oldenburg 1969: xi)
153. See the perceptive critique by Hillers (1985).
154. With regard to Albright’s pejorative view of Ugaritic religion, Lewis (2006b: xxxi)
writes as follows:
As for being a historian of religion, Albright’s days were those of particularism.
The spirit of pluralism was rarely the mood of his times. (Vatican II was years
away.) Lacking was any appreciation of Israel’s Canaanite heritage when it
came to language and archaeology. We must remember that when Albright
went about working on Israelite religion, finds such as those at Kuntillet ʿAjrud
(including an inscription mentioning “Yahweh and his asherah”) lay buried.
As for his depiction of the “brutality of the Canaanites,” Albright was reacting
against texts that were new in his day. ʿAnatu’s “thirst for blood” and “massacre
of mankind” in KTU 1.3 prompted his pejorative evaluation. Beautiful prayers
we now know from our vantage point had yet to be published (cf. for example,
KTU 1.119 whose editio princeps did not appear until 1978, seven years after
Albright died).
For accessible surveys of the epigraphy and archaeology of Ugarit see Bordreuil and
Pardee 2009; Pardee 2012b; and Yon 2006; to which add Matoïan and Vita 2014 on
economic matters.
155. Broadly speaking, Rainey’s and Na’aman’s articles critique the work of Lemche
(1991a), whose rejoinder can be found in Lemche 1996b, 1998.
156. For an example of each position, compare Tropper (1994; 2000: 3–5), who is in favor
of calling Ugaritic a Canaanite language, with Sivan (2001: 2–3), who opposes it.
Those in favor point to the following: the large shared vocabulary stock; NC >
CC; *aw > ô and *ay > ê; plural and dual endings with -m (contrast Aramaic); *ṣ and
*ḏ. > ṣ (cf. Hebrew; contrast Aramaic); the Barth-Ginsberg law (*yaqtal > yiqtal).
Those in opposition point to the following: Ugaritic has a fuller consonantal
system (closer to Arabic); the ā > ô “Canaanite” shift is not in Ugaritic; the use of Š
prefix for the causative stem; the relative = d/dt and not š/ʾš/ʾăšer; the use of special
forms for genitive/accusative of third-person pronouns (huwati/hiyati/humūti); the
shift of ẓ > ǵ (*ẓuru; Hbw ṣur; Arb ẓirru; Ugr ǵuru); ḏ > d (*ʾuḏnu; Arb ʾuḏnu; Ugr
ʾudnu) rather than ḏ > z (Hbw ʾozen); the lack of definite article.
157. Tropper’s (1994) analysis of Ugaritic as Northern Canaanite (as opposed to the
Southern Canaanite of the Amarna letters as well as later differentiations between
coastal dialects (Phoenician and Punic) versus inland dialects (Hebrew, Moabite,
Edomite, Ammonite) makes good sense. Compare Halayqa 2008: 468. For the
Notes 775
assertion that Ugaritic is a direct descendant from a Levantine “Amorite” dialect,

see Bordreuil and Pardee 2009: 19; Pardee 1997g: 376; 1997h: 262; 2012b: 23–24.
158. By asserting this we do not mean to ignore a significant overlap with Aramean re-
ligion. Cf., for example, the five deities attested in two Aramaic texts from Sam’al
(Zincirli): Hadad, El, Rashap, Rakib-El, and Shamash. See further Chapter Five,
p. 750, note 180.
159. For translations and analyses of the deity lists, see Pardee 2000: 291–319, 364–385,
400–402, 520–531, 659–660, 779–806 for a fuller treatment and 2002a: 11–24 for a
brief synthetic presentation. The specific texts are: KTU 1.47 (RS 1.017); KTU 1.118
(RS 24.264+); KTU 1.148 (RS 24.643:1–9); Ugaritic V #18 (RS 20.024); RS 1.74 (RS
6.138); KTU 1.148 reverse (RS 92.2004/RS 24.643); KTU 1.102 (RS 24.246); KTU
1.65 (RS 4.474).
160. According to Pardee (2002a: 222), 234 different deities are attested in our extant
ritual texts, “178 of which are specifically indicated in the sacrificial rituals as
recipients of offerings.”
161. For a detailed history of pioneering scholars in Ugaritology, see Smith 2001a and
the summation in Schniedewind 2013: 40–44.
162. At the same time, Parker (1989b: 4) is adamant that he does “not wish to claim any
direct connection” between Ugaritic and Hebrew narratives nor “to imply anything
about the date of origins of the latter.”
163. Polak acknowledges his indebtedness in building on the work of Cassuto and
Cross.
164. Smith (2002a: 23) concludes that the “incidence of highly specialized sacrificial
terms suggests a common Canaanite heritage.”
165. Cf. too Ugaritic šurpu, which, according to Pardee (2002a: 225), “probably
designates the holocaust or burnt-offering” similar to the Hebrew ʿōlāh. Smith
(2002a: 23) also sees the two terms as semantically equivalent. Yet one of the four
major categories of offerings at Ugarit, the ṯaʿû (an expiation sacrifice?), has no
Hebrew parallel. Another dissimilarity is the presence of garments to dress the cult
statue that are attested in Ugarit offering lists but not those of the Hebrew Bible.
For detailed analysis, see Pardee 2000. Pardee has written the most authorita-
tive study of the Ugaritic ritual texts. According to Pardee (2002a: 224), ninety-two
different types of objects representing offerings are documented. Although many
of the terms are too hard to decipher, at least nineteen of the objects that were fre-
quently offered are easily recognizable. In addition to Pardee, see the detailed work
of Clemens (2001).
166. In a different direction, Sanders (2009: 4, 75) boldly argues that Ugaritic was “the
first known vernacular literature in world history” and that it and Hebrew “repre-
sent the first attempts by people in the ancient Near East to write their own, local
spoken languages.” Furthermore, these “two oldest known major West Semitic
vernaculars share a model of participation” and “a model of political communica-
tion” (2009: 66, 75).
167. For the mention of Arameans in the genealogies of Genesis and elsewhere in the
Hebrew Bible, see Berlejung 2016; Younger 2016: 94–107.
776 Notes
168. For linguistic matters, see Huehnergard 1995; Fales 2011; and Gzella 2015: 53–103.
For sociopolitical matters, compare what Neo-Assyrians referred to as “Aram”
with what is presented in Old Aramaic inscriptions with the portrayal by biblical
authors. See Younger 2016: 36–107.
169. For resources that detail much of what we know about the Arameans, see Pitard
1987, 1997; Sader 1987, 2014; Layton 1988; Schwartz 1989; Kuhrt 1995: 393–
401; Dion 1995; Lipiński 2000, 2006: 203–244; 2013; Akkermans and Schwartz
2003: 360–397; Van de Mieroop 2004: 192–193, 211–214; Niehr 2014b; Gzella
2015; Sergi, Oeming, and de Hulster 2016; Younger 2016; and Berlejung, Maeir, and
Schüle 2017.
170. This theory is that of Beaulieu (2006: 189; 2005: 44–46), who calls this portrayal “an
invention of Sennacherib, who probably intended it as a mythological projection of
the Assyrian king in his role as upkeeper of the imperial order, assisted in his task
by the Arameans, who had become by then the largest non-native contingent in the
Assyrian army and administration.”
171. Following is the full list of deities mentioned in the major Archaic Aramaic
inscriptions, including deities that are clearly Mesopotamian, Phoenician, and
even non-Semitic. A full tabulation of divinity would need to incorporate icono-
graphic representation and here too we have hybrid material. Compare Syro-Hittite
representations such as those in Gilibert 2011 and Younger 2019.
The list is gleaned from the following texts, including both Old Aramaic texts and
Sam’alian Aramaic texts: Bar-Rakib I, II—KAI 216–217; Hadad Inscription—KAI
214; Hazael inscription from Samos—KAI 311; Kulamuwa scepter inscription—
KAI 25; Katumuwa (Pardee 2009); Bar Hadad/Melqart Stela—KAI 201; Nerab I,
II—KAI 225–226; Panamuwa—KAI 215; Sefire—KAI 222–224; Tel Dan—KAI 310;
Tell Fakhariyah—KAI 309; Zakkur—KAI 202; Bukan—KAI 320; the Ördekburnu
inscription (Lemaire and Sass 2013). For an accessible introduction to Old Aramaic
inscriptions, see Layton 1988, though it is out of date, as it does not include the Tel
Dan inscription, discovered in 1993 (with two additional fragments found in 1994);
the Bukan inscription, (re-)published in 1998; the Katumuwa inscription, discov-
ered in 2008; and the new edition of the Ördekburnu that was published in 2013.
For a scholarly edition, see Fales and Grassi 2016. As for including the Kulamuwa
scepter inscription in the corpus of Old Aramaic inscriptions, see Yun 2008: 239
n. 6. According to Gropp (1997: 128), the language of the Nerab inscriptions “is
transitional between the Old Aramaic of the ninth and eighth centuries [BCE] and
the Official Aramaic of the Persian period.” Sokoloff (1999: 106) places the Bukan
inscription (ca. 700 BCE) in the Old Aramaic corpus as well even though it comes
“from an area so far east of the Aramean homeland.”
The order (arranged according to the English alphabet) is artificial.
The gods, ʾlhy/ʾlhn/ʾlhyn (Hadad, Tell Fakhariyah, Zakkur)

The gods of the house of my father, ʾlhy byt ʾby (Bar-Rakib II)
The gods of Arpad, ʾlhy ʾrpd (Sefire)
The gods of KTK, ʾlhy ktk (Sefire)
The gods of Yʾdy, ʾlhy yʾdy (Panamuwa)
Notes 777
The gods of the land, ʾlhy mt (Hadad)

Abyss, mṣlh (Sefire)
ʾArqu-Rashap, ʾrqršp (Hadad)
Baal of Heavens/Baʿl-Shamayn, bʿl šmyn (Zakkur)
Day, ywm (Sefire)
Earth/[God]s of the Earth, ʾrq; [ʾlh]y ʾrq (Sefire, Zakkur)
ʿElyan, ʿlyn (Sefire)
Hadad, hdd (Hadad, Hazael from Samos, Katumuwa, Panamuwa, Tel Dan, Tell
Fakhariyah, Bukan)
Hadad of Aleppo, [hddḥ]lb (Sefire)
Hadad of Sikkan, hddskn (Tell Fakhariyah)
Hadad of the Vineyards, hdd krmn (Katumuwa)
Ḫaldi, ḥldy (Bukan)
Heaven/Gods of the Heaven[s]‌, šmy[n]; ʾl[hy] šmy[n] (Zakkur)
Ilu/El, ʾl (Hadad, Panamuwa, Sefire)
Ilu-Wer/El-wer, ʾlwr (Zakkur)
’Inurta (=Ninurta), ʾnrt (Sefire)
Ir, ʾr (Sefire)
Kadiah (?), kdʾh (Sefire)
Kubaba, kbb (Katumuwa, Ördekburnu)
Laṣ, lṣ (Sefire)
Marduk, mrdk (Sefire)
Melqart, mlqrt (Bar-Hadad/Melqart)
Nabu, nbʾ (Sefire)
Nergal, nrgl/nyrgl (Sefire, Tell Fakhariyah)
Nikkal, nkl (Nerab I, Nerab II, Sefire)
Nikkar, nkr (Sefire)
Night, lylh (Sefire)
Nur, nr (Sefire)
Nusk, nsk (Nerab I, Nerab II, Sefire)
Rakib-El, rkbʾl (Bar-Rakib, Hadad, Kulamuwa scepter, Panamuwa, Ördekburnu)
Rashap, ršp (Hadad)
Shahar/Śahr, šhr = śhr (Nerab I, Nerab II, Zakkur)
Shala, sl (Tell Fakhariyah)
Shamash, šmš (Hadad, Katumuwa, Sefire)
Sibitti, sbt (Sefire)
Sin, s[n]‌(Sefire)
Springs, mʿynn (Sefire)
Tashmet, t[šmt] (Sefire)
Zarpanit, zrpnt (Sefire)
172. The majority of these Mesopotamian deities occur in the Sefire inscriptions as
witnesses to the treaty (Face A, lines 8–10) with ’Inurta (= Ninurta) singled out in the
curse section (Face A, line 38). This stereotypical use causes Greenfield (1987a: 67)
wisely to conclude that “the very god list was not ‘Aramean’ and cannot be used for
778 Notes
the discussion of the Aramean pantheon.” Cf. too Lipiński (2000: 599): “The use of
certain divine names in Aramean environment or even in texts written in Aramaic,
for instance in the curses of the Sefire treaties, does not reflect per se the Aramean
pantheon.” One interesting point should be mentioned. Nergal occurs in the curse
section of the Aramaic of the Tell Fakhariyah bilingual inscription but not in the
corresponding Akkadian text (Tell Fakh, line 23). Cf. Gropp and Lewis 1985: 54.
As for Melqart’s presence in the Bar-Hadad inscription, Pitard (2000: 153
n. 4) notes how this well-known Phoenician deity does not appear in any other
Aramaic inscription. Pitard concludes that “there was a substantial relationship be-
tween Bir-Hadad’s kingdom and the Phoenican coast.” As for the Anatolian goddess
Kubaba in the Katumuwa inscription, Pardee (2009: 62) suggests that Katumuwa
“may be proclaiming his pan-Luwian ties.”
173. These paired deities are attested in the witness section of the Sefire inscriptions
(Face A, lines 11–12). Fitzmyer (1967: 38) argues correctly that “a certain numi-
nous character was attributed to these natural phenomena, and they were prob-
ably objects of worship.” Indeed, in the Sefire inscription they function as paired
witnesses in the same way as do well-known Mesopotamian deities. On the other
hand, they are not attested elsewhere in the other Archaic Aramaic inscriptions as
named, functioning deities.
174. Elyan may not be an independent deity here but rather part of a double name
for a single deity El-Elyan (cf. the Hebrew Bible’s El-Elyon). See Chapter Four,
pp. 86–95.
175. See Chapter Eight, pp. 439–440. For a convenient text and translation, see Nissinen,
Seow, and Ritner 2003: 21–22, and Nissinen et al. 2019: 21–23 with additional
bibliography.
For an example of Aramean royal cult involving the god Hadad, cf. the Old
Aramaic Tell Fakheriyeh inscription. In lines 16–17, Hadd-yithʿi, the king/gov-
ernor of Guzan, mentions how vessels (maʾnayyaʾ) inscribed with the king’s name
reside in the Temple of Hadad. That these vessels are cultic in nature is obvious
from the context. Cf. too the use of the word maʾnayyaʾ to describe the vessels of the
temple of Jerusalem (Ezra 5:14, 15; 6:5; 7:19; Dan 5:2, 3, 23).
Interestingly, the Tell Fakheriyeh inscription also refers to Hadad as “a compas-
sionate god” (Arm ʾilāh raḥmān, line 5; Akk ilu rēmēʾû, line 6), an exact etymolog-
ical cognate to El and Yahweh being referred to as ʾēl raḥûm. See Chapter Eight,
pp. 480–481.
176. This has already pointed out by Greenfield (1976), Lemaire (1998), and Sokoloff
(1999). For a nicely nuanced interpretation of Hadad’s presence here among the
Mannaeans (perhaps identified with the Urartian weather god Teisheba), see
Eph’al 1999.
177. KTU 1.4.6.38–40; 1.4.7.35–39; 1.5.1.22–23; 1.5.2.21–23; 1.5.4.7; 1.10.2.1–2, 4–5,
32–33; 1.10.3.7–8; 1.12.1.40–41; 1.12.2.53–55.
178. Cf. Pardee 2002a: 11–24. There are two brief references to Haddu in KTU 1.102.15,
28: [y]‌gbhd, “Haddu is generous,” and ydbhd, “Haddu is magnanimous.” Pardee
(2002a: 20) suggests that both these are references to hypostases of Baʿlu. Del Olmo
Notes 779
Lete (1999: 74 n. 79) refers to the reading of add in KTU 1.65.9, but this reading is
very uncertain. Pardee (2002a: 23) reads [n]dd. For the use of Adad/Addu in per-
sonal names, see Gröndahl 1967: 114–115, 132–133, 318.
179. While there is some overlap, the Canaanite god Baʿlu/Baal should be distinguished
from “the lord of the heavens,” who occurs as Baʿl-Šamêm in Phoenician dress and
as Baʿl-Šamayn in Aramaic (i.e., the Old Aramaic Zakkur inscription and the late
seventh century BCE Adon/Adun Papyrus from Saqqarah [= KAI 266]). For a de-
tailed treatment of this god, see Niehr 2003 and Chase 1994.
180. Fitzmyer 1995: 61; Younger 2016: 536 n. 170. Matîʿʾēl (Mati-ilu) is known from the
famous mid-eighth-century BCE Old Aramaic Sefire inscriptions that mention his
treaty with Bar-Gaʾyah, the king of KTK, as well as from his treaty with Aššur-nerari
V (see Parpola and Watanabe 1988: xxvii–xxviii, 8–13 [Text 2]). For the most com-
plete study of the reign of Matîʿʾēl, see Younger 2016: 526–547.
181. One plaque, the larger of the two, contains drawings of a type of winged sphinx
along with a wolf that seems to be devouring a child. On its reverse is the drawing of
a striding warrior deity with axe in hand. The second, smaller plaque contains the
drawing of a large-headed ogre with what again seems to be human legs sticking out
of his devouring mouth.
That both of these plaques are clearly incantations (complete with holes for
hanging perhaps on a wall or around one’s neck) comes from their content as well as
the explicit designation of lḥšt, “incantation,” that begins each inscription. We read of
female “stranglers” known as ḥnqt (cf. Ugarit ʾiltm ḫnḳtm). The explicit spell spoken
against them reads: “The house I enter you must not enter” (bt ʾbʾ bl tbʾn). This finds
an exact parallel in the spell within the Ugaritic incantation KTU 1.169.18 (bt ʾubʾu
ʾal tbʾi). Many aspects of the Arslan Tash incantations are debated (e.g., who are
the ʿptʾ, “flyers”?), with many scholars advocating that they were used against night
demons of some sort.
The secondary literature on these plaques (which includes discussions about
their authenticity) is vast (cf. Chapter Four, note 98). See du Mesnil du Buisson
1939; Gaster 1942, 1973; Cross and Saley 1970; Cross 1974b; Zevit 1977; Sperling
1982; Teixidor 1983; van Dijk 1992; Pardee 1998; Avishur 2000; Conklin 2003;
Cross and Saley 2003; and Berlejung 2010.
182. Cf. Garr 1985: 229; Huehnergard 1995: 276–282; Pardee 1998: 39–40; McCarter
2000c: 222; DeGrado and Richey 2017: 124 n. 89.
183. I follow most scholars in reading Baal rather than “lord” in Arslan Tash II, line
1. Scholars are divided with regard to rendering bʿl in Arslan Tash I, line 14. Here
too I prefer the Canaanite god Baal, although the text may simply refer to “the lord
[of . . .].” Regrettably, the context cannot help us decide, for the continuing text on
the lower edge of the plaque is broken. I lean toward Baal due to his presence in
Arslan Tash II as well as the preceding word bʾlt in line 14. Hence I prefer to trans-
late bʾlt bʿl as “by the oath of Baal.”
184. Line 2 mentions ssm bn pdrš, which can be taken as the Hurrian deity Sasm
(McCarter 2000c: 222) or as a personal name designating the individual for whom
the incantation was rendered (Conklin 2003).
780 Notes
185. On Balaam being referred to as being from Aram (Num 23:7), see Schüle 2017: 79.
186. So too Pfeiffer 2017: 115 n. 1–2; 143–144, who includes additional bibliography by
Levin, Köckert, and Müller. Though Leuenberger (2017, 2015) does not embrace a
northern provenance of Yahweh, he too includes additional bibliography of those
who do. For resources on the widespread northern traditions of storm gods, see
Schwemer 2001; 2008a; 2008b and Green 2003.
187. Fleming (forthcoming) has recently produced the most thorough study of the or-
igin of the Midianite Hypothesis. Fleming shows how Tiele’s argument was Kenite,
not Midianite, and how his emphasis on the “wider desert” (i.e., not on the southern
desert) would be lost in later formulations. I am indebted to Fleming for sharing his
research with me prior to publication.
For additional bibliography, see van der Toorn 1996b: 281–286; Blenkinsopp
2008; Blum 2012: 52–63; Römer 2015: 51–70; Pfeiffer 2017: 132–136; and Berner
2017: 193–196. Rowley (1950: 149 n. 4) claims that Stade’s and Budde’s adoption of
the theory “brought about its wide acceptance.” Wyatt (2005: 86) argues against con-
flating two distinct aspects of the hypothesis. He thus argues for separate terminology
that distinguishes between the Kenite hypothesis and the Midianite hypothesis.
188. Bibliography on the archaeology of Midian is immense. Key works can be found
in the bibliographies of Knauf 1988: 15–25; Parr 1988, 1992; Schloen 1993a: 31
n. 50; Cross 1998: 64 nn. 40, 41; Sawyer and Clines 1983; Rothenberg 1998, 1999a,
1999b; Levy 2009a, 2009b; and Monroe 2012. Stager (1998: 174) notes that Parr’s
archaeological survey is responsible for “the revival and revision of the Midianite
hypothesis.”
189. Sarna (1989: 36) goes on to emphasize the lack of any mention of Cain’s lifespan or
death notice as well as that of his immediate descendants: “[Cain’s] entire line passes
into oblivion.”
190. Cf. Propp’s (1999: 176) speculations about why P would write such invectives
against the Midianites, who (we assume) were no longer a historical threat during
his time. See too Monroe’s (2012) study of the story of Cozbi the Midianite. She
argues that the story goes back to an earlier human scapegoat tradition based on
Hittite parallels (2012: 212 n. 1). On the latter, see too Westbrook and Lewis 2008.
191. Other passages that include hostility toward the Midianites include Num 22:4, 7;
Josh 13:21; Ps 83:10 [Eng 83:9].
192. For discussion of the origin of judiciaries involving Jethro and Hobab, see Chapter
Nine, pp. 525–528.
193. On the antiquity of this passage, see note 210.
194. This laudatory phrase is paralleled to “in the days of Shamgar, son of Anat.”
Regrettably, the heroic tales of this individual are only scantily recounted in a single
verse (Judg 3:31).
195. Using cognate evidence from Mari (i.e., the term ḫibrum), Malamat (1962: 145)
views the name Heber as “an allusion to a tribal subdivision that had broken away
from the parent tribe.” He is followed by Soggin (1981: 83), Halpern (1983: 393),
Schloen (1993a: 32), and Ackerman (1998a: 99).
Notes 781
196. Deborah is specifically called a prophetess (ʾiššâ nĕbîʾâ) in Judg 4:4. See Ackerman’s
(1998a: 27–109) articulation of the roles of both Deborah and Jael in these narratives.
In particular, note her intriguing suggestion (building on the work of Mazar [1965])
that Jael may have been a cultic functionary (Ackerman 1998a: 92–102).
197. These passages have been used to demarcate classic J and E literary strands. For
example, Propp (1999: 50) writes that “a . . . difference between J and E is that the
former calls Moses’ father-in-law ‘Reuel,’ while the latter uses ‘Jethro.’ ” As will be
discussed, Num 10:29 (usually thought to be J) adds a wrinkle to the mix.
It should be noted that Albright (1963: 5–6) deemed it “wholly unnecessary” to
assume “that there were different traditions about the name of the ‘priest of Midian.’ ”
Yet Albright’s solution is to eliminate Reuel from consideration due to it being a clan
name. He does so by reconstructing Exod 2:18 to read originally: “[Jethro, son of]
Reuel, their father.” In my opinion, it makes more sense to consider varying literary
traditions conflated together than to posit a different text for which there is no sup-
port in any of the versions.
198. More recent source-critical analysis (especially of Exod 18) finds little consensus.
For a history of approaches, see Houtman 1996: 396–402 and Jeon 2017: 289–291.
For his part, Jeon advocates for “multiple phases of composition and redaction,”
with Exod 18:1–12 constituting an early pre-Priestly strand, part of which (Exod
18:8–11) was reworked, revealing a “close linguistic affinity with late Levitical texts.”
In contrast, Pfeiffer (2017: 133) suggests that Exod 18:1–12 “may be a post-priestly
addition, later updated by Exod 18:13–27.”
199. For others who also view Hobab as the brother-in-law of Moses, see Moore 1958: 33
and Rowley 1950: 152. This seems easier than those who would equate Hobab
and Jethro with Reuel being their father. See, for example, Milgrom 1990: 78 and
Halpern 1992: 20.
200. Gray 1971: 208. For a brief overview, see Römer 2015: 62–68.
201. For the logical force of ʿattâ (whereby it should here be translated “and as a re-
sult I now realize that Yahweh is greater than all gods”), see Waltke and O’Connor
1990: 667, §39.3.4f. On ʿattâ as Wendepunkt, see Brongers 1965: 291–292. See too
Schniedewind forthcoming.
202. Rowley’s (1950: 159–160) apology strains credulity. He asserts that Yochebed’s non-
Yahwistic Levite ancestors married Yahweh-worshipping Kenites in Palestine in the
Amarna Age (hence the eventual handing down of her Yahwistic name), but by her
time her family of Levites (who had migrated to Egypt due to “some disaster”) knew
nothing of Yahweh. “Thus the name Yahweh might be known among the Israelites
in Egypt, even though Yahweh were [sic] not the God whom they worshipped.”
203. Moreover, what is the connection between this Reuel tradition and the Edomite
Reuel traditions tracing back to a son of the legendary “Esau, the father of the
Edomites in the hill country of Seir” (Gen 36:9–13)? In Gen 36:3–4, Reu-El is the
son of Esau’s wife Basemath, the daughter of Ishma-El. The name Reuel also appears
in Tell el-Kheleifah Ostracon 6043.1 (Knauf 1992: 693).
204. For a history of the tribe of Reuben’s inglorious past, see Cross 1998: 54 and
Knoppers 2003a: 395–400.
782 Notes
205. Cross’ theory contains his reconstruction of the priestly polemics between Mushite/
Levite and Aaronid/Zadokite lines as well as the source criticism of the Baal Peor
episode, the locating of Mt. Sinai/Horeb in southern Edom or northern Midian, the
presence of a Reubenite shrine beneath Mt. Nebo, the Deuteronomist’s tradition
about the “second giving of the law” in the valley of Reuben, Num 33 as a pilgrimage
station, and the nature of “Midianite ware,” as well as various caravan traditions (cf.
Schloen 1993a) and settlement theories. Herr 1999, Herr and Clark 2001, and Petter
2014 build on and update Cross’ work by exploring the possibility of early Israelite
identities in Central Transjordan, especially at Tall al-ʿUmayri and Tall Madaba.
206. The demise of caravan trade is clearly represented by the Hebrew ḥādĕlû ʾŏrēḥôt (Judg
5:6). As with most scholars, we read “caravans” (ʾŏrĕḥôt) rather than MT’s “paths”
(ʾŏrāḥôt), the latter representing a slight mispointing that was occasioned in the MT
by attraction to the “circuitous paths” (ʾŏrāḥôt ʿăqalqallôt) immediately following.
As for ḥādĕlû, Schloen (1993: 23) relies on the study by Lewis (1985) to counter
the works of Thomas, Calderone, and Chaney (among others) that the root ḥdl (i.e.,
a putative ḥdl -II) refers to “peasantry growing plump.”
207. Schloen here follows Coogan (1978: 148) in reading midyān for the MT’s enigmatic
middîn for which no other suggestion has won wide acceptance.
208. For his part, Cross (1998: 67 n. 48) referenced Schloen (1993a) in the 1998 refor-
mulation of his original 1988 theory. Stager’s (1998: 142–149, 173–174) synthesis
combines elements of both Schloen and Cross.
209. Van der Toorn (1996b: 285–286) cites the following: (1) how the genealogies in
Genesis (regarding the Edomites) and 1 Chr 2:50–55 (regarding the Gibeonites)
correspond; (2) the presence of Doeg the Edomite in Saul’s royal court, and (3) Saul’s
sparing of the Kenites in 1 Sam 15:6.
210. Note in contrast how Fleming (forthcoming) takes an altogether different approach.
Fleming finds the Midianite Hypothesis to be fatally flawed and argues that the ear-
liest Egyptian Shasu Yhw3 (that of fourteenth-century BCE Amenhotep III) should
be interpreted apart from a southern origin.
As for old poetic expressions, we agree with those who see archaic material in
Judg 5 (e.g., Smith 2014a: 211–266; Leuenberger 2017: 173–177; Fleming forth-
coming) as well as in Ps 68, Deut 33:2, and Hab 3 (though the last could be archa-
izing), as opposed to Pfeiffer (2017: 121–129; 2005), who sees their origination in
the post-exilic period with redactional layers in the Hellenistic period in the second
century BCE. Pfeiffer (2017: 125) does allow that “the kernel of the history of or-
igin is an epic song from the 9th or 8th century BCE.” See Chapter Three, note 27;
Chapter Eight, note 68; and Keel’s (2017: 66) critique. The ninth-century BCE (or
early eighth-century BCE) Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster text 4.2 is particularly rele-
vant for anchoring these traditions in the early period. See Lewis 2020; 2013b; and
Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587. See too Schniedewind 2017 for the argument that some
of the material at Kuntillet ʿAjrud may go back to the tenth century BCE.
211. On rendering yhwh zeh sînay as “Yahweh, the one of Sinai,” see note 229.
212. Along with most scholars, we read yhwh throughout due to the rather consistent
practice of the editor of the Elohistic Psalter to use the substitute ʾĕlōhîm out of
Notes 783
deference to the sacred name Yahweh. Comparing Ps 68:8–9 (Eng 68:7–8) with the
exact wording in the unmodified Judg 5:4–5 is especially convincing in this regard.
See note 229 and Chapter Four, p. 724, note 65.
213. On rendering yhwh zeh sînay as “Yahweh, the one of Sinai,” see note 229.
214. šinʾān is a hapax legomenon for which there is no easy solution. We follow those
who see it as an “equivalent to repetition” related to šnh (cf. HALOT, p. 1596). We
reconstruct yhwh rather than the MT’s secondary ʾădōnāy. In addition, we follow
most scholars in reading yhwh bāʾ missînay (cf. yhwh missînay bāʾ in Deut 33:2)
rather than MT’s bām sînay (lit. “among them, Sinai”). Alternatively, Albright
(1950–1951: 14, 25) and Cross (1973: 102) reconstruct “when they/he came from
Sinai” (bĕbōʾām/bĕbōʾ-m missînay) and take yhwh with the previous verse. Indeed,
such a reconstruction is much better metrically.
This verse goes on to mention Yahweh coming from Sinai to enter into the sanc-
tuary (baqqōdeš), a later reference to the Jerusalem sanctuary, which is also men-
tioned with the same word (qōdeš) in Ps 68:25 [Eng 68:24]. Yet if we consider the
full weight of Deut 33:2’s wĕʾātâ mēribĕbōt qōdeš (“with him [*ʾittô-m] were myriads
of holy ones”), then it is certainly possible, as Cross (1973: 102) has reconstructed,
that originally qōdeš referred to the divine retinue known as “the Holy Ones” and
only later (by attraction to Ps 68:25) came to be understood as his royal sanctuary in
Jerusalem.
215. For a more detailed discussion of this passage, see Lewis 2013b.
216. We leave the two occurrences of MT’s lāmô (“upon them”) untranslated, for they
likely reflect a later understanding of Yahweh shining upon Israel. Because of its lack
of antecedent, lāmô is an ill fit for the original setting. The reading of lānû (“upon
us”) found in several of the versions and reconstructed by many commentators
seems to be a secondary change trying to deal with a lectio difficilior lāmô. The
emendation to lĕ-ʿammô (“upon his people/army”) is a creative solution, yet too
conjectural.
217. Here we follow most scholars who read the preposition “with” plus enclitic -m (ʾittô-
m) based on the LXX, Targums, and Vulgate rather than the MT’s pointing ʾātâ (“he
came”). The MT’s vocalization seems secondary, the result of the influence of late
Aramaic (cf. also wayyētēʾ in 33:21). The occasion for the mispointing of the MT
is surely its lack of knowledge of how -h in early (tenth-century BCE) orthography
can represent a third-person masculine singular suffix, a feature well attested from
our epigraphic sources. See Cross and Freedman 1975: 72 n. 8. Yet if the MT stands,
the meaning of the passage remains unchanged.
218. The enigmatic ēš dāt is discussed at length in Lewis 2013b and Chapter Seven,
pp. 348–349.
219. On tĕhillâ as radiance, see Aster 2006: 183–186; 2012: 133–135.
220. We leave out here the problematic prose phrase taḥat ʾāwen rāʾîtî (“under iniquity,
I saw”), for which there is no suitable solution.
221. Our passage contains the only occurrence of kûšān. We agree with Andersen
(2001: 312) that “this is certainly the Cush associated with Midian (and Moses),
not Ethiopia or any other place.” Cf. too HALOT (p. 467), which defines it as an
“Arabian nomadic tribe.”
784 Notes
The root rgz can refer to quaking with fear (Hab 3:16; Isa 32:10ff; Joel 2:1) as well
as the physical quaking of the earth (e.g., Ps 77:19 [Eng 77:18]; Joel 2:10). Here the
poet has inanimate tents quaking at the appearance of the divine warrior Yahweh,
a theophany that at the same time strikes terror in the hearts of those who dwell in
those tents (cf. yārēʾtî in Hab 3:2a).
222. Meshel 2012: 95–97; Inscription 3.6 = Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 293–295; §KAjr
19A = McCarter 2000a: 171–172; §2.47B.
223. Meshel 2012: 98–100; Inscription 3.9 = Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 295–296; §KAjr
20 = McCarter 2000a: 171–172; §2.47B.
224. Meshel 2012: 105–107; Inscription 4.1.1 = Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 285–286;
§KAjr 14 = McCarter 2000a: 172; §2.47C.
225. The two words (šnt, [y]hw[h]) marked with an asterisk (*) come from the second
smaller fragment. For a detailed analysis of the readings of this text and whether it
refers to Yahweh as “the Holy One,” see Lewis 2020 and Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587.
226. McCarter (1992: 124) translates this as a place name, Yeshimon.
227. Our interest here is the origin of the deity Yahweh, not a people group named
Yahweh. For this topic, see Fleming’s (forthcoming) study of the Yahw3 of Shasu
land, an early Yahweh people (ʿam yhwh; cf. Judg 5:13) apart from Israel.
228. See Chapter Three, pp. 66–68.
229. The expression “Yahweh, the one of Sinai” (yhwh zeh sînay) that is found in Judg 5:5
also occurred in an earlier version of Ps 68:9 that currently reads ʾĕlōhîm zeh sînay
in the MT. This later (secondary) reading resulted from the activity of the unnamed
editor who regularly (though not universally) replaced yhwh with ʾĕlōhîm in the
Elohistic Psalter (Ps 42–83). Cf. too Ps 68:8’s ʾĕlōhîm bĕṣēʾtĕkā for Judg 5:4’s yhwh
bĕṣēʾtĕkā and Ps 68:9’s ʾĕlōhîm ʾĕlohê yiśrāʾēl for Judg 5:4’s yhwh ʾĕlohê yiśrāʾēl. The
extremely close (often word-for-word) relation of Judg 5:4–5 and Ps 68:8–11 reveals
a common tradition that according to text-critical principles certainly read yhwh
zeh sînay.
In the phrase “Yahweh, the one of Sinai” (yhwh zeh sînay), zeh functions as a nom-
inal demonstrative. Lipiński (1994: 52–53) has noted the same exact function in
Aramaic, Akkadian, and Arabic. See too Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 337 nn. 23,
24. Of particular note is the ninth-century BCE Old Aramaic inscription from Tell
Fakheriyeh that reads “Hadd-yithʿi, the king of Guzan, and the one of Sikan and the
one of ʾAzran” (hdysʿy mlk gwzn wzy skn wzy ʾzrn). That there is no zy in the phrase
“king of Guzan” (mlk gwzn) shows that the two following occurrences of zy do not
mark the genitive but rather function as a nominal demonstrative.
The ancient lore surrounding Yahweh’s presence at Sinai is also reflected in the
wordplay behind Yahweh’s epithet “He who dwells in the bush” (šōknî sĕneh) in
Deut 33:16. See Chapter Seven, note 140.
230. That the nĕḥaš nĕḥōšet lore is early (exactly how early one cannot know) is seen by
its legitimacy in Num 21:9 in contrast to its illegitimacy in later Deuteronomistic
traditions (2 Kgs 18:4).
231. Note the incongruity of the Mt. Ebal tradition in Deut 27:1–8 vis-à-vis centralized
worship in Jerusaelm. As Richter (2007: 350) correctly asks: “Who would try to
Notes 785
legitimize a cult site at Ebal? . . . Certainly the Judeans would have no interest in
legitimizing this northern site.”
232. This quote is from Fleming (2012: 314), who goes on to note how military muster
might prove more advantageous for groups coming together (“more so than re-
ligious festivals”), for they “would not require the wider participation at a single
site and so could be observed more locally by smaller gatherings. Moreover, this
kind of [militarily mustered] assembly would not have been confided to a single
location. . . . In general, muster would depend on the geographical demands of the
threat and need not be restricted to one place.”
233. Rehearsing the plethora of research on ethnic identity is beyond the scope of the
present treatment. See Sparks 1998; Faust 2006, 2014, 2015a, 2015b; Nestor 2010;
Crouch 2012, 2014, 2015; Faust and Lev-Tov 2014; Dever 2017: 210–218, 324–330,
475–476, 505–508, 601–603; and Sergi 2019.
234. I am influenced here by the perceptive comments of McCarter (1992: 129–134), to
whom I am indebted.
235. Crouch (2014: 2) argues that “the long seventh century BCE” (i.e., from the late
eighth century to the early sixth century BCE) is a particularly acute time for Judean
identity formation in response to the Neo-Assyrian empire. Cf. Dever 2017: 603–
616. For the role of cult in identity formation in the Iron I and early Iron IIA periods,
see Sergi 2019: 48–49.
236. For a later theological reflex, cf. Deuteronomy’s emphasis on the divine choosing
of the people, the Temple, and the Davidic dynasty and with such election the
demands of exclusive worship (e.g., Deut 7:1–8). See Weinfeld 1991: 368 and
Crouch 2014.
237. For the textual criticism on this passage, see Chapter Four, note 74.
238. For the translation of this verse, see Chapter Four, note 75.
239. By noting the well-known El and Baal traditions, we are not suggesting that one
should dismiss the traditions of other Canaanite deities (Reshep, Athtar, Dagan).
Cf. Smith 2001b: 146, which warns us not to overlook the features of Athtar in our
preference for El and Baal traditions that might turn out to be “partially misleading”
for sketching “Yahweh’s original profile,” especially if they represent secondary
developments.
240. On the processes of “differentiation” together with those of “convergence,” see
Smith (2002: 189–190, 195–202).
Chapter 7
1. On the suggestion that divine genitalia may be mentioned in Isa 6:1 and Ezek
16:8–14, see the critique of Smith (2001b: 88–89, 246–247 n. 37).
2. There is no consensus as to the source of Exodus 33:7–11. Detailed discussions
can be found in commentaries such as Childs 1974: 584–585, 590–593; Houtman
2000: 605–607, 685–686; Propp 2006: 149–153; and Dozeman 2017: 349–351,
355–357.
786 Notes
3. Though it must be used with caution, a convenient and exhaustive collection of data
can be found in Korpel 1990: 88–522. Among the many studies of divine embodi-
ment and divine anthropomorphism, see Knohl 1995; Hamori 2008; Sommer 2009;
Wagner 2010, 2014; Middlemas 2014; and Knafl 2014. Knafl also includes a history of
scholarship (2014: 6–12).
4. On the former translation, see Milgrom 1991: 162–163; for the latter translation, see
HALOT 696. For a fuller discussion, see Eberhart 2002: 40–52, 361–381.
5. Knohl 1995: 128–137, 170–172; 1996: 20. Knohl (1995: 162–163) writes of P’s “de-
sire to shape a cultic system completely detached from anthropomorphic images of
God . . . the cultic system of PT [the Priestly Torah] concentrates on the essential
numinous dimension of God.” Yet cf. Knafl’s (2014: 44–67, 89–95, 149–154, 168–
172, 178–182, 202–203, 235–244, 269–271) emphasis that P, while indirect, still
uses human descriptors to depict God’s actions and bodily idioms to articulate his
emotions and mental activity.
Knohl includes a much fuller discussion of the use of rêyaḥ nîḥōaḥ in P and H. The
phrase is also found in Ezek 20:41 with a similar meaning. Yet most often, in contrast,
Ezekiel uses the phrase to refer to idolatrous worship (Ezek 6:13; 16:19; 20:28). As we
have noted, J, with his characteristic use of anthropomorphisms, also refers to the no-
tion of Yahweh smelling the pleasing odor of Noah’s burnt offerings (Gen 8:21).
6. Knohl 1995: 129. P’s extensive kābôd theology is described on pp. 368–373.
7. Contrast the people who, according to Deuteronomy 4:12, 15, do not see the tĕmunāh
of Yahweh but rather only hear “the sound of words” (qôl dĕbārîm). See too Elijah,
who only hears the voice (qôl) of Yahweh (1 Kgs 19:12–13), though his portrait is
modeled after Moses (complete with a theophany on Mt. Sinai/Horeb).
8. Milgrom (1990: 96) follows Driver (1895: 67) in suggesting that tĕmunāh refers to “the
intangible, yet quasi-sensual manifestation of the Godhead vouchsafed to Moses.”
On seeing the divine tĕmunāh, cf. too Ps 17:15, where the psalmist presents a par-
allel between seeing God’s face and being satisfied with his tĕmunāh.
9. Where modern scholars look to the LXX and Akkadian cognates (cf. HALOT, 362;
Greenberg 1983: 43; Bodi 1991: 88–93) to unpack the meaning of ḥašmal in 1:4, 1:27,
and 8:2, concluding that it is a precious metal or stone, medieval and other older
Jewish commentators (e.g., Rashi, Metsudat David) perceived much more. They
speculated that ḥašmal had to do with angels or the essence of fire or even divine
Essence. Yet because the word can be analyzed as expressing silence (ḥaš) with re-
gard to one’s words (millāh), it was thought best by some to keep silent about any
implications with regard to the corporeality of God. While Rashi wrote much on
Ezek 1:4, on Ezek 1:27 he merely stated that “one is not permitted to reflect on this
reading” (lʾ ntn ršwt lhtbwnn bmqrʾ zh). See note 221.
10. For an introduction to the vast literature on the abstract concepts of Memra, Yeqara,
and Shekinta, see Grossfeld 1988: 19–20, 25–30.
11. On P’s suppression of anthropomorphic language used of God, see again Knohl
1995: 128–137 and the nuanced treatment in Knafl 2014.
12. For a description of Nimrud Prism IV integrating the archaeological context, see
Tappy 2001: 563–584.
Notes 787
13. According to Mettinger (2006: 278), Niehr’s treatment is “unduly literal.”

14. Schwartz’s (2010) study on metaphorical and literal language in biblical interpreta-
tion (with particular attention to the question of whether God has a body in Exodus
33) underscores how the interpretive framework that we bring to the text is often
determinative.
15. These two significant texts have been recognized previously by several scholars, in-
cluding Tigay (1986: 35 n. 71); Becking (1997: 79); Na’aman (1999a: 414; 2006a: 332),
and Mettinger (2006: 280).
16. On the insertion of Isaiah 10:10–12 by a later hand, its historical setting, and its lit-
erary style (“certainly not typically ‘deuteronomistic’ ”), see Wildberger 1991: 411–
426, esp. 422–423.
17. Niehr’s (1997: 74) rebuttal to all of this could be that we cannot take the biblical texts
“at face value.” As for his historical reconstruction, Niehr (1997: 91) assumes that
Yahweh’s cult statue was stripped of its gold (rendering it “no longer suitable for use in
the cult”) and then was lost.
18. To these one should also add Hagar’s encounter with El-Roi. See Chapter Four,
pp. 95–97. See too Job’s remark that he saw Yahweh (Job 42:5; Chapter Nine, p. 557).
19. Though Uehlinger has now changed his position, it should be noted that Keel and
Uehlinger had earlier written (1998: 407): “We do not believe that there was an actual
Yahweh iconography in Israel and Judah.” Whereas Uehlinger’s position has changed,
Keel’s (e.g., 2001) has remained the same.
20. Though now dated, three standard treatments include Collon 1972; Negbi 1976; and
Seeden 1980. See too the review of Negbi in Muhly 1980 as well as Seeden 1982 and
Moorey and Fleming 1984. More recent studies and bibliographies can be found in
Cornelius 1994; Green 2003: 154–165; and Schwemer 2008a: 31–36.
21. Dates follow the traditional chronology. If the lower chronology proves to be correct,
these would have to be adjusted downward, yet the general thrust of our conclusions
would remain basically the same.
22. Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 60) suggest that this figurine “might be a depiction of the
weather god, but it might also portray Reshef or possibly even the pharaoh.” Hansen
(1957: 17) opts for Reshef as well.
23. The material that follows is quoted from my earlier study of this bronze (Lewis
1996a: 416–418), to which now add Campbell 2002: 201–203.
24. Campbell 2002: 203, fig. 197; 1965a: 24–25, fig. 9; 1965b: 18–22, esp. 20 and fig. 1;
Horn 1965: 284–306, esp. 304 and pl. XVI, C; Campbell and Wright 1970: 126–133,
esp. 130; Collon 1972: 116, no. 20, fig. 2; Negbi 1976: 32–33, 41, 165, #1363.
25. Campbell 1965a: 24.
26. Campbell, personal letter to the author dated June 18, 1994.
27. Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 133ff.) devoted a substantial portion of their exhaus-
tive study on divine iconography to the “general decline of anthropomorphic
representations of the gods.” Because this broad definition included male and female
deities—and in all media—Uehlinger felt compelled to write another exhaustive
study heavily revising his position. Yet Uehlinger (1997: 111) still refers to “the fact
that metal statuary production receded during the early Iron Age.”
788 Notes
It is tantalizing to speculate about the nature of the cult image mentioned in

Judges 17:3. Micah’s mother consecrates silver to Yahweh in order to make a pesel and
a massēkâ, perhaps a hendiadys for a single image. Obviously, this image (or these
images) is used in Yahwistic cult. Regrettably, our Deuteronomistically edited texts
do not reveal the nature of the image(s). Ackerman (2008a: 129–141, esp. 138), who
provides us with the most thorough analysis of Judges 17–18 to date, imagines that we
have here “a small figurine—possibly anthropomorphic, possibly theriomorphic—
that was cast in bronze and then covered with silver overlay.”
28. Possible examples of anthropomorphic male divine figures in terra-cotta include
the figures published by Jeremias in 1993 and the geometric pair from Jerusalem
published by Gilmour. These will be dealt with in detail later.
One must also factor in what Uehlinger (1997: 152) refers to as one of the “the most
embarrassing problems relating to our topic,” though it does not relate directly to the
divine: “We are still not in a position to correctly understand the significance of the
horse-and rider figurines which represent by far the most frequently attested type of
male figurines from Iron II Judah.”
29. The biblical texts themselves describe Hezekiah’s activities being overturned by
Manasseh (2 Kgs 21:3, 7).
30. See McCarter’s (1980a: 119) treatment of the textual criticism of 1 Sam 5:4. Based on
the LXX (cf. Targ gwpyh), McCarter reconstructs gww, “his back,” which is missing
from the MT’s “meaningless” rendering “only Dagon was left upon him.” Note that
LXXL mentions the feet of the statue as well.
31. The size of the statue must have been considerable if the crown alone weighed a talent
(approximately 75 lbs. [34 kg]). It has long been acknowledged that the LXXBMN’s
reading of milkōm, “Milkom,” is preferable to the MT’s malkām, “their king” (so
McCarter 1984: 311–313). Not only is there no antecedent for MT’s 3 m. pl. suffix
“their,” but the MT’s pointing requires the unlikely scenario of a human king wearing
such a heavy crown. As for David, similar logic suggests that he then wore the precious
stone about his neck, not the heavy crown on his head (so McCarter 1984: 311–313).
32. In contrast to the interpretation of Aharoni and his team, Na’aman (1999a: 408;
2006a: 326) astutely points out that the actions undertaken at Arad suggest “devotion
and care,” which is “in marked contrast to the description of Hezekiah’s cult reform
(2 Kgs 18:4) which stresses the breaking and destroying of the altars and maṣṣeboth.”
I would prefer to talk about “desacralizing,” which does not necessarily impute
motives that are hard to verify. “Desacralizing” can be positive (burying an image to
protect from desecration [so Na’aman 2006a: 325] out of respect for its holiness and
even with an intent to reuse), negative (burying out of disdain with no attempt to
reuse), or semi-neutral (burying but not destroying due to an image simply wearing
out). Na’aman’s positive motive of Arad’s “covering over” = “devotion and care” would
be wrong if applied to Jacob’s act of burying rather than destroying the images of for-
eign gods. It is clear from the narrative that Jacob is in no way devoted to these gods,
but at the same time is unable (for whatever reason) to destroy them.
Herzog (2013: 40; 2002: 35) uses alternative vocabulary, speaking of “a deliberate
act of cancellation” and “purposeful abolition” at Arad.
Notes 789
33. Stone images would be less likely to be reused.

34. Yet cf. the large anthropomorphic statue of the god Hadad discovered in Gerçin 4.3 mi
(7 km) north of Zinjirli on which is written the Samʾalian Aramaic Hadad Inscription
(KAI 214) that dates to the mid-eighth century BCE. Cf. Niehr 2014a: 184–185.
35. The seal’s designation is B58, referring to Bordreuil 1986: 55. Sass’s treatment is
found in Sass 1993: 226–227, fig. 124; section E2; 233, fig. 143; 236–237; section F8.3;
250. Uehlinger’s treatment is found in Uehlinger 1993: 261, 275–276, fig. 11. On the
reading of the inscription, see Bordreuil 1986: 55; Puech 1989: 590; Avigad and Sass
1997: 103.
36. See too the literature noted in Chapter Three, notes 9 and 14, about epigraphic for-
geries and the problem of unprovenanced onomastica.
37. On the dating of the handles, see Vaughn 1999: 81–110.
38. Zevit (2001: 388 n. 76) remarks that “both faces are unclear, so that their gender is
uncertain.”
39. Jeremias did make good use of Young and Young 1955, among other studies.
40. Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 60) recognize these as humans too, though not unrelated
to the famous bronze from Megiddo Grave 4. Yet the bronze does not exhibit the
distinct inverted triangle body, and the figures on the sherds (as they point out) are
bearded and lacking the headdress.
41. For the most complete analysis of Judean pillar figures, see Darby 2014.
42. Here I am thinking of the tomb inscriptions at Khirbet Beit Lei and their materi-
ality. For bibliography, see Chapter Six, note 107. Niditch (2015: 95–97) notes the
drawing of an X in two of Naveh’s line drawings. One line drawing is that of a “praying
figure” with an X marked at the top of his head. See Naveh (1963: 78, fig. 5). The
other is on a pair of drawings that portray a square with four quadrants and a dome
shape in three quadrants, the fourth with the X. The word ʾwrr, indicating “one who
curses” (or “cursed” with anomalous orthography), is between the two shapes. See
Naveh 1963: 82, fig. 10; 198. These two immediate contexts beg for a functional/per-
formative meaning for the use of the two Xs, especially in view of their larger fu-
nerary context, along apotropaic lines (cf. Niditch 2015: 96–97; Mandell and Smoak
2016: 219–221, 223, 241–245). Yet what gives us pause in pressing this argument fur-
ther is whether the Xs are truly present or whether these lines are simple hatchings.
Zevit’s (2001: 409, 428, figs. 5.12, 5.26) line drawings do not include them!
43. As for an explicit example of any theriomorphic usage, scholars such as van der Toorn
(1997b: 239) have noted the presence of the Nehushtan snake in 2 Kgs 18:4 as “posi-
tive evidence in the Bible of the worship of theriomorphic images.”
44. Caution is in order in sifting this material when we consider how, in the words of
Ornan et al. (2012: 6*), “the lion is a timeless motif in the ancient Near East, whose
various representations are loaded with multivalent meanings.”
45. See Brandl 2012: 383–384.
46. Most scholars reconstruct ʾ[rʾ]ly yhwh, “the altar hearths of Yahweh,” in Mesha lines
17–18 because of Ezek 43:15–16 and the mention of “the ʾrʾl of dwdh” in line 12. Yet
the reconstruction [k]ly yhwh, “vessels of Yahweh,” is also possible. See Chapter Six,
note 125.
790 Notes
Given the explicit context of Ezek 43:13–27, understanding ʾrʾl as an altar hearth
is preferable to Ahlström’s (1993: 580) suggestion that “the ’ar’el most probably was a
lion postament for a deity statue.”
47. Amiran 1976. In addition to the lion-headed libation tray, Amiran studied a small
lion statue that was found at the site.
48. Brief note should be made of the two small ivory crouching lions from Samaria
(Dayagi-Mendels 1986: 169). Though past scholars could not help but connect the
Samaria ivories with the “ivory house” that Ahab built (1 Kgs 22:39), recent scholar-
ship underscores “a great deal of hermeneutical tension between the archaeological
data and the story as told in the biblical texts” (Tappy 2001: 494). See the thorough
and nuanced evaluation in Tappy 2001: 443–495.
49. So much has been written on the Taanach cult stands that they may rank second
only to the Kuntillet ʿAjrud pithoi as the cultic items that have garnered the most
comments. Splendid detailed overviews can be found in Beck 1994 and Zevit
2001: 318–325.
For closer parallels to bronze wheeled lever stands (mĕkōnôt) of 1 Kgs 7:27–37,
see the various parallels from thirteenth-through eleventh-century BCE Cyprus. See
Curtis 1988: 279.
50. Compare the lions and sphinxes that adorn the exquisite ivory box from the ivory
cache from Megiddo’s stratum VIIA palace. See Shiloh 1993: 1014 and Dayagi-
Mendels 1986: 149.
51. Note that this is all we can say at this point, and we make no claim that this necessitates
associations with Yahweh. As for the cult stand discovered by Sellin, note the depic-
tion of a male fighting a snake that Keel and Uehlinger see as Baal (1998: 155; but cf.
Zevit 2001: 324).
52. Holladay (1987: 296) goes on to call this a “nonconforming cultus” due to features,
such as the nude female goddess, that would have been out of step with the cult found
in the Jerusalem Temple.
53. Though scholars commonly translate marʾôt ʾĕlōhîm as “divine visions” (e.g.,
Zimmerli, Greenberg)—that is, visions inspired by God (Ezek 8:3, 40:2)—it seems
better to take the phrase here literally. In other words, the prophet was allowed to
actually see some aspect of the divine (Ezek 1:28). Cooke (1936: 5) notes that it was
perceived this way as early as the Aramaic Targums. As a priest, Ezekiel is very cir-
cumspect about describing such encounters (see the numerous qualifiers in Ezek
1:26–28). Such “divine sightings” are known elsewhere (Hendel 1997: 220–223).
See the detailed discussions of Ezekiel’s circumspect language and the cherubim on
pp. 373–379.
54. Is it significant that the bull face of 1:10 is replaced with a cherub’s face in 10:14?
Perhaps we have here a further example that some variants of the cherub-Mischwesen
creature were indeed bull-headed (cf. Figure 5.31 = ANEP 534).
55. See Chapter Four, pp. 115–118.
56. This theory is found as early as Obbink 1929: 267–269. More recent discussions can
be found in Hahn 1981: 267–365 and Toews 1993: 41–69.
Notes 791
57. See the literature in Chapter Five, note 190. Sasson’s (1968) thesis stands out among
the others. His intriguing argument is that the bulls were (1) a substitute for Moses,
who at this point in the narrative had disappeared (cf. too Moses’s horns in Exod
34:29–35), and (2) the symbol of an older Sin worship. See too Berlejung’s (2009: 27–
28, 33) suggestion that in the Deuteronomistic presentation in 1 Kgs 12, the absence
of Yahweh indicates “godless sanctuaries.” “The calves are arbitrary human artefacts,
and certainly no[t]‌markers of any divine presence.” Such a literary portrayal would
certainly not match the realia of cult practiced in Area T at Tel Dan. See Davis 2013.
58. This line of thinking is predicated on a more uniform narrative rather than seeing
Exod 32:5 as a later addition. See Chapter Five, note 191.
59. Mettinger 1979: 21. For an updated article with a full bibliography of the works of
Mettinger and his critics, see Mettinger 2006. Mettinger (2006: 280) reaffirms his
understanding of Jeroboam’s bull images as “different but parallel” to the Jerusalem
cherubim. So too Fritz 2003: 147.
60. Numerous scholars affirm likewise: DeVries 1985: 162–163; Fritz 2003: 147; Sweeney
2007: 177.
61. See Ornan 2006 for both the date and an iconographic analysis of this bronze plaque.
62. Though Ornan (2006: 302) states that “it is difficult to ascertain the gender of the
divinity,” she settles on it being female and most likely Ishtar. Though the bull is
often the animal of choice for male deities (see Chapter Five, Figures 5.23–5.29 and
note 103; Collon 2001: 141–147, §276–284; Ornan 2001; Bunnens 2006), goddesses
riding on bulls are found much earlier in Syria and southeastern Anatolia. See Ornan
2006: 308; Williams-Forte 1983; and Bloch-Smith 1994: 28 n. 2, the last of whom
builds on the work of Collon and Amiet.
63. See note 54 commenting on Ezek 10:14, where the bull face of Ezek 1:10 is replaced by
a cherub face, perhaps showing another example of the “visual syncretism” of which
Ornan writes (2001; 2006: 303).
64. Cf. Dick’s (1999: 10–11) remarks on the earliest image polemics in the context of
discussing the prophetic parodies. For linguistic anomalies within the Elijah-Elisha
narratives, see Schniedewind and Sivan 1997; Schniedewind 2013: 89–90.
65. This passage should be read alongside other prophetic parodies against making di-
vine images. See Dick 1999a.
66. Again, contrast should be made with the other Deuteronomistic passages (1 Kgs 14:9;
2 Kgs 17:7–23, esp. 16, 21–23) that do level a critique of worshipping other gods. See
Chapter Five, pp. 198–200.
67. In Hosea 8:6, Tur-Sinai emends the MT’s kî miyyiśrāʾēl (“For from Israel . . . ”) to read
kî mî šōr ʾēl (“For, who is Bull El?”). For bibliography and the application of this verse
to Deut 32:8, see Joosten 2007: 552 and Chapter Four, note 74.
68. Again, see the parallel traditions of condemnation in Chapter Five, pp. 198–200. For
a later reference to the apostasy of sacrificing to the bull Baal, see Tobit 1:5.
69. Niehr is here following Weippert (1971). In addition to Weippert, this view is held by
Gressmann (1913: 207–208), Kraus (1962: 176–177), Haran (1985: 29 n. 28), and van
der Toorn (2002: 49).
792 Notes
70. Na’aman 2006a: 332. This article first appeared in Na’aman 1999a.
71. For a preliminary photograph and description of the seal that includes the portrayal
of a goddess (not a god) without any bovine imagery, see Avigad and Sass 1997: #835.
72. The date is that of Cross (1962b: 15, n. 12). See Sass 1993: 199, 225, 227 fig. 118;
Uehlinger 1993: 272 n. 56, 278 n. 70, 280; Avigad and Sass 1997: 158, §374. Regrettably
this seal is unprovenanced. This figure is described as a bull by Sass (1993: 226) and by
Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 194).
73. The language of Papyrus Amherst 63 is Aramaic, but its script is written in a simpli-
fied version of Egyptian Demotic. For introduction, text, and translation, see Steiner
1997a, 2017; van der Toorn 2018a; and Holm forthcoming.
In a provisional publication, Steiner (1997: 310) even suggests that the prayer
found in Papyrus Amherst 63, “if correctly deciphered . . . [,]‌is a descendant of one
used in Jeroboam’s temple in Bethel.” Steiner’s updated treatment (where he omits the
bull reference) can be found in Steiner and Nims 2017.
74. The fixed name here may or may not be rendered alphabetically, and this has led to
considerable debate. It is found only in the so-called Israelite hymns (cols. XII 11–
XIII 17 = Steiner 1997a: 317–318; van der Toorn 2018a: 66, 166–168; Holm forth-
coming). Where Steiner reads Horus, other scholars read Yahu/Yaho (Zauzich,
Vleeming and Wesselius, van der Toorn, Holm) or El (Kottsieper). Zauzich (1985)
confidently reads the name as Yhw, with the Demotic aleph representing Semitic y,
the Demotic ḥr sign as h, and the last sign as a w, not a divine determinative. For a
complete discussion, see Holm forthcoming, to which I am indebted.
75. McCarter 1987: 147, 154 n. 55; 1996: 107.
76. Extensive bibliographies can be found in Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 154–160, esp. 158;
Hadley 2000: 169–179; King and Stager 2001: 341–344; Zevit 2001: 318–325; and
Dever 2005: 219. Miller (2000: 43–45) is appropriately skeptical and noncommittal.
Dever’s (2017: 490) more recent treatment is also noncommittal with its use of
“quadruped.”
77. For the disk on the forehead of terra-cotta horses (including the one from Hazor that
Yadin also related to the sun god and 2 Kgs 23:11), see Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 343,
where it is characterized as a forehead ornament.
78. See the bibliographies by Keel and Uehlinger and by Hadley in note 76, to which add
Sommer 2009: 156–159. Hadley notes how Glock’s later writing seems to embrace
Hestrin’s bovine identification.
79. See the extensive analysis of these two goddesses and their emblematic horses in
Cornelius 1994: 78ff.; 2004.
80. Contrast Smith’s view with the common assertion that the bottom register represents
the goddess Asherah (e.g., Ackerman 2008b: 21; Sommer 2009: 156).
The collocation of anthropomorphic figures on a terra-cotta cult stand with both a
bull and a lion appears at Khirbet Ataruz, though with a human male. See Ji 2012: 213;
Tafel 47.
81. Curiously, Taylor (1994: 57) in the same article describes the horse’s posture as a
“prancing” one that “conveys a horse’s strength, agility, and athletic prowess.” At the
same time, he contrasts the putative “calf ’s posture of playfulness.”
Notes 793
82. A convenient collection of horse iconography (especially associated with goddesses)

can be found in Cornelius 2004. For a summary of horses in biblical and other an-
cient Near Eastern textual sources, see Borowski 2007. Borowski notes the dominant
military use of horses throughout the ancient Near East. As for the Hebrew Bible, “the
horse functioned only as a military machine and not as a power source for agricul-
tural or other daily tasks.”
83. Fleming’s research demonstrates how senior/creator deities (and thus Yahweh) are
not portrayed as offsprings.
84. There is the association of Yahweh with donkey colts in the demilitarized passage in
Zech 9:9–10, but this passage is a good example of the exception that proves the rule.
85. For an introduction to the finds at Kuntillet ʿAjrud, see Chapter Six, pp. 236–241.
86. E.g., Gilula 1979: 130–133; Fritz 1979: 49; Coogan 1987a: 119; McCarter 1987: 147,
155 n. 55; Koch 1988: 100; Margalit 1990: 275, 288–289; Niditch 1997: 21; Hess
2007b: 319.
87. According to this theory, the standing figure to the right is also bovine in nature and
designates the goddess Asherah. Yet as far as I know, there are no explicit examples
of Asherah being portrayed using bovine imagery. There are other goddesses such
as Egyptian Hathor that have ubiquitous bovine associations, and it is possible that
Asherah was portrayed in Hathor dress. We seem to have Ishtar riding a bull at Tel
Dan (see Figure 7.12) and an unidentified goddess (Athtartu?) enthroned on a bull
from Late Bronze Age Ugarit (cf. Ornan 2006: fig. 9 = Cornelius 2004: fig. 2.2), but as
Ornan (2006: 303) notes, “the representation here of a bull being ridden by a goddess
is, indeed, unusual.” As for Asherah, we would more likely have her associated with
lions (which some do indeed see behind the Bes figures represented here).
88. Beck’s 2012 analysis, originally published in 1992, is presented in the final report.
Additional scholars affirming that we have Bes or Bes-like figures here include
Meshel (1979: 30; 1992: 107), Stolz (1980: 170), Dever (1984: 25), Lemaire (1984: 46),
Olyan (1988: 29, 31), Mazar (1990: 448), Emerton (1999: 317), Day (2000: 50–51),
Zevit (2001: 387–392), King and Stager (2001: 351), Schmidt (2002: 107–108; 2013;
2016), Meyers (2002: 287), Kitchen (2003: 415, 588 n. 95), Hess (2007b: 320), and
Ornan (2016).
89. Wilson (1975: 100) even refers to Bes as the “patron of music and dancing.” Cf. Beck
1982: 30; Olyan 1988: 31; and Schmidt 2016: 87. Given Bes’s nature, it seems likely
that the music and dance would be used apotropaically rather than for entertainment;
so Pinch 1994: 84–86, whose fig. 43 represents Bes making music and dancing. See
too Schmidt’s (2016: 86–87) description of the apotropaic “visual potency embodied
in the physical appearance of Bes as a dwarf,” whom he describes as “an evil-averting
dancing god.”
90. Note the important correction to the Beck 1982 article in the final report (Meshel
2012: 165; figs 6.20a, 6.21a) that shows nothing between the legs in illustration
T. What was previously drawn as a “loop” or “appendage” between the legs (and
taken either as a phallus or the tail of a lion garment) was later revealed to be a black
soot deposit. Schmidt (2016: 59) refers to this as “a groundbreaking, mind-blowing
revision.”
794 Notes
91. Zevit (2001: 388) notes too how the “narrow, elongated somatotype” of Bes found at
Kuntillet ʿAjrud finds a close parallel in Herrmann 1994: 352, #391. Cf. too Malaise’s
(2001: 179) description of Bes as a “full-faced . . . bandy-legged gnome with a gro-
tesque lionlike face” (my emphasis).
92. Yet for three- dimensional works, see the bull- headed stela from Bethsaida
discussed later.
93. Dick (1999a: 6), for example, says that such an interpretation is “thoroughly flawed”
in that “it is methodologically unsound to require that pictures correspond to
inscriptions” and that “the figures are clearly two portrayals of the Egyptian god Bes.”
94. Schmidt’s early work (1996: 96–105; 2002: 91–125, esp. 97–98, 108) suggested that
scholars needlessly reject Yahweh out of hand once they see that we have Bes fig-
ures here. He instead argued that Kuntillet ʿAjrud represents Mischwesen forms
with Yahweh, Asherah, and Bes combined compositely with overlapping artistic
techniques. Schmidt (1996: 103; 2002: 108) then elaborated, suggesting that “the
composite image might point to Yahweh’s former status as a lesser numen, a monster
whose imagery was preserved long after he rose to higher rank.” Yet see Uehlinger’s
(1997: 142–146, esp. 144) detailed response and his conclusion that “[Schmidt’s]
main thesis cannot withstand closer scrutiny.”
95. Cf. Romano 1980: 49–50.
96. Hadley 2000: 144, 153. For her part, Hadley (2000: 143) notes how several other
scholars (e.g., Dever, Keel, and Uehlinger) had also suggested that the Bes figures at
Kuntillet ʿAjrud served an apotropaic function.
97. Keel and Uehlinger (1998: 240) write similarly: “An identification of the two Bes
images . . . with ‘Yahweh . . . and his Asherah’ is impossible.”
98. Cf. Beck 1982 on the multiple (three?) artistic hands possibly at work and Zevit’s
(2001: 381–385) attempt to consider “all the information on each pithos horizon-
tally.” See too Ornan’s (2016) comprehensive analysis as well as Schniedewind’s
(2017) argument for multiple scribal hands. See Chapter Six, note. 74.
99. See KA plaster inscription 4.2; Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587; Lewis 2020.
100. Note Uehlinger’s (1997: 144) remark that “there is, as yet, no clear evidence for a
local Bes iconography in Iron Age Israel or Judah, apart from the Kuntillet ‘Ajrud
drawings.” At the same time, this should be balanced with Meyers’ (2002: 287) ob-
servation that “the Bes amulets are not simply Egyptian imports; discovery of sev-
eral molds at Palestinian sites attests to indigenous production.”
101. Bernett and Keel (1998) present solid evidence that the artistic motif on the
Bethsaida stela is not unique. Very close parallels are found on two stelae from the
Hauran, in several figures on a bronze box of unknown provenance, and on a stela
in the museum at Gaziantep (southeastern Turkey), also of unknown provenance.
Of particular importance is the ever-present rosette that is clearly portrayed on the
bronze box as a quartered wheel/disc. Bernett and Keel use numerous iconographic
parallels to other quartered discs and “globes” as one of the building blocks to show
that the Bethsaida stela was dedicated to the moon god. According to Bernett and
Keel, the element “four” may be related to the four phases of the moon, and the
four “beams” (i.e., the extremities taken by others to be animal or human limbs)
Notes 795
may reflect the directions of the moon’s influence on the four corners of the world.
(Bernett and Keel also suggest a relationship of the beams with the Luvian hiero-
glyph for “monument, memorial,” yet this is speculative.)
102. Arav, Freund, and Shroder 2000: 46.
103. One should also include Colbow 1997; Collon 1997; and Braun-Holzinger 1993.
104. With the plural “stelae,” Ornan (2001: 2) includes three parallel stelae, two from
Syria (Tell el-Ašʿari and ʿAwas) and one from Turkey (Gaziantepe).
105. Mettinger (1995: 14) notes Tacitus, Historiae V, 5, which reads: “The Jews conceive
of one god only, and that with the mind alone: they regard as impious those who
make from perishable materials representations of gods in man’s image; that su-
preme and eternal being is to them incapable of representation and without end.
Therefore they set up no statues in their cities, still less in their temples.”
106. The Aramaic word nabš is often translated “soul or “spirit,” with a long history of
scholarship devoted to the specific nuances of the term in Aramaic and its cognate
(nepeš) in Hebrew. Suriano (2014: 385, 403) speaks of nbš as “a ritually centered ob-
ject that marks identity,” “a concept of self in portmortem contexts” (2014: 387), and
one’s “postmortem selfhood” (2014: 388).
107. See Schloen and Fink 2009; Struble and Herrmann 2009; Pardee 2009; and the cat-
alog in Herrmann and Schloen 2014.
108. It is clear that I am indebted here to Pardee (2009: 63), who writes: “The word nbš
appears . . . to refer to the very essence of [the deceased person] KTMW, as he is
represented on the stele, eating and drinking at a feast; it was obvious to all that the
exterior manifestation could neither eat nor drink, but the nbš within the stele was
considered capable of doing so, apparently in a way very similar to that in which
deities ate and drank the offerings presented to them” (my emphasis).
For an alternative analysis, see Hawkins 2015, making the argument that the
phrase in question refers to the offering of a ram to the likeness (nbš) of Katumuwa
portrayed on the stela.
109. As noted in Chapter Four, one should remain cognizant of how earlier El passages
necessarily come down to us through later Yahwistic hands. Methodologically, this
adds a layer of uncertainty about whether the few mentions of Yahweh in these
passages (Gen 28:13, 16; 31:3, 49) indicate his connection to the masseboth in the
narratives. Given such a high level of uncertainty, these few references are not fac-
tored into the present analysis.
110. The notion of Yahweh being a “jealous God” is complex and often analyzed with re-
gard to emotions only and without studying the social-anthropological implications
of the term. For a refreshing contrast, see Guinn-Villareal 2018. See too Chapter
Ten, pp. 652–653.
111. Cf. too the “polemical distortion of a cultic confession” (so Olyan) in Jer 2:27, where
reference is made to a stone (ʾeben) giving birth. Olyan’s (1987a: 258) study of the
passage concludes “that the stone pillar was a perfectly legitimate Jahwistic symbol
in early Israel, and came to be opposed only in certain circles.”
There are many other traditions about God being a “rock” (ṣûr), as evidenced in
literature (e.g., Deut 32:4, 15, 18, 31, 37; 2 Sam 22:3, 32 = Ps 18:3, 32 [Eng 18:2, 31];
796 Notes
Ps 19:15 [Eng 19:14]; 28:1; 31:3–4 [Eng 31:2–3]; 71:3; 94:22; 95:1; 144:1–2; Isa 26:4;
30:29; 44:8) and in personal names (Elizur, Zuriel, Zurishaddai, Pedahzur), several
of which occur in the archaic/archaizing Num 1:5–15 with its emphasis on the deity
El (see Chapter Four, pp. 106–107). Cf. too the theophany described in Exod 33:21–
22 in which Yahweh’s kābôd passes by Moses at a rock (ṣûr). For a more complete
discussion, see Fabry 2003.
Viewing God as a rock is an obvious image when one considers the terrain of
the writers of the Hebrew Bible. Rock imagery is used to convey motifs of God as
stable and permanent, as a source of refuge, as a firm stronghold and as a protector.
Such ubiquitous motifs remind us of the dangers of interpreting stone imagery
too narrowly. The ancients certainly saw more in these meaningful and practical
metaphors than only the numinous inhabiting of a stone in sacred space.
112. Other relevant passages would be Hos 3:4; 10:1–2; and Isa 6:13, yet these texts are
complicated. Some scholars view the various items listed in Hos 3:4 as entirely ac-
ceptable, while other scholars (cf. Graesser 1969: 250–252) view the items as pairs
alternating between licit and illicit practices. For further discussion, see LaRocca-
Pitts 2001: 93–96. Isa 6:13 is extremely difficult, yet see Iwry 1957, following 1QIsaa.
113. See the overview of this material in Wildberger 1997: 268–274.
114. We follow those scholars and the JPS translation that treat wĕhāyâ as a collec-
tive, with both the altar and the massebah as subjects (“they shall serve”). The sin-
gular translation (“and it shall be”) of the RSV, NAB, NEB, and NIV is literal. Yet
it is misleading because the antecedent in these English translations is “the pillar”
(massebah), which, being feminine, cannot be the subject of the masculine verb
wĕhāyâ.
115. Renfrew and Bahn 2000: 408–409.
116. In addition to the many examples in the present chapter, see too the widespread
use of abstract symbols (and the concomitant rejection of anthropomorphism)
from first-millennium Mesopotamia. This rich tradition is best documented by
Ornan (2005a), who titles her volume The Triumph of the Symbol. See too Mettinger
1995: 39–48.
117. For additional discussion of Otto, see Chapter Ten, pp. 587–588, 598–599, and
especially Gammie 2005: 5–8 and Rappaport 1999.
118. See Meyers 1992a: 359, noting that “although the God of Israel was viewed as tran-
scendent,” the temple served to meet “the need for the assurance of divine availa-
bility.” Meyers speaks of “humanity’s insecurity about the nearness of divine power
and protection.”
119. Niebuhr 1960: 120.
120. Hendel (1997: 224) has also remarked how “the theology of [biblical] program-
matic aniconism is clearly comparable to the intellectual speculations of the
Mesopotamian and Egyptian texts . . . a product of critical reflection on tradition.”
121. Yet see the brief overview of holiness in the ancient Near East in Chapter Ten.
122. See, for example, McBride 1969; McCarter 1987; Lewis 2011: 208–209, 224–225.
123. Smith (2001b: 93–95), building on the work of van der Toorn (1985), provides
a caution to Otto’s and Jacobsen’s emphasis on the numinous being “wholly
Notes 797
other.” Smith underscores how “divine holiness and its associated numinous
characteristics” (especially the luminosity of cultic cleanliness [cf. Akk ellu])
adhered “to material realia and the religious processes in shrines, including
theophanies.” Smith continues: “Because such (numinous) experience is medi-
ated by human experience and language, it is not by definition entirely ‘Wholly
Other.’ ”
124. Aster 2006, 2012. Two important earlier studies of melammu on which Aster builds
his treatment are those of Oppenheim (1943) and Cassin (1968). Aster (2006: 31–
38) is more critical of the former and more affirming of the latter.
Aster’s study provides a good model that avoids homogenizing the primary
data, which are spread out over such a long time period. Overall, Aster (2006: 29)
underscores how the concept of melammu “is both a physical object and a meta-
phor for abstract concepts.” Specifically, in the second millennium the concept of
melammu “refers to something concrete and tangible” (cf. especially the melammus
of Huwawa) that could sometimes be “associated with radiance.” This changes dra-
matically in the Sargonid period, where “melammu can be used as simply another
term for radiance” (2006: 39, 75).
125. Aster (2006: 79–88) nicely notes how melammu is a quality not just owned by gods
and kings but also found on occasion among monsters, mythic animals, illnesses,
demons, healthy people, weapons, and even walls and buildings (the last is appro-
priate for nuancing Jacobsen’s quote).
126. To be sure, Neo-Assyrian artists seem to have tried to portray melammu. Aster
(2006: 151–167; 2012: 101–121) documents the three best examples that are
portrayals of the god Aššur as a winged sun disk (with taut bow in hand) surrounded
by stylized flames (cf. ANEP §536 [= Figure 7.23]; Mendenhall 1973: 44–47, figs.
10–13). Cf. too our later discussion of Ezek 1:26–28. Yet such attempts at artistic
representation should not detract from how the ancients viewed melammu as an
unseen supernatural power.
127. Grayson 1991: 199, 208; 1996: 14, 15. According to Liverani, “the terrifying splen-
dour (melammu, puluḫtu, rašubbatu) of the Assyrian king is such that the enemy
even from afar is afraid (adāru; cf. ḫattu, ḫurbašu, etc.) and runs away.” See Liverani
1979a: 311 and Aster 2006: 116–132.
Compare Exod 23:27, where Yahweh promises to send his ʾêmâ, “terror,” against
his enemies, who will be thrown into confusion. Hugh Williamson (personal
communication) notes how Isa 8:7ff. may be playing off of the Assyrian concept
of melammu. In this passage, Yahweh of Hosts (ṣĕbāʾôt = armies), known ubiqui-
tously elsewhere as the God of Glory (kābôd), represents a divine counter-splendor
to Assyria, with its glory (kĕbôdô) and armies.
128. See Assmann 1983: 155, where he translates: “Der sich selbst baut mit seinen Armen,
die Bildhauer kennen ihn nicht.” See also Assmann 1992: 165–166 and Murnane
and van Siclen 1993: 23 (Version K, line 9), 39. A collection of such “building” (qd)
epithets can be found in Leitz 2002: 228–229. For an easily accessible publication of
the boundary stelae, see Sandman 1938: 111. I owe my colleague Richard Jasnow a
deep debt of thanks for his help with this material.
798 Notes
129. The understanding of this as a “concession to anthropomorphism” is found

in several scholars’ works. See, for example, Redford 1984: 173 and Mettinger
1995: 49.
130. See Bryan’s (2000: 261–263) judicious comments evaluating Johnson’s thesis that
Amenhotep III (Akhenaten’s father) was deified as the disembodied Aten.
131. Cornelius 1997: 29. Cf. too Schlögl’s (2001: 157) similar comments: “The percep-
tion of [Aten] was not so much the sun disk, but rather the light radiating from the
sun.” As noted by Robins (2005: 4) and others, “undoubtedly the actual sun in the
sky served as the cult image of the Aten, rendering superfluous any cult statues in
his temples.” Of special note is the architecture of the Aten temples, which were
constructed to be open to the sky.
132. It is unclear to whom the temple was dedicated. Some scholars favor Ishtar. See
Abou-Assaf 1990: 42–44; n.d.: 13–14; Bloch-Smith 1994: 23; Monson 2000: 27–28;
contrast Monson 2006: 296. Stager (2000: 44) suggests the god Baal-Hadad.
133. On the superhuman size of deities, see Greenfield 1985; Smith 1988: 424–427;
Bloch-Smith 1994: 21–25; and Chapter Eight, note 108. M. P. Maidman (personal
communication) has reminded me of Herodotus’ description (iv. 82) of “a footprint
of Heracles by the river Tyras stamped on rock, like the mark of a man’s foot, but two
cubits in length.” See Godley 1957: 284–285.
134. E.g., ḥayyîm, “life”; dēʿîm, dēʿôt, “knowledge”; ʾônîm, “strength”; ʾĕmûnîm, “faith-
fulness”; mêšārîm, “rectitude, uprightness”; nĕgîdîm, “nobility”; maḥāmaddîm,
“beauty”; ʿādānîm, taʿānûgîm, šaʿăšuʿîm, “pleasure”; mamtaqqîm, “sweetness”;
raḥămîm, “compassion”; bînôt, tēbûnôt, “intelligence”; ḥămûdôt, “excellence”; etc.
Cf. GKC 1976: §124d, e; Joüon and Muraoka 1991: §136g–i (cf. §136d); Waltke and
O’Connor 1990: §7.4.2, 7.4.3.
135. Readers should note that I am using the comparison between Akkadian melammu
and Hebrew kābôd, hôd, and hādār heuristically and am well aware of Aster’s
cautions against equating the terms on a one-to-one basis. As Aster (2006: 513)
concludes, the Hebrew words hôd and hādār “share some, but not all, of the range of
meanings of Akkadian melammu.” Each specific biblical text (including those using
kābôd) must be studied to see to what degree they resonate with the conceptual
world of the Akkadian scribes who used the term melammu.
136. For a thorough exposition of Isa 2:6–22, see Williamson 2006: 189–230, especially
his text-critical comments on 2:18–19 as to whether it is the idols entering the caves!
For the connection of this passage to Akkadian melammu and the various motifs
found in Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions, see Aster 2006: 295–326.
137. Every interpreter of the current generation working on Pentateuchal criticism has
staked a claim to the nature and the extent of the Yahwist as it applies to Exodus
3:1–4:18. See the convenient collection of articles in Dozeman and Schmid 2006,
especially the article on the commission of Moses by Dozeman. Cf. too Dozeman
2017: 298–313. Our assertion of the ubiquitous nature of fire stands regardless of
how one parses these literary strands.
138. Specifically, it occurs via the malʾak-Yahweh (on which see pp. 349–350, 353).
Notes 799
139. These are Sarna’s (1986: 39) words. Analogously, Moses is not consumed when he
approaches the fire of Yahweh in Exod 24:17 even though it is specifically described
as a “consuming fire” (ʾēš ʾōkelet).
140. The rare form for “bush” (sĕneh) is used only in our two passages (Exod 3:2–4; Deut
33:16). In Deuteronomy 33:16 it is preferable to retain the difficult phrase šōknî
sĕneh (lectio difficilior) complete with ḥireq compaginis (cf. Waltke and O’Connor
1990: §8.2e) rather than to repoint as Sinai, as do Cross and Freedman (1975: 78)
and many others. Preserving sĕneh keeps intact how a rare word was chosen pre-
cisely for its ability to form a play of words on Sinai (sînāy). On the epithet “Yahweh,
the one of Sinai” (yhwh zeh sînay), see Chapter Six, note 229.
141. I have added my adjective “fiery” to Hendel’s (1997: 223) astute phrase “tran-
scendent anthropomorphism.” Note similar modes of thinking when Aten as light
nonetheless extends rays that end in human hands.
The phrase “poetry of high antiquity” I borrow from McCarter (1984: 473).
Readers interested in the variants between Ps 18 and 2 Sam 22 (and the underlying
original poem that gave rise to both) are directed to McCarter’s detailed textual
analysis. See too Cross and Freedman 1975: 82–106.
142. Bārād is usually translated as “hailstones.” For bārād here referring to fiery and not
icy hail, cf. Exod 9:23–24.
143. On the root hwm designating divine terror, see Chapter Eight, note. 99 (esp. Exod
23:27).
144. The Hebrew word qôl is particularly apt for expressing such “transcendent anthro-
pomorphism” in that it can equally express the voice of Yahweh that speaks (and in
Isa 30:27–28, 30 with even the mention of his tongue [lĕšônô], lips [śĕpātāyw], and
breath [rûḥô]) as well as the roar of divine thunder.
It should be underscored that the metaphor of storm gods “thundering” with
“voice” is found throughout the ancient Near East and Greece. See the many examples
collected by Weinfeld (1983: 121–124, 141–143). A key example from Late Bronze
Age Amarna Akkadian has also been pointed out by Pardee (2005: 167): “who gives
forth his voice in the heavens like Adad, and all the earth is frightened at his voice” (ša
iddin rigmašu ina šamê kīma Adad u targub gabbi māti ištu rigmišu; EA 147:13–15).
145. As for the authorship and date of this section of Isaiah, see Blenkinsopp
2000: 423: “The debate about whether this pericope was composed by Isaiah or an
anonymous prophet during Josiah’s reign or a much later apocalyptic writer of the
Hellenistic period remains, predictably, without a definite resolution.” Blenkinsopp
offers a representative sampling of bibliography advocating each of these positions.
146. The meaning and syntax of MT’s qōrēʾ larîb bāʾēš (“calling to contend with fire”)
in Amos 7:4 is difficult. Hillers’ (1964) emendation (first suggested by Krenkel in
1866) is elegant (no change in the consonantal text) yet not without its difficul-
ties. See the critique by Andersen and Freedman (1989: 746–747), who nonethe-
less agree with Hillers in translating “showers of fire.” So too Wolff ’s “a rain of fire”
(1977: 292–293). On the expression “to rain fire upon,” cf. Gen 19:24 and Ezek
38:22, as well as Hillers 1964: 223 n. 9.
800 Notes
147. See Miller’s (1965) remarks on fire in the mythology of Canaan and Israel. Miller
notes divine iconography where storm gods carry lightning bolts and how “fire”
(ʾišt) is used for Yammu’s messengers in KTU 1.2.1.32 and one of the (divine?)
combatants defeated by Anatu in KTU 1.3.3.45. Yet overall the presence of fire as
an independent deity in the Levant is rare. Cf. Smith and Pitard 2009: 261–264;
Watson 1999a, 1999b; and Smith 1994b: 306–307.
148. For a detailed text-critical analysis of this passage, see Davis 2013: 135–136.
149. It is crucial to recognize the polemical nature of such passages when they are used
to reconstruct the history of ancient Israelite religion. Contrast, for example, how
the late Nahum Sarna (1986: 133–134) used 1 Kgs 19:11–12 to underscore “with
crystal clarity” “the striking contrast between Near Eastern paganism and Israelite
monotheism.” As we have argued, it is more apt, especially in light of other theoph-
anies in the Hebrew Bible, to understand 1 Kgs 19:11–12 as polemical in nature,
voicing the concerns of one specific group whose views are better described as a
developing “biblical religion” or “Deuteronomistic religion” rather than the over-
arching term “Israelite religion.” The latter term must include the wide variety of
religious expressions that took place in the land of Israel throughout its long and
varied history.
150. For my dedicated study of Deut 33:2, see Lewis 2013b.
151. On the two occurrences of lāmô in the MT, see Lewis 2013b: 793 n. 3.
152. Here we follow most scholars who read the preposition “with” plus enclitic -m
(ʾittô-m) based on the LXX, Targums, and Vulgate rather than the MT’s pointing
ʾātâ (“he came”). The MT’s vocalization seems secondary, the result of the influ-
ence of late Aramaic (cf. also wayyētēʾ in 33:21). The occasion for the mispointing
of the MT is surely its lack of knowledge of how -h in early (tenth century BCE)
orthography can represent a third-person masculine singular suffix, a feature
well attested from our epigraphic sources. See Cross and Freedman 1975: 72
n. 8; Mandell 2013. Yet if the MT stands, the meaning of the passage remains
unchanged.
153. All scholars struggle with the difficulty of translating the hapax ḥōbēb. The best so-
lution may be to leave the word untranslated or to understand it (as does Miller
1973: 80) as a reference to troops being consecrated for war.
154. Cf. JPS’s “lightning flashing at them from His right,” RSV’s “with flaming fire at his
right hand,” and NAB’s “at his right hand a fire blazed forth.”
155. See too the sequel essay by Steiner and Leiman (2009) and the exposition in
Lewis 2013b.
156. The notion of a sword being described as “fiery” is known from Rassam Cylinder
A III 118–127. Here the god Sin assures Aššurbanipal that he will end the lives of
his enemies “with a flaming sword, conflagration of fire, famine, and plague.” (I am
indebted to William Reed for this reference.) Cf. too the notion of Yahweh’s sword
being described with the language of lightning (bĕraq ḥarbî) in Deut 32:41 (cf. Ezek
21:15 [Eng 21:10]).
157. See note 147.
Notes 801
158. This remains true even if we are dealing with a folk etymology. For more on the ety-
mology of the seraphim, see Wildberger 1991: 264; Mettinger 1999; and Williamson
2007: 130.
159. Cf. Exod 33:20, Judg 6:22–23, and Hendel’s (1997: 220–222) comments on the leit-
motif of lethal God sightings. This will be discussed at greater length later.
160. Alternatively, ʾĕlōhîm here could designate a preternatural being (cf. 1 Sam 28:13);
so Burney (1970: 346). Yet the close parallel in Judge 6:22–23 argues for the pres-
ence of the divine.
161. Though Hag 1:13 (cf. Mal 1:1; 3:1) shows that the title malʾak yhwh can indeed be
applied to prophets, the reason for the title not being applied to Elijah seems ob-
vious. The Deuteronomistic Historian preserves a tradition of the malʾak yhwh
appearing to Elijah (1 Kgs 19:5–8) and thus must keep his categories distinct.
162. The MT of 2 Kgs 2:11 has dual vehicles of conveyance, with its mention of Elijah
being transported heavenward “by a whirlwind” (basĕʿārâ haššāmāyim) as well as
by the fiery horses and chariot. Fritz (2003: 235) suggests that the mention of the
whirlwind is redactional (cf. the identical wording [basĕʿārâ haššāmāyim] in 2:1 that
may have served as the occasion for such an insertion). According to Fritz, the fiery
chariot was the only divine vehicle of transmission in the original text of 2 Kgs 2:11.
163. The images are fluid. Note how the apocalyptic theophany in Isaiah 66:15 has
“Yahweh coming in fire” (yhwh bāʾēš yābôʾ) “to render his anger with fury/heat”
(lĕhāšîb bĕḥēmâ ʾappô)//“his rebuke with flames of fire” (gaʿărātô bĕlahăbê-ʾēš).
Immediately following, fire is described as an instrument of judgment parallel to a
sword (bāʾēš//bĕḥarbô; Isa 66:16).
164. Many other passages are tantalizing. For example, the archaic (or archaizing)
poem in Habakkuk 3 describes Yahweh as a divine warrior going off to battle, with
Pestilence (deber) and Plague (rešep) marching as his military entourage (Hab 3:5).
We then read in Hab 3:8, 12:
Against River/rivers did it burn [hārâ] O Yahweh?

Was your anger [ʾap] against River/rivers?
Was your fury [ʿebrâ] against Sea/sea? . . .
With rage [zaʿam] you trampled earth,

with anger [ʾap] you threshed nations.
The decision whether to translate “River” or “rivers” for MT’s nĕhārîm (as well as
choosing “Sea” or “seas” for MT’s yām) depends on whether one thinks that the
original contained mythopoeic or mythopoetic language. The same would apply to
translating deber and rešep in Hab 3:5.
165. My translation follows, for the most part, that of McCarter (2008a: 87).
166. Similarly, it might not be just a coincidence that the verb used of burning illegit-
imate divine images in Deut 7:5, 25; 12:3 (tiśrĕpûn bāʾēš) is the same vocabulary
behind Yahweh’s attendant seraphim (śĕrāpîm) in Isaiah’s vision (Isa 6:6).
167. For detailed bibliography on source- critical and other relevant matters, see
Weinfeld 1972b, 1991; Geller 1996: 30–61; and Wilson 1995: 12–13, 54–56. For the
802 Notes
genre of Deut 4 as an oxymoronic “literary sermon,” see Brettler 2000. For Deut 4
being an example of inner-biblical exegesis, see note 172.
168. Yahweh “speaks” (wayyōʾmer) to Moses three times out of the burning bush, yet
note that there is no explicit mention of Yahweh’s voice (qôl) in the account in
Exod 3:1–6.
169. Levinson (1997: 151–152) comments that the insertion of “with you” “represents
an audacious denial of the facts.” Levinson continues: “The authors’ true appeal is to
their own contemporaries in late-seventh-century Judah, and with them, perpetu-
ally to every subsequent generation of the text’s readers.”
170. Divine lethality is not restricted to seeing or hearing God. It is also found in passages
having to do with cultic lethality. See for example, Nadab and Abihu’s death as a re-
sult of offering strange fire (see pp. 370–372), the killing of Uzzah because of his
lacking in ritual precautions (see Chapter Ten, pp. 596, 604), or even God’s intent to
kill Moses for lack of being circumcised (Exod 4:24–26). There is an understandable
backdrop to theophanies when God assures the visitee to “be not afraid.”
171. Geller (1996: 36–37), in commenting on Deut 4’s “well structured” and “impres-
sive” literary patterning, cites these two verbs as examples of “the remarkable use
of leading words” that reflects “the author’s attempt to tighten and strengthen
the message.” We agree. Yet then, surprisingly, Geller upon “closer examination”
argues that such leading words are “like a magician’s clever distractions . . . the tight
structures . . . reflect slapdash joinery rather than skillful craftsmanship . . . more
an indication of intellectual desperation than a device to highlight a well-reasoned
argument.” In the end, Geller’s strong comments focus on the structure of Deut 4 as
a whole and do not impact our assertion of the prominence of the leitmotif of lethal
God-hearings.
172. The mixed metaphor of “seeing” (rʾh) a “voice” (qôl) may have been occasioned by
Exod 20:15 (Eng 20:18), where the people “see thunder” (rōʾîm ʾet-haqqôlōt). See
the perceptive comments by Carasik (1999), building on the work of Held. Carasik
(1999: 264) goes on to argue that Deut 4 represents “a moment of inner-biblical, ex-
egetical insight” where the author created a “spark” “by the striking together of two
texts—the preexilic version of the theophany in Deut 5:1–5 and the Sinai tradition
of Exod. 20:15.”
173. See too Feder’s (2013) analysis of Deut 4 and its polemical rhetoric vis-à-vis the pol-
itics of identity formation.
174. Geller (1996: 39–42) concentrates on Deut 4:36 to argue that “what has been ‘heard
from heaven’ stands over and above what was ‘seen on earth.’ The former is the true
core of revelation, the latter secondary and subsidiary.” Yet a close reading of Deut
4:36 argues for a “both/and” rather than an “either/or” approach to how voice and
fire are complementary. As elsewhere, Deut 4:36’s emphasis on the voice emerging
“from the midst of fire” (mittôk hāʾēš) is key. (Note how Deut 4:36c’s “you heard his
words from the midst of [visible] fire” [dĕbārāyw šāmaʿtā mittôk hāʾēš] is clipped
from Geller’s translation and analysis on p. 40.)
When Geller (1996: 42) does analyze the mention of fire in Deut 4, he does so in a
highly reductionist way: “Deuteronomy 4 conceives of the fiery aspect of traditional
Notes 803
manifestations of God in purely physical terms, totally demythologizing and devoid

of actual theophanic content . . . no longer is the flame viewed as enveloping the
body of God.” Our research would argue for just the opposite. There is no indication
in Deut 4 (or elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible) that fire (when used in passages where
Yahweh is made manifest) is “devoid of actual theophanic content.”
175. I here agree with Propp’s (2006: 114–115) text-critical analysis.
176. Ps 29:7. Note how the qôl-yahweh in this psalm occurs repeatedly in parallel to
Yahweh (Ps 29:3, 5, 7–8). Ps 29 will be addressed later.
177. Similarly, artisans would have struggled with crafting divine rûaḥ.
178. Some of this material intersects with the question of whether Yahweh was portrayed
as a solar deity.
179. Should one desire to study these words with greater precision as well as their pos-
sible connection to Akkadian vocabulary (e.g., melammu, puluḫtu), Aster’s (2006,
2012) studies provide a good place to start. See too various entries in The Theological
Dictionary of the Old Testament, including Warmuth 1978a, 1978b on hādār
and hôd; Weinfeld 1995a on kābôd; and Eising 1998: 186–187 on nōgah. See too
Cogan 2001: 280, arguing based on Gen 49:6 that kābôd can mean “essence, being,
presence.”
180. On tĕhillâ as radiance, see Aster 2006: 183–186; 2012: 133–135; de Vries 2016: 64,
68. See Chapter Eight, pp. 449–450, and Chapter Ten, p. 578, on Exod 15:11, where
we find Yahweh being “feared in holiness” (neʾdār baqqōdeš)//“terrible of radiance”
(nôrāʾ tĕhillōt).
181. Cogan and Tadmor (1988: 74), following Speiser, note how sanwērîm is a loan word
from Akkadian šunwurum.
182. Andersen (2001: 290) suggests that “the imagery of this epiphany is like the ico-
nography of the rising sun god.” Andersen goes on to describe the “streams of light
[coming] from the arms and shoulders of UTU (Shamash)” in Mesopotamian
glyptic art as well as “the storm god hurling thunderbolts.” On the latter, cf. Roberts
1991: 134–135, following Eaton 1964: 148. All of these scholars are trying their
best to unpack the difficult phrase qarnayim miyyādô lô (Hab 3:4) and determine
whether reference is being made to horns (of deities and/or bulls) or sun rays. If
the latter, then in light of the mention of “hands” (yād), one might also consider the
Egyptian god Aten, whose rays end in human hands. See pp. 339–340 on the myste-
rious nature of Aten and how this may resonate with the mention of “concealment”
(ḥebyôn) in Hab 3:4.
183. See note 164.
184. There is a good possibility that sun imagery is used in the context of a militaristic
war theophany (with the same verb, zrḥ, as in Deut 33:2) in one of the plaster
inscriptions from Kuntillet ʿAjrud. Yet the epigraphy here is difficult, with either
bzrḥ ʾl (“when El shines forth”) or byrḥ ʾl (“when El buffets?”) being a possible
reading. For analysis of the passage used here (Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster inscription
4.2), see Lewis 2020; Chapter Six, p. 281; and Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587.
185. See note 152.
186. See pp. 348–349.
804 Notes
187. The literature on Ps 29 is immense, with a considerable amount of bibliography

on its Canaanite background. In addition to the standard commentaries, impor-
tant works include Ginsberg 1936; Margulis 1970; Craigie 1972; Cross 1973: 151–
156; Avishur 1979: 247–274; 1989: 25–75, esp. 25–40; 1994: 39–110; Loretz 1984;
Kloos 1986; Greenstein 1992; and Pardee 2005. Not to be outdone, Malamat
1998 addresses the Amorite background of Psalm 29. For a modern advocate of
Ginsberg’s view that Ps 29 was originally a Phoenician hymn to the Canaanite god
Baal that was later applied to Yahweh, see Greenstein 1992: 49 n. 1. For representa-
tives of those challenging Ginsberg, see Kloos 1986 and Craigie 1972. I would agree
with the summation by Pardee (2005: 158): “This poem is not an old Phoenician
poem that has been adapted to Hebrew, but . . . it was an original composition in
Hebrew. . . a poem originally conceived in Hebrew as a piece of anti-Baal propa-
ganda. . . . The function of so transparent a presentation of Yahweh in Baalistic im-
agery was to provide a repudiation of the need to offer a cult to Baal.”
188. My translation follows Pardee 2005: 154, 166–167. On the subject of the second-
person masculine plural imperative (hābû √yhb) that commands the divine beings
(bĕnê ʾēlîm) to “give” Yahweh radiance and strength, see Chapter Eight, note 103.
189. On the crux ḥōṣēb, see Pardee 2005: 167–168.
190. On qôl representing both the thunder and the voice of storm gods, see note 144. Due
to the expressions ʿānān kābēd (usually translated “dense cloud”) in Exod 19:16 and
bārād kābēd (usually translated “heavy hail”) in Exod 9:18, Mettinger (1982: 118)
wonders if the word kābôd itself here had connotations of a thundercloud. Cf. the
earlier comments of Cross (1973: 153 n. 30)
191. Cf. Ps 96:6:
Glory and majesty are before him [hôd-wĕhādār lĕpānāyw],

Strength and splendor are in his temple [ʿōz wĕtipʾeret bĕmiqdāšô].
1 Chr 16:27 reformulates this to read similarly:

Glory and majesty are before him [hôd-wĕhādār lĕpānāyw],
Strength and joy are in his place [ʿōz wĕḥedwâ bimqōmô].
See too the mention of Yahweh’s (reading yhwh; MT’s ʾĕlōhîm being due to the
Elohistic Psalter’s editorial change) sanctuary being “awesome” (nôrāʾ) in Ps 68:36
[Eng 68:35]. Cf. the mention of melammu surrounding the Emeteursag temple in
the Code of Hammurabi (muštasḫir melemmē Emeteursag; CH ii 60–62) as well as
the Jacobsen quote on pp. 338–339.
Propp (2006: 689–690), building on Haran’s (1978: 187–188) remarks about
the Tabernacle possessing a “lethal aura,” comments: “Due to the West’s secular-
scientific orientation, and Christianity’s emphasis on deferred retribution in the
Hereafter, nobody anymore finds worship terrifying.”
192. On Yahweh as the “King of Glory/Radiance,” see p. 459. This material is connected
to the procession of the Ark. See the fuller discussion on pp. 395–397.
193. It is easy to find scholars advocating parallels between Ps 104 and these three
classic texts. As is often the case, differences outweigh similarities and no line of
Notes 805
dependency should be posited. A more fruitful avenue for Ps 104:1–4 is Aster’s

(2006: 207–211) astute observation that mutual themes are found in Adad-nirari
III’s (810–783 BCE) description of the storm god Adad. The relevant text reads:
The god Adad . . . the perfectly splendid hero [qardu šarḫu gitmālu] whose
strength is mighty . . . who is bedecked with luminosity [ša ḫitlupu namrirrī],
who rides the great storms [rākib ūmī rabûti] [and] is clothed with fierce bril-
liance [ḫālip melammē ezzūti], who lays low the evil, who bears the holy whip,
who makes the lightning flash [mušabriq birqa], the great lord.
See Grayson 1996: 208 (= text A.0.104.6, lines 1–5).
194. This passage forms the backdrop for Schwartz’s (2010) broader study on metaphor-
ical and literal language in biblical interpretation and the determinative interpretive
framework that we bring to the text.
195. Cross (1973: 166) reasons that the “undoubtedly pre-Deuteronomic,” “ninth-
century B.C.” Elijah narrative (the incubation in the cave of the Mount of God)
“must in some way be dependent on Exodus 33:17–23.” For literature on the
conclusions of other source critics, see Durham 1987: 450–451.
196. Specifically, Billings (2004) sees two units (33:12–13, 17 [“perhaps E”] and 33:18,
21–23 [“perhaps J or E”]), each with redactional activity (33:14–16 [“perhaps P”]
and 33:19 [“perhaps P”]). For more recent analysis of the contours of the non-P
version of the sanctuary situated within the larger literary design of Exod 24–40,
see Dozeman 2017: 344–361. See too Van Seters’ (2013: 99 n. 22) brief comment
suggesting that our passage is a later parody “perhaps influenced by the account of
Elijah at Horeb in 1 Kgs 19:9–13.” Yet the distinct language of kābôd that we find
here does not appear in 1 Kgs 19.
197. Childs (1974: 596) also notes the use of the tautological idem per idem syntax in
Exod 33:19 that parallels the idem per idem syntax in Exod 3:14.
198. The language of “strange paradox” is from Childs 1974: 596. On the hypostatic use
of kābôd, see note 249.
199. For a concise overview of the history of scholarship on the Ark Narrative,
see McCarter 1980a: 23–26. One of the most important works is Miller and
Roberts 1977.
However one dates the final compilation, all scholars agree that the mate-
rial describing the cult at Shiloh preserves fragments of early tradition. Seow
(1989: 11–54) argues that the Shilohnite cult preserves an old form of worship
centered around Yahweh as he was venerated as El Elyon and associated with the
Ark. Smith (2001b: 147) also suggests that “the god of the putative figure Moses
and the Levitical priesthood in Shiloh was El.” According to Römer (2007: 93–94),
this material “contains very few traces of Deuteronomistic language [and] probably
preserves an older tradition,” yet “the present arrangement of 1 Sam 1–6 already
seems to reflect the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem.” Key for Römer is 1 Sam
4:21, which he views as “a redactional comment” that is “very close to the descrip-
tion of the departure of the Glory from the temple in Ezek. 8–10.” For Römer, this
suggests “that the story of the loss of the ark foreshadows the later destruction of the
Jerusalem temple.”
806 Notes
Consider too how, according to Haran (1962a; 1985: 198–204), P’s “shrine legend”
is referencing not Jerusalem but rather Shiloh. Or, in his more nuanced wording,
P has in mind “a pre-Jerusalem shrine [i.e., Shiloh] legend now extant only in
its Jerusalem dress” (Haran 1962: 23; 1985: 202–204). See similarly Milgrom
1991: 29–34.
200. The reading lālat here is either a rare example of a contracted infinitive construct
written phonetically (*lālatt < *lāladt) or a graphic mistake for an original lāle<de>t
< *lāladt. See McCarter 1980a: 112.
201. The fuller MT is represented here, although text-critically the LXX’s shorter reading
is preferable. The MT seems to conflate variant readings.
202. The dual translations here represent the ambiguity of the Hebrew, which can repre-
sent (1) the Philistines as polytheists who assume the Israelites to be polytheists too
or (2) the Philistines as recognizing that a single god of the Israelites (whom they
currently face) was none other than the sole god responsible for their victory over
the Egyptians. As the current (MT) form of the narrative has it, one would have to
lean toward the second, because according to 1 Sam 4:6, the Philistines “learned
that Yahweh had come to the camp.” Yet as recognized by several scholars including
Driver, Polzin, and Sommer, subtle nuances (with humor and irony) abound in the
passage. See Sommer 2009: 243 n. 84, including bibliography.
203. Following McCarter’s (1980a: 104) astute reading of “and with pestilence” (ûbĕmô-
deber) (taking a clue from the presence of a conjunction in the LXX), as opposed to
MT’s “in the wilderness’ (bammidbār).
204. See Chapter Five, p. 140; EA 134; 252; Judg 18:24; Jer 48:7; 2 Chr 25:14–16; see es-
pecially the astute comments of Miller and Roberts (1977: 9–17, 76–87). We cannot
agree with the conclusion of Sommer (2009: 61, 104–105). Sommer has Phinehas’
widow speaking “of the very presence of her nation’s God” in naming her newborn
son Ichabod (î-kābôd). Yet he concludes: “Regardless of her intentions, we ought to
understand the verse to refer to Israel losing its honor, not to God going physically
into exile.”
205. Compare Ps 78:61, which, though not using the specific vocabulary of kābôd,
mentions God allowing “his glory” (tipʾartô)—an allusion to the Ark—to be deliv-
ered into the hands of the Philistines. Thus the Psalmist keeps a firm distinction
between the deity and his radiance as manifested in the cult object.
206. It is hard to ignore the collocation in our text of kābôd and ʿānān that characterizes
P elsewhere (e.g., Exod 16:10; 24:16; 40:34–35; Num 16:42; cf. Ezek 1:28; 10:4). At
the same time, a full comparison reveals differences. 1 Kgs 8:10–11 does not have
P’s characteristic cloud “covering” (ksh; Exod 24:16; 40:34; Num 16:42) and radi-
ance “appearing” (N of rʾh; Exod 16:10; Lev 9:6, 23; 14:10; 16:42; 20:6). Moses in
Exod 40:35 is unable “to enter” (lābôʾ), whereas the priests in 1 Kgs 8:10–11 were
unable “to stand to minister” (laʿămōd lĕšārēt). P’s notion of “the cloud abiding”
(šākan ʿālāyw heʿānān; Exod 40:35) is absent in 1 Kgs 8:10–11, with Solomon’s sub-
sequent declaration referring to Yahweh’s abiding in darkness (yhwh ʾāmar liškōn
bāʿărāpel;1 Kgs 8:12). (1 Kgs 8:12 is often thought to be an independent unit; e.g.,
Mulder 1998: 396.)
Notes 807
For representative literature on the text and redaction of 1 Kgs 8, see Friedman
1981: 48–60; Hurowitz 1992: 262–266; McKenzie 1986; Knoppers 1995: 239–240;
Mulder 1998: 394–395.
207. See note 192.
208. The Isaianic expression “the Holy One of Israel” is dealt with in Chapter Ten,
pp. 599–603.
209. See Lewis 2008b: 88. For bibliography, see Lewis 2008b: 98 n. 53, especially the arti-
cles by Machinist.
210. Personal communication. See too Williamson 1999: 186.
211. See p. 797 and note 127.
212. See Lewis 2008b.
213. Works of note include Morgenstern 1911, 1914; Stein 1939; von Rad 1953; Davies
1962; Rendtorff 1963; Cross 1973: 163–169, 322–325; Weinfeld 1995; Mettinger
1982b: 80–115, 116–123; Milgrom 1991; Propp 1999, 2006; Aster 2006, 2012; and
Sommer 2009: 68–79.
214. To describe these texts as being from P is an oversimplification. The history of
research on the book of Leviticus shows varying opinions about its literary char-
acter. Ruwe (2003) summarizes four primary approaches: (1) those who work
within the Grundschrifthypothese securely in place since Wellhausen’s Composition
des Hexateuch, and try to describe which parts of Leviticus are a part of the
Priestergrundschrift (Pg) and which parts are supplementary to it (Ps) (e.g., Elliger,
Pola, Otto, Frevel); (2) those who describe the current state of the text as resulting
from differing priestly schools with different concepts of cult (e.g., Knohl and
Milgrom); (3) those who “explain the lack of text unity in Leviticus as a result of
flowing tradition processes” (e.g., Rendtorff, Blum, Crüseman, Gerstenberger); and
(4) those who look to find a unified overarching structure in Leviticus expressed
through a variety of literary conventions (e.g., Douglas, Smith). See Ruwe 2003: 55–
56 for bibliography.
As for P blending a variety of sacred space traditions, see Mettinger’s (1982b: 81–
83) helpful analogy of thinking about this along the lines of “a photographic double
exposure” where we can see in P “both an ancient pre-monarchial Tent tradition” as
well as “the Temple theology of the Jerusalem tradition.”
215. Milgrom (1991: 574) correctly juxtaposes “all the people” seeing the kābôd Yahweh
in P’s account in Lev 9:23 with the JE tradition of the leaders “seeing the God of
Israel” in Exod 24:9–11. Yet he unduly writes (based on Lev 9:4) that “it is not God’s
kābôd but he, himself, who will be seen by all of Israel.” Rather, in comparing Lev 9:4
with Lev 9:6, it is clear that for our author, Yahweh and the kābôd Yahweh are one
and the same.
216. Hendel (1997: 222), following Barr, writes: “Only the special ones of the past are
able to survive the ‘holiness and awfulness of his aspect which must bring death to
men who see him.’ Seeing God and surviving is a form of blessing, an indication of
religious worth.”
217. Watts (2013: 429–552) provides a splendid rhetorical analysis of Lev 8–10 that
underscores the refrain of Yahweh’s commands. “Thus the object lesson of Nadab
808 Notes
and Abihu emphasizes the importance of the priests carrying out temple rituals ac-
curately” (2013: 525).
Though the adjective zārâ, “foreign/forbidden,” modifies the fire (ʾēš zārâ), its
foreignness could be tied to the incense mentioned in the same context (specifically,
qĕtōret = frankincense), which was indeed a foreign import coming from Sheba (cf.
Isa 60:6; Jer 6:20). Levine (1989: 58–59; 1993: 155–156) astutely notes the qĕtōret
zārâ in Exod 30:9. Hess (2007b: 113–114; 2002) speculates that Nadab and Abihu
were “participating in a West Semitic ritual that involved honoring other [non-
Yahwistic] deities” based on the mention of a torch in the Emar installation ritual of
a high priestess.
218. On the basis of Lev 16:1–2, Levine (1989: 59) suggests that “the offense [of Nadab and
Abihu] consisted of penetrating too far into the sanctuary.” In Lev 16:1–2, “Aaron is
warned not to repeat the offense of his two sons by proceeding beyond the curtain
(parokhet) in the sanctuary on any occasion other than Yom Kippur—‘lest he die.’ ”
219. This material is dealt with in greater detail in Chapter Ten, pp. 639–641.
220. On P and Ezekiel, see Strine 2014: 272, noting how they “possess a family re-
semblance, but they are not identical twins. They are unquestionably related, yet
unmistakenly distinct.” Strine focuses especially on their differing concepts of the
imago Dei. P has all of humanity bearing the divine image, whereas Ezekiel has the
prophet himself (subverting the Mesopotamian mīs pî ritual) as the unique repre-
sentation of Yahweh.
221. My translation of the enigmatic ḥašmal (which appears only in Ezek 1:4, 27; 8:2)
follows Greenberg’s (1983: 43) comment that “the context indicates a bright sub-
stance, with a color like that of fire,” and yet I realize that most scholars think it
refers to a gleaming metal or precious stone of some sort (see note 9).
222. Here gōbah and yirʾâ seem to be a calque on the Akkadian puluḫtu and melammu.
So Waldman (1984), followed by Aster (2006: 317, 413–414).
223. The MT reads “fire” (ʾēš) here, and this could easily be a graphic mistake for “man”
(ʾîš), as witnessed by the LXX’s andros, and as necessitated by the mention of the
figure’s “loins” and “hand.” The occasion for the mistake could easily have been the
ʾēš that immediately follows. And yet even if the figure is human-like (with “loins”
and “hand”), the author is portraying a preternatural, fiery, radiant entity that is be-
yond human. Thus MT’s ʾēš could be intentional after all rather than a scribal slip. If
this was the case, then the LXX reading could be a graphic mistake and/or by attrac-
tion to theʾādām of 1:26.
224. Yet see P’s use of rêyaḥ nîḥōaḥ lĕyhwh in note 5. See also the nuanced treatment in
Knafl 2014.
While Sommer’s (2009) study The Bodies of God is brimming with insights, I do
not find his use of “body” to describe the divine kābôd as helpful, even though kābôd
elsewhere (Isa 17:4; Ps 16:9) could at times refer to a physical body (cf. Weinfeld
1995a: 25; Sommer 2009: 60). Sommer (2009: 2, 71) defines “body” as “something
located in a particular place at a particular time, whatever its shape or substance.”
Thus P’s kābôd can be a “body” in this sense even though it is immaterial. Light and
fire can also be “bodies” even though they are ethereal, not solid objects. And yet
Notes 809
defining the word “body” in this particular way faces an uphill battle in that English
consistently and universally uses the noun “body” to describe physical structure and
material substance. The word “body” is used of a corpse, the trunk of a tree, the hull
of a ship, the fuselage of a plane, the population of the American people, planets, and
stars. Physics and geometry employ the word in its sense of mass, as do references to
collective groups (the student body). Lastly, even wine can be said to have good body
and structure.
Sommer (2009: 71) is more astute when he writes (using “the anachronism of
applying Newtonian terms”) that “the [divine] kābôd is made of energy but not
matter.”
225. Of the many studies on the Mesopotamian background of the book of Ezekiel, see
especially Garfinkel 1983; Bodi 1991; Vanderhooft 2014; Winitzer 2014; Nissinen
2015; Stökl 2015a, 2015b; and Liebermann 2019.
226. Cf. Keel 1977: 125–173; 1992: 372; Mettinger 1982: 103–106; Allen 1994: 27–
37; Uehlinger and Trufaut 2001; Aster 2006: 156–158, 422–424; 2015; Lewis
2013b: 800–803. For the minimal use of Mesopotamian imagery, cf. de Vries
2016: 243.
227. As mentioned in note 126, this image was noted already by Mendenhall in 1973 in
connection to melammu, yet he made no reference to the book of Ezekiel.
While Uehlinger and Trufaut (2001: 147) acknowledge the value of this image to
depict the phenomenology of melammu, they are too critical of those scholars (e.g.,
Keel and Allen) who use this image to unpack the visual symbols associated with
the historical Ezekiel because of its ninth-century BCE date. For a response, see
Aster 2006: 424.
Mayer-Opificius (1984: 200) and Klingbeil (1999: 260–261) prefer to see the god
Shamash being represented in Figure 7.23 rather than Aššur (thus Pongratz-Leisten
2011: 172).
228. Yāʿōp/yēdeʾ are variants, as recognized by Cross and Freedman (1975: 99). The con-
flation of these two variants in the MT led to the misplacing of the ʾatnāḥ after yāʿōp,
taking it, as a result, with the first line and making it overly long poetically. The
prosody along with the parallel in 2 Sam 22:11 (reading ydʾ; cf. McCarter 1984: 457)
argues for yāʿōp and yēdeʾ being two variant verbs.
229. Cf. Block 1997: 103–104, stressing the “numerous lexical links” between Ps 18 and
Ezek 1.
230. Destructive water imagery is also present in the mention of a “raging torrent”
(naḥal šôṭēp) in Isa 30:28 and “torrential rain” (nepeṣ wāzerem) in Isa 30:30. Given
its collocation with fiery imagery, one wonders too if there are allusions to radiance
(cf. kōbed, hôd in 30:27, 30) in this passage.
231. Provisionally reading “man” (ʾîš) along with the LXX (so the majority of
commentators), as opposed to MT’s “fire” (ʾēš). See note 223.
232. For a convenient and complete listing of all the references for these various phrases,
see Mettinger 1982b: 39–40.
233. On the history of scholarship on the Name Theology and a vast bibliography, see
McBride 1969: 6–65; Mettinger 1982b: 41–46; Keller 1996; Richter 2002: 7–36; and
810 Notes
Hundley 2009. To illustrate the variety of views, note Mettinger’s (2003: 755) ob-
jection to being described as “unconscious apostles of Wellhausen.” Ultimately,
the positions that scholars take with regard to the Name Theology are tied to their
understanding of the complexities of the formation of the book of Deuteronomy
and the Deuteronomistic History. Obviously, then, the present discussion can
only sketch the Name Theology, with the danger of oversimplification. For a more
nuanced and detailed discussion, readers should consult the literature mentioned
in the first five works cited in this note.
234. For the Amarna material, Mettinger (1982b: 56–57) is building on the work of
de Vaux and McBride; for the theophanies, he stands on the shoulders of Weiser,
Zimmerli, and others (see Mettinger 1982b: 124–126 and for bibliography 125 n. 27).
235. Richter (2002: 26) says that it was von Rad “who transported . . . the fledgling Name
Theology into the mainstream.”
236. See McBride’s (1969) discussion of Noth (pp. 41–43) and Schreiner (pp. 43–45)
as well as his own take on the material (pp. 45–53). See also the view of Clements
(1965a, 1965b).
237. See McBride’s (1969) discussion of Alt (pp. 34–36), Dumermuth (pp. 36–40), and
Newman (pp. 40–41).
238. See the representative bibliography in Holladay 1986: 240 n. 7. Holladay, on the con-
trary, argues that “a close look at the phrases of the passage makes it clear that these
phrases are not specifically ‘Deuteronomistic’ but make up a carefully wrought dis-
course with distinctive diction having a close relation to the poetry of Jrm . . . there
is some overlap in phraseology between this passage and Deuteronomistic material
but not to a significant degree.”
The phrase “ironic comparison” is McBride’s (1969: 47).
239. See note 238.
240. See Wilson 1995: 68–73. Mettinger (1998: 9) is able to concede Wilson’s point here
by noting that his “position is that the original Deuteronomic code does not con-
tain a Name theology.” Mettinger then critiques Wilson for not dealing with the
Deuteronomistic History’s Name Theology. Yet in response to Mettinger (and
affirming Wilson’s view), see Hundley 2009: 538 n. 23.
241. For bibliography, see Wilson 1995: 24, 118.
242. Sommer (2009: 217–218 n. 40) calls Deut 23:15 “an exception to the Deuteronomic
theology of God’s abode in heaven alone.” While such passages do seem to stem
from archaic lore, one should not simply relegate them to the past as “vestiges”
(so Sommer) that would have no resonance with the world of the authors of
Deuteronomy, who valued them enough to incorporate them into their framework.
243. The privileged position of 1 Kgs 8 for reconstructing Name Theology has been
challenged by Hundley (2009: 551), who argues that “the context and uniqueness
of 1 Kings 8 mitigates its extreme language; one must be cautious in applying this
text unilaterally since the stress on divine presence [only] in heaven appears no-
where else so forcefully.” Compare especially the Name Theology in 2 Sam 7:13,
where, as Hundley (2009: 540) notes, “there is no reference to divine presence in
heaven.”
Notes 811
On 1 Kgs 8 Hundley adds: “The chapter nowhere explicitly denies divine pres-
ence on earth,” including the potent reference in 1 Kgs 8:27. This verse “states that
both earthly and heavenly dwellings are ultimately unfit for YHWH” (emphasis
Hundley’s). As for the context, Hundley (2009: 552) remarks that the rhetoric is that
of a petitioner (Solomon) currying favor with a suzerain (God).
244. A great deal of significance has been attached to activities being performed “be-
fore Yahweh” (lipnê yhwh). An extensive analysis of this phrase as it applies to
Deut 12–26 may be found in Wilson 1995: 131–197. Wilson (1995: 204–205)
concludes: “The majority of the sixteen instances of lipnê yhwh in Deut 12–26
should be understood in the literal sense and thus that they point to the localized
Presence of the Deity at the ‘chosen place.’ . . . God is represented as being present
on earth not only in the context of the Wilderness wanderings and Holy War but
also in that of the cult, and at the very place at which the divine Name is known to
be present.”
As for the sacrifices mentioned in 1 Kgs 8:62, compare the tradition preserved
in 2 Chr 7:1–3, where these actions are preceded by the (divine) fire coming down
from heaven (hāʾēš yārĕdâ mēhaššāmayim) that consumes the burnt offerings and
sacrifices. 2 Chr 7:1–3 also contains a description of the kābôd filling the temple (cf. 1
Kgs 8:10–11).
245. See Knoppers 2000: 389; 1995a: 247. Knoppers (2000: 375; 1995a: 233) also speaks
of the Deuteronomist’s “deliberate authorial strategy” in 1 Kgs 8 with “recurring
actions and speeches [that] unify the proceedings.”
246. Knoppers (2000: 389; 1995a: 247) astutely questions: “Why would an exilic writer
extend and expand the function of a temple that had been destroyed? The deuter-
onomistic trope of the temple as a site for prayer promotes the temple’s value rather
than devalues it.”
247. McBride (1969: 4) argued strongly that “the Deuteronomistic Name
Theology . . . simply cannot be understood on the basis of the internal biblical
evidence alone.” Instead one must use “ancient Near Eastern traditions directly
bearing on the conceptual, formal and theological context of Old Testament Name
Theology.” A substantial portion of McBride’s (1969: 66–176) unpublished disser-
tation is devoted to the ancient Near Eastern context of the Deuteronomic Name
Theology.
248. See Chapter Four, note 116.
249. Cf. McCarter 2008a—on which see pp. 351–353—as well as Simone 2015 and de
Vries 2016: esp. 56–57, 82–84, 113, 117, 351, 362–364. De Vries argues that the
kābôd of Yahweh was also understood hypostatically.
250. On the Ugaritic and Kuntillet ʿAjrud titles, see Lewis 2011. The fragmentary
Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster inscription 4.2 is treated in Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587, and
Lewis 2020.
251. We follow to a degree the translation and textual analysis of McCarter (1984: 161–
63), except we think that the double occurrence of the noun šēm in the MT should
be retained as key to the interpretation. Hence one of the uses of šēm should not be
omitted as a dittograph nor repointed as šām, “there.”
812 Notes
252. As noted by Cross (1973: 95 n. 19), the verb qwm is used here “in the sense of
‘attack’ ” (cf. too Judg 5:12; Ps 132:8; 74:22; 82:8). So too Levine (1993: 312, 318).
Cf. JPS’s translation of qūmâ yhwh (Num 10:35) calling upon Yahweh to “ad-
vance” to battle.
253. The very tentative reconstruction of verse 36 follows that of Cross (1973: 100), who
admits to the “hopelessly corrupt” nature of our text but nonetheless reconstructs
with poetic pairs based in part on Ps 68:18 and Deut 33:2–3. One difficulty with
this reconstruction is that any military side of the god El is rarely emphasized.
Alternatively, one could translate, following Levine (1993: 312, 319) in part, “Return
O Yahweh, [with] the myriads of Israel’s militias.”
254. As for combining anthropomorphisms and the effectual divine name in battle, cf. Ps
89:22–25 (Eng 89:21–24), which contains the Name of Yahweh empowering David
in battle together with Yahweh’s hand//arm. See further Isa 41:25, Ps 118:10–11, and
the discussion of Ps 89 in Chapter Eight, pp. 455–458. For the broader ancient Near
Eastern context, see Lewis 2011.
255. Cf. Cross 1973: 93ff., 142, 148, 156.
256. See Lewis’s (2011) discussion of how divine names functioned in the context of war.
257. Cf. Gropp and Lewis 1985: 46, lines 10–12, 16–17. Richter (2002: 209) writes: “The
Tell Fakhariyeh text serves to explain the relationship between Deuteronomy’s
lĕšakkēn šĕmô šām and Dtr1’s lāśûm šĕmô šām. Whereas Deuteronomy’s lĕšakkēn
šĕmô šām is best explained as a b[iblical] H[ebrew] loan adaptation of Akk[adian]
šuma šakānu, Dtr1’s lāśûm šĕmô šām is best explained as a b[iblical] H[ebrew]
calque of the same Akk[adian] idiom.”
258. There are particulars that present problems as well, yet for considerations of space
they will not be reviewed. See the details mentioned in the various reviews of
Richter’s study, including Mettinger 2003; Van Seters 2003a; Hurowitz 2004–2005;
and Hundley 2009.
259. The only place we have divine fire is in the non-Deuteronomistic Elijah narrative
(1 Kgs 18:24–25, 38).
260. I am indebted to Alice Mandell for this quote.
261. Compare the description of Marduk in Enuma Elish, Tablet I, lines 99–100, as
translated by Foster (1997: 392).
He was the tallest of the gods, surpassing in form,

His limbs enormous, he was surpassing at birth.
The passage goes on to underscore how Marduk was “clothed [labiš] with the
melammus of ten gods.”
262. The historical role of the Ark, its portrayal in various literary strands (Deuteronomy,
P, and Chronicles), Psalms, and narratives (the “Ark Narrative”), and its function in
sacred space will be addressed in another venue. See the overviews in Haran 1959;
Woudstra 1965; Fretheim 1968; Gutman 1971; Zobel 1974; Campbell 1975, 1979;
Miller and Roberts 1977; McCarter 1980a: 23–26, 101, 107–109, 124–126; Ahlström
1984; Metzger 1985 (based on his 1969 Habilitationsschrift); Seow 1985, 1989, 1992;
and Birch 2006. It should be kept in mind that there are many more allusions to
Notes 813
the Ark than might be immediately recognizable. Seow (1992: 387) astutely points
out how “the Ark, which represented the real presence of the deity, may be known
simply by the divine name,” similar to how “divine images of Mesopotamia were not
always called statues, they were regularly referred to as ‘gods.’ ” For example, Seow
points out the comment by Yahweh that he dwelled in a tent in 2 Sam 7:6. This is
“clearly to be equated with the Ark being in the tent” mentioned in 2 Sam 7:2.
263. Jer 3:16–17 is written against people being nostalgic about the Ark, not against
the Ark per se. At the same time, the author does envision the city of Jerusalem as
replacing the Ark as the throne of Yahweh (3:17).
As for metonymic representation, see Evans 1995, building on the work of
Halbertal and Margalit (1992), who in turn are building on the semiotics of C. S.
Peirce.
264. On the Holiness of the Ark and its lethal power, see Chapter Ten, pp. 595–599.
265. Hillers goes on to argue strongly against using Ps 132 to anchor this consensus. He
emphasizes how Ps 132 has significant parallels with dedicatory inscriptions. Thus,
for Hillers (1968: 52), it is “unnecessary to assume that the psalm was associated
with any regularly recurring festival.” At the same time, he moderates his view: “It is
not claimed here that reinterpretation of Psalm 132:8 disproves the notion that the
ark was carrier in ritual procession during the monarchy. . . . But it does seem that
this can no longer be regarded as proven.”
266. For a sample of Mowinckel’s theory, see his The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, vol. 1 (1962:
174–177). Commenting on 2 Sam 6, 1 Kgs 8, and Ps 132, Kraus (1989: 477) writes that
“not even a trace of an enthronement of God can be found in these texts.” On Ps 132:8
Kraus (1989: 481) adds: “An enthronement of Yahweh is completely out of place.”
267. For the translation “from” based on the Ugaritic, see Hillers 1968: 48–55, which is
followed by Cross 1973: 95. Kraus (1989: 480–481) suggests that the cultic call in Ps
132:8 “probably represents not only a reflective allusion to the ark saying in Num
10:35f., but the incorporation of the old war call into the cultic ceremonial.”
268. Cf. the discussion of Ps 24’s relation to Isa 6 on pp. 367–368 and its connection to
Chaoskampf traditions in Chapter Eight, pp. 458–460.
269. For Cross’s full discussion, see 1973: 91–105. The quotes used here are from pages
91 and 93. Cf. Craigie 1983: 213–214.
270. For the text and translation, see Grayson 1991: 292–293.
271. On Mesopotamian Mischwesen, see Chapter Eight, note 14. As noted by Zevit
(2001: 317), the guarding function was totally different between these two cultures.
In Mesopotamia, the guarding was often apotropaic in nature (see Danrey 2004),
whereas in Gen 3:24 the guarding is to keep humans away from the tree of life (and
hence divine lethality?).
Other references to a possible guarding (or sheltering or shielding) function of
the cherubim involve the root skk (cf. Exod 25:20; 1 Kgs 8:7; Ezek 28:14, 16; Ps 91:4,
11). See Propp’s (2006: 390–391) discussion, especially how he notes the difference
between the Psalmist’s comfort for all who take shelter within the Tabernacle (“even
in the Holy of Holies, even beneath the Griffins’ very wings”) and P’s perspective,
which would have thought of such as “anathema.”
814 Notes
272. The monumental aladlammu (lamassu) sculpture at the Louvre and similar ones
at the British Museum, the University of the Chicago’s Oriental Institue, and the
Baghdad Museum come from the Palace of Sargon II (721–705 BCE) in Dur-
Sharrukin (Khorsabad), Assyria. The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s sculpture
comes from Kalhu (Nimrud) and dates to the reign of Aššurnasirpal II (883–859
BCE). According to Danrey (2004), more than one hundred such sculptures have
survived, with approximately forty coming from Nineveh. The earliest example
of an aladlammu (lamassu) sculpture comes from the reign of Tiglath-Pileser
I (1114–1076 BCE). These prevalent sculptures are attested in Neo-Assyrian his-
tory for more than four hundred years, stopping after the reign of Aššurbanipal
(668–627 BCE) only to resurface in the Persian Empire during the reigns of Cyrus
II, Darius I, and Xerxes. For detailed discussions, see Danrey 2004 and Ritter
forthcoming.
273. Hartenstein 2007: 158. The most detailed discussion of the etymology of Hebrew
kĕrubîm is found in Wood 2008: 141–155, arguing against Dhorme’s (1926) use of
the Akkadian to demonstrate an intercessory role for the Cherubim. In contrast,
Wood (2008: 154) argues that attention should be focused on the Akkadian kurību,
“a representation of a protective genius with specific non-human features . . .
[which] certainly accords with the biblical description of the cherubim.”
274. Scholars have long noted how biblical writers had a significant amount of know-
ledge about Assyrian kings and their “official rhetoric” as conveyed through text
and iconography. For bibliography, see Lewis 2008b: 88, 98 n. 53. Thus it is possible
that the Jerusalem Temple artisans and the author of 1 Kgs 6 knew of the aladlammu
(lamassu) sculptures as they crafted their cherubim of similar size.
275. The addition of wheels was a feature with wide ramifications, for it led to Ezekiel’s
cherubim throne being viewed as a chariot, though Ezekiel himself makes no such
explicit reference. Cf. too the notion of Yahweh “riding/driving” (yirkab) the flying
cherub in Ps 18:11//2 Sam 22:11 (cf. Ps 68:5 [Eng 68:4]; 104:3) The lone explicit
reference to the cherubim constituting a chariot (hammerkābâ hakkĕrubîm) in the
Hebrew Bible can be found in 1 Chr 28:18. Subsequent references are found in the
Apocrypha, the Qumran texts, the Pseudepigrapha, and, of course, the well-known
Merkabah mystical texts. For specific references in this material, see Knoppers
2004: 934.
276. Cf. Ps 104:3, which has Yahweh traversing (mĕhallēk) on the wings of the wind. The
psalmist also personified the “winds” as Yahweh’s messengers (Ps 104:4; cf. 1 Kgs
22:19–23).
The notion of Yahweh mounting a cherub (yirkab ʿal-kĕrûb) juxtaposed
with clouds being beneath his feet (taḥat raglāyw) could bring to mind the nu-
merous images of a storm god standing on top of a bull or a Mischwesen such as
in Figure 5.30. One might then object to paralleling such a standing figure with
Yahweh seated (yhwh ṣĕbāʾôt yōšēb hakkĕrubîm) on or between the cherubim else-
where. Yet it is clear from iconography such as what we have with the procession of
deities in Figure 5.13 (where the first deity stands atop beasts followed by a second
deity enthroned on a lion) that standing and seated figures were viewed as parallel
Notes 815
phenomena. For a close-up of the standing and seated figures in our Figure 5.13, see
Figure 7.28 and Parpola 1997: 20, fig. 26.
277. I thank John Walton for directing me to the figure of Mulissu seated on a Mischwesen
in Figure 7.27. Figure 7.27 and Figure 7.28 can also be found in Parpola 1997: XLI,
fig. 18; 20, fig. 26).
278. E.g., Keel 1977: 15–45; Mettinger 1982a: 113–115, figs. 1–2; 1988: 127–131; Metzger
1985: 259–274; Tafel 113, figs. 1181, 1183; Schroer 1987: 121–130; Keel and
Uehlinger 1998: 168; Hartenstein 2007: 159–160, figs 1, 2.
279. Though it is only partially preserved, see too the sphinx/cherub throne of King
Idrimi of Late Bronze Age Alalakh.
280. In this Edelman follows Meshorer 1982.
281. In addition, one needs to wrestle with the competing ideologies of kingship be-
tween Deuteronomy and DtrH. See Chapter Nine, note 13.
282. Propp (2006: 428–429) notes Josephus’ remark about lamps burning night and day.
But cf. too 1 Sam 3:3.
283. What I mean by this is that humans do not consume any part of the ʿōlâ, in contrast
to the offerings such as the zebaḥ and the šĕlāmîm, “whose meat is eaten by its of-
ferer” (Milgrom 1991: 204, 221). There is certainly the conjunctive aspect of sacri-
fice whereby the donor attains a closer proximity to the divine.
284. In addition to the phrase “ever-burning fire” (ʾēš tāmîd) representing the continual
presence of Yahweh, it could very likely indicate the perpetual devotion of the
Israelite people toward Yahweh (Levine 1989: 36). Either of these interpretations is
a viable option. Perhaps the ancients had both in mind.
285. For an analysis of the numerous golden vessels that were said to fill the First Temple,
see Hurowitz 1995. See the suggestion (p. 359) by Ornan and Winter that gold and
silver overlay were used to create a radiant aesthetic for divine images.
286. The examples here are funerary in nature, with our best examples being the
Samʾalian Aramaic Katumuwa and Panamuwa inscriptions. Cf. Suriano 2014: 388,
396; 2018: 169; Lewis 2019: 363–364. Granted, these examples are not a perfect
analogy, as they also include an anthropomorphic representation of the deceased.
287. Given the tomb context, Mandell and Smoak (2016: 241–242) argue for an apotro-
paic function.
288. This is not to suggest that this was a conscious decision motivated by a Judean who
visited the Iron Age site of Ayn Dara and brought back its notions of sacred empti-
ness on a large scale. At the same time, biblical tradition (2 Kgs 16:10–11) does in
fact describe King Ahaz (735–727 BCE) traveling to Syria, where he sees an altar in
Damascus that he then has replicated in Jerusalem!
289. The most relevant avenues of research for empty space aniconism (in addition to Ayn
Dara) would be the empty cherubim thrones known from Phoenicia. These small
thrones were likely votive offerings. See Gubel 1987: 37–75; Mettinger 1995: 100–
106; 1997b: 198–199; 2006: 285–287; Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 168. Cf. also the
late ninth-/early eighth-century fragmentary seal impression on a bulla from the
city of David mentioned previously (Ornan 2019; Keel 2012 b), and the small (1 in.
[2.6 cm] high by 0.7 in. [1.7 cm] wide) ivory cherubim throne from Megiddo. For the
816 Notes
illustration, see Keel 1977: 20, Abb. 6; Mettinger 1982: 22, fig. 3; Metzger 1985: 259–
261; Tafel 113, fig. 1182; and Keel and Uehlinger 1998: 63, fig. 66b.
290. Taylor is clearly influenced by the pairing of Yahweh and Asherah at Kuntillet
ʿAjrud, to which he refers frequently to bolster his argument.
291. Though it might be tempting to think of the openings being used to vent smoke,
there is no indication of any fire or smoke on the cult stand (Hestrin 1987: 61). Thus
Lapp (1969: 44) was correct not to adopt Sellin’s vocabulary of the Taanach cult
stand being a Räucheraltar, assuming that fire was kindled to burn incense.
292. A comprehensive analysis of the Taanach cult stands would also need to include
the perspectives of materiality, miniaturization, and micro-architecture (personal
communication, Alice Mandell).
293. See Mettinger 1995: 165, n. 131 for bibliography. Hestrin (1991: 58) has also
commented on the space being “probably the entrance to the shrine.”
294. For a discussion and distribution of the references to “the living God” in the Hebrew
Bible, see Mettinger 1988: 82–91.
295. The word “tradent” is common among biblical scholars (especially within text-critical
circles) yet rare elsewhere and thus not found in most English dictionaries. In short, it
refers to people who engage in a process of examining traditions for one’s own time, pre-
serving them and handing them down to future generations of believers. In the words
of Sanders (1998: 22), “All scribes, translators, commentators, midrashists and even
preachers are tradents. . . . [A]‌ll tradents of Scripture have had two responsibilities—to
the text and to their community, that is, to the community’s past and to its present.
A tradent inevitably brings the past into the present in contemporary terms.”
296. On the meaning of the name Yahweh, see Chapter Six.
297. Sommer (2009: 97) goes on to note how such historical reductionism, which is “so
common among modern biblical scholars . . . [,]‌does a disservice both to the Bible
and to historicism.” Sommer unpacked what he meant here in a 2009 SBL panel dis-
cussion of his book The Bodies of God and the World of Ancient Israel:
My readings are constantly diachronic, or at least not synchronic in that I am
constantly attending to the layering of biblical texts and to the ways texts like
the Pentateuch, which is after all an anthology and not a book, record a variety
of ancient Israelite voices as they converse and argue with each other. But I re-
ject certain sorts of diachronic reading—for example, readings that attempt to
line all these voices up along a sequence, so that P must come either before D or
after it. I regard most of these voices as being streams of tradition that coexisted
for centuries; indeed, I attempt to show that the mindsets they reflect and artic-
ulate coexist even today within Judaism and within Christianity.
Chapter 8
1. See Chapter Six, note 1.

2. Yet cf. the mention of El in conjunction with mountains melting and a “day of war” in
one of the plaster fragments from Kuntillet ʿAjrud. See Chapter Six, p. 281, Chapter
Ten, pp. 583–587, and Lewis 2020.
Notes 817
3. For a broader discussion on theorizing violence, especially ritual violence within bib-
lical traditions, see Olyan 2015.
4. The full text (KTU 1.119 = RS 24.266, for which see Pardee 2000: 661– 685;
2002a: 149–150) involves a petition to see if Baʿlu will indeed act, followed by vows of
several offerings and an ascent to the sanctuary. The conclusion then proclaims that
Baʿlu will certainly hear the prayer and act to drive the enemy away.
5. See Chapter Seven, pp. 334, 339, and note 127.
6. On the enigmatic hqr ryt in line 12, see Zevit 2012.
7. On the biblical ḥērem, see pp. 462–463.
8. The cultic paraphernalia is designated as an “altar hearth” (ʾrʾl) in line 12. Some
scholars reconstruct the same word in line 18 (“the a[ltar-hea]rths of Yahweh,” ʾ[rʾ]
ly yhwh), while others reconstruct “[ve]ssels of Yahweh,” [k]‌ly yhwh. See Chapter Six,
note 125.
9. For an overview, see Miller 1973; Lind 1980; Kang 1989; and Klingbeil 1999. These
are just a handful of the many books on divine war in the ancient Near East as it
relates to biblical tradition. Many of the warrior traditions blend with storm god
traditions. Here see the study by Schwemer (2001) and his summaries (2007, 2008a).
For the epigraphic material, cf. the explicit mention of Yahweh Sebaoth in one of the
seventh-century BCE cave inscriptions published by Naveh (2001; see also Chapter
Six, pp. 244–245, and Figure 6.11) and the mention of Baal and the Name of El “on the
day of war” (bym mlḥ[mh]) in one of the plaster fragments found at Kuntillet ʿAjrud.
See Chapter Six, p. 281, Chapter Ten, pp. 583–587, and Lewis 2020.
10. On the connection between holiness and power, see Chapter Ten.
11. See Chapter Six, note 106 for Mettinger’s statistics on the usage of Yahweh Sebaoth.
12. See Chapter Seven, pp. 388 and 396.
13. Cf. Enuma Elish, Tablet I, lines 1–2; Ps 74:12; 93:2.
14. For a detailed visual catalogue of the hybrid forms known as Mischwesen, see Green
1994: 246–264. An abbreviated version of this catalog may be found in Black, Green,
and Rickards 1992.
15. On Otto’s vocabulary (used of late by scholars such as Jacobsen, van der Toorn, and
Sommer), see Chapter Seven, p. 337, and Chapter Ten, p. 587.
16. Ever since Gunkel’s Schöpfung und Chaos (1895), the language of Chaoskampf has
been commonly used in the study of conflict myths. Ballentine (2015: 186–198)
argues that we should change our nomenclature, as these stories are primarily ideo-
logical productions. We should best “leave ‘chaos’ out of it.”
17. For additional images of divine warriors fighting a wide array of fantastic creatures,
see Lewis 1996b.
18. The story here is abbreviated. For the full text, including the Akkadian as well as sec-
ondary literature, see Lewis 1996b.
19. Bottéro and Kramer (1989: 465) add “[de sa langue(?)].”
20. For Canaanite examples of this pattern, see Cross 1973: 93.
21. Wiggerman (1989: 119) notes that the “kingship that is offered here to the victor is
certainly not that over the gods [as in Enuma Elish], but that over the nation he saves
from peril.”
818 Notes
22. Jacobsen 1932: 54. Wiggermann (1989: 125) argues that we should translate this as
“your/his very own [seal].” Bottéro and Kramer (1989: 468) suggest “un usage pos-
sible de cette masse de pierre, plus ou moins lourde et qui pouvait constituer une arme
de choc, comme on contait qu’avait été assassiné le fils du grand Sargon, Rîmuš . . . ‘à
coups de sceaux-cylindres, par ses officiers.’ ”
23. See the treatments by Bottéro and Kramer (1989: 466), Heidel (1951: 143), and
Ebeling (1916: 106–108).
24. Šēpāšu is reconstructed by Ebeling (1916: 107); CAD, A/I, 325; and others.
25. Though it should be noted that Figures 8.8 and 8.9 do come from Tell Asmar (ancient
Eshnunna), whose chief god was Tishpak.
26. See Cooper 1978: 64–65, 80–81; Lewis 1996b: 45. For the former text, see lines 55–63
in “Ninurta’s Return to Nibru: A Šir-gida to Ninurta” (http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-
bin/etcsl.cgi?text=t.1.6.1#). For the latter, the Akkadian reads ša kima mušmaḫḫi seba
qaqaadāšu nērta inarru. See CAD S, 204.
27. Because of space considerations, we are not treating the combat story of Anzu. For
an introduction to this material, see Ballentine 2015: 23–30. For the reflex of these
stories in Egyptian and Hurro-Hittite texts, see Ayali-Darshan 2010, 2015.
28. In the Assyrian telling of the story it is Aššur rather than Marduk who plays the role.
29. Tiamat (Akkadian tiāmtu, tâmtu) is cognate with Hebrew tĕhôm, “deep,” and
Ugaritic thmt (which occurs in the deity lists; cf. KTU 1.148.6, 41; KTU 1.118.18; RS
20.024.18; RS 92.2004.29). Cf. Huehnergard 1987: 184–185; Smith 1994b: 85–86, 160
n. 81; Pardee 2000: 660, 779–806; 2002a: 14–15, 18–19; and Alster 1999: 867–869.
30. The translation here is Foster’s (1997: 392, 393, 395, 396).
31. The translation here is Foster’s (1997: 392).
32. The translation here is Foster’s (1997: 398).
33. According to Hallo and Younger (1997: 391), the exaltation of Marduk in Enuma
Elish is similar “to the exaltation of Yahweh as celebrated . . . in the Song of the Sea
(Exodus 15).”
34. Our heuristic turn to look at the Ugaritic material only highlights the selective na-
ture of our study. To explore the many cultural interplays of the East-West Semitic
Chaoskampf traditions, one would certainly have to examine Assyrian-Aramean
mixtures, such as when Sennacherib has the gods Aššur and Amurru riding together
in a chariot going to do battle with Tiamat. See further Beaulieu 2005: 44; 2006: 189.
35. KTU 1.2.4.11–23; cf. Lewis 2011: 213–214. See too the very end of the Baʿlu myth
(KTU 1.6.6.51–53), which petitions Kotharu-wa-Hasisu to expel (*yadiy > yadî)
Yammu, ʾArišu, and the Tunnanu-dragon—all of whom are mentioned in KTU
1.3.3.38–43, where ʿAnatu brings about their defeat.
36. The translation follows Pardee 1997c: 248, yet it should be mentioned that the verb
here (ydlp) has to do with “leaking,” a fitting (and humorous?) description of the
collapsing of the Sea.
37. See previous note.
38. The translation here follows Pardee’s (1997c: 249) interpretation that the battle is on-
going, as opposed to other translators’ assumptions that the battle has ended (e.g.,
Gibson 1978: 44: “Baal dragged out Yam and laid him down, he made an end of judge
Notes 819
Nahar”). Cf. too Smith’s (1994b: 351) comment that line 27 “marks the formal end of
the battle section.” Pardee’s analysis seems more likely given the use of the durative
(yaqtulu) form of the verb ykly (yakalliyu), as opposed to the preterite ykl (yakallî).
Greenstein (1982: 205) suggests an alternative interpretation where “Yammu has
been captured, not destroyed, by Baʿlu” and hence is deserving of ʿAthtartu’s shaming
rebuke. The consensus among scholars sees the three verbs as parallel (and thus the
clear destructive meaning of ykly helps determine the nuances of yqṯ and yšt). In con-
trast, Greenstein translates as follows, with yqṯ being used intransitively and ykly
functioning as a subjunctive: “Baʿlu ensnares and places Yammu [in the snare], He
would destroy Judge Naharu.”
39. See Lewis 2011. In this article I argue that ʿAthtartu is hexing (gʿr) Yammu in KTU
1.2.4.28–39 as a part of Baʿlu’s defeat of the monster (as opposed to the consensus of
scholars, which has the goddess rebuking Baʿlu at the very apex of the battle). See too
Wilson-Wright 2015: 337 n. 14. The specific content of her effective (performative,
magical) words uses the power inherent in Baʿlu’s name, thus leading to her epithet
ʿAthtartu-‘Name’-of-Baʿlu.
On the verb bt and whether it refers to scattering or drying up (or even shaming),
see Lewis 2011: 216 n. 62.
40. The narrative continues with several other enemies mentioned. See the full nar-
rative in KTU 1.3.3.38–47. On the translation of šlyṭ as “Powerful One” versus
Pope’s “Potentate,” see Smith and Pitard 2009: 251. It needs to be noted, as Pardee
(1997c: 252 n. 91) does, that our narrative “as extant does not contain an [actual]
account of ʿAnatu’s defeat of Yammu/Naharu.” Pardee suggests that “one may sur-
mise that ʿAnatu intervened after Baʿlu’s battle with Yammu, and hence that this pas-
sage refers to a sequel to the narrative in CTA 2 iv, or that the mention of someone
driving someone from a throne in CTA 1 iv was related to a defense by ʿAnatu of
Baʿlu’s rights.” The final act of ʿAnatu’s battle prowess is her celebrated victory over
Motu (Death). See KTU 1.6.2.9–37.
41. KTU 1.82.1, 38 contains two broken texts that seem to refer to this episode as well:
(1) [. . . yi]mḫaṣ baʿlu [ . . . ]y tunnana

May Baʿlu c[ru]sh [], May he [] the dragon.
(38) [ . . . ]tadruk barīḥa ʾarṣa
May you [O Baʿlu] tread the fleeing [serpent] to the ground.
42. For the ways in which this passage can be translated and the arguments for the
identity of the goddess being either ʿAnatu or ʿAthtartu, see Pitard 1998 and Lewis
2011: 217–218.
43. On Gunkel and the “history of religion” school of thought, see p. 24. For a translation
of Gunkel’s treatment, see Gunkel 2006. On the numerous treatments of Chaoskampf
traditions in the Hebrew Bible, see the thorough review of the relevant texts in Day
1985 and the analysis of these myths as ideological productions in Ballentine 2015.
44. See Hossfeld and Zenger 2005: 243–244. Others argue for later in the exile (e.g., Kraus
1989: 97) and yet others for the time of the Maccabees (yet cf. the critique by Hossfeld
and Zenger as well as by Day [1985: 22 n. 59]).
820 Notes
45. As to whether the Sitz im Leben of Ps 74 is that of the Feast of Tabernacles, see Day
1985: 19–21 and the literature cited therein.
46. Ps 74 is a part of the Elohistic Psalter (on which see p. 724 note 65, and p. 784
note 229). Thus we reconstruct Yahweh (the likely original reading) for the MT’s
ʾĕlōhîm. Indeed, Yahweh is the Israelite god who fights cosmic battles.
47. Commenting on the sevenfold ʾattâ, Dahood (1968a: 205) creatively envisions our
poet—with “subtle artistry”—echoing the seven heads of the dragon.
48. Determining the precise mechanisms for the transmission of northern Late Bronze
Age traditions into the southern Iron Age Levant is beyond our reach. Yet the cultural
continuum from the Middle Bronze Age onward is without doubt. See Chapter Six,
pp. 256–264, 286.
49. See Tate 1990: 254. A complete analysis of this psalm is outside of our scope. On
Ps 74:15 and the relation of the ever-flowing rivers (nahărôt) to verses 13–14, see
Emerton 1966: 122–133.
50. Scholars note how 1QIsaa has mōḥeṣet, “smiting” (cf. Job 26:12), rather than MT’s
maḥṣebet, “hewing,” and prefer the latter as lectio difficilior. Be that as it may, mōḥeṣet
functioned as a variant reading.
51. See Blenkinsopp’s (2002: 333) discussion of how the “eschatological restoration of
Judah” as depicted in Isa 51:11 might be appended here from Isa 35:1–10.
52. Cross (1973: 144) notes that “the Song of the Arm of Yahweh in Isaiah 51 is a superb
example of [a]‌new synthesis in which the old Exodus is described in terms of the
Creation myth and in turn becomes the archetype of a new Exodus.”
53. Rahab (rahab) is used elsewhere as a symbolic name for Egypt (Ps 87:4; Isa 30:7) as
well as for the cosmic dragon that Yahweh smites (Ps 89:11; Job 9:13; 26:12; Sir 43:25).
Ezekiel is especially fond of using the tannîn-dragon creature in his depictions of
Egypt (Ezek 29:3–5; 32:2b–8). See Lewis 1996b.
54. Note, for example, Murphy’s (1985: 1135) comment that one of the primary traits
of wisdom literature is that “there is an absence of reference to the typical salvation
beliefs, such as the patriarchal promises, the Exodus, the Sinai covenant, etc.” For a
nuanced exploration, see Janzen 1987.
55. On Job 38:8–11 and its relation to the other Chaoskampf passages in the book of Job
(esp. Job 3), see Cornell 2012.
56. My translation here follows that of Janzen (1989). Cf. too Habel’s (1985: 561)
comments on Job 40:25–41:26 (Eng 41:1–34): “Leviathan, Yahweh’s mythic adver-
sary, is described in magnificent detail. But Yahweh’s real adversary is Job.”
57. To interpret Job 26:12–13 one must wrestle with substantive problems that cannot be
solved with certainty. Yet some solutions seem likely. It seems likely that this passage
forms a part of Bildad’s speech and not Job’s reply, as 26:1 implies. Such is the con-
sensus of scholars. See, for example, Dhorme 1967: xlviii, 368; Pope 1965b: xx; Habel
1985: 366.
The verb rāgaʿ (26:12) is translated in one of three ways. The root occurs in the
G transitive stem only here and in Isa 51:15 = Jer 31:35, where it refers to Yahweh
as “the one who stirs up [rōgaʿ] the sea so its waves roar.” On rgʿ as “stirring up,” cf.
NEB’s translation of Job 26:12 and the LXX to Isaiah 51:5 (ho tarassōn tēn thalassan).
Notes 821
Dhorme (1967: 374) argues for the “dividing” of the sea (cf. NEB and Tg gzr). Finally,
a case can be made for rgʿ designating the “quelling, stilling” of the sea. Cf. LXX
katepausev; see, for example, RSV, NRSV, NJPS, Pope 1965b: 185; Habel 1985: 365;
Day 1985: 38. As Pope points out, Chaoskampf myths universally describe the quelling
of Sea, not the agitating of it, and such an understanding is fitting for Job 26:12.
The MT of 26:13 is straightforward (“By his wind the heavens are luminous/fair”),
yet it hardly fits the context of 26:12–13, which has the motif of combat repeating in
every other line. The varying treatments in the versions (see Dhorme 1967: 375) attest
to the long-standing confusion regarding the verse in general and šiprâ in particular.
Recovering the author’s original understanding is impossible. Yet Pope’s (1965: 185–
186) remark about the Akkadian word used for the net (sapāru; Enuma Elish IV, 41) in
which Tiamat is ensnared is tantalizing (and beyond coincidence for our šiprâ?).
While Pope’s redivision of the MT’s šāmayim (“By his wind he put Sea [śm ym] in a
bag”) seems drastic, his speculative analysis may very well approximate the original.
Lastly, the mention of nāḥāš bārîaḥ in 26:13 recalls the Fleeing Serpent (bṯn brḥ)
that Baʿlu was said to vanquish in KTU 1.5.1.1–3 and KTU 1.82.38.
58. For the entire passage (Job 26:7–13), Ayali-Darshan (2014) suggests that the verses
should be read in inverted order. Ayali-Darshan (2014: 414–416) then draws atten-
tion to the creation of Mt. Ṣāpôn as God’s abode both in Job 26:7 and in Ps 89:13 (Eng
89:12) following the combat. See the fuller study of Mt. Zaphon by Day (2000: 109–
116). Linking such traditions with Ugaritic lore (the Baal Cycle’s “erecting an abode
for Baal on Mt. Zaphon”), Ayali-Darshan concludes that “the cosmogonic tradition
recorded in Job 26 and Psalm 89 was common in Canaan prior to the establishment
of the kingdoms of Judah and Israel.”
59. See Chapter Seven, pp. 351–353 on divine wrath (ʾap).
60. The motif of Job 41:25–26 (Eng 41:33–34) is that of Leviathan as king; yet the sub-
text is that it is Yahweh as creator who rules his creature Leviathan. Indeed, “mighty”
Leviathan is a mere toy for Yahweh’s amusement (40:29 [Eng 41:5]; so too Ps 104:26).
61. Space constrains us from delving into the many questions that, to use Blenkinsopp’s
colorful imagery, have resulted in exegetes “worr[ying] over this brief verse like a
dog with a bone.” See Blenkinsopp 2000: 372 for an overview of the various issues.
Among the many helpful treatments, see Day 1985: 141–178; 2000: 105–107; Oswalt
1986: 490–491; Anderson 1994: 3–15; and Wildberger 1997: 574–580.
62. See Blenkinsopp 2000: 372– 373 and Collins 1987: 19– 20, 79– 80. Wildberger
(1997: 579) has also noted how the survival of this dominant motif “was more in-
tense and varied in the Jerusalem cult than one would be led to believe.” See too Day
2000: 106, following Emerton; Day writes that “the Canaanite dragon conflict is the
single most important contributor to the background of Daniel 7.”
Another example of the durability of Chaoskampf motifs is how they show up in
unexpected places, including even the genre of love poetry. See here Wilson-Wright’s
(2015) argument (building on Calvert Watkins’ study of inherited formulae) that
Song of Songs 8:6b–7a “utilizes language and imagery from the Northwest Semitic
combat myth to identify love with YHWH as the victorious Divine warrior.”
63. See Horowitz, Oshima, and Sanders 2006.
822 Notes
64. On the complexities of oral communications, see Finnegan 1977; Niditch 1996;
Schniedewind 2000; 2004: 11–17, 118–121; Carr 2007: 39–56; 2011; Miller 2011;
Smith 2014a: 285–294; Schmidt 2015; and Dobbs-Allsopp 2015.
65. For a study of the ways in which such appeals to ancient tradition functioned liter-
arily, see Habel 1976. Brettler (1995: 137) remarks that the “emphasis on recalling
and remembering the past, even if it is typically for ‘theologically-didactic’ reasons,
makes the Israelite attitude toward the past unique within the ancient Near Eastern
world.”
66. Ps 44 is a part of the Elohistic Psalter, which was systematically edited to remove
the original reading of Yahweh. See p. 724 note 65, p. 784 note 229. Thus in Ps 44:2
(Eng 44:1) we reconstruct yhwh for MT’s ʾĕlōhîm.
67. For more on singing as a medium to pass on cultural heritage in ancient Israel, see
Schniedewind 2004: 52–56.
68. On whether Hab 3 is archaic or archaizing, see Chapter Seven, pp. 359–361.
The fuller corpus that has typically been defined as “archaic Hebrew poetry” has varied
from scholar to scholar and been said to include Gen 49:2–27; Exod 15:1–18; Num 23:7–
10, 18–24; 24:3–9, 15–19; Deut 33:2–29; Judg 5:2–31; 1 Sam 2:1–10; 2 Sam 1:19–27; Ps
29, 68, 89 (in part), 93; and the archaic or archaizing Hab 3 (cf. Albertz 1994: 51; Bloch
2012: 147–148; Mandell 2013). Substantial critiques of the older paradigm (such as that
of Cross and Freedman [1975, 1997]) by critics such as Young (2005), Young, Rezetko,
and Ehrensvärd (2008), Rezetko and Young (2014), Pfeiffer (2005, 2017), and Vern (2011)
have reset the debate. Nonetheless, even if some of the poems date later (e.g., into the ninth
century BCE [Smith 2014a: 219–220; Bloch 2012]), they are still our earliest witnesses to
these venerable traditions. For an overview of the debate, with bibliography, see Smith
2012; 2014a: 211–266. See too Chapter Three, note 27, and Chapter Six, note 210.
69. Older studies include Mowinckel 1952; Watts 1957; Muilenberg 1966; Childs 1970a;
Cross and Freedman 1955, 1975, 1997; Robertson 1972; Cross 1973; Freedman 1980;
Day 1985: 97–101; B. Russell 2007; and S. Russell 2009: 133–148. See especially Propp
1999: 481–485, 550–554; 2006: 723–734 and Houtman 1996: 221–295 with additional
literature.
As for reassessing the date of Exod 15, in contrast to the hyper-early dates of
Albright, Cross, Freedman, and Robertson (i.e., the early thirteenth century BCE
[Albright 1968a: 11] or the late twelfth/eleventh centuries BCE [Cross 1973: 124;
Freedman 2000: 144]), those advocating an early date today would be thinking more
of the tenth/ninth centuries BCE (cf. Bloch 2012: 147–148; Smith 2014a: 219–220).
Others date Exod 15 much later, viewing seemingly archaic or archaizing features
as instead being the result of “the poetic nature of the text” (Houtman 1996: 244).
Utzschneider and Oswald (2015: 330) argue that “the Song of Moses assumes . . . the
version rendered by the P Composition.”
70. The personalized vocabulary of Exod 15:2 has exact parallels twice elsewhere in the
Bible (see note 74), a sign of its liturgical character.
The use of the verb qānîtā in Exod 15:16 reminds one of the use of the same root in
Deut 32:6, a passage with clear familial vocabulary describing Israel as a creation of
their divine father. On this passage, see Chapter Four, pp. 91–92, 110–111.
Notes 823
71. Cf. Chapter Seven, p. 797 and note 127.

72. For the variant “sing!,” šîrû, cf. Exod 15:21.
73. Given the historical difficulty of cavalry for such an early text, Propp (1999: 463, 471,
510) translates “his driver” and Cross (1973: 127 n. 48, following P. Haupt) reads
rekeb, “chariotry.” Cf. the unambiguous markĕbōt, “chariots,” in Exod 15:4. This trans-
lation follows Propp’s (1999: 510) analysis that “rōkēb can denote a charioteer as well
as a mounted rider” and does not translate the third-person masculine singular suffix
simply for poetic artistry in the English.
74. MT’s narrative form wa-yĕhî seems to be a later prosaizing change. MT’s zimrāt is
difficult. Has the -y suffix dropped out by haplography? Yet cf. the identical text in Ps
118:14 and Isa 12:2 (where the fuller form, Yahweh, seems to have been inserted as a
gloss on the short form yâ):
For Yah (Yahweh) is my might and stronghold, kî-ʿāzzî wĕzimrāt yâ yhwh

May he be my salvation. yĕhî-lî lîšûʿâ
Thus zimrāt is seemingly the archaic feminine singular form. See Smith’s (2012: 201
n. 32) note in response to Ian Young.
Propp (1999: 463, 471–472, 511–513) has a lengthy discussion of zimrāt and
translates “power/music,” suggesting that “we should not be deaf to the pun with
zmr ‘sing’ ” (1999: 513). In contrast, my translation, “stronghold,” follows McCarter
(1984: 476, 480) in finding a parallel in 2 Sam 23:1 that refers to Yahweh as “the
stronghold of Israel.”
75. The literature on yam-sûp as the Red/Reed Sea (and especially its rendering in the
various LXX traditions) is too large to detail here. The consensus of critical scholars
is to translate “Sea of Reeds,” based on the clear usage of the word sûp in other biblical
passages (cf. Exod 2:3, 5; Isa 19:6; Jon 2:6) and the Egyptian loan word twf (cf. Ward
1974; Hoffmeier 1996: 204–215).
An alternative translation would envision the Egyptians coming to their end
(cf. Hebrew sôp) at a distant sea located at the mythic ends of the earth. Snaith
(1965: 397) analyzes our text as follows: “With its references to the Deeps [tĕhōmōt]
and the depths [mĕṣôlōt] we have passed into the realm of the great Creation-myth,
that story of the fight against the monster of Chaos. . . . The word tĕhōm does not
refer to the depth of any natural sea. This is the depths of the primeval ocean, of
Tiamat the great sea monster. . . . [Y]‌am-sûp means that distant scarcely known
sea away to the south, of which no man knew the boundary. It was the sea at the
end of the land” (emphasis mine). Batto (1983: 35) concurs that such a sea “at
the end of the earth . . . was fraught with connotations of primeval chaos . . . The
Egyptians . . . are appropriately cast into the Sea to perish . . . submergence into the
Sea of End/Extinction.”
Such an interpretation of yam-sûp (“Sea of the End/the Extinction”) is quite ap-
pealing for the Chaoskampf traditions being sketched here, regardless of whether
Exod 15:4 represents ancient lore or a later scribe playing on the words sûp and sôp.
Nonetheless, our oldest interpretive traditions do not construe the text along these
lines. As pointed out by Sarna (1986: 29; 1991: 9), followed by Propp (1999: 154),
824 Notes
the description of Moses being hidden in and rescued from the watery reeds (sûp) in
Exod 2:3, 5 (a J/non-P story) foreshadows the deliverance at the Sea of Reeds (yam-
sûp) in Exod 15:4. Thus my translation follows the consensus.
Yet I do so with some uneasiness. In addition to J/ non-
P (or a redactor)
foreshadowing events as he played off of the older Exod 15:4 tradition, one should
also consider the interpretive tradition that comes down to us through Targum
Onkelos. The targumic translator renders Exod 15:4 as yamāʾ dĕsûp without any hint
toward Exod 2:3, 5 where he renders “reeds” by the word yaʿărāʾ. If the targum trans-
lator wanted to underscore the foreshadowing we seem to see in J, he would have ren-
dered yamāʾ dĕyaʿărāʾ, not yamāʾ dĕsûp.
Yet our targumic translator also complicates the Snaith/Batto theory. Though the
word sopāʾ is very much a part of his vocabulary (cf. Gen 3;15; 49:9; Num 24:20; Deut
32:20, 41) as well as the plural sĕyāpe, “end(s), extremity” (cf. Exod 26:28; 36:33; Deut
4:32; 13:8; 33:17—though not with water), the targumic translator renders Exod
15:4 as yamāʾ dĕsûp, not yamāʾ dĕsopāʾ. Thus perhaps Propp’s simple “Suph Sea”
(1999: 463) is the wisest translation of all.
76. Here I follow my colleague P. Kyle McCarter (personal communication), who notes
the water imagery (“cresting”) behind gĕʾônkā here and the hint of such imagery in
gāʾōh gāʾâ in Exod 15:1. For the use of the root gʾh with water welling up elsewhere,
cf. Ezek 47:5; Ps 46:4. Propp (1999: 510), following Garber, notes that “Exod 15:1b–
18 features many verbs connoting elevation and depression, rising and falling,” and
draws a connection with the Sea’s waves.
77. On the hypostatic use of Yahweh’s anger and fury, see Chapter Seven, pp. 351–353.
78. There are two primary ways to interpret the verb ʿrm in our passage (with the trans-
lation here preferring the second): (1) referring to the heaping up of the waters (a
denominative verb from the Hebrew ʿărēmâ, “granaries, heaps” [cf. LXX, MHeb, Syr,
Arb]) or (2) evoking the picture of the streambed stripped naked, similar to what we
find in 2 Sam 22:16//Ps 18:16. In these two parallel passages, the “effective rebuke”
(gʿr) of Yahweh blasts the sea back to expose dry land.
The recesses of the sea [yām] were exposed,
The foundations of the world laid bare;
At the rebuke [gaʿărat] of Yahweh,

At the blast of the breath of His nostrils. (2 Sam. 22:16; cf. Ps 18:16)
Similar language is found in Nah 1:4; Ps 106:9; and KTU 1.2.4.28. The correct nuance
of the root gʿr plays a crucial role in interpretation (on which see Lewis 2011: 220–212
and note 39 in this chapter).
79. Scholars agree that nōzĕlîm refers to water descending (cf. Arb). Downpours of
rain can be described as “sheets,” and crests of waves can appear to be a “wall of
water.” The biblical tradition of standing walls of water is clear (cf. ḥōmâ in Exod
14:2 and nēd in Ps 78:13; Josh 3:13, 16). Yet one wonders if the language associ-
ated with this theophany once used storm language with nēd (similar to Akkadian
nīdu) denoting thunderclouds. I owe this insight to P. Kyle McCarter (personal
communication).
Notes 825
80. On God as dangerously holy, see Chapter Ten. Alternatively, due to the parallel line,
qōdeš could be understood here as a collective (cf. Deut 33:2). Cf. OG, Syro-hexapla
that read the plural. In this case, one would translate: “Who is like you, feared among
the holy ones?”
81. On the translation of tĕhillōt as “radiance,” see my translations of Hab 3:3 on pp. 280
and 360. See Aster 2006: 183–186, and see Propp 1999: 464, 528, where it is translated
as “dreadful of glory.”
82. While victory over the Egyptians is certainly the focus of Exod 15:1–12, Propp
(1999: 531) speculates that Yahweh’s “swallowing” in Exod 15:11 could refer to Yahweh
vanquishing the gods of 15:10. While even Propp calls his own suggestion “fanciful,” he
nonetheless appropriately notes how Ps 82:7 describes Yahweh’s demoting the gods to
mortal beings. Propp’s thesis could be strengthened by translating Exod 15:10 in the way
we have here (i.e., that the gods are in fear of Yahweh [following Cross and Freedman
1955: 242]) and referencing Isa 25:8, where Yahweh does indeed swallow (blʿ) the noto-
rious Mot (known at Ugarit as the swallower of Baʿlu). That Yahweh would be using the
underworld (ʾereṣ) in Exod 15:12 to do his swallowing would thus be quite fitting.
83. Exod 15:3. On the use of divine anger and the divine name (and their employment
as hypostatic entities), see Chapter Seven, pp. 351–353, 387–390. On the use of di-
vine names as weapons, see Lewis 2011. See too Propp’s (1999: 516) comments about
Yahweh’s name functioning as “a talismanic weapon.”
84. Again reconstructing what was likely the original reading of the text (yhwh) that has
been obscured by MT’s secondary reading of ʾĕlōhîm. On the editing of the so-called
Elohistic Psalter, see p. 724 note 65, p. 784 note 229.
85. Reading the singular along with the Qere as opposed to the Ketiv’s plural.
86. In contrast, cf. the use of visible footprints at the temple of Ayn Dara to depict the
deity’s presence (Chapter Seven, pp. 340–343 [Figures 7.21–7.22]). In Ps 77:20 (Eng
77:21), Yahweh’s mighty acts leave no trace, perhaps a sign of how water washes away
footprints left in sand and/or a theological statement by the psalmist wrestling with
the lack of “visible proofs” of Yahweh’s activity in his present distress. Cf. Kraus’s
(1989: 116–117) remarks about the psalmist juxtaposing the deus absconditus motif
with that of the deus revelatus.
87. Discussion follows shortly.
88. See Chapter Seven, pp. 280–281, 359–360. On the similarities and differences be-
tween Hab 3 and Ps 77, see Andersen 2001: 327–329.
89. The textual complexities of Hab 3:9b are well known and gave rise, according to
Hiebert (1986: 26) and Andersen (2001: 321), to more than a hundred interpretations
already by the mid-1850s. There is no point to sifting through them here. Readers are
directed to Hiebert and Andersen for a synthesis of the competing proposals, none of
which has gained wide acceptance.
The words for “shafts” (maṭṭôt) seems clear enough at first glance, but one would
expect “arrows” (ḥiṣṣîm) to parallel “bow” (qešet) in Hab 3:9a. Yet compare our
poet’s artistry in Hab 3:11, where “the brilliance of [Yahweh’s] flying arrows” (ʾôr
ḥiṣṣêkā yĕhallēkû) parallels “the radiance of [his] lightning-like spear” (nōgah bĕraq
ḥănîtekā). On the use of divine “radiance,” see Chapter Seven, pp. 358–379.
826 Notes
90. The text here is difficult. The translation here follows Andersen (2001: 337) in seeing
MT’s mibbêt as a later insertion, rather than following the interpretation of Hiebert
(1986: 36–40) and others who (using Ugaritic parallels) see a metathesis (bmt) refer-
ring to the “back” of the enemy. That the text has suffered from textual confusion
is also seen in LXX’s understanding that Yahweh brings death (thanatos = Hebrew
māwet) on the heads of the wicked. In the following line, ʿārôt is equally difficult, and
here too we follow Andersen’s understanding (2001: 337–338).
91. The verb nqb, “to pierce,” is used here and twice in Job 40:24–26 (Eng 40:24–41:2) in
mythological combat myths. Remarkably, the same root and tradition seem to form a
mythological subtext of deicide underlying blasphemy in Lev 24. See Lewis 2017.
92. Pointing MT’s ḥōmer as a D infinitive absolute (ḥammēr) as a substitute for a finite
verb (so Anderson 2001: 339). On the root ḥmr, designating “to be hot, parched, dried
up,” see the cognate evidence (Ugr, MHeb, Arm, Arb) and esp. KTU 1.83.13 (so Pitard
1998: 279 and Lewis 2011: 217–218) as well as the bitumen pits (beʾĕrōt ḥēmār) in Gen
14:10. For additional references to Yahweh drying up the sea, cf. Nah 1:4 and Ps 106:9.
Note how yām and mayim rabbîm are parallel terms here and elsewhere (Ps 93:4).
Smith (1997: 168 n. 67, following Caquot, Sznycer, and Herdner 1974: 167 n. h), notes
how Yammu’s epithet “the great god” (ʾil rbm) in KTU 1.3.3.39 could be “elliptical for
mym rbm, ‘mighty waters’ referring to the cosmic waters.” So too Smith and Pitard
2009: 247–248.
93. See Levin’s (2009) use of “the miracle at the sea” as a textbook case on how to under-
stand source criticism. Levin writes that “the amalgamation of such parallel accounts
is exceptional in the highest degree. It probably took place only once in the whole
history of the Old Testament literature” (2009: 42).
94. For the various ways in which Yahweh’s stretched-out arm and hand are used (and
with varying vocabulary), see Martens 2001 and Strawn 2009; the latter also includes
iconographic parallels.
95. Isa 63:12, yet another passage looking back to the exodus as “the days of old” (yĕmê-
ʿôlām), has Yahweh causing “His own glorious arm” (zĕrôaʿ tipʾartô) to march out to
assist “the right hand of Moses” (lîmîn mōšeh) by cleaving the waters.
96. Exod 14:27 reads wayĕnaʿēr yhwh ʾet-miṣrayim bĕtôk hayyām. Cf. the use of the verb
nʿr in Job 38:13, where the imagery is that of God using the dawn to grab the corners
of the earth as if it were a dirty rug in order to shake out the wicked.
97. Cf. for example Sarna’s (1991: 70) description of “a diaphanous, luminescent mist vis-
ible both day and night.”
98. For a study of the phrase “fear not” in both Hebrew (ʾal tîrāʾ) and Akkadian (lā
tapallaḫ), see Nissinen 2003.
99. Yĕḥummēm is attested in Ps 18:15 and in the Ketiv of 2 Sam 22:15. The Qere of 2 Sam
22:15 reads yāhom. As already noted by Propp (1999: 499), “the root hwm connotes
divinely sent fear,” with a prime example being found in Exod 23:27, where Yahweh
sends forth his “terror” (ʾêmâ) ahead of his people in order “to panic” (√hwm) the army
of their enemies. See too Josh 10:10 (Yahweh terrifying the armies of the five Amorite
kings), Judg 4:15 (Yahweh terrifying Sisera, his army, and chariots), 1 Sam 7:10 (Yahweh
terrifying the Philistines with his thundering voice), and Ps 144:5–6 (Yahweh bowing
the heavens and descending with lightning//arrows to terrify his foes).
Notes 827
Though our composite text uses the verb kbd (in the P sections of Exod 14:4,
17–18), it refrains from using the specific language of kābôd to designate Yahweh’s
awe-filled radiance (on which see Chapter Seven, pp. 358–379).
For unpacking the possible conceptual world via iconography, consider the
armed Aššur with his terrifying melammu depicted in Figure 7.23 (cf. Lewis
2013b: 800–803). See too Mendenhall 1973: 45, 58, which, in addition to refer-
ring to the Aššur iconography, also notes how the Egyptian god Horus of Bedḥet/
Edfu “ ‘stormed against’ the enemy in the form of the winged disk,” according to the
Ptolemaic Legend of the Winged Disk. On this text and possible antecedents, see
Taylor 1993: 46 n. 1.
100. For additional discussion of Yahweh as king, see Chapter Nine. For a detailed
study of how conflict myths were used as royal ideological productions, see
Ballentine 2015.
101. Several scholars (e.g., Day 1985: 18–21; Kraus 1989: 232–233, 236) emphasize that
one of the primary cultic settings of such royal legitimization may have been the
Feast of Sukkot (cf. Zech 14:16).
102. See comments on Ps 74 on pp. 443–444 and in Day 1985: 19. On kingship being the
primary theme of the Baʿlu myth, see Smith 1986: 322–229; 1997: 83–85.
103. See Chapter Seven, pp. 361–362 and note 187 for past treatments of Psalm 29 and
the poem’s emphasis on divine radiance.
Who is the subject of the second-person masculine plural imperative (hābû
√yhb) that commands the divine beings (bĕnê ʾēlîm) to “give” Yahweh radiance and
strength in Ps 29:1? In the full mythopoeic telling of a Chaoskampf tale, it would be
the head of the pantheon instructing the gods to fulfill their solemn promise of ac-
cording divine supremacy to the warrior god who was able to defeat the powers of
chaos (e.g., Marduk defeating Tiamat). See Foster 1993: 386–397. Possible remnants
of such thinking may be behind Deut 32:6b–9 (see Chapter Four, pp. 91–92) and
Ps 82, where, interestingly, the setting is judicial rather than that of a Chaoskampf
(see Chapter Nine, pp. 565–569). In Judean liturgy (cf. Ps 148:1–2), such a divine
scenario would have been transformed into having a religious officiant crying out
for the angels to praise Yahweh (halĕlûhû kol-malʾākāyw). Similarly, Ps 29 (with its
mizmôr lĕdāwid heading) came to be interpreted as David calling out for the heav-
enly host to ascribe glory to Yahweh.
104. Cf. CAD M/2 10 s.v. melammu and CAD P 506 s.v. puluḫtu.
105. Kraus (1989: 231–232, 235) notes the change from suffixal (nāśĕʾû) to prefixal
(yiśĕʾû) tense in verse 3c and argues that “the singer is striving to actualize the pri-
meval event” for “the present time” because “destructive, rebellious forces [are] still
at work.” Thus he translates accordingly (“floods have lifted . . . floods are lifting”;
cf. RSV, NRSV). Yet thanks to prosodic studies of Hebrew and Ugaritic verse, the
combining of prefixal and suffixal forms is unremarkable and need not require
such exegesis. Compare the translations of JPS and NEB, which do not mark the
contrast (e.g., “the ocean sounds . . . the ocean sounds”). See especially studies on
other poetic passages similar to Ps 93:4 that use the same verb alternating suffixal
and prefixal forms (e.g., Ps 29:10; 38:12; Prov 11:7; Amos 7:4; cf. Held 1962; Waltke
and O’Connor 1990: 496–498). The translation here understands yiśĕʾû as a yaqtul
828 Notes
preterite form that parallels the two qatala forms (nāśĕʾû) to designate the distant
past where Yahweh once subdued chaotic waters. This does not deny the past/pre-
sent dimension. Our poet would certainly affirm that just as Yahweh was mighty in
the past epic battle, he is at the same time mighty in the present.
106. Those scholars seeing an archaic hymn embedded here would include Cross
(1973: 45 n. 6; 1998: 14, 91) and Kraus (1989: 203), yet the perception of the disunity
of the poem dates as early as B. Duhm in 1899 (see Clifford 1980: 35). Scholars pre-
ferring to see a poem that is unified (or is for the most part unified) would include
Dumortier (1972), Clifford (1980), and Hossfeld and Zenger (2005: 402). Clifford
(1980: 35 n. 2) and Hossfeld and Zenger (2005: 402 n. 3) provide additional bibliog-
raphy on those advocating disunity (e.g., Gunkel, Sarna, Lipiński) and unity (Ward,
Rösel, Volger, Emmendörffer, Arneth).
On Ps 89’s relation to the Chaoskampf traditions, see Day 1985: 25–28.
107. Reading (along with 24 Hebrew manuscripts, LXX minuscule manuscripts, the
Syriac, and most commentators) the singular “your servant,” ʿabdekā, for MT’s
plural “your servants,” ʿăbādêkā, in Ps 89:51 (Eng 89:50) to agree with the singular
“your anointed” mĕšîḥekā in Ps 89:52 (Eng 89:51).
108. Once again, note the concept of tremendum that Yahweh occasions, a tremendum
felt by the gods as well as humans. On the divine assembly, see Chapter Nine, p. 565
and note 180
Ps 89:8 (Eng 89:7) speaks of Yahweh as “a terrifying god” (ʾēl naʿărāṣ). See Jer
20:11, where Yahweh is described as a “terrifying warrior” (gibbôr ʿārîṣ). Cf. Isa 2:19,
21. The same root, √ʿrṣ, is used to refer to Yahweh bringing “terror” to Jerusalem in
the Khirbet Beit Lei inscription. For the difficult text and various translations, see
Zevit 2001: 421–426.
Cross (1973: 160 n. 65) compares ʾēl naʿărāṣ to the Ugaritic god ʿAthtar’s ep-
ithet “ʿAthtar the Terrible” (ʿṯtr ʿrẓ) in KTU 1.6.1.54–63, a text dealing with a
replacement king sitting on Baʿlu’s empty throne. Smith (2014a: 169) notes that
elsewhere ʿAthtar is referred to as a lion, and one can assume that Ugaritians
knew tales of his terrifying presence that gave rise to his epithet. While KTU
1.6.1.54–63 mentions ʿAthtar’s epithet five times, his role in the narrative is that of
a small-statured foil who cannot measure up to Baʿlu. (On large size as symbolic
of divinity, see Chapter Seven, pp. 317, 341, and note 133.) Thus with regard to
the rejection of ʿAthtar as king, perhaps the story plays off his name to say (if one
might borrow and negate the language of Ps 89:8) that, contrary to his famous
epithet, ʿAthtar the Terrible did not have the physical stature to be greatly feared
among the divine council.
109. On Yahweh as powerfully holy, see Chapter Ten.
110. The MT’s understanding of the tradition it has received has “the sea” (hayyām), a
common noun with a definite article, yet such poetry (especially with the mention
of the dragon Rahab that immediately follows) is rich with mythic imagery. As we
have noted, just because the battle is no longer with Sea (Yam) but rather at the sea
does not mean that we are dealing with just any skirmish or with just any natural
body of water. Cross (1973: 160) and others try to reconstruct what they imagine
Notes 829
to be the earlier tradition with Sea personified. Following this notion, Yahweh rules
(enthroned) “on the back” of Sea, and it is “his waves” that must be calmed.
111. Though Day has the parallelism of Ps 89:11b on his side, the use of the preposi-
tion k- argues for keḥālāl in Ps 89:11a referring to Rahab itself being slain (“as a
slain [carcass/corpse]”—so Cross 1973: 160; Kraus 1989: 198; Hossfeld and Zenger
2005: 399—rather than the manner by which Rahab was slain (“with a mortal
blow”), as suggested by Day (1985: 25).
112. Retaining here the MT’s ûmĕlōʾâ, yet this could be a later addition that was filled
in based on the common idiom of “the universe and the fullness therein.” Cross
(1973: 160 n. 69) reconstructs it without ûmĕlōʾâ.
113. On whether Ps 89:13 (Eng 89:12) refers to Mt. Zaphon, see Day 2000: 111–112 and
Ayali-Darshan 2014: 412–414. See also note 58.
114. In its earliest dress (written or oral), the last verse here (i.e., Ps 89:19 [Eng 89:18])
celebrated Yahweh as protector (“shield”), Holy One, and King. The first of the
two translations here reflects this, understanding l-yhwh to contain an emphatic
l-(Cross 1973: 161 n. 72; Clifford 1980: 43 n. 20; Waltke and O’Connor 1990: 211
n. 94). Alternatively, as the poem functioned as part of the later royal ideology, the l-
in question was understood to be possessive. As reflected in the second translation,
the bicola underscores David’s (and the Davidides’) special relationship to Yahweh.
115. In contrast to Clifford’s (1980: 43–44) opinion, the translation of ʾāz as referring to
Yahweh making promises to David “back then”/“of old” (so RSV) in Ps 89:20 (Eng
89:19) is indeed appropriate, especially when one considers how such a time refer-
ence echoes the mention of Yahweh’s oath to David in the “distant past” (hāriʾšōnîm)
later in the psalm (Ps 89:50 [Eng 89:49]). Cf. Judg 5:8, 11, where past skirmishes are
recounted with mention of how “back then” (ʾāz) battles were fought at the gates.
116. Reading here the singular ḥăsîdĕkā with multiple Hebrew manuscripts (so too Kraus
1989: 200) for MT’s ḥăsîdêkā. For the original poetic bicola we would also expect
the non-narrative form (tōʾmer), which seems to have been prosaized (wattōʾmer).
117. Reading ʿēzer as designating “strength, power, might.” So HALOT 811, JPS, NIV;
ʿezrōh in Ezek 12:14 should be added to the references in HALOT. Cf. the Ugaritic
cognate ǵzr; Ginsberg 1938: 210–211; Held 1965: 278–279 n. 31; Miller 1970b;
Rainey 1973: 139–142; and Clifford 1980: 44 n. 22. However, as astutely demon-
strated by Rainey, there is no need to differentiate between “strength” (ʿzr II) and
“help” (ʿzr I).
Alternatively, many commentators read nēzer, “diadem,” used also in Ps 89:40
(Eng 89:39), and have Yahweh crowning his warrior (Kraus 1989: 200; Hossfeld and
Zenger 2005: 400–401; so too RSV, NRSV, NAB, NEB).
Kraus’s (1989: 200) rationale for the alleged reading of nēzer rather than ʿēzer (that
it is “very likely an error in hearing or writing”) is hard to support phonologically
and epigraphically. It is hard to confuse a pharyngeal with a nasal and at no stage do
nuns and ʿayins look similar in our inscriptional data. Thus we retain the MT’s ʿēzer.
Granted, the verb šiwwîtî is difficult, yet the meaning of “placing” or “conferring”
seems solid from passages such as Ps 16:8 and Ps 21:6 (cf. HALOT 1438 s.v. šwh II). It
is understandable that 4QPs89 (= 4Q236) uses the root šyt. See Flint 1997: 42–43.
830 Notes
118. As seen in numerous passages (e.g., Jer 6:4), war is holy activity (especially with a
god as commander in chief), and thus one must be consecrated for battle. For a full
discussion of war and holy power, see Chapter Ten.
119. It should be noted that the verb used here in Ps 89:23 (Eng 89:22) for a wicked
enemy “violating” (yĕʿannennû, a D stem from ʿnh II) the king is the same verb
that Yammu//Judge River uses when he threatens to “violate” (ʿnnh) Baʿlu (KTU
1.2.1.[18], 35). For a detailed description of the Ugaritic verb, see Smith 1994b: 266
n. 82, 291–292.
120. For the use of the divine name in battle context, see Chapter Seven, pp. 387–390,
and Lewis 2011.
121. On the Yahweh ʿElyon traditions, see Chapter Four, pp. 90–95. There is a great deal
of literature on the divine sonship of the king and his description as Urmensch (so
Mettinger). For a summary with older bibliography, see Mettinger 1976: 259–275.
122. On the various terms for divine radiance, see page 359.
123. For a convenient collection, see Nissinen et al. 2003, 2019.
124. Text Nin A i 1–ii 11. For a convenient text and translation, see Nissinen et al.
2003: 137–142; 2019: 149–154 with additional bibliography.
125. Text A.1968. For a convenient text and translation that we follow here, see Nissinen
et al. 2003: 21–22; 2019: 21–23 with additional bibliography.
126. It goes without saying that we are not asserting any notion of direct dependency be-
tween these two texts, especially when one considers the eighteenth-century BCE
date of our Mari material.
Note 1 Sam 21:10 (Eng 21:9), where David reuses the sword he had previously
wielded to kill Goliath. The sword has since been in the keeping of the priest
Ahimelech at the sanctuary at Nob along with the ephod, thus marking its cultic na-
ture and/or its function as an object of veneration. See too Saul’s armor being placed
in the temple of Ashtarot (1 Sam 31:10). Smith (2014a: 303) notes the dedication of
a shield in KTU 1.162.2 and an ax that may have served as an offering at Tell Qasile.
(Smith’s listing of KTU 123.2 is a typographical error.) See further Malamat 2002.
127. I am indebted here to Propp’s (1999: 227–229) analysis “Rod of Moses or Rod of
God?” See Propp’s collection of references that support how “the storehouses of
myth are well stocked with magical weapons properly belonging to supernaturals,
but bestowed on worthy mortals.”
As David is here accorded some type of divine trappings, cf. too how Moses is
called ʾĕlōhîm in Exodus 4:16, 7:1. See further Rendsburg 2006.
128. I agree with those scholars (e.g., Ginsberg, Cross, Caquot, Sznycer, Herdner,
Gibson, Coogan, Pardee) who emphasize the cowering of the gods who sit in fear
at the thought of Yammu’s arrival (triggered by the unexpected arrival of Yammu’s
messengers, who bring with them his ominous decree). Such fear is supported by
ʾIlu’s compliance in handing Baʿlu over to Yammu as his slave. For a detailed dis-
cussion of the various options for explaining the physical posture of the divine as-
sembly, see Smith 1994b: 297–300 with bibliography.
129. Cross (1973: 98–99) clarifies: “While the Ugaritic verse is preserved only in a
passage anticipating Baʿl’s going to do battle with Yamm (Sea), we can claim
Notes 831
confidently, in view of the repetitive style of the Ugaritic texts, that the shout was
repeated, addressed to the council of gods, when Baʿl returned in victory to receive
kingship.”
130. Granted, in the ancient Near East temples could be deified and thus the object of
cult. Moreover, now that we know much more about the existence of gate shrines
(e.g., Tel Dan, Bethsaida), such šĕʿārîm vocabulary resonates with cultic prestige (cf.
Blomquist 1999).
131. On Ps 29, see Chapter Seven, pp. 361–362, and note 103 in this chapter.
132. For fuller analyses of KTU 1.23.8–9, see Smith 2006: 40–43 and Lewis forthcoming a.
133. Following most scholars, the reconstruction of the first line here is based on the sim-
ilar idiom of voracity that occurs in KTU 1.23.61–62. The verb yʾrk is reconstructed
following Cross (1973: 117 n. 18), who notes the idiom taʾărîkû lāšôn in Isa 57:4.
The poet goes on to describe how Yahweh will wipe away tears from all faces,
a picture that is picked up by New Testament writers (Rev 7:17; 21:4) who also
portrayed God’s victorious swallowing of Death (1 Cor 15:54–57).
134. Cf. also Isa 5:14; Prov 1:12; 27:20; 30:15b–16; Ps 141:7; Cross 1973: 117; Lewis
1989: 152–153; 1992b. On the netherworld Sheol and the ways in which it was per-
sonified, see Lewis 1992a.
135. For other swallowing imagery used of Yahweh, cf. Lam 2:5; Ps 21:10 (Eng 21:9);
55:10 (Eng 55:9); Isa 19:3.
136. For additional references to Otto, see Chapter Seven, p. 337, and Chapter Ten,
p. 587.
137. The identity of the deadly “King of Terrors” in Job 18:14 has been debated, with the
leading candidates being Mot and Nergal (see Rüterswörden 1999: 486–488). Not
to be missed is the way in which the author of Job used this phrase with a double
entendre, with Yahweh as the real terrifying force behind Job’s afflictions (cf. Job
23:15–16 and Lewis 2012: 110–112).
For a brief overview of the Hebrew Bible’s portrayal of the universality of death
and Yahweh’s power over it, see Lewis 2007: 66–69; cf. 2002.
138. Freedman 1980: 217.
139. Following Miller (1973: 100); cf. Ps 103:20. Alternatively, baggibôrîm could be
translated “against [the enemy] warriors.” Those who were not willing to fight in
Yahweh’s battle were placed under a curse (Judg 5:23).
140. I borrow the terminology of “synergism” from Miller (1973: 156), who writes that
“at the center of Israel’s warfare was the unyielding conviction that victory was
the result of a fusion of divine and human activity.” In contrast, see Lind 1980: 72,
81, 171.
141. For a brief note on Priestly laws of warfare, see note 155.
142. For discussions of other possible ancient Near Eastern analogues, especially at Mari
(though without explicit ḥrm vocabulary), see Malamat 1966; Stern 1991: 57–87;
and Lemaire 1999. For a Hittite analogue (CTH 1, 4, 61 II, 264 and esp. CTH 423),
see Taggar-Cohen 2015.
143. For ʿAnatu’s Chaoskampf traditions, see pp. 441–442. For KTU 1.13, see Smith and
Pitard 2009: 178–180. While we have mention of ʿAnatu’s soldiers (KTU 1.13.7;
832 Notes
1.22.8–10), in contrast to the biblical, Moabite, and Sabaean material, we do not

have any extant texts preserved that describe Ugaritians participating in ḫrm war-
fare at the behest of ʿAnatu. See Smith and Pitard 2009: 180 for the suggestion that
our accounts here “on the mythic level” may hint at an earthly counterpart.
144. See Cross 2003b: 219; Day 2000: 133–135. Shupak (1989) wonders if Shamgar had
ties to ʿapiru/ḫabiru mercenary soldiers from the times of Ramses III and IV, based
on the mention of “ʿprw of the troops of An[at] . . . 800 men” in an inscription from
Wadi Hammamat.
145. Those arrowheads with the name Anat include one from El Khadr, 2.5 mi.
(4 km) southwest of Bethlehem and another from the Beqaʿ valley; a third is
unprovenanced. Cross (2003b: 213–230, esp. 217–220 [orig. 1980]) dates the ar-
rowhead from El Khadr to the eleventh century BCE; see also Milik 1956: 3–6
and Deutsch and Heltzer 1994: 15, no. 3. For a list of arrowheads from El Khadr
and elsewhere, see Cross 2003b: 195–202 (orig. 1996). For a script chart, see
Cross 2003b: 55, fig. 4.2 (orig. 1995). For dating, Naveh (2009: 105 [orig. 1987])
favors from the thirteenth to the middle of the eleventh century BCE, McCarter
(2008b: 48) favors the eleventh century BCE, and Sass (2005: 34, 43–44) prefers the
tenth/ninth centuries BCE.
146. See Chapter Six, p. 235 and esp. notes 69 and 125 there, for a description of alterna-
tive suggestions for our reading of “the [ve]ssels of Yahweh,” [k]ly yhwh.
147. DAI Ṣirwāḥ 2005-50 commemorates the activities of King Yitʿʾamar Watar, son of
Yakrubmalik. The relevant ḥrm material is found in lines 2 and 4 following the men-
tion of the king’s sacrificing to the god ʿAthtar in line 1. See dasi.cnr.it/index.php?i
d=30&prjId=1&corId=0&colId=0&navId=696268692&recId=9521&mark=09521
%2C004%2C012. I owe this reference to Jason Weimar.
Monroe (2007: 331) argues that the Sabaean text RES 3945 referencing ḥrm ac-
tivity “may with caution be dated to the beginning of the seventh century (BCE).”
For her detailed discussion of the problems of dating this text, see Monroe
2007: 327–331. See too Monroe 2007: 341 for perceptive suggestions about how
texts such as the Mesha stela, Josh 8, and RES 3945 “reflect an interest in narrativ-
izing emergent . . . collective cultural identity.” Sanders 2015: 68–70 also interacts
with Sabaean inscription RES 3945 and several others in a broader discussion of
pantheon reduction.
148. Cf. the physical presence of Mesopotamian deities in battle via their divine images
(van der Toorn 2000: 85).
149. Reading along with the MT as lectio difficilior (so too Soggin 1972: 82, 88). Bêt
is missing from the LXX in what seems to be a harmonization with Josh 6:19 (so
too Cooke 1918: 50). Rather than seeing bêt as anachronistic and designating the
Jerusalem Temple, it makes more sense to see it as referring to an earlier sanc-
tuary (at Gilgal?). For the expression bêt-yhwh denoting sanctuaries other than the
Jerusalem Temple, cf. 1 Sam 1:7 and Arad ostraca #18 line 9 (see Figure 6.14).
150. On the complexities of this passage (with its voluntary ḥērem proscribing, in con-
trast to ḥērem proscribing elsewhere that is imposed by the deity), see Brekelmans
Notes 833
1959: 59–66; Levine 1989: 198–199; Stern 1991: 128–135; Milgrom 2000: 2391–
2396; and Zevit 2012: 237.
See too Num 21:2, where a vow with regard to ḥērem warfare is sworn predicated
on divine assistance in battle. See further Stern 1991: 135–138.
151. Herzog et al. 1984; Aharoni 1993; Zwickel 1994: 266–275; Herzog 2001; Zevit
2001: 156–171, 298–300; Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 236–237; Bloch-Smith 2015.
Compare too the military presence at Kuntillet ʿAjrud.
152. See Chapter Ten, note 12.
153. For the prophetic texts, see Nissinen et al. 2003; 2019; Nissinen 1998: 164–165; van
der Toorn 2000: 84–86; Weippert 1972: 472–476.
154. I follow McCarter (1984: 71, 76) here in seeing the shield rather than Saul being
anointed with oil in 2 Sam 1:21. On the oiling of shields, see Millard 1978: 90. See
note 126 on the sword of Goliath being housed in sacred space.
155. On Judg 5:2, 13– 16 and untrimmed hair for warrior Nazirites, see Smith
2014a: 223–224.
For the various differences between Deuteronomic/ Deuteronomistic and
Priestly laws of warfare, see Weinfeld 1992: 238–239, with its discussion of “chan-
ging conceptions” of warfare. For P’s distinctive ritual markers, see in particular
Num 31, where soldiers who have killed or come into contact with the slain (i.e.,
corpse contamination) are required to purify themselves (and their captives) (Num
31:19). In addition, upon returning from war they must purify their battle attire
and launder their clothes (Num 31:20, 24). Metallic objects must be purified by fire
and non-metallic objects by water (Num 31:21–23). Soldiers present booty to the
priest Eleazar as “a tĕrûmâ offering to Yahweh” (31:29) and as a qorban offering “to
make expiation before Yahweh” (31:50). The booty is then brought into the tent of
meeting as a memorial before Yahweh (31:54). On the intricacies of Num 31, see
Levine 2000: 445–474.
156. For analysis of the verb ṣlḥ in Hebrew, see Tawil 1976.
157. I am indebted to Monroe (2007: 323, 325, 331, 335–338) for highlighting this fea-
ture of ḥērem warfare.
158. For similar odds, cf. the early eighth-century BCE Old Aramaic Zakkur Inscription
(KAI 202.4–5), where Baʿl-shmayn gives the king victory over either seventeen or
sixteen kings (ś[bʿt]/š[tt] ʿšr mlkn).
159. On divine names being used effectually in battle, see Chapter Seven, pp. 387–390,
and Lewis 2011.
160. Yet note how the text makes a point of saying that David had no sword of his own and
thus had to use Goliath’s sword to cut off his head (1 Sam 17:50–51). Thus techni-
cally, the traditions articulating “not by a [Judean] sword” (i.e., passages such as 1
Sam 17:47; cf. Ps 44:3 [Eng 44:3]) remain intact.
As for David’s victory here, see the variant tradition about Elhanan slaying
Goliath in 2 Sam 21:19 and the inner biblical corrective in 1 Chr 20:5. See further
McCarter 1984: 450 and Knoppers 2004: 736.
161. See Meyers and Meyers 1987: 244; Fishbane 2002: 225, 366–367.
834 Notes
162. For the Akkadian texts, see Parpola 1997: 6 (text #1.4, lines 27–30); Nissinen et al.
2003: 105; 2019: 115 (text #71, lines 27–30). See too Nissinen’s 2003 study of the
phrase “fear not” in its ancient Near Eastern context.
163. Cf. 2 Kgs 18:13–19:37; Isa 36:1–37:38; 2 Chr 32:1–22; Ben Sira 48:17–22. See
Grayson and Novotny 2012: #4, lines 49–58 (Rassam Cylinder); #15 iv, lines 6–25,
1′–14′ (Cylinder C); #16 iii line 74 through iv line 37 (Cylinder D); #17 iii, lines
38–81 (King Prism, Heidel Prism); #18 iii, lines 15–31, #19 i′, lines 3′–14′, and #22
iii, lines 18–49 (Oriental Institute/Chicago Prism, “Taylor Prism”); #23 iii, lines 16–
42 (Jerusalem Prism), #26 i, lines 12′–13′; #34, line 15. Cf. Mayer 2003: 168–200;
Frahm 1997; Cogan 2000: 302–303.
164. The historical nature of these passages has long been debated. For an optimistic
treatment and bibliography, see Gallagher 1999. Archaeologically, one can also
turn to the Level III city at Tell ed-Duweir (= Tel Lachish). See Ussishkin 2004 and
Uehlinger 2003: 221–305.
Of course, Sennacherib’s annals (see note 163) make no mention of any
such plague breaking out. Rather, Sennacherib emphasizes how Hezekiah was
overwhelmed with “the awe of his radiance” (pulḫu melamme) (see Chapter Seven,
p. 797 and note 127) and offered him massive amounts of tribute.
165. The corpus of the Zion Hymns varies depending on the scholar, as do dating
(from pre-Israelite Jebusite traditions to David to the post exilic period), Sitz im
Leben, and thematic elements. See Miller 2010; Vermeylen 2007; Willis 1997;
Kraus 1988: 89–92; Roberts 1973a (republished in 2002); Wanke 1966; Hayes
1963; Rohland 1956.
166. See Wildberger 1997: 192–197.
167. On Yahweh as divine forester, see Watts 1985: 163–167. On lion imagery used of
Yahweh, see Strawn 2005 and Chapter Seven, pp. 313–317.
168. See the description of “fiery transcendent anthropomorphism” in Chapter Seven,
pp. 346, 375–378.
169. These two motifs will play a prominent role in the famous “plowshares” passages,
as we will see. On the influence of the Zion Hymns on the plowshares passages, see
Willis 1997.
170. Given the prevalent motif that instructs God’s people that they need not fight with
Yahweh as the sole champion, I follow those interpreters (e.g., Dahood 1965: 282;
Craigie 1983: 345) who see harpû as an exhortation to Judeans under siege to relax,
not a command for the enemy’s armies to “desist!” In addition, such an interpre-
tation makes more sense stylistically. It complements the exhortation for God’s
people to “come, behold the works of Yahweh” (lĕkû-ḥăzû mipʿălôt yhwh) in Ps 46:9
(Eng Ps 46:8). Such an admonition is less fitting if addressed to enemy troops.
171. See Wildberger 2002: 156–157 for a lengthy description of the various ways in which
scholars have analyzed bĕšûbâ in Isa 30:15a, resulting in a variety of translations
(e.g., JPS, “by stillness”; NAB, “by waiting”; NRSV/RSV, “in returning”; NEB, “come
back”; NIV, “in repentance”).
172. The noun gaʿărâ and the verb gʿr are used to describe Yahweh’s effective power
against chaos creatures and historical enemies. See Nah 1:4; 2 Sam 22:16; Ps 18:16;
Notes 835
106:9; Isa 66:15; and Job 26:11–13. See too Lewis 2011: 210–212 with bibliography
on the many studies of this root.
173. Due to the Elohistic editor’s revision (which replaced the tetragrammaton with the
generic noun for god), we read yhwh as original here for the MT’s ʾĕlōhîm (so too
Kraus 1988: 472).
Corresponding to the events of 701 BCE, the verb yĕkônĕnehā can be read in
several ways, from a hope-filled volitive (“May Yahweh establish [Jerusalem] for-
ever”—so JPS) to a certain durative (“Yahweh establishes/will establish [Jerusalem]
forever”—so NAB) to a belief that one has already tasted the reality of the future
in the very present (“Yahweh has established [Jerusalem] forever”—so Kraus
1988: 472). Those holding to the conviction that Jerusalem was indeed inviolable
would likely have understood yĕkônĕnehā in the latter two ways.
174. Where the MT reads “sword” (ḥereb) in Ezek 38:21a, the LXX has “terror” (phobon
~ Hebrew ḥărādâ). While the MT is lectio difficilior (especially with the difficult “my
mountains,” hāray, preceding), the LXX seems to be original, with the MT arising
from a graphic error and by attraction to ḥereb in Ezek 38:21b. This is not to say that
Yahweh does not employ a sword, for indeed it is one of his primary weapons (Deut
32:40–42; Isa 27:1; 31:8; 34:5–6; 66:16; Jer 14:12; 25:31; 46:10; Ezek 14:21; 21; cf.
Reed 2018).
175. Scholars have long noted how “Isaiah 63:1–6 exhibits such a great number of lin-
guistic and thematic affinities with 59:15b–20 that there can be no question the two
passages are in some way related” (Matthews 1995: 80). See also Steck 1991: 177–
186; Blenkinsopp 2003: 196–197, 248–249.
176. On the obligation of blood vengeance and the way in which this influenced notions
of Yahweh as avenger, see Lipiński 1999: 1–9. See too Christensen 2009: 219–224.
177. Along with most commentators, we read “marching” (ṣōʿēd) for MT’s “stooping,
cowering” (ṣōʿeh). Cf. Judg 5:4, which describes Yahweh marching to battle from
Edom (bĕṣaʿdĕkā miśśĕdēh ʾĕdôm). On the significance of Edom, see Isa 34. See too
Matthews 1995: 78 and Blenkensopp 2003: 249 for the suggestion that our poet is
reworking earlier traditions of Yahweh marching forth from the area of Edom (cf.
Deut 33:2; Judg 5:4; Hab 3:3; Kuntillet ʿAjrud; see Chapter Six, pp. 279–281).
178. For those comparing our passage to ʿAnatu’s bloodletting in KTU 1.3.2.3–41, see
Hanson 1984: 360; Smith and Pitard 2009: 153. For comparison with blood revenge,
see Holmgren 1974.
179. Mihelič (1948: 199–200), writing in the aftermath of Nazi atrocities during World
War II, remarks: “If the critics of Nahum had lived in the last decade and witnessed
the brutality that had been visited upon the helpless people in the European and
Asiatic concentration camps, they would rather have joined their voices with
Nahum and his joy over the fall of the ‘bloody city,’ than have condemned his right-
eous indignation in the comfort and security of their ivory tower.” For this quote,
I am indebted to Christensen (2009: 219), who was in turn indebted to Spronk.
Such comments can help contextualize the rhetoric of war within the realia of
war. At the same time, they can lead to the caricature of the Assyrian Empire as
“a uniquely efficient and remorseless warmongering and bloodthirsty military
836 Notes
machine, with quasi-Hitlerian connotations: an ‘evil empire’ of antiquity” against

which Assyriologists have justifiably spoken (Fales 2008: 17). Fales (2008: 17) nicely
articulates the many benefits of the Pax Assyriaca, while not ignoring that “it is in-
disputable that the Assyrians made widespread use of their military power for the
purpose of uniting the different cultures of the Near East in a single political struc-
ture.” What has led to an unbalanced view of Assyrian military prowess (including
Nahum’s portrayal) is iconographic and textual narratives of Assyrian treatment of
captives (drawn by their own artisans and scribes, not caricatures drawn by their
detractors), on which see Lewis 2008b.
Rebalancing our understandings of the rhetoric and reality of war narratives
also requires us to address portrayals that would condemn the Assyrians with
the intent of highlighting Judean superiority. As I noted previously (Lewis
2008b: 89), Judeans would not have had to look very far afield for their own
traditions, which included mass killings of enemies (1 Sam 15:7; 2 Sam 8:2–6),
beheadings (1 Sam 17:51; 2 Sam 4:7–8; 2 Kgs 10:7–14), corpse mutilation (1 Sam
18:27), and torture of prisoners of war including hanging (Josh 10:24–26), eye
gouging (1 Sam 10:27 [4QSama]), and dismemberment of hands and feet (2 Sam
4:12; cf. 2 Sam 12:31).
180. Joel 4:9–16 (Eng 3:9–16) represents a reversal of the famous “plowshares” pas-
sage of Isa 2:2–4//Mic 4:1–4. In contrast to Micah’s charge to Daughter Zion to do
the threshing of the many nations (gôyim rabbîm, ʿammîm rabbîm; Mic 4:11–13),
for Joel the speaker’s (presumably Yahweh’s) proclamation to “sanctify for battle”
(qaddĕšû milḥāmâ) goes out to the nations (gôyim) (not Israel) asking them to do
the harvesting of the nations (gôyim). For interpretation of the various speakers
and audiences of Joel 4:9–16 (Eng 3:9–16), see Crenshaw 1995: 186–196 and Wolff
1977: 71–86.
181. Examples could be multiplied, such as Mexican artist Pedro Reyes with his “Palas
por Pistolas” and “Disarm” art projects, the former producing 1,527 shovels from
an equal number of guns to plant an equal number of trees, the latter producing
musical instruments from weapons. For scholars trying to evaluate the plowshares
passage within the realpolitik world of the Neo-Assyrian Empire and juxtaposed
against its understanding in modern international relations vocabulary, see Cohen
and Westbrook 2008.
182. For a synthesis of the “welter of conflicting opinions” on the date and authorship of
this poem, see Williamson 2006: 173–179. For text-critical analysis, see Williamson
2006: 166–171; 2005a: 203–211.
183. I agree with Williamson (2006: 183–184) that the instruction here is broader rather
than narrower (so Wildberger 1991: 91).
184. See Ps 46:7–10 and 76:3–4, 6–7, and, with additional details, Willis 1997: 305–306
and Williamson 2006: 176.
185. One immediately thinks of the judges in the book so named, whose primary activity
was on the battlefield: “Then Yahweh raised up judges [šōpĕṭîm] who saved them
out of the power of those who plundered them” (Judg 2:16). Most telling for our
purposes are several psalms (including some of the Songs of Zion that are clearly
Notes 837
related to our passage [Willis 1997]) where špṭ has this sense (e.g., Ps 9:4–9; 76:4,
6–7, 9; 82:8; 96:8–13; cf. Ps 98:9). Lewis (2008b: 90–93) notes:
If Isaiah has indeed been influenced by the Songs of Zion traditions, then
[these] texts may be significant for interpreting our “swords into plowshares”
passage. Elliptically, Isaiah could very well have meant that nations will melt
down and recast their weapons into agricultural implements because Yahweh
has first rendered them ineffective. Broken spears, swords, and bows are use-
less. Thus those weapons of metal might as well be melted down and reused.
186. The discipline of family religion (also known as household and domestic religion)
has grown considerably over the past generation. In addition to the various articles
in Bodel and Olyan 2008, see Albertz and Schmitt 2012; Yasur-Landau, Ebeling,
and Mazow 2011; Gerstenberger 2002; van der Toorn 1996b; and Albertz 1978.
187. Some of the following material appeared earlier in Lewis 2008a. I am indebted to
Andrew Davis for the Saul Bellow quote.
188. It is not my intention to minimize the importance of securing an heir for the
kingdom at large. Certainly commoners would have been impacted by the stability
or instability of the monarchy.
189. See Smith 2001b: 56–57 on the debate (e.g., by Day and Walls) on whether ʿAnatu
is the spouse of Baʿlu. For a comprehensive look at terms related to the family in
Ugaritic, see Watson (2013).
190. Deities and monarchs alike adopted the familial merism of “father and mother”
in order to promote their parental benevolence. See the following discussion and
Lewis forthcoming a.
191. See Lewis 2013a, 2014a.
192. ʾAthiratu may also suckle King Kirta’s heir (KTU 1.15.2.26–28), yet the reading of
this text is now debatable. In KTU 1.15.2.27, Greenstein (1997: 25, 45 n. 66) reads
ʿAttartu rather than ʾAthiratu. Pardee (1997a: 337) has the latter. Yet upon further
analysis, Pardee (2012a: 184–188) argues that the reading is nrt, “the Luminary”
(i.e., Shapshu), not ʿttrt.
193. While we have no text that explicitly says so, it is possible that non-elites (having
heard the famous story) may have dreamed that they too could be favored with
ʾAthiratu’s assistance in obtaining a spouse. We can conjecture that similar vows
were enacted within family religion. Compare the betrothal of the gods Yarikh and
Nikkal-Ib in KTU 1.24, a text that was then used in human wedding ceremonies to
assure mortals of a divinely blessed union.
194. A balanced summary of the numerous interpretations of this passage can be found
in Wiggins 1993: 44–48.
195. See the conclusion in Wiggins 1993: 71.
196. See Gröndahl 1967: esp. 80 and del Olmo Lete 1999: 338–340. For Ugaritic ono-
mastics in general, see Pardee 1989–1990: 390–513; Hess 1999; and an ongoing se-
ries of articles entitled “Ugaritic Onomastics” by W. G. E. Watson in Aula Orientalis
starting in 1990.
197. One can certainly hope that there was heartfelt belief behind the standardized
words ʿAzzīʾiltu (the son of the famous ʾUrtēnu) used to write to his parents: “May
838 Notes
it be well with you. May the gods guard your well-being, may they keep you well.” In
the same text, he addresses his sister similarly: “May it be well with you. [May] the
gods keep [you] well, may they guard you, may they [keep] you [wh]ole.” This is the
translation by Pardee (2002b: 112).
198. This letter (RS 20.178 = Ugaritica V, #55) is one of the Akkadian texts found in the
private residences of Ugarit’s upper classes. It was written by a high government
official by the name of Rapʾānu to his sister. The translation here (but with my em-
phasis) is that of van der Toorn (1996b: 168), to whom I am indebted for bringing
my attention to this passage.
199. For further on the Kathiratu (or Kotharatu), see Pardee 1999: 491–492.
200. For the many other references to family religion in this text, see Lewis 2008a. In par-
ticular, note the four refrains that articulate the duties of an ideal son (who in this
narrative comes to be named Aqhatu). Special mention is made of the son’s cultic
duty of setting up a stela for Ilu-ibi, a term that refers to either his divine ancestor or
his ancestor’s god.
201. Yet compare passages such as Exod 24:9–11, where Moses, the covenant mediator,
along with priestly representatives and elders, “beheld God and ate and drank”
(Exod 24:11). Sacrifices were often referred to as Yahweh’s “food” (leḥem). On this
material and the much larger (and nuanced) question about divine eating in the
biblical tradition, see Lewis 2006a: 344–346.
202. For a survey of opinions, see Vall 1995. The majority of scholars have no problem
answering the first question (“Has the rain a father?”) in the affirmative, yet “to
speak . . . of ice issuing from his womb is quite another” (Vall 1995: 511). Vall goes
on speak of “the utter incongruity of ice coming forth from a womb” and how
“metaphors of sexual reproduction cannot do justice to God’s creation of the hy-
drous forms.” Yet the mother imagery used of the male Yahweh should allow us
to set aside concerns about such figurative language, as should the ancient Near
Eastern sources I have documented here (see esp. the Sin text discussed later) that
show that a male creator deity’s “womb” can “give birth” to everything.
203. The form used for nurse here (ʾwmn) is masculine, as in Num 11:21, another text
filled with maternal metaphors. To underscore the feminine imagery, Mansoor
(1961: 162) translates kʾwmn “as a nursing-father,” whereas Schuller and Newsom
(2012: 57) translate it “like a foster-father.”
Earlier in our Qumran text, we come across the feminine form (ʾwmnt) in the
context of a wet nurse: “Truly, it is you who from (the time of) my father have
known me, and from the womb [you have sanctified me, and from the belly of] my
mother you have nurtured me, and from the breasts of the one who conceived me
your compassion has been present for me, and in the bosom of my nurse [ʾwmnty]
was your great [kindness]” (1QHodayota, xvii, 29b–31a). The translation here is
that of Schuller and Newsom (2012: 54–55).
Cf. the expression here in line 35 (ʾaby lʾ ydʿny, “my [earthly] father did not ac-
knowledge me”) and line 29b (ky ʾth mʾaby ydʿtny, “for you [God] have known me
since [the time of] my father”) with the Hebrew personal name ʾAbyadaʿ, “[My di-
vine] Father has acknowledged [me].”
Notes 839
204. Schwemer 2019, lines 15–16, 21, 27, 35; Singer 2002: 30–40; Goetze 1969: 396–397.
205. Assmann 2008: 80. Cf. too Wilson’s (1969: 371) translation of Papyrus Chester
Beatty IV: “Do (not) widows say: ‘Our husband art thou,’ and little ones: ‘Our father
and our mother’?”
206. Lieven 2014: 20, 23, 32.
207. Stephens 1969: 385–386.
208. See Parpola 1997, xxxvi–xl, 7 (text 1.6, lines 7′, 15′–18′), 18 (text 2.5, lines 26′–27′);
Nissinen et al. 2003: 105 n. a; 116, line 26′; Nissinen et al. 2019: 115 n. a; 127, line
26′; Machinist 2006: 166–167.
209. Lmy kt ʾb wlmy kt ʾm wlmy kt ʾḥ (KAI 24, lines 10–11).
210. Pʿln bʿl ldnnym lʾab wlʾm (KAI 26 A I, line 3). This is of course the Phoenician
text, on which see Younger 1998; 2000a: 148–149. The Hieroglyphic Luwian
reads: “Tarhunzas made me mother and father to Adanawa.” See Payne 2012: 21–
22, 39 and Yakubovich 2015: 41, 43.
211. Even a list of representative literature on these topics could be unending. A brief
start: Tellenbach 1976; Tasker 2008: 109–127; 2004; Nunnally 1992; Marchel 1963;
Jeremias 1966; Goshen-Gottstein 2001: 470–504; Widdicombe 2000: 519–536;
Daly 1973; Halkes 1981: 103–112; Gerstenberger 1996a: 1–12.
212. So Tasker 2008: 123. These explicit references include Deut 32:6; 2 Sam 7:14; Isa
63:16 (twice); 64:8; Jer 3:4, 19; 31:9; Mal 1:6; 2:10; Ps 68:6 (Eng 68:5]; 89:27 [Eng
89:26]; 103:13; Prov 3:12; 1 Chr 17:13; 22:10; 28:6; 29:10.
213. As to the Abî-first element in compound personal names, Waltke and O’Connor
(1990: 127, §8.2c) have noted how the î may designate the first person singular pro-
noun (“My [divine] Father is X”) or may be a remnant of a case vowel (“The Father is
X”). We follow Bauer and Leander (1922: 524, §65g) in preferring the former, which
we have leveled through our translations; for the most part these follow those given
in HALOT.
214. The divine father names of the Hebrew Bible that are also attested in the Hebrew
epigraphic record include ʾAbibaʿal, ʾAbigayil, ʾAbinoʿam, ʾAbiʿezer, ʾAbishuʿa,
ʾAḥʾab, and Yoʾab. Those that are attested in non-Hebrew epigraphic record include
ʾAbibaʿal (Phoenician), ʾAbinadab (Ammonite), ʾAbiram (Aramaic, Moabite),
and ʾAḥʾab (Aramaic). I am indebted here to the database in Albertz and Schmitt
2012: appendix B.
215. I am again indebted here to the database in Albertz and Schmitt 2012: appendix B.
216. On the Jewish tradition that develops the “Thirteen Attributes of God” from Exod
34:6–7, see Sarna 1991: 216.
217. The notion of Yahweh as a creator god working as a potter with clay is found else-
where in biblical tradition (Gen 2:7; Job 10:9; 33:6), but without the father imagery
we have here (yet cf. Ps 103:13–14).
For the creation of humans out of clay elsewhere in the ancient Near East, cf.
the Egyptian god Khnum at work at his potter’s wheel, the Sumerian myth of Enki
and Ninmaḫ, its Akkadian counterpart in the myth of Atraḫasis, and the Neo-
Babylonian text VAT 17019. For bibliography as well as the way in which such crea-
tion out of clay could include the magical arts, see Lewis 2013a.
840 Notes
218. For the present discussion I have left out the way in which Israel turned aside to Baal
worship, a subject I will address shortly.
219. The MT reads “taking them by his arms [zĕrôʿōtāyw].” If the final waw here origi-
nally was a conjunction used at the beginning of the next line (i.e., a dittography),
then the text would read “in my arms” (zĕrôʿōtāy; cf. LXX), a reading favored by
most translations (e.g., JPS, RSV, NRSV, NEB, NAB) and commentators (e.g., W. R.
Harper, H. W. Wolff, J. L. Mays).
220. The last two lines here are complicated and readers are directed to the various com-
mentaries, where attempts are made to justify a wide range of alternative readings
(e.g., reading ʿûl, “infant,” for MT’s ʿōl, “yoke”). We uncomfortably follow the ma-
jority of analysts who read lô (so LXX) for MT’s lōʾ.
221. On gēr as “client,” see Stager 1988: 229–232.
222. See Havice 1978 and Fensham 1962.
223. Cf. KTU 1.17.5.4–8; Havice 1978: 88–93, 149–156, 169–172, 253–256, 263–270.
Havice (1978: 270) notes that “the concept of the duty to the underprivileged was
so central to the ideal of kingship that it came to epitomize the ideal of rule.” For
additional discussion of Yahweh’s role as an ideal judge providing protection to the
disadvantaged, see Chapter Nine.
224. See Eissfeldt 1966: 39–47.
225. The four refrains articulating the duties of an ideal son (named Aqhatu) to be born
to Danilu are found in (1) KTU 1.17.1.25–34 (in the context of Baʿlu’s intercession
on Danilu’s behalf); (2) KTU 1.17.1.43–48 (when ʾIlu grants his request); (3) KTU
1.17.2.1–8 (when a messenger delivers the birth announcement to Danilu), and fi-
nally (4) KTU 1.17.2.12–23 (when Danilu rejoices in the good fortune bestowed
upon him by the gods). See further Lewis 2008a: 68–70.
226. See Chapter Seven, pp. 358–379.
227. Cf. Exod 21:15, 17; Lev 20:9; Deut 21:18–21; 27:16. Fathers and mothers were also
to be held in esteem for their wise instruction (Prov 1:8–9; 6:20–21; cf. 10:1; 15:20).
228. Given the differing vocabulary between the two passages, Williamson (2006: 34) is
certainly correct that “it is most unlikely that we have a specific reference to the law
of the rebellious son” in Deut 21:18–21.
229. Though the word “love” in Hosea 11:1–4 is familial, it should not be forgotten that
in the ancient Near East the language of “love” is also used of loyalty in treaties (cf.
especially the Amarna correspondence, such as EA 17:24–28; 53:40–44; 83:51;
114:59–69; 121:61–63; 123:23; 138:47). See especially Moran 1963: 77–87 and note
247 in this chapter. As noted by Stuart (1987: 178), the double entendre adds further
texture to the accusation against the rebellious child.
230. Lundbom (2004: 517) notes how Israel’s failure to take Yahweh’s instruction is “a re-
curring theme in Jeremiah’s preaching (2:30; 5:3; 7:28; 17:23; 32:33; 35:13).”
231. See Chapter Four, pp. 110–111.
232. Scholars speculate as to whether the tree here indicates a wooden asherah symbol,
with the stone then representing a male divine symbol, and with the reversal of
sexual imagery (the female as the father and the male as the mother) being con-
sciously sarcastic. See Holladay 1986: 103–104; Lundbom 1999: 284–285.
Notes 841
233. On the Priestly kābôd theology, see Chapter Seven, pp. 368–373.
234. See Darr’s (1994: 46–84) chapter “Child Imagery and the Rhetoric of Rebellion”
in her study on familial language in the book of Isaiah. Darr (1994: 61)
summarizes: “The texts . . . depict unrepentant Israel as the very personification of
the odious son of Deut 21:18–21.”
235. For modern objections to and defenses of Yahweh’s parenting style, see the repre-
sentative works Lasine 2002 and Copan 2006, respectively.
236. Granted, the context of Isa 45:9–12 is Yahweh speaking against those who were
questioning the commissioning of the Persian king Cyrus as his anointed, not
questioning his parenting of a wayward child. Yet obviously the rhetoric that here
is being applied by extension to the political sphere had its origin in the context of
family dynamics.
237. Literally, something that is but a (clay) sherd among (other) earthen sherds (ḥereś
ʾet-ḥarĕśê ʾădāmâ).
238. The clay here stands for humans, themselves made out of clay (on which see note
217). The pottery imagery here suggests a clay figurine coming to life to speak out
against its potter. Cf. the animated clay figure of Shatiqatu at Ugarit (who strives
helpfully alongside ʾIlu, not against the deity, as we have here in our text; cf. Lewis
2013a, 2014b). That most clay figurines regularly had arms and hands while others
were stylized without arms (cf. the Judean pillar figurines, on which see Kletter
1996; Darby 2014) makes the criticism in 45:9 “your work has no hands [yādayim]”
very understandable. There is no need to translated yādayim as the “handles” on a
pot (so NRSV).
239. The Hebrew of Isa 45:11a has the imperative form šĕʾālûnî, “Ask me!” Perhaps the
original intention was one of Yahweh sarcastically challenging his detractors: “Ask
me . . . Command me (why don’t you?) . . .” I owe this insight to Andrew Davis (per-
sonal communication).
240. According to Day (1995: 283–284), in addition to “daughter” (bat) terminology,
cities in the Hebrew Bible are portrayed with the following female images: bĕtûlâ,
“adolescent”; ʾēm, “mother”; ʾalmānâ, “widow”; rabbātî, “mistress/powerful
woman”; zônâ, “adulterous/promiscuous woman”; śārātî, “ruler”; and šĕbiyyâ, “cap-
tive.” Cities also are personified as wife and ex-wife (e.g., Ezek 16:8; 23:37; Isa 50:1).
On the use of female imagery and the negative portrayal of women (especially the
“harlotry” imagery), see Ackerman 1998b (on Isaiah), O’Connor 1998 (on Jeremiah
and Lamentations), and Sanderson 1998 (on Micah) in Newsom and Ringe 1998.
241. Lyke (2009: 988) comments: “The use of the term ‘daughter Zion’ likely has some
connection with the historical realities of ancient warfare, when women were most
vulnerable to rape and defilement.” See Liebermann’s (2019: 331) contextualizing of
the literary portrayal of the treatment of women with what is known from refugee
studies.
On the mourning of Daughter Zion and the city lament genre, see Dobbs-
Allsopp 1993: 75–90 and McCarter 1999: 941.
242. As Fensham (1971) and Propp (1999: 217) have noted, this is not to deny the way in
which Yahweh delivered Israel as his “vassal son” (cf. 2 Kgs 16:7).
842 Notes
243. These terra-cotta feet come from Late Bronze Age Temple M1. A sales contract
reveals that the purchaser of these slave children was none other than an elite reli-
gious officiant, a chief diviner and scribe by the name of Baʿal-malik. See Zaccagnini
1994; Durand 1990: 74–75.
244. See note 242.
245. See in particular Baltzer’s (2001: 155–160; 1987) comments on our passage and on
debt slavery in Second Isaiah with his emphasis on the “sociomorpheme” of Yahweh
as master with property rights over Israel the servant. Additional bibliography on
the use of √gʾl in Deutero-Isaiah can be found in Baltzer 2001: 158 n. 88.
246. On Yahweh as holy within Isaianic traditions, see Chapter Ten, pp. 599–603.
247. Observe that here is the only place in the Hebrew Bible where God says so forth-
rightly (in the first person singular address) “I love you” (ʾăhabtîkā).
On “love” terminology, see note 229 (esp. the work of Moran) as well as Baltzer
2001: 160, which notes how the word “love” can designate a “bond of loyalty” within
treaties while “at the same time it undoubtedly expresses God’s whole personal
bond with his people, which rests on his free election.”
248. Jer 31:7–9 also turns to father imagery to describe Yahweh gathering home
“Ephraim his firstborn” from “the farthest parts of the earth.” For more on this pas-
sage (especially with its emphasis on the blind, the lame, the pregnant, and those in
labor), see Lundbom 2004: 419–426.
249. As should be clear with my choice of vocabulary, I am indebted here to the work of
Trible (1978: 15–23; quotations from page 22). On Gen 1:27 in the context of the
Priestly account’s emphasis on the blessing of fertility, see Bird 1997a: 123–154.
250. See Chapter Four, pp. 91–92, 110–111. That we have figurative language in Deut
32:6, 18 is clear both with the notion of a deity and a “rock” (ṣûr) giving birth to a
physical human being.
251. The verb of creation here (yṣr) once again uses pottery imagery. See Lundbom
1999: 231 for a collection of individuals called at birth (e.g., Pharaoh Piankhi,
Aššurbanipal, Moses, Samuel, John the Baptist). Lundbom notes how Jeremiah’s
pre-birth call “goes well beyond this”; he stands alone with such “an advance ap-
pointment,” to be echoed only by the call of Paul (Gal 1:15).
252. Fuchs (1985: 136) critically points out the male-dominated ideological nature of
these narratives, whose “patriarchal framework . . . prevents the mother-figure
from becoming a full-fledged human role model, while its androcentric perspec-
tive confines her to a limited literary role, largely subordinated to the biblical male
protagonists.”
253. On the association of weaving with goddesses, see Ackerman 2008b, which
highlights the goddess Asherah (cf. 2 Kgs 23:7). For further analysis of the role of
women in textile production, cultic and otherwise, see Meyers 2003: 432–434 and
Ackerman 2008b: 144, as well as the Conclusion, pp. 681–683, 690–691, 695.
254. The meaning of the word gōḥî (G Ptc of √gyḥ with 1 common singular suffix) is
straightforward yet difficult to render in English. The poet is certainly being cre-
ative in choosing a root (gyḥ) that could conjure a play between the noun gāḥôn,
“belly” (Gen 3:14; Lev 11:42), and beṭen (twice in Ps 22:10–11 [Eng 22:9–10]). Gyḥ
Notes 843
is used figuratively in Job 38:8–9 of the sea as a baby “bursting forth” from its womb
(bĕgîḥô mēreḥem) and then being swaddled by God. Cornell (2012: 9) writes of
“God exercising an unmistakable maternal role towards the Sea.”
Though gōḥî in our passage is hard to translate, it seems to refer to God acting as
midwife to deliver the baby at birth (God as “burster”?), especially in light of lines
in the psalm that have God place the infant on his mother’s breasts. Cf. Isa 66:19; Ps
71:6. Cf. too the following treatment of Yahweh acting in the place of mother and
father (e.g., Ps 27:9ff.).
255. Cf. 1QHodayota, xvii, 35–36, and note 203 in this chapter.
256. 1QIsaa’s yôdîaʿ (“he makes known”) for MT’s more poetic yārîaʿ (“he arouses,
excites”) represents an r/d graphic confusion.
257. On the difficulties of this verse, see Darr 1987: 568–570; Blenkinsopp 2002: 214 n. h;
and Bergmann 2010: 51–53.
258. Darr (1987: 564, 567) writes that both similes serve “to underscore Yahweh’s power,”
as they “share both profound intensity and a markedly auditory quality.” In contrast to
L. L. Bronner and P. Trible, Darr (1987: 567–571) argues that “the poem emphasizes
that which blasts forth from the throat of God, and not a new creation to which
Yahweh will give birth in pain. . . . The ‘natal verbs’ which appear in Ps 90:2 and fre-
quently within Isaiah are not employed in 42:16 to describe Yahweh’s redemptive acts.”
259. Cf. Trible 1978: 38–50, 64–67 and Chapter Six, note 175, which references the use of
ʾilāh raḥmān in the Tell Fakheriyeh inscription, line 5.
Chapman (2016: 114) is a moderating voice who agrees with Gruber that “in the
vast majority of occurrences, [the] noun [reḥem] is used without any apparent aware-
ness of its semantic connection to a mother’s womb” while affirming that “Trible is
correct, however, to highlight select cases where poets and narrators seem to acti-
vate and consciously play with the womb-sourced aspect of the term.” See Chapman’s
(2016: 113–116) fuller discussion of reḥem as contextualized with texts from Ugarit.
260. The translation here follows the consensus among scholars and reflects the final un-
derstanding of the MT. Yet compare Chapter Ten, pp. 593–595, for an alternative
(earlier?) understanding with exactly the opposite meaning.
261. See for example, Albertz 1978; van der Toorn 1996b; Bodel and Olyan 2008; Yasur-
Landau, Ebeling, and Mazow 2011; and Albertz and Schmitt 2012.
262. The personal names given here are representative. For a comprehensive analysis, see
Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 245–386 and app. B1–B6, esp. tab. 5.1–5.16.
263. ʾAḥiʾem (the maternal equivalent of the better- attested ʾAḥʾab, “the [divine]
brother is like a father [to me]”) is attested on four seal impressions at Lachish. See
Barkay and Vaughn 1996a: 38–41; figs. 11–13; 1996b: 71; §61–64. See too Renz
and Röllig 2003: 395; §21.50 as well as Avigad and Sass 1997: 261 §706, who read
ʾḥʾmr, “ʾAḥiʾamar” (my emphasis). For discussions of alternative ways of analyzing
ʾAḥiʾem (and the biblical ʾAḥiʾam attested in 2 Sam 23:33 and 1 Chr 11:35), see
Barkay and Vaughn 1996a: 41 and Albertz and Schmitt 2012: 353.
See too the PN ʿlʾm from a late eighth-/early seventh-century BCE scaraboid-
shaped seal bearing a winged sun disk from Tel Rehov (Mazar and Ahituv 2011:
276–279).
844 Notes
Chapter 9
1. The list here is the product of taking the first such list that came up on a Google
search (produced on August 11, 2010), http://listverse.com/2010/08/11/
top–10-greatest-monarchs.
2. See Baines 1998 and Frandsen 2008 for fuller interactions with those who argue
against a straightforward divinity of the Egyptian king (e.g., Hornung, Posener).
3. Sumerian King List, lines 1, 41. For the composite text, see http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.
uk/section2/c211.htm. For translation, see http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/section2/
tr211.htm. See too the mention of kingship descending from heaven in the Flood
Story, also known as the Eridu Genesis. For the composite text, see the Flood Story,
segment B, lines 6ff. in http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/section1/c174.htm. For transla-
tion, see the Flood Story, segment B, lines 6ff. in http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/
etcsl.cgi?text=t.1.7.4# as well as Jacobsen 1997: 514.
4. For specifics of these ritual activities of the king, see Hoffner 2006: 136–144. See too
Beckman 1995: 533, noting that “while the king might have been the center of atten-
tion in the ceremonies in which he participated, his role was largely passive while
the recitations and more elaborate ritual actions were carried out by professional
priests.”
5. On the so-called festival of haste and the festival of the AN.DAḪ.ŠUM plant, see
Gilan 2011: 282–283 with bibliography.
6. Our selective use of Ugarit is pragmatic and implies no slight to kingship elsewhere
in ancient Syria. For the religious roles of Aramean kings, see Niehr 2014a: 127–203.
Note the limited role of the king in ritual at Emar. See Fleming 1992b; Adamthwaite
2001: 188–189; Klingbeil 2007: 223; and Thames 2016. Phoenician royal cult is also
left out in this sketch, but it is treated in the Conclusion, pp. 684–687.
7. For a convenient translation of the various Ugaritic ritual texts described here (i.e.,
KTU 1.40; 1.41; 1.43; 1.87; 1.119; 1.112), see Pardee 2002a. For a comprehensive tech-
nical analysis (including philological and epigraphic remarks), see Pardee 2000 with
bibliography.
8. On sacral vestments (bigdê-qōdeš) and priestly washing, see Milgrom 1991: 1016–
1018, 1046–1049.
9. Cf. similar descriptions of the legendary King Kirta washing himself, offering
libations, and then sacrificing on a roof in KTU 1.14.2.9–27; 1.14.3.52–1.14.4.9. We
have additional, although brief, evidence that the queen also engaged in sacrifice
(KTU 4.149.14–15; cf. KTU 1.170.1).
10. The first text attesting to this ritual (KTU 1.40) was discovered in the 1929 campaign.
At present the ritual is documented in six copies (two well-preserved texts, KTU 1.40
and 1.84, and four fragments, KTU 1.121, 1.122, 1.153, and 1.154). The texts come
from a variety of find spots including the royal palace (KTU 1.84), the house of the
High Priest on the acropolis (KTU 1.40), and the House of the Magician Priest, south
acropolis (KTU 1.121, 1.122, 1.152, 1.154). This observation, together with differing
scribal hands, allows Pardee (2002a: 78) to conclude that “the texts were not the
product of a single school.”
Notes 845
11. Curiously, David’s sons are called kōhănîm in 2 Sam 8:18, a tradition that is not re-
flected in the version in 1 Chr 18:17 that reads hāriʾšōnîm lĕyad hammelek, “the first
[sons of David] at the king’s side.” For the complicated textual and interpretive issues,
see Knoppers 2004: 706, 708–710.
Cf. the use of khn for Phoenician kings Eshmunazor I and Tabnit, who served
as “priests of ʿAštart” (khn ʿštrt), as documented in the Tabnit inscription (KAI 13,
lines 1–2). Cf. too the use of khn in the Batnoam inscription (KAI 11) to describe
“King Azbaal, son of Paltibaal, the priest of the lady [khn bʿlt].” Queen co-regent
ʾUmmîʿaštart, the sister and wife of Tabnit, is described as “priestess of ʿAštart” (khnt
ʿštrt). See the Conclusion, pp. 685–687.
12. As for sacrificing, according to Lev 17 and Exod 20:21 (Eng 20:24), any person can
make ʿōlôt and šĕlāmîm offerings (specifically mentioning sheep, goat, and oxen), yet
blood manipulation is highlighted as being the special prerogative of priests.
13. The brief sketch of royal cult provided here is, for the most part, gathered from
material that has come down to us through the mediation of the Deuteronomistic
Historian. DtrH is used here because it provides a pragmatic model for concep-
tualizing the role of the king in the cult that resonates with the broader Near East.
Contrasting DtrH’s views with those of Deuteronomy is illuminating, as the former
is at odds with the latter’s utopian vision that limits the monarch’s power and in-
fluence over the cult. Knoppers (1993, 1996, 2001), McConville (1998), Levinson
(2001), Dutcher-Walls (2002), and Garfein (2004), among others, have written in-
sightfully on these competing ideologies of kingship. As Knoppers notes (2001: 394,
398), “Many of the very trappings that elevate the king above his compatriots in
Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Canaanite societies are proscribed in Deuteronomy. . . . In
the Sumerian King List, the monarchy is ‘lowered from heaven,’ but in Deuteronomy
the advent of the monarchy is neither necessary nor inevitable.” With regard to cult,
Levinson (2001: 523, 533–534) summarizes:
Just as Deuteronomy’s Law of the King (Deut. xvii 14–20) denies the king any
role in justice, so does it deny him a role in the cultus. . . . There is no provision
for the monarch actively to participate in the cultus, still less to supervise it or
serve as royal patron of the Temple. The converse is also true. Deuteronomy’s
cultic laws envision no role whatsoever for the monarch. . . . Deuteronomy’s
blueprint was more utopian than pragmatic . . . there is no evidence for the im-
plementation of the judicial-political-religious charters of Deut xvi 18–xviii 22.
So radical was it in its own time that, shortly after its promulgation, it was effec-
tively abrogated, as the Deuteronomistic Historian, while purporting to imple-
ment the norms of Deuteronomy, restored to the king precisely those powers
denied him by Deuteronomy.
14. Note in 1 Sam 13:11–14 how the DtrH tradition censures Saul for this activity but no
censure is mentioned when David and Solomon engage in the same acts. Saul’s pre-
cise offense is not stated and has led to various theories. See Tsumura 2007: 347–348.
15. See Chapter Ten, pp. 624–629, and Mettinger 1976: 185–232.
16. On the religious-political nature of this dancing, see Seow 1989. Though the vocabu-
lary is different, cf. too the ritualized dancing of the prophets of Baal in 1 Kgs 18:26.
846 Notes
17. On the priestly use of the ephod containing the Urim and Thummim as well as King
David using Abiathar the priest for his divinatory consultation, see Chapter Ten,
p. 621 and note 131.
18. When David burned the wood of the threshing sledges for fuel for his sacrifice, he
symbolically depicted the end of the agrarian activity on the site in service of its new
cultic function. Yet afterward the space remained open and accessible to all, and the
pragmatic need for a place to thresh grain could potentially override such symbolism.
Yet with Solomon and the building of the huge Temple edifice, the original agrarian
purpose of the threshing floor was obliterated, and with it open access to the non-
elite. When one adds in the priestly control of this sacred space (with gradations of
holiness restricting innermost access to priests alone), a remarkable transformation
has occurred. The degree to which royal cult and priestly cult worked together and/or
at odds with each other remains to be clarified. Yet what is clear is how the royal cult
of King Solomon redefined the practice of religion and with it the nature of Yahweh,
who was now enthroned.
Note how 2 Chr 3:1 makes the connection to Mt. Moriah of Gen 22:2 fame. (These are
the only two places to mention Mt. Moriah in the entire Hebrew Bible.) By thus linking
the erection of the Temple to the place of Abraham’s animal sacrifice, Chr provides a
rational for introducing priestly animal sacrifice at a locale that was originally a place
solely for threshing grain. For additional explorations on the topic, see Waters 2015.
19. For the various interpretations of David’s offense (cultic, ethical, bloodshed), see
Knoppers 2004: 772–775.
20. It is hereby acknowledged that using DtrH as source material is notoriously diffi-
cult, especially with its theological privileging of the centralization of worship in
Jerusalem. Thus Solomon’s sacrificing at the Gibeonite high place is prefaced by
the disparaging remark that though Solomon loved Yahweh and followed Davidic
statutes, he nonetheless engaged in cultic activity at high places (1 Kgs 3:3–4). This
pejorative remark, however, is couched in an apologetic context that notes that (ob-
viously) people were engaging in such activity at that time because the Temple had
yet to be built (1 Kgs 3:2). Nonetheless, it is surprising to then read DtrH’s comments
about Gibeon being (1) “the great high place,” (2) a place where Solomon’s cultic ac-
tivity was extensive (i.e., 1,000 ʿōlôt offerings), and (3) the sacred space subsequently
chosen by Yahweh to reveal his blessing to Solomon via a dream revelation. However
these semi-positive “Gibeon high place” traditions came to be here, DtrH does suffi-
cient damage control by immediately having Solomon travel to chosen Jerusalem to
enact his first post-dream revelation sacrifice, and he does so before the legitimate
cult object of Yahweh’s Ark (1 Kgs 3:15).
21. This narrative legitimizing Solomon’s reign contains “incomparability” language (1
Kgs 3:12–13) with respect to his wisdom, riches, and kābôd, yet not with respect to
cult—certainly because of his cultic activities denounced by DtrH in 1 Kgs 11. DtrH’s
language of “incomparability” in cult is reserved for the Yahwistic religious reforms
of kings Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:5) and Josiah (2 Kgs 23:25). See further Knoppers 1992a.
22. Granted, Hiram of Tyre, a master builder, is also highlighted as one who executed
Solomon’s work and is responsible for the various furnishings of the temple (1 Kgs
Notes 847
7:13–47; 2 Chr 2:13–16; 4:11–18). He is not to be confused with Hiram, King of Tyre
(ca. 969–930 BCE), who also helps David and Solomon with securing materials and
workmen for various building projects including the Temple.
23. The specific vocabulary of an “exalted” (zĕbul) house built on Canaanite models with
Phoenician assistance may not have been lost on those who had heard traditions
about the Canaanite god known at Ugarit as zabūlu Baʿlu.
24. For ancient Mesopotamian parallels, see Hurowitz 1992.
25. On the division of labor with respect to the handling the Ark by Aaronid priests and
Kohathite Levites (cf. Num 4; 1 Kgs 8), see Chapter Ten, pp. 596–597, 642.
26. See Gray (1970: 253–254); Cogan (2001: 304–305); and Fritz (2003: 114).
27. In contrast to the minimal treatment in DtrH, see especially the significant amount
of coverage that the Chronicler assigns to Hezekiah as he portrays the monarch’s
cleansing and rededication of the temple, his involvement with the Passover festival,
and his significant dealings with priests and Levites (2 Chr 29–31). As Williamson
(1982: 350–351) observes, “The Chronicler has gone out of his way to present
Hezekiah as a second Solomon.” For further analysis of the so-called reforming kings,
see Lowery 1991.
28. Sadly, DtrH has left us with little data (mostly of a pejorative nature) on queens and
queen mothers as cultic officiants. See Ackerman 1998a: 138–162 for a treatment
of what evidence we do have with regard to the religious roles of Maʿacah, Jezebel,
Athaliah, and Michal.
This sparse treatment stands in contrast to what we know of their counterparts
elsewhere, such as in Hittite religion (on which see Ackerman 1998a: 138–139). Cf.
too Ugarit, where we know more about the substantive and extensive economic power
of queens and queen mothers and their political and diplomatic overtures than about
their roles as cultic agents (cf. Thomas 2014). Yet KTU 4.149 (found in the eastern
archive of the royal palace) mentions “the sacrifice of the queen/queen mother in the
sown land” (dbḥ mlkt bmdrʿ). KTU 1.23 invokes the gracious gods to bring blessing
(šlm) to the reigning king and queen mother/queen (see Lewis forthcoming a). For
the Sidonian queen co-regent ʾUmmîʿaštart, who served as the priestess of ʿAštart
(khnt ʿštrt), see the Conclusion, pp. 685–687.
29. See Chapter Ten, pp. 656–657, for DtrH’s negative portrayal of Jeroboam’s illicit
priestly installation (1 Kgs 13:33–34).
30. The remark about Jeroboam I “standing by the altar [at Bethel] to offer incense” is
a part of the famous “man of God” episode (prophesying the coming of Josiah) in 1
Kgs 13:1–10. This dramatic episode goes on to narrate the destruction of the altar and
the “withering” (and subsequent healing) of Jeroboam’s hand that he stretched out to
seize the prophet.
See Chapter Ten, pp. 661–663, for King Uzziah’s cultic violation of offering in-
cense in 2 Chr 26:16–20 that resulted in his lifelong affliction of ṣāraʿat, a skin disease.
Curiously, Chr makes no mention of Jeroboam’s offering of incense.
31. For DtrH’s stereotypical vocabulary elsewhere, see 1 Kgs 3:3; 14:22–24; 15:14; 22:43;
2 Kgs 12:3; 15:4; 15:35. For a discussion of the meaning of “to pass through fire” and
the nature of Ahaz’s sacrifice, see Dewrell 2017: 129–145.
848 Notes
32. Two verses in our narrative (2 Kgs 16:13, 15) explicitly refer to offerings that are
for the royal cult, in contrast to those for the people at large. The first verse marks
this with four references to “his [i.e., the king’s] offerings” (ʿōlātô, minḥātô, niskô,
haššĕlāmîm ʾăšer-lô), while the second verse (describing the activities of Uriah,
the priest) contrasts ʿôlâ and minḥâ offerings on behalf of the king (ʿōlat hammelek
wĕʾet-minḥātô) with those on behalf of the people (ʿōlat kol-ʿam hāʾāreṣ ûminḥātām
wĕniskêhem).
33. What is additionally remarkable is the origin of this tradition and how it found its
way into DtrH. As noted by Lowery (1991: 124), “The temple narrative appears
to have a pre-exilic, non-deuteronomic origin. . . . If this narrative is from temple
archives, then the people writing official temple archives during Ahaz’s reign were
not deuteronomists.” Lowery also notes the lack of a priestly critique against Ahaz’s
actions and concludes that this is “unsurprising [and] exactly what should be ex-
pected from official archival material.”
34. On King Uzziah’s cultic overreach, see Chapter Ten, pp. 661–663.
35. See note 13.
36. The eating of the priestly “Bread of Presence” (leḥem happānîm; 1 Sam 21:5, 7 [Eng
21:4, 6]) by David and his men is less clear, though it is likely the exception that proves
the rule. See Chapter Ten, pp. 654–655.
37. See note 11.
38. Ritual theorists (e.g., Clifford Gertz, Catherine Bell, Jonathan Z. Smith, Bruce
Lincoln, David Kertzer) have articulated the many ways in which political
rituals, theologies, and mythologies construct and reinforce the power of king
and state.
39. Von Lieven (2010) provides a good introduction to the topic. See too her earlier study
(2004). Older studies that help nuance the degree to which kings were deified include
Posener 1960; Hornung 1967: 123–156; Habachi 1969; Wildung 1973: 549–565;
Barta 1975; Bickel 2002: 63–90; and Bonhême 2001: 401–406. I am indebted to Karen
(Maggie) Bryson for her assistance in understanding such a nuanced topic.
40. Scholars have paid less attention to Iron Age Northwest Semitic (e.g., Aramaic,
Phoenician) royal inscriptions in this regard because they lack the same quality of
illustrious vocabulary. Nonetheless, this epigraphic material clearly shows that kings
viewed the gods as placing them on their thrones, standing beside them to protect
their reign, granting them favor with their people, and going before them espe-
cially in battle contexts. Such notions of divine election and presence were common
throughout royal inscriptions from the ancient Near East, and especially in royal
apologies (cf. Knapp 2015).
At the same time, during periods of Neo-Assyrian domination, these kings were
astute enough to provide deference to their eastern overlords, such as when Bar-
Rakib proclaims that there were two lords responsible for his rule: “My lord Rakib-el
and my lord Tiglath-Pileser caused me to reign on the throne of my father” (hwšbny
mrʾy rkbʾl wmrʾy tgltplysr ʿl krsʾ ʾby; KAI 216.5–7). Hamilton (1998: 229) suggests that
this phrase is more than a mere “admission of hard political reality.” “It may have been
also a kind of religious statement about the empire . . . Tiglath-Pileser [III] is not a
Notes 849
god, but he is clearly much more than a man, and one can speak of him and a god in
the same breath.” I owe this quote to Greg Church.
41. See too the overview on the topic in Jones 2005.
42. This insight was noted by Day (1998: 82), to whom I am indebted.
43. Scholars have long fleshed out and debated the legal adoption language used in
these passages as well as the divine coronation language that has informed such
expressions. Similar material has been found in Ugaritic, Mesopotamian, and
Egyptian sources. For a sampling, see Paul 1979–1980; Parker 1988; Roberts 1997
(reprinted in Roberts 2002); Levinson 2001: 511–514. On the reception history of 2
Sam 7:11–17, see Schniedewind 1999.
44. Cf. Ps 82:7–8 and Deut 32:6b–9 as well as the discussion of theʿelyôn status of Yahweh
in Chapter Four, pp. 90–95.
45. Delitzsch (1986: 299) comments: “Joy in connection with (ʾēt) the countenance of
God, is joy in delightful and most intimate fellowship with Him.”
46. See Mowinckel 1956: 62–69.
47. It is important to underscore that we are here speaking of the ideological nature of
Judean kingship and its idyllic portrayals. Dissenting voices about the ills of Judean
kingship (not to mention Israelite kingship) and the abuse of royal power abound, so
even a sampling provides the necessary corrective (e.g., Deut 17:14–20; 1 Sam 8–12; 2
Sam 11:27b–12:14; 2 Sam 15:2–6; 2 Sam 24; 1 Kgs 11:1–11; 2 Kgs 21:1–16; Isa 1:23; Jer
22:17; 36:30–31; Hos 8:4; Amos 7:11; Mic 3:1–4, 9–12; Ezek 34:1–10).
48. Again, this material emphasizing royal cult with illustrious language should be
placed in contrast to the radical, utopian view of Deuteronomy (esp. its Law of the
King in Deut 17:14–20) that restricted the king’s role in the cult. The Deuteronomic
view (in contrast to DtrH’s view) has the king sitting on “the throne of his kingdom”
and focusing solely on the Deuteronomic Torah so “that his heart may not be lifted
up above his brethren” (Deut 17:18–20). See especially the work of Levinson (see note
13) who notes how Deuteronomy denies granting the Davidic monarch the status
of divine scion in favor of nationalizing royal ideology. Levinson (2001: 530–531)
writes: “Yahweh . . . formally adopts Israel. The Deuteronomic election formula
nationalizes the older royal adoption formula so as to establish a contractual rela-
tionship between deity and people.” As for the illustrious Davidic language of Ps
89:28 (Eng 89:27), Levinson opines: “While rejecting this mythologization of the
monarch, the authors of Deuteronomy appropriate that resonant language in prom-
ising national hegemony as the blessing of covenantal obedience (Deut 28:1b)” (my
emphasis).
49. Lundbom (2004: 407–408) notes the avoidance of using the term melek (cf. Ezekiel’s
preference for nāśîʾ rather than melek) and the use of miqqirbô to note that the ruler
should be a native Judahite and not a foreigner (cf. Deut 17:15).
As for the distinctive use of hiqrabtîw, cf. Num 16:5, 10, where the same verb is
used of Yahweh bringing priests near to him (on which see Chapter Ten, pp. 639–
643), and 2 Kgs 16:12, where Ahaz draws near to the altar to perform cult.
For the date and setting of Jer 30:21, Lundbom (2004: 404) thinks that “it is best
to take the oracle as Jeremianic preaching to a Judahite audience just after the fall of
850 Notes
Jerusalem,” to which is appended a covenant formula (30:22) “to address an enlarged

audience of Israelite and Judahite exiles (30:4).” See too Holladay 1989: 155ff, esp. 179,
for the cultic connotations.
50. For tĕrûʿat melek in Num 23:21 referring to the battle cry of the divine king, see
Levine 2000a: 184. In Psalm 68:25, we are reconstructing yhwh for MT’s ʾĕlōhîm due
to the editing of the Elohistic Psalter (on which see p. 724 note 65, p. 784 note 229).
51. Cf. too the use of the phrase in 1 Tim 6:15 where we find the fullest expression: God
is “the blessed and only sovereign, the King of kings and Lord of lords, who alone has
immortality and who dwells in unapproachable light, whom no human has ever seen
or can see.” Cf. too 1 Enoch 9:4.
For historical examples closer to the time of the Hebrew Bible, Lundbom
(2013: 392) draws attention to similar “king of kings” type phrases (šar šarrāni, bēl
bēle, šar bēlē, bēl šarrāni) among Near Eastern kings, especially seventh-century BCE
Neo-Assyrian kings such as Esarhaddon and Aššurbanipal. Lundbom also notes how
the Hebrew Bible uses the phrase “king of kings” for foreign kings (Ezek 26:7; Ezra
7:12; Dan 2:37). It is telling that the phrase is never used of even the most illustrious
Judean kings, including the three (Solomon, Hezekiah, Josiah) who are described as
“incomparable.” See note 21 and Knoppers 1992a.
52. As convincingly argued by Williamson (2007: 123–126), the details of the passage de-
scribe the Jerusalem Temple and not a heavenly palace.
53. In addition to Canaanite analogues, Greenfield (1985: 196) notes the language of
large size used in Mesopotamian descriptions of Marduk (Enuma Elish i 92–93;
99–100; iv 1; vi 61–66). On the large cherubim, see Chapter Seven, pp. 398–400.
Smith (1988: 425) notes how Ugaritic texts also use superhuman size to depict gods
traveling.
54. On the large divine footprints at Ayn Dara, see Chapter Seven, pp. 340–343.
55. See note 180 on the language of the divine council.
56. Cf. Mic 4:7; Ps 84:4; Ps 146:10; Ps 149:2; Zech 9:9. As for the use of melek rāb in Ps
48, we prefer the analysis of Barré (1988: 559), which situates the epithet of Yahweh
as “great king” in the context of ancient Near Eastern suzerains (esp. in Hatti,
Mesopotamia, and Egypt; cf. Akk šarru rabû) over against Treves (1988: 46–47), who
references Antiochus VII in 138 BCE.
57. Broadly speaking, in the ancient Near East, the city gate can be the site of a wide range
of legal proceedings (May 2014: 95–104; J. W. Wright 2002; Wilson 1983: 234, 239;
Köhler 1956: 149–175), including, in biblical tradition, royal litigation (2 Sam 15:2–4;
Jer 26:10–11; cf. Jer 38:7). For the role of elders adjudicating at city gates, cf. Ruth 4:1–
12 and Josh 20:1–6. For judges and šōṭĕrîm officials adjudicating at gates, see Deut
16:18. For a strong prophetic critique regarding injustice at the city gate, see Amos
5:10–12 and the discussion of it later.
58. See further Hurowitz 2005: 497–532. Hammurabi is singled out here as but one ex-
ample of idealized royal justice under divine aegis. For a wider appreciation, see Paul
1970: 3–26; Havice 1978; Whitelam 1979: 17–37; and Boecker 1980: 53–65.
59. On the original scribal-academic context of law codes and the way in which they
were used for royal propaganda, see note 161.
Notes 851
60. The translations here are those of Nissinen, Seow, and Ritner (2003: 19–20, 22) and
Nissinen et al. (2019: 20, 22), to whom I am indebted.
61. The translations of all the Hittite texts here are those of Miller (2013: 228–231), to
whom I am indebted.
62. Miller (2013: 385 n. 440) notes how McMahon (1997: 224b) translates “widow,” yet
argues that the word here (wannummiya) “can refer to a woman without children or
simply to an orphan.”
63. The translation here is that of Faulkner (1955).
64. Davies 1943: 80–82. Davies notes that the translation here is that of Alan H. Gardiner.
For a more recent treatment along with a fuller discussion of the judicial duties of the
vizier, see James 1984: 51–99.
65. See note 10. Among the many treatments of the text, see Pardee 2002a: 77–83;
2000: 92–142, 446–456, 686–690, 807–810; Shedletsky and Levine 1999.
66. Reading Yahweh for MT’s ʾĕlōhîm due to this psalm being a part of the Elohistic
Psalter (Pss 42–83), on which see p. 724 note 65, p. 784 note 229.
67. For an insightful examination of ideal kingship vis-à-vis actual kingship in an-
cient Israel, see Whitelam 1979. Our brief sketch of David, Solomon, Josiah,
and Jehoshaphat is no substitute for the many insightful works on the ideology
of the king as judicial authority. Among the plethora of studies, note the fol-
lowing: de Vaux 1961: 150–152; Macholz 1972: 157–182; Whitelam 1979: 39–69;
Boecker 1980: 40–49; Brettler 1989: 109–113; Knoppers 1993–1994; Levinson
2001: 518–519.
68. On the nature of the woman’s claim against her ancestral estate, see Lewis 1991. In 1
Sam 18 another root (śkl), known elsewhere for its association with wisdom (cf. Fox
2000: 59–60), is used four times to underscore David’s military “success.” See Forti
and Glatt-Gilad 2015 and the later discussion in this chapter.
69. Note the contrast between the Deuteronomic viewpoint here and that of the
Deuteronomist who, as Knoppers (1993: 86–87 n. 59, 125; 1996: 336–337) stresses,
“does not contain any negative editorialization upon Solomon” in this regard. “The
Deuteronomist hails, rather than berates, Solomon for such might and opulence”
(1993: 125), for he sees “Solomon’s opulence, power, and international trade . . . as
signs of divine favor” (1996: 337). For additional references, see note 13.
70. Note, as Japhet (1993: 526–528) underscores, how the reformulation in 2 Chr 1
introduces the Tent of Meeting at Gibeon in place of “the great high place” (cf. 1 Kgs
3:4; 2 Chr 1:3).
71. On the genre and social function of 1 Kgs 3:16–28, see Lasine 1989: 61–86, esp. 72ff.
72. Though originally written in 1878, the pagination here is from the 1957 Meridian
edition.
Scholarly opinion flows from Albright’s (1950a: 61) claim that “nearly all crit-
ical historians of Israel since the time of Wellhausen” dismiss the historicity of
Jehoshaphat’s judiciary to Knopper’s (1994: 59) appraisal forty-four years down the
road that Albright’s “substantially correct” historical assessment “dominates contem-
porary scholarly opinion.” See too Japhet 1993: 770–774. Adding another decade and
a half finds Levinson (building on the scrutiny of Rofé and Knoppers) asserting that
852 Notes
the Chronicler’s “deliberate compilation” simply “cannot be used as a reliable histor-

ical source.” See Levinson (2008: 62 n. 29) with bibliography.
73. For Deuteronomic restrictions on royal power (in cult, politics, and the judiciary) in
contrast to DtrH, see note 13.
74. One can only speculate as to the imagined legal setting. Albertz (Albertz and Schmitt
2012: 303) admits that the unjust legal actions could apply to human as well as de-
monic adversaries.
75. See Albertz and Schmitt (2012: 303–304, 311–312, 544–545 [= Appendix B 1.2.2],
555 [= Appendix B 2.2.2]). A significant number of these names also appear in the
Hebrew Bible. Cf. too the name ʾAbidan, “My [divine] Father has provided justice [on
my behalf],” which is attested five times in the Hebrew Bible yet is not in Albertz’s ep-
igraphic corpus.
Albertz (2012: 545) also includes in his list the names Pĕlayāh and Pālāl, which he
translates as, respectively, “YHWH has made a just decision” and “[DN] has given
justice.” While the root pll can refer to intercession and even arbitration (see HALOT
934), there is no certain way of knowing whether this was with regard to a legal case.
76. For a helpful excursus on the “enemies” in individual laments, including legal adver-
saries who have denied justice to the petitioner who may have taken asylum in the
sanctuary (cf. Deut 17:8–13), see Kraus 1988: 95–99.
77. The Qere reading (yādaʿtî, “I know”) expressing the personal confidence of the
speaker is to be preferred over the Ketiv reading (yādaʿtā, “You know”), likely a sec-
ondary change to exhort others.
78. Compare too the description of God as an active judge complete with military
metaphors that is woven into Ps 35 (see especially verses 1, 10b, 11a, 23–24), a psalm
with notorious problems including that of genre.
79. Psalm 43 is a part of the Elohistic Psalter (on which see p. 724 note 65, p. 784 note 229).
Thus we reconstruct Yahweh (the likely original reading) for the MT’s ʾĕlōhîm.
80. Reading Yahweh for MT’s ʾĕlōhîm due to this psalm being a part of the Elohistic
Psalter (Ps 42–83).
81. Wilson’s cautious, tentative, and theoretical reconstruction is to be contrasted with
McKenzie’s (1964) optimistic reconstruction that applies the judicial data from the
entire Hebrew Bible onto an imagined lawsuit. Weinfeld (1977: 84–88) agrees with
Wilson’s tone: “As we do not have data sufficient to reconstruct the development, any
attempt to draw a scheme of historical progression in this area is doomed to failure.”
Nonetheless, Weinfeld firmly concludes that “the basic judicial procedure described
[in the Hebrew Bible] was common to all ancient Near Eastern peoples and is known
to us at least from the middle of the second millennium B.C. onwards.”
Finally, methodologically, the historian seeking to reconstruct that past has the
near impossible task of trying to nuance the difference between the laws that actually
functioned in ancient Israel at various locations and at various times and the pre-
sentation of law in various biblical literary genres. See the helpful discussions in this
regard in Knight 2011, Meyers 1988: 154–157; 2013a; and Milstein 2018.
82. Here Wilson is building on the work of Köhler (1956). For a brief look at elders set-
tling disputes, see de Vaux 1961: 152–153.
Notes 853
83. Yet note, as pointed out by Sasson (2014: 256), the feminine form of the verb (šōpĕtâ)
occurs only here in the entire Hebrew Bible. For the interplay of presentations about
Deborah in Judg 4 and 5, see Ackerman 1998a: 29–47.
84. Meyers (1988: 157) notes how the male and female parental authority presented
in Exodus 21:15 (about a child who strikes his father or his mother) contrasts with
the similar law in Hammurabi’s law code (§195) that only concerns itself with a
son striking his father. In contrast to Wilson, Meyers writes: “There is no concept
of a household chief quite equivalent to the paterfamilias known from classical
sources.”
85. Compare the First Temple seal of ʿElihanaḥ bat Goel (gʾl), written in Old Hebrew
script, from the late eighth/early seventh century BCE. This seal was discovered
in IAA excavations at the City of David, in the Jerusalem Walls National Park.
Although the seal has yet to be published, the IAA’s press release from March 7, 2016,
reads: “According to the excavation directors: ‘the owner of the seal was exceptional
compared to other women of the First Temple period: she had legal status which
allowed her to conduct business and possess property.” ’ Note how ʿElihanaḥ’s father’s
name (Goel, gʾl) reflects economic and judicial concerns. See pp. 486–488.
86. On the debate over depicting Moses as a king dispensing justice, see Watts 1998:
416–418; Levine 1993: 342–343; and Ska 2009: 214–216.
87. On śārîm as judicial officers, see note 112.
88. The verb used here (D stem of bʾr I) occurs only three times in the Hebrew Bible
(Deut 1:5; 27:8; Hab 2:2) and is usually seen as referring to Moses expounding on
the law, much as he makes known and clarifies the law in Exod 18:16, 20. Schaper
(2007) argues that the verb refers to the “promulgation” of law, that is, the process
of publishing legal texts and putting them in force using both oral and written
elements.
89. Lundbom (2013: 521), following Weinfeld (1977: 83–86), wonders if the šōṭĕrîm
were assistants to the judges, functioning like modern court clerks. The legal func-
tion of these tribal officials (šōṭĕrîm lĕšibṭêkem; Deut 1:15) makes more sense than
von Rad’s (1966b: 114) blanket statement that all šōṭĕrîm were royal “officials of the
State . . . whose sphere . . . lay chiefly in the affairs of the army” and whose posi-
tion, function and authority were “essentially different” from that of tribal elders.
Here von Rad is unduly influenced by reading Jehoshaphat’s judiciary into the narra-
tive. For reasons to avoid such an approach, see Weinfeld 1977: 87–88 and especially
Knoppers 1994, as discussed on p. 520.
90. Note similarly how the Hittite king Arnuwanda I admonishes a judge to adjudicate
“for whomever a law case is [pending]” (CTH 261.I §40′) and “he shall not make
a superior case inferior; he shall not make the inferior superior” (CTH 261.I §39′).
Echoing the elevated position of Moses, Arnuwanda I underscores that if “the law
case becomes [too] onerous, he shall have it brought before His Majesty” (CTH 261.I
§38′). See Miller 2013: 228–231.
91. For Levinson (2008: 63–68; 2005: 93–100), another relevant factor for Deuteronomy’s
need to revise the text—an “indirect form of rewriting and rethinking history [that]
was almost certainly intentional”—is to make certain, in contrast to Exodus 18, that
854 Notes
the formation of the judiciary occurs after the giving of the law on Mt. Sinai. Cf. Num
11:16–25 and Lundbom 2013: 171.
92. On the multiple traditions about Moses’ father-in-law with the variant names Jethro,
Jeter, Hobab, and Reuel, see Chapter Six, pp. 273–276.
93. For a full treatment of priestly adjudication, special consideration needs to be given
to P’s understanding of priests and the judicial realm. Knohl (1995: 155–156, esp. n.
131), following Haran (but see Haran 1983: 122), writes about “the link between the
holiness of the priests and their consequent isolation from the people and separation
from judicial activity.” Knohl (1995: 180) then contrasts P with H, where “there exists
an intimate connection between the inclusion of justice and morality in the realm of
holiness and the summons to the entire community of Israel to lead sanctified lives.”
Yet to provide nuance to P’s dynamic, one would have to account for P granting the
high priest the sole charge of the “judicial breastplate” (ḥōšen mišpāṭ; Exod 28:15,
29) containing the Urim and Thummim, binary lot-casting devices that were used,
one would assume, for judicial purposes. Here see Levinson’s (1997: 111–116) correc-
tive, describing in detail various legal proceedings that took place in cultic contexts
and within sacred space.
In addition, see Leuchter’s (2007) study of “the Levite in Your Gates” in the book
of Deuteronomy (arguing for juridical Levites) and the strong critique by Na’aman
(2008: 261–262 n. 580). Hutton (2009b: 230) argues (using parallels with the Ahansal
tribe of Morocco) that “the distribution of the Levitical cities at the extremities of
Israel . . . might be correlated to the Levites’ function as intertribal arbitrators distrib-
uting justice in the gates.”
94. The seriousness that comes with the invocation of divine witnesses is well known
from ancient Near Eastern treaty language. See McCarthy 1963: 141.
95. On community liability for crime, see Lundbom 2013: 592. For additional ancient
Near Eastern material, see Tigay’s (1996: 472–476) excursus “The Ceremony of the
Broken-Necked Heifer.” See too Tigay’s insightful comments about how we may have
here the elders’ exculpatory oath, with the slaughter of the heifer dramatizing what
would happen to them should they be false to their oath.
96. Given the discussion of royal justice here, I see no need to be reductionist in elimi-
nating the judicial aspects in Isa 33:22 (i.e., šōpēṭ, mĕḥōqēq) in preference for the mil-
itary. Some scholars (e.g., Wildberger 2002: 297, 305) appeal to Judg 5:14b to argue
the latter, yet Sasson (2014: 278, 297) renders “magistrates” and “makers of laws and
setters of decrees.” Blenkinsopp (2000: 447), who notes the “deliberately traditional
and archaic” nature of Yahweh’s titulary, wisely concludes that Isa 33:22 has a combi-
nation of the military and the judicial as in the book of Judges.
97. See Chapter Eight, note 185.
98. Yahweh as teacher of justice (as embodied in his just “ways,” “paths” “covenant” and
“decrees”) is well illustrated in Ps 25:8–10. See too Ps 94:10–12 and Ps 119. For a com-
plete analysis with bibliography on past research, see Finsterbusch 2005, 2007 and
Abernethy 2015.
99. On the mysterious disappearance of Zerubbabel, the various parties involved, and
the reworking of biblical texts accordingly, see Lewis 2005b.
Notes 855
100. Wildberger (2002: 109–110) discusses “the basic eschatological sense of the passage
[that] is connected with the Isaiah apocalypse,” though falling short of apocalyptic
in “its full form.”
101. On the shared legal vocabulary between Isa 29:21 and Amos 5:7, 10–12, see
Andersen and Freedman 1989: 498–490.
102. For the religio-historical background of Dan 7 and interpretative issues relating
to the use of similar literature (e.g., Canaanite, Mesopotamian), see Collins
1993: 280–294.
103. Collins (1993: 301) concludes that the plural thrones are for the Ancient of Days
and the “one like a son of man” (Dan 7:13), “although originally there was probably
a more inclusive reference to the divine council.”
104. For a look at Solomon as an ideal philosopher-king who turns into the very oppo-
site, see Parker 1992.
105. In contrast to the picture of David as a superb judge exercising justice and equity
for all his people (2 Sam 8:15; Ps 89:15 [Eng 89:14]), the Court History is not kind
to him in this regard. In addition to his criminality with regard to the Bathsheba-
Uriah episode, note Absalom’s charge against David’s failed judiciary in 2 Sam 15:3–
4, David’s silence as royal judge in punishing Amnon for the rape of Tamar, and his
acquiescence regarding Absalom’s murder of Amon and rebellion against the crown.
Wilson (1983: 243) summarizes: “As a judge David was often arbitrary and unwilling
to apply the law evenhandedly, particularly in cases involving his own family.”
106. McCarter (1984: 294) astutely points out how LXXL preserves an explicit descrip-
tion of Nathan asking David as royal judge to “pass judgment on this legal case for
me” in 2 Sam 12:1. See McCarter’s argument for preferring the LXXL as the original
reading, which he retroverts in Hebrew as haggēd-nāʾ lî ʾet hammišpāṭ hazzeh.
107. Yet another episode has the prophet Gad delivering God’s sentence on David,
though in the matter of the census, not a miscarriage of justice (mišpāṭ) per se (2
Sam 24 //1 Chr 21). David appeals to the Divine Judge known for his great mercy
(rabbîm raḥămāyw), yet the sentence is carried out nonetheless in considerable
degree—but then stayed (2 Sam 24:14–16, 25//1 Chr 21:13–15, 27).
108. Using analogous phenomena at Ugarit, Alalakh, and Nuzi, Andersen (1966) won-
ders if the seal in 1 Kgs 21:8 is not the king’s personal seal but rather the dynastic/
state seal, “which showed endorsement by the state as such.” This leads him to posit
that Jezebel is not sending letters to the elders and city officials, but rather forged
legal documents to them in their capacity as a judiciary. These forged documents
would have claimed that either Naboth was not the legal owner of the vineyard or
that he had promised to sell the property to the king but later reneged. Such spec-
ulation is hard to prove, yet Andersen argues that some type of legal scenario is
necessary to understand how Ahab is able subsequently to take possession of the
property (1 Kgs 21:16).
109. The translation here interprets môkîaḥ as the arbiter. As pointed out by Andersen
and Freedman (1989: 498), the term could alternatively refer to the plaintiff who
brings the accusation. We do agree with Andersen and Freedman (1989: 502) that
tāmîm refers to the innocent.
856 Notes
110. Amos 5 is a part of the “Book of Woes” (Amos 5–6), material that “constitute[s]‌an
extensive inventory of the person and activities that are the target of . . . Yahweh’s
wrath.” And yet at this stage in Amos’s rhetoric, the focus, according to Andersen
and Freedman (1989: 461), is on “warning rather than judgment.”
111. Williamson (2006: 85, 98–99), for example, prefers an earlier date for the original
setting of Isaiah 1:11–17, but nicely nuances for 1:16–17 “the post-exilic setting
which has to be presupposed for this redactional assemblage.” See too Williamson’s
introduction (2006: 10–11) interacting with and building on the works of David
Carr and Marvin Sweeney.
112. On the śārîm being judicial officers (overlapping with šōpĕtîm) and royal in nature
here and elsewhere in prophetic literature, see Weinfeld 1977: 67–71. Note how
śārîm judiciary officials occur in the two “judiciary origin myths” discussed earlier
(Exod 18:21, 25; Deut 1:15).
See too the presence of a šr judicial official in the Meṣad Ḥashavyahu ostracon,
lines 1, 12, where a plaintiff (a harvester) makes a petition for the šr to adjudi-
cate in the matter of a stolen garment. For the text and bibliography, see Dobbs-
Allsopp et al. 2005: 358–370 and KAI 200. For a convenient translation, see Pardee
2002c: 77–78. For two treatments specifically devoted to the legal nature of the
text, see Westbrook 1988: 30–35, esp. 35 n. 128 for the view that this is a “plea of
gzl” with regard to wrongly seized property (cf. the root gzl in our next text [Isa
10:2] that deals with robbing the poor of justice), and Dobbs-Allsopp 1994 for the
view that it is an extrajudicial petition for justice (comparing the Tekoite woman
going to King David in 2 Sam 14:16). For similarities with Job 29–31, see notes
154 and 155.
113. For poetic flow, I have translated (as has the LXX) the third plural prefixal yĕʿaqqēšû
(“they twist/pervert”) as if it is a participle.
114. Cf. the judicial rāʾšîm in Exod 18:25; Deut 1:13–17, and the exhortation to the
qĕṣînîm to execute justice in Isa 1:10, 17. As noted by Waltke (2007: 146), following
van der Ploeg (1950: 52), etymologically Hebrew qāṣîn is related to the Arabic
root qaḍā (cf. Hebrew qṣh, “to cut, decide”) that has to do with deciding judicially
(cf. Arb qāḍin “judge”; qaḍāʾ, “judicial decision, judiciary, justice”; qaḍan, “court
ruling”; qaḍīya, “litigation, legal case”).
115. On city gates as places of judicial activity, see note 57.
116. For a review of the literature especially as it applies to Mic 6:1–8, see Andersen and
Freedman 2000: 507–511.
117. The secondary literature is immense. For a survey, see March 1974, which contains
a lengthy bibliography; see particularly the formative works of Koch (1964) and
Westermann (1991). See too the retrospective essays critiquing and rehabilitating
form criticism in general in Sweeney and Ben Zvi 2003.
118. For the present discussion of Yahweh as judge, I am consciously using the trial lan-
guage of an “indictment” and “sentence.” Cf. Westermann 1991: 70, 129–136, 199–
204 and Tucker 1971: 65. Of course, many judgment oracles do not envision a trial
setting, and Melugin (1974: 301 n. 4) is correct in arguing against applying trial
terminology to the genre as a whole.
Notes 857
119. On the legal terminology used here, see Blenkinsopp 2002: 230 and Paul 2012: 222.
The Hebrew imperative hazkîrēnî (lit. “cause me to remember”) has been viewed as
citing evidence against and/or presenting a summons to trial.
120. The amount of secondary literature on rîb is also immense. Seminal treatments,
in addition to Gunkle’s foundational work, include: Würthwein 1952; Gemser
1955; Huffmon 1959; Harvey 1962; Wright 1962; Limburg 1969; and Nielsen 1978.
Challenges are found in De Roche 1983 and Daniels 1987. For an update on Wright’s
argument that Deut 32 is more of a hymn with an embedded rîb, see Thiessen 2004.
121. Alternatively, Wolff (1990: 172) sees here the hand of the final redactor issuing “a
new summons to hear” to his readers, as he did in Micah 1:2. Similarly, Waltke
(2007: 373) sees here a “unique introduction calling upon the book’s audience to
hear the book’s last and final section.”
122. An alternative is the prophet calling upon Yahweh to speak because, as Mic 6:2
explicitly states, it is Yahweh’s legal case (rîb yhwh; cf. Andersen and Freedman
2000: 514). In my opinion (which agrees with Huffmon 1959: 287), because the
speaker in verse 2 refers to Yahweh in the third person, this must be the prophet
speaking in response to being charged to get up and plead (qûm rîb) the case (Micah
6:1b). As the spokesperson for Yahweh by whom he is commissioned, he has own-
ership of the case. Huffmon writes that he is “acting as lawyer for the plaintiff,
Yahweh.”
123. I disagree with Huffmon (1959: 287), who suggests that what we have here may
be “a mocking defense put into the mouth of the defendant.” Similarly, Waltke
(2007: 389) also fails to look at the passage from a rhetorical perspective. Quoting
Wolff, he suggests that the author wants “to caricature more and more the nonsense
of all sorts of excessive sacrificial performances.”
124. See Dewrell 2017 for a diachronic analysis of the inherited traditions regarding
child sacrifice. For a summary, see p. 64.
125. We prefer this line of interpretation rather than Andersen and Freedman’s
(2000: 527) suggestion that the people are being “cross-examined with a barrage of
double questions” about what is good and what Yahweh seeks of them. If anything,
the people’s judgment on matters has been found wanting, and even a rhetorical
questioning of their views on goodness and divine requirements seems odd.
126. For scholars treating this topic in greater depth, see notes 13 and 48.
127. Roberts (1973b: 164) argues that the language here “properly means ‘to dispute to-
gether in court.” See Williamson 2006: 111–112 for a fuller discussion of the legal
and familial use of the root ykḥ and whether the locus of the term is best derived
from a wisdom setting or a judicial setting. There is certainly an overlap between
reprimanding (even legal) discipline in the household unit and litigation in a met-
aphorical courtroom setting. As we have seen, the various social locations for adju-
dication included roles for fathers, mothers, elders, and tribal kinsman/“brothers.”
Thus there is no need to draw a strong dividing line between the two settings. With
the mention of the judicial ideal in Isa 1:17, it is clear that Yahweh is beckoning his
people to raise issues of theodicy.
128. For this translation and the original text, see Lambert 1960: 128–129, 132–133.
858 Notes
129. For this translation and the original text, see Lambert 1960: 112–115.
130. Jasnow and Zauzich 2014: 31–37. Jasnow and Zauzich’s 2014 volume is a distillation
of and supplement to their 2005 editio princeps on The Ancient Egyptian Book of
Thoth. The wise Thoth was so well known that he could be referenced in Job 38:36
(“Who put wisdom in Thoth?”) along with, seemingly, the Egyptian god Sobek
(“Who gave Sobek understanding?”). See Lewis 2015.
131. For a translation of these passages in the Instructions of Amenemope, see Lichtheim
1976: 150–151 (reprinted in 1997: 116–117).
132. The verb used for Yahweh “assessing” human behavior (√pls) is used of “scales of
justice” in Prov 16:11, Isa 40:12, and Ben Sira 42:4 parallel with mōʾznayīm. Fox
(2009: 615) suggests that “just measures may also be a metaphor for the royal ad-
ministration of justice generally” as well as affirming (following Radaq) “that God
is a righteous judge, assessing human works by true measures.” Egyptian funerary
images of the human heart being weighed against the feather emblem Maat (m3ʿt,
truth, order, cosmic balance) readily come to mind.
133. On the origins, literary developments, and social settings of personified wisdom,
see Fox 2000: 331–345. On the personification interludes, see Fox 2000: 353–359.
Fox (2009: 949–950) also argues that “Lady Wisdom speaks wisdom—her own,
not God’s. Nowhere does she ‘bear’ revelation.” She is “the daughter-like ward of
Yahweh” raised “to be wise, in order to make her intellectually and morally fit to
teach others.” Interacting with Zimmerli’s views, Fox prefers to characterize the
teaching of Proverbs as “anthropological” and “anthropocentric.” At the same time,
“Proverbs is infused with religious aspiration and feeling. It constantly, and at all
stages, speaks of Yahweh, his oversight of justice, his care for humanity, his demands
for righteousness, his loves, and his hates.”
134. For the ways in which scholars have understood the nature of the epilogue (Qoh
12:9–14) and the epilogist, see Fox 1977; 1989: 311–348; 1999: 350–377; Seow
1997: 391–396; Krüger 2004: 207–215; Schoors 2013: 826–854.
Schoors (2013: 854), quoting Ginsburg, notes how the Masoretes felt compelled
to repeat verse 13 after verse 14 for the ultimate ending of the book such that the
final word would not be “evil” (rāʿ), though they did so without adding pointing to
mark the repetition as secondary.
135. Scholars are divided about whether the waw of wĕdāʿ is a conjunctive or an adversa-
tive. For various views and the implications for meaning, see Schoors 2013: 791–792.
136. See note 134.
137. For a discussion of Mal 3:13–21 (Eng 3:13–4:3) addressed to the post-exilic restora-
tion community, see Hill 1998: 355–363.
138. On translating hebel as “absurd,” see Fox 1989: 29–48; 1999: 27–49 and Schoors
2013: 40–47.
139. On God using scales of justice, see note 132.
140. Somewhat unusually, the MT, Syriac, and Symmachus have yĕʿawwēt in both lines,
whereas the LXX, Vulgate, and Targum employ two different verbs. While the
latter could certainly be a stylistic choice, it has prompted scholars (e.g., Dhorme
[1967: 112–113] and seemingly Pope [1973: 64–65]) to posit a second verb with
Notes 859
a similar appearance and meaning (ʿwh, “to bend”). The verb ʿwh does occur in
Qoh 7:7b in reference to bribes perverting the mind (cf. Prov 12:8), according to
4QQoha, which reads wîʿawweh in contrast to MT’s wîʾabbed.
141. Cf. Seow’s (2013: 59–61) remarks challenging Richter, Scholnick, and Magdalene.
See too the cautions expressed by Strauss (1999: 83–90).
142. Our treatment here is intended only to scratch the surface. The literature on the
legal background of the book of Job is vast. Among the more notable works are
the following: Gemser 1955: 120–137, esp. 134–135; Richter 1959; Roberts 1973:
159–165; Frye 1973; Scholnick 1975, 1982, 1987; Dick 1977, 1979, 1983, 2006;
Habel 1985: 54–57; Zuckerman 1991: 104–117; Greenstein 1996: 241–258; Strauss
1999: 83–90; Hoffman 2007: 21–31; Magdalene 2007a; 2007b: 23–59; and Seow
2013: 59–61, 68–69.
143. In addition to Hoffman 2007: 22, see too Hoffman 1996: 222–263, 314–316, which
has a chapter devoted to “On God’s Justice in the Book of Job” as well as four appen-
dices breaking down the statistical occurrence and distribution of ten key terms
having to do with justice.
144. For the root prr in the C stem used for the “breaking” of God’s law (hēpērû tôrātekā)
and the “breaking” of his commandments (miṣwātô hēpar; lĕhāpēr miṣwôtêkā), see
respectively Ps 119:126, Num 15:31, and Ezra 9:14.
145. The subject and object of the phrase “He/he would/could not answer him/Him
once in a thousand times” (lōʾ-yaʿănennû ʾaḥat minnî-ʾālep) in Job 9:3b are not
made explicit, and scholars have come down on both sides, some seeing God
deigning not to answer Job and others having Job unable to answer God. Similarly,
there is debate about the unidentified subject of the previous line (“If one wishes
to contend with him”; ʾim-yaḥpōṣ lārîb ʿimmô), though here it is more common to
find interpreters seeing Job contending with God (cf. Job 19:16a; 29–31; 33:13).
Yet, alternatively, if God is the subject of 9:3a, then what Job imagines taking place
is exactly what does take place in Job 38–41, where the barrage of God’s unanswer-
able questions must certainly have seemed to Job to have numbered a thousand.
146. Following Dhorme (1967: 135) we prefer to translate the particle ʾim in Job 9:15,
20 with Job asserting his innocence even in this imagined lawsuit (“though I am
in the right,” “though I am just”), where the alternative translation “even if I were
in the right”/“even if I am in the right” (e.g., Seow 2013: 539) leaves room for
doubt.
147. Mĕšōpĕṭî is a rare Poʿel participle of a strong verb that seems to designate God as
Job’s opponent-at-law (cf. Zeph 3:15; Ps 109:31). Alternatively, some repoint the
MT to read lĕmišpātî and translate it as “I must supplicate for justice/to my Judge.”
Yet the MT is clearly lectio difficilior.
148. For the syntax of ʾim-lōʾ ʾēpôʾ mî-hûʾ, compare Job 24:25 (wĕʾim-lōʾ ʾēpô mî). There
is a Masoretic sebir on this phrase that would suggest a transposition: ʾim-lōʾ hûʾ mî
ʾēpôʾ, yet sebirin actually support the MT in noting that such changes are “suggested”
wrongly. See Tov 1992: 64.
149. The noun here is šaḥat, designating the netherworld as a pit, yet both the Greek
and the Vulgate see the imagery to be one of filth. This has prompted some (e.g.,
860 Notes
Dhorme 1967: 143) to revocalize the text as bĕśuḥōt, “in filth,” in fitting with Job’s
reference to self-cleansing. Yet the netherworld could indeed be thought of as a
filthy realm, so no such emendation is necessary.
150. The syntagm lōʾ yēš in Job 9:33 never occurs elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. Multiple
Hebrew, Greek, and Syriac manuscripts read lūʾ, with the graphic similarity being
obvious. Cf. the expression lû yēš in Job 16:4. Thus most interpreters do see Job
expressing a condition contrary to fact. Alternatively (if one can accept the one-
of-a-kind syntax), Job, even in his imaginery lawsuit, could declare, as in the MT,
that there simply is no arbiter between them (lōʾ yēš-bênênû môkîaḥ); so Dhorme
1967: 144.
151. For the use of animal imagery for predatory hostility, cf. Ps 7:2–3 (Eng 7:1–2); 17:9–
12; 22:13–14 (Eng 22:12–13).
152. Dick 1983: 31. Dick has written extensively on these matters. See the bibliography
in note 142.
153. Greenstein (1996: 247) argues that Job “understands himself to be the defendant in
God’s case, as well as the initiator of a countersuit against God.”
154. The relevance of the Meṣad Ḥashavyahu inscription (KAI 200) for Job 31 was al-
ready noted by Dick (1979: 43–44) and Greenstein (1996: 247).
155. Lines 10–12a of the Meṣad Ḥashavyahu inscription read: wkl ʾḥy yʿnw ly . . . [kl]
ʾḥy yʿnw ly ʾmn nqty mʾ[šm], “Now all my companions will vouch for me . . . my
companions will vouch for me that truly I am innocent of any gu[ilt].” Sadly, Job’s
companions do the very opposite. For more on the inscription, see note 112.
156. Clines (2011: 1096–1097) documents how loin girding is used most frequently for
physical fighting (e.g., 2 Sam 20:8; 1 Kgs 2:5; Isa 5:27), with the picture here being
verbal combat and legal dispute “such as Job had envisaged in 13:22 and 14:15.”
Scholnick (1982: 527) notes “the forensic force” of the expression in Jer 1:16–17. In
that context, God is uttering his judgments (mišpāṭîm) and has the prophet “gird up
his loins” to deliver the divine message.
157. For the various ways in which the forms hărōb, yissôr, and yaʿănennâ have been
treated, see Clines 2011: 1084–1085.
158. Scholnick (1982: 528–529), Habel (1985: 576, 582), and Dick (2006: 268) inter-
pret Job 42:6 as Job retracting his legal case. While such a translation of the difficult
ʾemʾas is possible (cf. ʾemʾas mišpāṭ in Job 31:13, as pointed out by Scholnick), it is
more of a stretch for the following niḥamtî.
159. On the so-called lethal God sightings, see Hendel 1997 and Chapter Seven, pp. 296–
297, 354–355. I disagree with Clines (2011: 1216), who asserts that “Job has not
actually seen Yahweh (there is no language of visual perception), but only heard him
speak.” Such an opinion minimizes the cultural understanding of the sĕʿārâ (“whirl-
wind”) theophany (38:1; 40:6). Ezek 1:4 reveals that a mystical sĕʿārâ theophany can
indeed be “seen” (wāʾēreʾ). Zech 9:14 also describes a sĕʿārâ experience by saying
that Yahweh “was seen by them” (wyhwh ʿălêhem yērăʾeh). As for the wording in Job
38:1; 40:6, it implies that Job saw the sĕʿārâ from which emerged the divine voice.
(Cf. William Blake’s 1823 illustration that has Job and his wife looking upward to
see an anthropomorphic Yahweh wrapped in a stormy garment. See Blake 1875: pl.
Notes 861
XIII.) It would go against an author’s logic to have Yahweh manifest his appearance
in a dramatically visual sĕʿārâ if no one sees it. Cf. too Job 19:26–27.
I also disagree with Clines (2011: 1216) that “the dénouement of the whole Book
of Job” is either to “find it a deeply sad and cheerless outcome” or to “feel it rather
a blessed release to recognize that there is no underlying principle of justice in the
universe.” Troubling also is Clines’ (2011: 1218) pejorative description of Yahweh’s
words in chapters 38–41 as “a long and self-regarding speech,” and Job “is not going
to be impressed by attempts to bill it as a divine-human encounter that shakes the
foundations of his universe.” Job’s words in Job 40:3–5; 42:1–6 imply otherwise.
160. For reception history, see Hayes’ (2015) study of the nature of divine law in the
Hebrew Bible in contrast to Greco-Roman conceptions of law as well as her articu-
lation of the various discourses on divine law in Second Temple Judaism.
161. See Westbrook 2009: 3–20 (originally published in 1985: 247–265). The royal ap-
propriation of scribal law codes is a large topic beyond the scope of the present
treatment. Westbrook and Wells (2009: 130) summarize well:
Scribes appear to have assembled all sorts of lists (omens, medical symptoms,
etc.) and the law codes fall into this category. The Laws of Hammurabi, for in-
stance, almost certainly had nothing to do with King Hammurabi originally.
The provisions contained in the code were complied and/or composed by
scribes. What the Laws of Hammurabi show us is that such lists of laws could
be used for purposes other than those initially envisioned by scribes who
authored them. In the case of the Laws of Hammurabi and others (e.g. Laws
of Ur-Nammu, Laws of Lipit-Ishtar), the lists/codes became tools for royal
propaganda. They were lifted out of their original, scribal-academic context
and inserted into an entirely different context: the royal inscription. They were
then framed by explicitly propagandistic prologues and epilogues to give them
the look and feel of royal proclamation. The laws and rules of these codes were
meant to illustrate how well the king, in whose name they were published, had
established justice throughout his realm.
See too Berman 2016 for the debates concerning the nature of biblical law—
whether it is statutory (i.e., “codified”) with jurisprudence using it as a reference
point or “customary” and/or “common law” (i.e., an inherently fluid compendia of
legal and ethical norms). Levinson’s understanding is discussed in note 170.
162. These categories are those of Westbrook (2003: 35–86).
163. See Kwasman and Parpola 1991 and Mattila 2002.
164. See Whitelam 1979: 213–214, countering those scholars (e.g., de Vaux) who would
argue that this material is irrelevant for depicting royal legislative actions because
David is not yet king. Davidic thrones are described as “thrones for [legislating?]
judgment” in Psalm 122:5.
165. For a discussion of Zedekiah’s manumission in the context of ancient Near Eastern
release of slaves and the Law of the Jubilee, see Lundbom 2004: 558–561. Whitelam
(1979: 216–217) argues that “this law is attributed to the king himself ” and “unmis-
takably points to the conclusion that the Israelite king, in certain circumstances,
was able to decree remissive acts in order to alleviate particular socio-economic
difficulties.”
862 Notes
166. The Hebrew reads: hôy haḥōqĕqîm ḥiqĕqê-ʾāwen ûmĕkatĕbîm ʿāmāl kittēbû.
Wildberger (1991: 213) sees this passage being written against royal officials, though
it is not explicit. Blenkinsopp (2000: 212) also sees this as a critique of “royal offi-
cialdom” during the days of Ahaz, as they are “manipulating the legal system . . . to
facilitate sequestration of property and the enclosure of peasant holdings.”
167. We are not alone in using sociological theory to argue this case. See the astute anal-
ysis of Whitelam (1979: 207–218), who is in turn building on the work of Weingreen
(1976: 23), who argues “the a priori consideration that an expanding society must
regulate the growing complexity of its affairs by legal means.” Whitelam (1979: 217)
posits “that the king was probably the greatest contributor to the developing system
of law necessary in such a dynamic society as that of monarchic Israel.”
168. Even the separate collections of laws that we do have (the Covenant Code, the
Holiness Code, and the laws of Deuteronomy) are far more literary than has been
appreciated (cf. Levinson 2008: 30–39; Milstein 2018).
169. Alternatively, one could use Levinson’s (2008: 34) language of illusion. He
writes: “Literary history—human authorship and revision of law, the obvious need
for new laws to develop in response to ongoing social and economic change—is
everywhere ostensibly denied by means of the attribution of law to God or Moses.
Yet precisely the thoroughness of such attributions undermines the veil of redac-
tional illusion. The very repeated denial of literary history succeeds in affirming it.”
170. Levinson’s insightful study (2003; cf. 1997, 2008) builds on Jonathan Z. Smith’s no-
tion of “exegetical ingenuity” and Michael Fishbane’s study of inner-biblical exe-
gesis. Levinson demonstrates how the fixation and textual sufficiency of a closed
“canon” can engender innovative strategies of reformulation and reapplication (es-
pecially through the covert subversion of prior authoritative texts via “sleights of
scribal hand”), especially in the area of law. “By means of exegesis, the textually fi-
nite canon becomes infinite in its application” (2003: 8). Such creative and “learned
reworkings of authoritative texts” are well known from later Jewish tradition
(2003: 42). See 4Q158, 4Q524, 11QT, and Crawford 2008. Levinson argues that such
sophisticated revisionist work is already present in ancient Israel. Alternatively, see
Berman 2016.
171. On these two passages, see Rendsburg 2006, a provocative article.
172. See note 88.
173. On Moses’ request to have an unmediated view of God’s “radiance” in Exod 33:17–
23, see Chapter Seven, pp. 362–363.
174. Wilson (1980: esp. 156–166) argues that being a prophet modeled after Moses who
directly hears God’s voice (cf. Deut 18:15–21) will be a key determinant used by
DtrH in legitimizing a prophet. Note how the notion of God raising up a series of
prophets like Moses after he has died is yet another way of distributing Moses au-
thority while at the same time heightening his prestige.
175. On the unique status of Moses approaching the unapproachable Yahweh in Exodus
19, see Chapter Ten, pp. 608–615.
176. Granted, we do read of Moses as “writer” (√ktb) and “giver” (√ntn) of law to priests
and elders in Deut 31:9.
Notes 863
177. In addition, the functional understanding of law must always be integrated with the
literary presentations of law over time. Here we again refer readers to the work of
Levinson. See notes 168, 169, and 170.
178. The full title of Gottfried Leibniz’s 1710 volume is Essays of Theodicy on the Goodness
of God, the Freedom of Man, and the Origin of Evil (Essais de Théodicée sur la bonté
de Dieu, la liberté de l’homme et l’origine du mal).
179. Precisely because Psalm 82 is indeed so remarkable, it has engendered a staggering
amount of research regarding its meaning, for the text itself presents few text-
critical challenges. Suffice it here to note Smith 2008: 131–139; Machinist 2011;
Trotter 2012; and White 2014: 24–33, which refer in part to the voluminous history
of research. As the reader will see, I follow those who see this psalm as a part of
the Elohistic Psalter, and thus I restore the name Yahweh, which has been replaced
withʾĕlōhîm by a later hand. In contrast, see the stimulating work of Machinist
(2011), who argues that the psalm plays off the double meanings of ʾĕlōhîm (i.e., for
the gods and the God of Israel). If he is correct, then there is no original psalm with
Yahweh instead of ʾĕlōhîm.
180. The plurality of divine beings around Yahweh is sometimes gathered in assembly, as
the passages here reveal. At Ugarit, cf. the expressions pḫr ʾilm, pḫr bn ʾilm, and pḫr
mʿd (see Smith 2001b: 41 for references), with Ugaritic pḫr being cognate to the well-
attested Akkadian term puḫru (cf. puḫur ilani). For the Phoenician counterparts, cf.
KAI 4.4–5 (Yahimilk) and KAI 14.9 (Eshmunazor).
At other times such beings form a part of his military entourage (e.g., Deut 33:2;
Ps 68:18 [Eng 68:17]; Hab 3:3–5). For the wealth of secondary literature on the di-
vine council, see the bibliography in White 2014: 1–10. Among the significant works
are Mullen 1980; Handy 1994; Smith 2001b: 41–66; Garr 2003; Lenzi 2008; and
White 2014.
181. Note too how various terms for the disadvantaged, so well known from the judicial
ideal texts, also show up in Psalm 82 (dal, yātôm, ʾebyôn, ʿānî, rāš), as do the terms
for their oppressors and their injustice (rĕšāʿîm, tišpĕṭû-ʿāwel, pānîm tiśĕʾû). In light
of such judicial vocabulary, one wonders what to make of the term śārîm in Ps 82:7.
Why did the psalmist use a term for “rulers, princes” in the context of the gods
being stripped of their mortality and dying like mortals? Perhaps it is relevant that
the śārîm were also involved in judiciaries (Exod 18:21, 25; Deut 1:15; see note 112).
The imagery for Psalm 82 might be that the failed divine judges will fall like (failed)
human śārîm judges.
182. On the likely lack of an independent deity Elyon, see Chapter Four, pp. 87–88.
183. On Psalm 29, see Chapter Eight, p. 454 and note 103, and Chapter Seven, pp. 361–
362. A good example of a mythopoetic interpretation is found in deClaissé-Walford,
Jacobson, and Tanner 2014: 284, where Jacobson understands the bĕnê ʾēlîm of
Psalm 29:1 as referring to “the Lord’s heavenly court” who are “at once eternal but
less than God.” Following Goldingay, Jacobson sees the bĕnê ʾēlîm as created beings
who are subordinate to Yahweh as well as “metaphysically different” from Yahweh.
The MT’s heading (mizmôr lĕdāwid) situates the ascription (of glory to Yahweh)
in the human sphere rather than the divine. Note too the LXX’s secondary
864 Notes
addition to the superscription (exodiou skēnēs, “at leaving the tent”) that places
the human ascription at the Feast of Tabernacles (as noted by Craigie [1983: 242]
and many others).
184. See Smith’s (2008: 131–139) insightful study situating Psalm 82 within the concep-
tual category of the “translatability” of divinity or, in other words, the cross-cultural
recognition of deities. For Smith (2008: 139), Psalm 82 “calls for an end to translata-
bility” even as it presupposes it.
185. The broader topic of God’s mercy and forgiveness beyond the juridical that we high-
light here (e.g., the prophetic oracles of salvation), is beyond our scope. See, for
example, Westermann 1979: 58–64: “Somehow [God] always moderates the pun-
ishment . . . compassion breaks through in spite of judgment.”
186. Cf. Kraus 1989: 288, 292, underscoring the forensic understanding of yārîb by
translating it as “He will not always go to court.”
187. The verb nṭr here seems to be elliptical, with the fuller expression referring to
God nursing his anger (cf. Amos 1:11; Jer 3:12). The synonymous parallelism here
suggests that the meaning of the expression in Ps 103:9 is that God will not maintain
a rightful legal grievance that would arouse his angry response. Cf. Kraus 1989: 288,
292; Jacobson 2014: 761, 765. Cf. Lev 19:18, which has Yahweh legislating against
taking vengeance and maintaining a grievance (lōʾ-tiṭṭōr) and instead loving one’s
neighbor as oneself. Milgrom (2000: 1650–1652), following Shiffman, discusses the
judicial contexts of this verse within the Qumran community, where it “was a cor-
nerstone of the sect’s legal system.”
188. For the many issues associated with the book and various interpretations, see
Clements 1975; Sasson 1990; Levine 2002; and Ben Zvi 2003.
189. The rigorist nature of this material and whether it expresses xenophobic exclusion
and/or religious perfectionism is complex. See Sasson 1990: 26 and Blenkinsopp
2003: 129–143.
190. As reported in Barnett, Bleibtreu, and Turner 1998: 96.
191. Barnett, Bleibtreu, and Turner 1998: 96.
192. For a full range of texts and iconography, a discussion of the stereotypical language
of Assyrian royal annals, and the intended audiences, see Lewis 2008b.
193. Grayson 1991: 201; 1976: 126–127.
194. Luckenbill 1926–1927: sec. 254.
195. It is not at all clear that Yahweh’s question implies a judicial right, and there are
other ways to translate hahêṭēb (e.g., Sasson 1990: 286–287). Yet if the book of Jonah
is indeed about the parameters of justice, then it is noteworthy to find “the doing
of good” as constituting acting justly. Jeremiah 7:5–6 reads: “For if you truly cause
your ways to be good [hêṭêb têṭîbû] and your doings, if you truly act justly one with
another, if you do not oppress the alien, the orphan, and the widow” (kî ʾim-hêṭêb
têṭîbû ʾet-darkêkem wĕʾet-maʿalĕlêkem ʾim-ʿāśô taʿăśû mišpāṭ bên ʾîš ûbên rēʿēhû
gēr yātôm wĕʾalmānâ lōʾ taʿăšōqû). Thus Jonah would be “doing good” (i.e., acting
justly) to be angry about the miscarriage of justice where the wicked Ninevites
are not punished as justice demands (cf. Jer 7:3; 18:11; 26:13; Ps 119:68). Cf. too
the expression “to do good and right” as an expression of carrying out laws and
Notes 865
commandments (e.g., Deut 6:17–18a; Ps 25:8; 125:4: Neh 9:13; 2 Chr 14:2–4; 31:
20–21). Cf. too the collocation of “good” and justice elsewhere (Amos 5:15; Mic 6:8;
Jer 22:15; Ps 112:5; 119:35; Prov 2:9; Neh 9:13).
Chapter 10
1. Sellin wrote this statement in 1936. For a summary of Sellin’s career, see Hayes
1999: 453–454.
2. To keep our treatment from mushrooming, we have restricted the analysis to
the Northwest Semitic material. Readers should compare treatments of holiness
elsewhere in the ancient Near East, especially cognates in Akkadian. Summaries
can be found in Levine 1987: 242–243; Wilson 1994; Müller 1997; and Kornfeld
2003.
3. ʾIlu’s full title is “the Gracious and Holy One” (lṭpn wqdš). See Chapter Four, p. 79
and especially note 30, for references and the debate over whether qdš constitutes
the title of a goddess. Qudšu-wa-ʾAmrur, best known as ʾAthiratu’s attendant in the
mythological texts (KTU 1.3.VI.11; 1.4.IV.2, 8, 13, 16), also appears in ritual texts
(KTU 1.123.26’; cf. qdš mlk in KTU 1.123.20’). The meaning of the god’s second name
(ʾamrr) is unclear. For suggestions, see Smith and Pitard 2009: 377–378.
Smith (2014a: 186; 2014b: 40) notes the word qdšt in KTU 1.81.17–19, which he
translates “the Holy One” prior to two occurences of ʿAthtartu.
4. In the same broken text, compare the expression “Who is like the Holy One?” (my k
qdš). See KTU 1.179.14 (= RS 92.2016.14).
5. See Budin 2015; Tazawa 2014; 2009: 96–101, 104, 113, 121–124, 135–136, 163–168;
Cornelius 2004: 45–58, 83–87, 94–101, 123–142, 193; and van Koppen and van
der Toorn 1999: 416–417. Budin does a splendid job of showing the iconographic
differences between Egyptian Qedešet and Levantine Qudšu. Notably, whereas the
former holds snakes, the latter never does.
6. For the Arslan Tash texts, see Chapter Six, p. 268.
7. KAI 37, A lines 7, 10. See Conclusion, p. 685. I am not including in the list here the
ambiguous reference to qdš lʾšrt at seventh-century BCE Ekron (cf. Smith 2001b: 73).
Whereas lʾšrt was initially thought perhaps to be the goddess Asherat (cf. Gitin
2012: 226 n. 17; Zevit 2001: 402), Gitin and Aḥituv (2015: 223) now translate “dedi-
cated to the sanctuary (the holy place).”
8. KAI 14 (Eshmunazor II), Line 17; KAI 15, 16 (Bodʿaštart). The reading of šr qdš in
these three inscriptions is preferable to reading šd qdš, “Holy spirit (?)” (e.g., Peckham
2014: 183). Cf. śārê haqqōdeš in 1 Chr 24:5; Isa 43:28.
9. For the Ugaritic citations mentioning bn qdš, see Smith 2001b: 93.
10. See Chapter Seven, p. 348, and Lewis 2013b: 793.
11. The MT is difficult (lit. “the holiness of the dwellings of Elyon” or “the Holy One [who
dwells among?] the dwellings of Elyon”; cf. Kraus 1988: 459). The LXX has a verbal
form (“the Most High has sanctified his dwelling”), leading some scholars (e.g., Kraus
1988: 458–459; Dahood 1965: 277, 280) to repoint MT’s qĕdōš as qiddĕš.
866 Notes
12. The bibliographic details for all these finds can be found in Rollston 2015b. For the
Ekron material, see Gitin and Aḥituv 2015: 223. Some of this material is also found
in Dobbs-Allsopp et al. 2005: 104, 119–120, 136, 190–191. From the later Second
Temple period we have qdwš inscribed on a store jar from Masada as well as the letter
q on a broken vessel, which has been viewed as an abbreviation for either qrb (qorbān
offering) or qdš (holy). See Yadin and Naveh 1989, no. 459; Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel
2012: 83; and Rollston 2015b: 241 n. 18.
Also at Arad (stratum X) we have, according to Aharoni (1968: 20), two “shallow,
burnished plates on each of which two identical signs were incised, the letter qof in
ancient Hebrew script, perhaps an abbreviation of qodesh (qdš ‘holy’), and a sign
resembling the ancient kaf.” Upon further reflection, Aharoni (1981: 118) interpreted
these markings as abbreviations for a qorbān offering based on a remarkable note
from the Mishnah that explicitly says that a vessel inscribed with a q stands for a
qorbān offering (Maʿaser Sheni 4:10–11; noted also in Meshel 2012: 83). According
to Rollston (2015b: 242), “this interpretation . . . seems strained.” Two examples from
Kuntillet ʿAjrud show that (at least at that site) the abbreviation for qorbān seems to
have been qr (cf. Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2012: 82).
Staying with the q-k readings, Rainey favored two abbreviations, for q[dš], “holy,”
and k[hnm], “priests,” that interestingly coincided with the mention of qdš khnm, “a
holy object of priests,” inscribed on the ivory pomegranate scepter. See Herzog et al.
1984: 32; Herzog 2013: 39. For translating qdš khnm as “a holy object of priests” rather
than “set aside for priests” (so Herzog 2013: 39; Herzog et al. 1984: 32), see Zevit
2001: 161 n. 58.
Rollston (2015b), along with Cross, sees the ivory pomegranate inscription
as a probable modern forgery produced by a forger who may even have known of
Rainey’s reading of the Arad bowl inscriptions. See also Rollston’s (2015b: 243
n. 26) reservations about a bowl inscribed with qdš coming from the antiquities
market that Barkay deems ancient.
In contrast to Rainey’s q-k readings, Cross (1979) argued that epigraphically the
two letters were q-š, an abbreviation for qdš, “holy,” although this required redating
stratum X to the seventh century BCE, a proposal flatly denied by the excavators
(Herzog et al. 1984: 12, 32). And yet over the years scholars have lowered stratum X
into the eighth century BCE (Herzog 2013: 38–39; Mazar and Netzer 1986; Aharoni
and Rainey 1985: 73; Zimhoni 1985, Zevit 2001: 169–171; Rollston 2015b: 242
n. 19), with Ussishkin even dating the shrine to the seventh century BCE (Ussishkin
1988: 151, 155) in line with Cross’ date.
In evaluating Cross’ proposal, it should be noted that elsewhere there is no defin-
itive example of abbreviating the word for holy (qdš) with the letters q-š. And yet the
use of such an abbreviation would provide the perfect text-critical solution to how
the scribe at Kuntillet ʿAjrud mistakenly wrote qš(!)dš rather than qdš in inscription
4.2, line 4. On this inscription, see the immediately following discussion.
13. Ackerman (2008a: 136–141) situates this episode within household religion.
14. See Chapter Seven, pp. 359–360, on whether Habakkuk 3 is archaic or archaizing.
Notes 867
15. For our fuller treatments of Exodus 15, including textual notes, see Chapter Eight,
pp. 448–450, and Chapter Six, pp. 285–286.
16. In addition to the many commentaries available (see esp. Kraus 1989: 43–56; Tate
1990: 159–186; Gerstenberger 2001: 34–46; Hossfeld and Zenger 2005: 158–169), see
Tournay 1942; Albright 1950–1951; Miller 1964; Lipiński 1967; Caquot 1970; Gray
1977; Fokkelman 1990; Cook 1992; Emerton 1993; Loretz 2002; Strawn 2002; Arnold
and Strawn 2003; Charlesworth 2004.
17. That the Judges parallel (Judg 5:4–5) twice has Yahweh where Psalm 68:8–11 reads
ʾĕlōhîm underscores how the latter secondarily came to replace the former so con-
sistently in the Elohistic Psalter (on which see Chapter Four, p. 724, note 65). The ex-
plicit reference to the name Yah[weh] (yah šĕmô) in Psalm 68:5b (Eng 68:4b) strongly
advocates for reading Yahweh (not ʾĕlōhîm) earlier in the same verse (šîrû la-yhwh*
zammĕrû šĕmô). Thus throughout Psalm 68 we have replaced all references to ʾĕlōhîm
with yhwh*.
18. The form hindōp in the MT is quite irregular and many scholars (including GKC
§51k) repoint it as a proper N infinitive hinnādēp. GKC suggests that the form hindōp
in the MT is a mixture of N and G infinitives, whereas others consider the vocaliza-
tion of hindōp to be a poetic sound change to match the following tindōp (which is
also irregular in its lack of NC > CC).
19. The MT’s ʿărābôt refers to Yahweh’s march through the desert steppe, and this is con-
sistent with other early texts (including the late ninth-/early eighth-century BCE
Kuntillet ʿAjrud traditions) that contain topographical allusions to Yahweh coming
from the south/southeast (cf. Chapter Six, pp. 279–281) as well as the Hebrew Bible’s
many “wilderness” (midbār) traditions. I have written elsewhere (Lewis forthcoming
a) of how the reference to a “holy mdbr” in KTU 1.23.65 resonates with biblical
traditions:
The midbār . . . is often a sacred place of sacrifice and offerings (Exod 3:18;
5:1, 3; 8:27–28; Lev 7:38; Num 9:5; 1 Chr 21:29) and a place where theopha-
nies (Exod 16:10; Ps 29:8) and divine oracles were thought to occur (Num 1:1;
3:14; 9:1).
Thus the MT’s “who rides through desert lands” (rōkēb bāʿărābôt) makes perfect
sense (cf. too yĕšîmôn in Ps 68:8 [Eng 68:7]). There is no text-critical reason to emend
the text to “the Rider of the Clouds” (rōkēb bāʿărāpôt)—with a simple b/p bilabial
interchange—as many scholars are wont to do to echo Ugaritic lore about Baʿlu being
“the Rider of the Clouds” (rākibu ʿurpati). In addition, as already pointed out by
Arnold and Strawn (2003: 429 n. 9), the Ugaritic expression occurs in a genitive rela-
tionship without the preposition b.
This is not to say that our poet did not consider Yahweh as a storm god who could
ride the heavens, as seen explicitly in the expression “he who rides the ancient skies”
(rōkēb bišmê šĕmê-qedem) later in the poem (Ps 68:34 [Eng 68:33]). Perhaps our
poet is forming a wordplay. Thus, in deference to colleagues who feel strongly about
reading rōkēb bāʿărāpôt, I have listed it as an alternative reading.
868 Notes
20. The preposition in bĕ-yah is admittedly difficult, yet the meaning of the phrase is
clear nonetheless. For discussion and possible solutions, see Arnold and Strawn
2003: 429–431, where the preference is to see here a “bêt of identity” (cf. Exod 6:3).
21. Though this phrase underscores Yahweh’s benevolence, the meaning of kôšārôt, and
hence of the entire expression, is unclear. It is commonly rendered “in prosperity,”
“unscathed,” or even “deftly” (Pardee 1999: 492). For two of the more intriguing
suggestions, see Lipinksi 1971d for the suggestion of a connection to midwives (cf.
the kṯrt in Ugaritic) delivering “children emprisoned in their mother’s womb,” and
Dietrich and Loretz 1967: 542 for the suggestion (using Akkadian cognates) that
Yahweh delivered prisoners of war who had been put in (iron) fetters.
22. On the translation of yhwh zeh sînay as a nominal demonstrative, “Yahweh, the One
of Sinai,” see Chapter Six, note 229.
23. On the hapax šinʾān, see Chapter Six, note 214.
24. On the restoration of yhwh for MT’s ʾădōnāy, and the preference of a verb (bāʾ) in line
with Deut 33:2 for MT’s preposition (bām), see Chapter Six, note 214.
25. Again reconstructing an original yhwh for MT’s secondary ʾădōnāy.
26. We have retained the personal name of the god El here in verses 20–22 (Eng verses
19–20) and also in verse 36 (Eng verse 35) attempting to reflect how El traditions were
seamlessly blended with Yahweh traditions. The use of the definite article with hāʾēl
in verses 20–22 (but not verse 36!) could certainly advocate for translating “the god.”
Yet the regular use of the definite article to render individuals in Hebrew makes rend-
ering proper divine name El here altogether legitimate. See Waltke and O’Connor
1990: §13.6a; 13.5.1.b–c and especially the critical analysis in Barr 1989.
27. Omitting ʾădōnāy both because it very likely is a secondary gloss and also due to pro-
sodic considerations.
28. Reading yhwh for the secondary ʾĕlōhîm in MT (see note 17), to which the suffix as
then added (thus ʾĕlōhêkā) by attraction to the following ʿuzzekā.
29. Again reconstructing an original yhwh for MT’s secondary ʾădōnāy.
30. For our additional treatment of Psalm 89, including textual notes and discussions of
dating, see Chapter Eight, pp. 455–458.
31. On ʾēl naʿărāṣ, see Chapter Eight, note 108.
32. On Israelite holy war, better termed ḥērem warfare, see Chapter Eight, pp. 462–463.
33. Aḥituv 2014: 36–37.
34. The reading of wbzrḥ ʾl has been the consensus of scholars, including Aḥituv, Eshel,
and Meshel, who published the final report in 2012. Yet the reading of the first letter
of zrḥ in Line 2 is not at all clear. Alternatively, the reading could be byrḥ ʾl (so Blum
2013: 25, 28, 31; Puech 2014: 179 n. 41, 180). If this were the case, the text would seem
to be referencing a storm god using wind as a weapon with a buffeting type of action.
See Lewis 2020 for discussion.
35. The two words (šnt, [y]hw[h]) marked with an asterisk (*) come from the second
smaller fragment. See note 39.
36. My reading here differs from that of the final report. For justification, see Lewis 2020.
Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel (2012: 110, 112) reconstruct the second half of line 4 to
read q(š!)dš ʿly ʾlm, ʿ“the Holy One over the gods.” Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel astutely
Notes 869
point out three aged biblical traditions where Yahweh is described as fearfully holy
and preeminent over the gods (e.g., Exod 15:11; Ps 29:1–2; 89:7 [Eng 89:6]). Just as
Exodus 15:11 and Psalm 89:6–8, 19 (Eng 89:5–7, 18) explicitly remark about how a
Holy Yahweh is incomparable “among the gods” (bāʾēlim/ bibĕnê ʾēlîm), so this plaster
inscription could be making a similar profesion. Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel expand
on this notion of divine supremacy one step further by assuming that the war context
of KA 4.2 (note esp. milḥāmâ in both lines 5 and 6) may also refer “to the defeat of the
gods by YHWH.” Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel (2012: 133) refer to the defeat of the gods
in Zeph 2:11. One could also add Psalm 82.
37. The reading of qšdš is certain, and this provides a wrinkle in seeing a clear reference
here to a deity known as “the Holy One” that should be written simply qdš. For a
detailed discussion of the epigraphy (and the mistaken suggestions of reading wšrš,
wšdš, or dšdš), see Lewis 2020.
Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel (2012: 112, 133) note how the text as written (qšdš)
represents “a meaningless combination” of letters (so too Aḥituv 2008: 326). They
argue that the first š is a scribal mistake: “The scribe skipped ahead to š before
writing d and did not bother to erase the first š (or the erasure wore out over time).”
As support, they note (2012: 135 n. 6) the mistake of duplicating a letter in Samaria
Ostracon 37 where “the scribe did not bother to erase the erroneous letter.” (Cf.’ḥ
m’ḥd in Ezek 18:10.) While such visual eye mistakes can indeed occur, another ra-
tionale may be that the scribe unconsciously started writing q-š as an abbrevia-
tion for qdš, such as attested in two offering dishes from Arad (see note 12). The
use of such an abbreviation would provide the perfect text-critical solution to how
the scribe of KA 4.2 could have mistakenly written an abbreviation for “holy” (qš)
when he meant to write the full word (qdš)—which he then immediately corrected,
resulting in the text as we have it: qš(!)dš. Interestingly—in view of the Phoenician
script of the Kuntillet ʿAjrud plaster inscriptions—Cross (1979: 77 n. 9) notes how
abbreviations using a first and last letter of a word “is not infrequent in Phoenician.”
If then the reading of qdš can be defended, Aḥituv and Eshel’s suggestion that it
refers to a deity, “the Holy One,” makes perfect sense given the theophanic nature of
our text.
38. See Lewis 2020 for a full discussion of reading Qadesh.
39. See Lewis 2020 on the likelihood that this fragment mentions Yahweh and on the
dilemma of whether the small fragment should used to identify the Holy One in the
larger fragment.
40. That kings of the northern kingdom of Israel would have scribes trained in the
Phoenician script occasions no surprise due to pragmatic political and economic
reasons (cf. the Samaria Ostraca from the reigns of Joash and Jeroboam II). Moreover,
from the same time period (ca. 825 BCE) we have evidence of Phoenician being used
elsewhere by royalty due to its status as a prestige language—namely, its use by the
Luwian named King Kulamuwa at Sam’al (KAI 24).
41. The full DN yhwh occurs five time (in KA inscriptions 3.1, 3.6, 3.9, 4.1.1 [twice]),
with the shortened DN yhw occurring two times (in KA inscriptions 1.2, 3.9). Of
some twenty-six personal names, thirteen contain theophoric elements, of which
870 Notes
100 percent are Yahwistic: ʾlyw, ʾmryw, ḥlyw, ywʿśh, yw[], ʿbdyw, ʿbd[yw] ʿzyw, rʾy[w],
šknyw, smʿyw, smʿy[w], šmryw.
42. Several scholars have mistakenly reconstructed Baʿal in KA 4.4.1. See Aḥituv, Eshel,
and Meshel 2012: 117; Puech 2014: 183–184; LeMon and Strawn 2013: 95. Yet as
Lemaire (2013: 92–93) has astutely noted, what Aḥituv and Eshel read as a b (of bʿl)
is certainly a p, with pʿl likely referring to “making” or “work” of some sort. What
remains of the letter in question reveals an open head and longer curving tail, both
characteristic of p as opposed to the closed head and bent tail of b (as seen three let-
ters down). For additional discussion, see Lewis 2020.
43. Dobbs-Allsopp et al. (2005: 287) state succinctly: “YHWH is ʾēl at Kuntillet ʿAjrûd.”
Alternatively, ʾlyw could mean “The god is Yahweh” or “Yahweh is [my] god,” and
these too would underscore the universal occurrence of Yahweh as the male deity
at the site apart from ʾl and bʿl in KA 4.2. For Albertz’s study of equating names, see
p. 755, note 1.
44. Aḥituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2012: 133. See too LeMon and Strawn 2013: 90, 92–93,
quoting Clines, for the suggestion that we may have here an example of “the paral-
lelism of greater precision.”
45. Heuristically, and following most scholars, we are being reductive in looking at only
the two key ideas of fascinans and tremendum from Otto. Readers are directed to
Gammie’s work (2005: 5–8) for a much better articulation of Otto’s five categories of
the holy numinous, which include tremendum, maiestas, energicum, mysterium, and
fascinans.
46. Though Psalm 89:6–8 (Eng 89:5–7) does not explicitly say so, it certainly implies
that Yahweh, “the Holy One” (qādôš), is the God who presides over “the holy ones”
(qĕdōšîm). Compare, for an analogy, how the god Rapiʾu at Ugarit is the head of the
rapiʾūma (cf. KTU 1.108).
47. ʾIlu is especially gracious toward the human king, as best exemplified through the
story of King Kirta and KTU 1.23 (see Lewis forthcoming a).
48. Freedman (1978: 56*–57*, n. 1) dates the passage to the tenth century BCE, and
McCarter (1980a: 76) says “perhaps as early as the ninth or late tenth century.” Most
scholars consider the poem with its reversal of assorted fortunes to have had a former
life independent of its present context. The mention of the barren woman giving birth
in verse 5b made this thanksgiving song wonderfully appropriate for the reversal of
Hannah’s barren situation.
In addressing the complicated textual history of the song elsewhere (Lewis 1994),
I have suggested that questions of dating need to be nuanced with respect to textual
variance. For example, variant readings for verse two include earlier notions of mo-
nolatry (“there is no holy one like Yahweh [among the gods]”) as well as later notions
(glosses?) more in fitting with self-conscious monotheism (“there is no holy one
besides you”). See note 49. For further discussion of the many variants, see Lewis
(1994: 27–29).
49. The textual history of these two verses is quite involved, and readers are directed to
the fuller discussions in Lewis (1994: 27–29, 41). In short, we conclude that there are
two variant bicolons for verse two:
Notes 871
Variant A:
ʾên qādôš ka-yhwh There is no Holy One like Yahweh;

ʾên ṣûr ka-ʾēlōhênû There is no Rock like our God.
Variant B:
ʾên qādôš biltekā There is no Holy One besides you;

ʾên ṣaddîq ka-ʾēlōhênû There is no Righteous One like our God.
The reconstruction of “Who is holy like Yahweh?” (mî qādôš ka-yhwh) in 1 Sam 2:10
is based on kurios hagios in Codex Vaticanus (B) that serves as the basic text of the
Larger Cambridge edition of the LXX and on my q[dwš kyhwh] in 4QSama. McCarter
(1980a: 68–70) also advocates such a reconstruction.
50. I have kept my text-critical notes here to a minimum. My reconstructed text is based
on an earlier study of the song’s textual history (Lewis 1994), and readers interested in
such matters are directed there for a fuller discussion. The explanatory footnotes that
follow are abbreviations of their fuller counterparts in the 1994 article.
In addition, the 1994 reconstruction provides a heuristic attempt to reconstruct
the passage free from known later linguistic developments (e.g., segholation, the
so-called tripthongization of diphthongs, ḥateph vowels used secondarily with
laryngeals, and the “rule of shewa”) and avoiding the use of prosaic particles (e.g.,
ʾāšer, ʾet, kî, the article h) that seem to be later additions to the text. For a defense of
this admittedly uncertain procedure, see Lewis 1994: 19–21.
51. See Lewis 1994: 26 for the rationale of reading ʾĕlōhāy that is found in B, OL, several
Syr mss, Syr-Hex, Pal-Syr, and V as opposed to yhwh, which is attested in MT and
4QSama.
52. The meaning of this phrase has been taken to mean either (1) “swallowing ene-
mies,” used figuratively to stand for triumphing over one’s enemies (so BDB, NAB,
McCarter 1980a: 68), (2) gloating over or deriding one’s enemies (so JPS, RSV), or
(3) an expression of joy paralleling the end of the verse and forming a quatrain. For
being wide (with joy), cf. Isa 60:5.
53. As for reading a bicolon as opposed to a tricolon (so MT), see Lewis 1994: 27–29. The
various textual witnesses suggest that originally there were two variant bicolons (see
note 49).
54. MT’s tarbû and tĕdabbĕrû seem to be ancient variants, each followed by gĕbōhâ. For
additional witnesses and discussion, see Lewis 1994: 29.
55. Most translators translate the singular “mouth” due to the singular Hebrew form
mippîkem. The Hebrew is a collective. The subject is plural, as seen in the second-
person masculine plural suffix as well as the second-person masculine plural verbs.
56. Or “indeed.” One could argue that kî is a prosaizing addition, yet it is attested in all the
witnesses.
57. Here ʾēl dĕʿôt may mean “an all-knowing God” (so NAB, JPS). Such is the nuance of
the same epithet at Qumran. For further discussion, see Lewis 1994: 24 nn. 23, 30.
58. The various textual witnesses give evidence of both active and passive constructions.
We read the active here along with LXXB, Syr-Hex, and OL, yet alternatively one
872 Notes
could read the passive “by him deeds are weighed” (lô nitkĕnû ʿălilôt) with MT (Qere)
and Syr. See further Lewis 1994: 30–31.
59. Rather than repointing as qāšōt (a rare masculine byform of the feminine q̌ĕšātōt) to
agree with the MT’s ḥattîm, as some scholars argue (see Lewis 1994: 32 for bibliog-
raphy), it seems preferable to reconstruct an original singular verb (ḥattâ) that was
later changed to the plural by attraction to gibbōrîm.
60. This verse has a long history of interpretation with wide-ranging suggestions. The
reconstruction here (which argues against the existence of a ḥdl II and repoints
MT’s ʿad as ʿōd) is based on Lewis 1985, summarized in Lewis 1994: 33–34.
61. Alternatively, “a mother of children” (see Lewis 1994: 35).
62. From a poetic standpoint, the preterite verb wayyāʿal, while lectio difficilior, hardly
makes sense. Perhaps one should reconstruct yaʿl<eh> on graphic grounds (confu-
sion with the hs in the following yhwh or the preceding mĕḥayyeh?).
63. On the close parallel with Psalm 113 and questions of borrowing and dating, see
Lewis 1994: 36.
64. Reading nĕdîbê ʿam as opposed to MT’s nĕdîbîm based on LXXB and Syr-Hex as
well as on Ps 113:8, which corresponds closely with our passage. Ps 113:8 exhibits
two true variant readings, not merely expansionist readings. MT’s reading may
have been influenced by the preceding ʿim. For additional discussion, see Lewis
1994: 37.
65. G. J. Hamilton (personal communication) has suggested that we may have here the
older verbal force of hwh in the Hiphil and an emphatic l. Thus one could conceivably
translate “Indeed, he brought the pillars of the earth into being,” which would be a
much more powerful description of the creation going on in this verse. It would also
form a nice parallel to 8f.
66. 4QSama has a variant reading: drk ḥ[sydw], “the way of [his] fai[thful ones]” (cf.
Prov 2:8).
67. The LXX and 4QSama (partially) attest to another couplet that appears to be a sec-
ondary addition. It reads:
He grants the vow to the vower, nōtēn neder lannōdēr

He blesses the years of the just one. wa-yĕbārek šānôt ṣaddîq
Freedman proposes reading šānôt ṣaddîq as a double accusative (“he blesses the
righteous with years, i.e., long life”), as opposed to a construct chain. See Lewis
1994: 37–40 for discussion and bibliography.
68. The reason that this verse does not form a consistent thought progression following
9cd is that originally it seems to have followed 9ab (see following textual note).
69. On the reconstruction of mî qādôš ka-yhwh (based on LXXB and 4QSama [partially]),
see note 49 and Lewis 1994: 27–29, 41.
70. Alternatively, “against them (the adversaries of vs. 10a) he thunders” (so MT’s
ʿālāyw). The reading of ʿēlî, “the Exalted One,” has had many advocates dating back to
Nyberg. For full discussion with bibliography, see Lewis 1994: 41–42.
71. This verb occurs previously in vv. 1b, 7b, and 8b. These four occurrences leave little
doubt that √rwm is the theme verb of the poem.
Notes 873
72. There is a long history (dating at least back to Duhm) of scholars, being uncomfort-
able with miqdāš in the present passage, emending to read otherwise (e.g., môqēš,
“snare,” or mĕqaššer, “conspirator”). The later emendation results in Yahweh, to
borrow Wildberger’s (1991: 354) chapter heading, becoming “the True Conspirator”
(cf. too Blenkinsopp 2000: 241). Such a textual overreach (there is no support in the
versions) is unwarranted. Even more unaccountable, the MT’s dramatic and pow-
erful expression “Him you shall regard as holy” (ʾōtô taqdîšû)—what we consider
key to the entire passage—is also emended without textual warrant to “with him you
should conspire” (ʾittô taqširû). If anything, it would be more likely that our poet is
playing off these words (qešer, qāšer, taqdîšû, miqdāš).
Oswalt (1986: 233) aptly critiques: “While God is sometimes seen as the ultimate
source of tragedy and disaster (Isa 45:7), he is not depicted as doing so in a devious,
conspiratorial manner.”
73. Both Propp (2006: 689) and Haran (1978: 187–188) document the various references
to “the lethal aura surrounding holiness.”
74. On Yahweh’s “plantation” in Exodus 15:17 and Jerusalem references, see Propp
1999: 569–571.
75. The translation of option B is both consistent with the dominant theme of the book of
Hosea, and the immediate context where just prior to this passage Israel’s fortresses
are promised to be destroyed, its mothers and children violated, and its king utterly
cut off (Hosea 10:14–15), with a sword raging against God’s people who persist in
turning away from him (Hosea 11:6–7). Immediately following our passage Yahweh
is described as roaring like a lion (cf. Qudshu the lion) and Israel as deceitful and
lying (Hosea 11:10, 12:1 [Eng 11:10, 12]). The reference in Hosea 11:9 to Yahweh
as the Holy One coming in judgment “into the city” (bĕʿîr) reads quite naturally in
option B’s translation. (Contrast the emendation to bāʿēr [“burning”/“in wrath”] in
option A.)
The weakness of option B is its reading of three occurrences of an asseverative (em-
phatic) lʾ where in each instance the MT reads (mistakenly, according to option B) the
negative lōʾ. The use of asseverative l/lʾ in biblical Hebrew is treated only briefly, if at
all, in most grammars (cf. Waltke and O’Connor 1990: §11.2.10i; Joüon and Muraoka
1991: §164g). The most complete linguistic study is Huehnergard 1983, with older
works including Whitley 1975 and Nötscher 1953. In addition to its use in Akkadian,
Huehnergard (1983: 581–584) documents instances in the Amorite and Ugaritic data
and, rarely, in biblical Hebrew. While not discounting the possibility that an original
asseverative l/lʾ could have been read by the Masoretes as the negative lōʾ (1983: 590
n. 191), from Huehnergard’s data we would expect a proclitic l-rather than an inde-
pendent (non-proclitic) particle. This is not to say that option B is impossible, just
that the best examples of an independent (non-proclitic) particle lʾ misinterpreted
by the Masoretes as the negative lōʾ are the famously difficult Amos 7:14 and Job 9:33.
For representative scholars advocating such interpretations of these two passages, see
Richardson 1966 and Clines 1989: 220, 243.
76. I am following McCarter (1980a: 102, 104), who retroverts the LXX to read bĕmō-
deber in preference over MT’s bammidbār.
874 Notes
77. It is common to find scholars (e.g., Levine 1993: 174) viewing the presence of the
Levites here as a later interpolation, and some support may be found from Josephus,
who makes no reference to them in recounting this very episode (Antiquities VI.1).
McCarter (1980a: 131, 136–137) puts forth the attractive suggestion that the lack of
Levites (who are officially sanctioned to handle the Ark) in the original tale is the
reason for the deaths of the Beth-Shemeshites in 1 Sam 6:19 (cf. 1 Chr 13:2–7; 15:2–
15). Here too Josephus adds support in explicitly noting that the Beth-Shemeshites’
lack of priestly status occasioned their deaths. For verse 19, McCarter suggests that
the reading of bny yknyhw, “sons of Jeconiah,” found in LXXB may be a graphic cor-
ruption of an original bny hkhnym, “sons of the priests.” Thus McCarter (1980: 128)
translates: “But no members of the priesthood had joined the celebration with the
men of Beth-Shemesh when they saw the ark of Yahweh, and so he [Yahweh] struck
down seventy of the people.” The immediate mention of Eleazar (likely a Levite) then
being consecrated (qiddĕšû) to care for Yahweh’s Ark in 1 Sam 7:1 also supports this
scenario. (On Eleazar’s consecration [as a priest?], see page 654 and note 242.)
In contrast, Tsumura (2007: 219, 221) retains the MT as it is (i.e., without any no-
tion of interpolation) by viewing 1 Sam 6:15 a reversal of “the temporal order” of the
previous verse. In other words, for Tsumura, the purpose of verse 15 (which is chron-
ologically earlier than verse 14) is to let us know that “on the one hand” the Levites are
the ones who manipulated the Ark, while “on the other hand” the Beth-Shemeshites
offered the sacrifices “probably by the hand of priests.” While such a harmonization
avoids suggesting that we have a later interpolation, it comes across as special pleading.
Whether one prefers the approach of McCarter or Tsumura, it must be underscored
that text-critically the phenomenon of interpolation is a historical reality.
As for the death of the Beth-Shemeshites in 1 Sam 6:19, Tsumura (2007: 226)
reasons that their offense was “looking into” the Ark (i.e., actually opening the Ark).
78. For representative views regarding the death of the Beth-Shemeshites, see note 77. In
1 Sam 6:19, the number of the people killed is listed as 70, followed by what seems to
be a gloss of 50,000 (!), a number with no basis in historical reality for the number of
inhabitants of Beth-Shemesh. Either this expression is meant to designate a subset of
the people at large (“one fifth of the clan?”; cf. Tsumura 2007: 227) or its exaggeration
is intended to underscore the lethality of the Ark.
79. 1 Chr 13:10 clearly states this rationale, while ʿal-hašal in 2 Sam 6:7 is murky. See the
text-critical analysis by McCarter (1984: 165). See too McCarter’s (2008a: 88) study of
how the Anger of Yahweh can operate hypostatically.
80. Levine’s final comment, based on Num 4.15, does not square with 1 Kgs 2:26, which
says that the priest Abiathar carried the ark. For additional priestly transport, cf. 1
Sam 14:18; 1 Chr 13:2–3; 15:11–15.
81. Technically, the Ark itself was not “seen” (and certainly not to be touched), for ac-
cording to a priestly tradition in Num 4:5–6, when they break camp to travel with
the portable Ark, Aaron and his sons wrap the Ark with the three coverings, the
pārōket curtain, (dolphin?-) skin, and blue cloth (cf. Haran 1978: 158, 178; Levine
1993: 166).
82. The tabernacle material in Exod 25–31, 35–40 is typically viewed as “the parade ex-
ample of the Priestly Source” (thus Propp 2006: 365–366), yet for Exod 25:8, compare
Notes 875
Knohl’s (1995: 63) observation that “the use of the word miqdāš as a synonym for the
parallel word miškān is never found in PT [the Priestly Torah], but is common in HS
[the Holiness School].”
83. On the debate about whether P’s use of škn represents a technical term (“to tabernacle,
to tent”—so Cross) or simply refers to divine residence (“to dwell”—so Mettinger),
see Cross 1973: 299–300 and Mettinger 1982b: 90–97.
84. Sommer 2001: 41–63. For Sommer’s use of Otto elsewhere, see Chapter Seven, p. 337.
85. See page 621, where the kappōret in Lev 16:2 marks the place of clouded theophany
with its potential lethality on the Day of Atonement/Purgation.
86. See Williamson 2006: 46 and Williamson’s response (2001: 30–31) to Loretz.
87. W. Schmidt 1962; cf. 1983: 152–156. Wildberger (1991: 24–25) also refers to Ugaritic
ʾIlu as holy, building on the work of Procksch.
88. Cf. Ps 68:20–22 (Eng 68:19–20); Hab 3:3; Ps 89:8 (Eng 89:7); and Kuntillet ʿAjrud
inscription 4.2.
89. Granted, our understanding is predicated on the reading of Yahweh rather than
ʾĕlōhîm. See note 17.
90. Due to the mention of El in this verse, we have privileged these El locations. Cf.
Chapter Four, pp. 85–101. One could of course see the mention of plural sanctuaries
as a reference to the various locales of Yahweh worship known both from biblical
texts (e.g., Seir, Edom, Teman, Sinai, Shiloh, Hebron, Zion) and from the epigraphic
data from Kuntillet ʿAjrud (e.g., Yahweh of Teman, Yahweh of Samaria). Cf. McCarter
1987; Hutton 2010b; Bean forthcoming.
91. For the methodological dilemma of using Yahweh-Elyon and El-Elyon traditions, see
Chapter Four, pp. 90–95. If we add in places in the Elohisitic Psalter where it seems
that yhwh originally stood in place of the MT’s secondary ʾĕlōhîm, then the following
Yahweh//Elyon passages should be included: Ps 46:5; 57:3; 73:1, 11; 78:56; 83:19 (Eng
83:18).
92. Though much later than the pre-Israelite religion that Schmidt, Wildberger, and
Williamson have in mind, Second Isaiah astutely gives voice to this odd pairing. Isa
42:13–16 juxtaposes contradictory similes: Yahweh the battling warrior cries out as a
woman in the throes of labor (see Chapter Eight, p. 491).
93. On the Davidic aspects of Psalm 89, see Chapter Eight, pp. 455–458, Chapter Nine,
p. 499.
94. See note 77 on whether the Levites are original or secondary to the original text.
95. On the use of u to introduce a causal clause, see Moran 1992: 220 n. 4. We follow
Moran (1992: 218) and Rainey (1996a: 2: 291; 2015: 698–699) in seeing qadišū as
referring to holiness, as opposed to CAD Q (p. 50), which tentatively suggests trans-
lating qadišū as “angry (?)” based solely on context. For contextualizing Rib-Adda’s
numerous letters to Pharaoh, see Liverani 1979a: 3–13.
96. For the text of KTU 1.119 (= RS 24.266) we are following Pardee 2000: 661–685,
fig. 23; 2002: 50–56, 149–150, and readers are referred there for a full analysis in-
cluding epigraphy and bibliography of older works. See too the detailed study by del
Olmo Lete (1999: 292–306). The two primary areas where KTU has different readings
are in line 28, where KTU has [a]l, not a partial hm (so Pardee 2002a: 150; 2000: 664),
and line 31, where KTU has dkr, not [b]kr.
876 Notes
97. KTU 1.119.33′; cf. too the qdš sanctuary of ʾIlu in line 6.
98. See too the ascent language in Psalms 120– 134, the “song of ascents” (šîr
hammaʿălôt), and elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible (see Crow 1996).
99. The translation here follows Fleming’s (1992a: 158–162) detailed treatment of the
“day of sanctification” (ūmi qadduši). See too Fleming’s (1998: 404) later treatment,
where he uses the language of “consecration.” On Emar’s Installation of the High
Priestess, the mašʾartu installation, and zukru festivals, see pp. 626–629.
100. As a part of the Sinai complex, the material here is, in Ska’s (2006: 213) assessment,
“one of the most complicated passages in the entire Pentateuch.” Blenkinsopp
(1992: 183–197), who provides a nice overview of the sources of the entire Sinai
narrative, notes that the opening sections in Exod 19 “provide a first hint of the dif-
ficulties inherent in source criticism” (1992: 187; cf. too Blum 1990: 45–99).
For representativive source/redaction analysis of our passage and its subunits,
see Beyerlin 1965: 1–11; Dozeman 1989: 87–106; and Propp 2006: 143–145, 150–
154. For Exod 19:10–25, Beyerlin sees Exod 19:1–2a as a P framework with Exod
19:2b–25 “bear[ing] witness to an older tradition” that he identifies as a mixture of
J and E. Dozeman sees significant priestly redaction (Exod 19:11b,12ab–13, 15b,
16aa, 18, 20–25). Propp (2006: 143) sees Exod 19:10–15 as a unit that is “prob-
ably J” with 19:16–24 being a mixture of J and E material. Baden (2009: 155–156,
270 n. 26) likewise has Exod 19:10–20 as a mixture of J and E. See too the work of
Van Seters (2003b: 53), who sees Exod 19:12–13a, 20–25 as P interpolations. For
responses to Van Seters, see Wright 2004 and Levinson 2008: 284–295.
101. For a summary of performance models and ritual theory, see Bell 1997: 61–89,
esp. 72–76.
102. See notes 100, 105 and 106.
103. Though historians of religion and social scientists regularly note the importance of
integrating sacred time and sacred space, Calaway (2010) argues that the study of
time is often subordinated to the study of space. Propp (2006: 532) argues that time,
like space, “can possess graduated Holiness.”
104. For ritual time, see Gorman 1990. For the important period of “seven days,” see
Klingbeil 1997. For the festival calendar, see Wagenaar 2005.
105. The use of the šōpār horn here (blown by whom?) is notable for its contrast with
P’s/H’s use of various priestly (ḥăṣōṣĕrâ, tĕrûʿâ, šōpār) horn blasts (Num 10:10;
Lev 23:24; 25:9; Milgrom 2001: 2016–2018). On Lev 23, compare the argument
between Milgrom (2001: 2056) and Knohl (1995: 8–52) on whether this material
is H or P.
The šōpār horn together with Moses’ speaking with God (Exod 19:19) contrasts
with the lack of Moses speaking to God in P (Knohl 1995: 137; 1996: 20) as well
as P’s so-called sanctuary of silence. Here see Milgrom 1991: 19, 60–61 and Knohl
1995: 148–149; 1996, both building on the work of Kaufmann; cf. Ps 65:2 (Eng 65:1).
106. An overview of this material from Leviticus and Numbers (with specific bib-
lical references) can be found in André 1995: 40–41, to which I am indebted. The
references include: Lev 6:20[27]; 8:7; 11:25, 28, 40; 13:6, 34, 54–56, 58; 14:8, 47;
15:5–8, 10–13, 17, 21, 27; 16:26, 28; 17:15–16; 19:10, 21; Numbers 8:7; 19:7–8, 10,
Notes 877
19, 21; 31:24. See too Ruane’s (2007) more extensive treatment, which discusses the
overlap of laundering and bathing.
107. Frymer-Kensky 1983: 401; cf. Plaskow 1990 and Propp 2006: 163. Compare too the
narrative between David and Ahimelek, the chief priest of the sanctuary at Nob,
in 1 Sam 21:2–7 (Eng 21:1–6), which mentions sexual abstinence as a rationale for
David and his men being allowed to consume “the bread of holiness” (leḥem qōdeš).
108. Exod 19:12–13 is most curious. It contains the warning for the people not to ascend
the mountain, as also mentioned in Exod 19:23. In addition, it includes a provi-
sion that they are not even to touch (ngʿ) the edge of the mountain. Should they (or
even an animal) do so, they suffer a death penalty. Moreover, the carrying out of the
death penalty must be done at a distance (by stoning or via arrows) to avoid physical
touch (ngʿ) and to prevent the enforcers themselves from trespassing into the re-
stricted sacred space. As Dozeman and Van Seters have pointed out (see note 100),
this material certainly seems to be a later P interpolation. P is especially concerned
with contagion that comes from touching (ngʿ) the unclean.
109. Building on the comments of the medieval Nachmanides (Ramban), both Milgrom
(1991: 142–143; 1970: 44–46) and Sarna (1991: 105) argue that Mt. Sinai serves
as the archetype for the Tabernacle and thus the latter can be used to reconstruct
gaps in the former. Methodologically, Milgrom and Sarna are also representative of
those who use the variant Mt. Sinai tradition in Exod 24 to reconstruct gaps in Exod
19. For summaries of the source-critical discussions of Exod 24, see Blenkinsopp
(1992: 189–192) and Propp (2006: 147–148). Blenkinsopp calls Exod 24 “the pas-
sage most resistant to the usual source-critical procedures.”
Thus for Milgrom and Sarna (and many other scholars; e.g., Propp 2006: 300–301),
there are three gradations of holy space on Mt. Sinai—the summit of the mountain,
the cloud-covered slopes of the mountain, and the foot of the mountain—correlating
to the Tabernacle’s tripartite division of inner shrine (or Holy of Holies), outer
sanctum (or Holy Place), and courtyard. These in turn correlate with the gradations
of social positioning of (1) Moses/the high priest, (2) priests and elders, and (3) the
people.
Comparatively, it is understandable to accentuate the similarities of these two
traditions, yet methodologically the differences should also be studied prior to any
conflated understanding. For example, George (2009: 128–129) has argued that
where the Mt. Sinai tradition uses vertical privileging to showcase rank (the higher
the ascent on the mountain, the higher the social and cultic status), the “concep-
tual space” of the tabernacle determines hierarchy through horizontal privileging
(the further westward into the Tabernacle, the higher the social and cultic status).
Another difference is the treatment of elders. A generic mention of “the elders of the
people” appears in Exod 19:7 (where Moses sets the commandments of Yahweh be-
fore them), yet they are totally lacking from the ritual narrative in Exodus 19:10–25.
In contrast, in Exodus 24 “seventy elders” are much more of a focal point, making
the ascent up the mountain (alongside Moses, Aaron, and Aaron’s two sons), where
they then have the privilege of “seeing” and banqueting with the God of Israel (Exod
24:9–11). Conflating the traditions in their reconstructions of the ritual narrative in
878 Notes
Exodus 19:10–25, Milgrom (1991: 142–143) and Sarna (1991: 105) include the elders
as making a partial ascent up the mountain along with the priests. At the other end of
the spectrum is George (2009: 127–129, fig 4.3), who has the social hierarchy divided
into four quadrants but, due to his focus on the Tabernacle (and not Mt. Sinai), leaves
the elders completely out of his social taxonomy. The elders makes no appearance in
the two major Tabernacle passages (Exod 25–31; Exod 35–40), yet they do occur in
Lev 9:1, which George (2009: 1–2 n. 2) views as “less central” to his argument.
110. The Sinai narrative in Exodus 24 is equally curious. Though Aaron is grouped
with his two sons (Nadab and Abhiu), none of the three is here called a priest. The
priestly activity that does occur involves Moses’ altar building and blood manipula-
tion, and the ʿōlōt offerings and šĕlāmîm sacrifices carried out by “young men of the
people of Israel” (naʿărê bĕnê yiśrāʾēl; Exod 24:4–8).
111. Contrast the notable lack of any mention of either qdš consecration or divine le-
thality in the Mt. Sinai ascent of Exod 24. Granted, prior to the ascent Moses builds
an altar for sacrifice, but surprisingly, it is “young men of the people of Israel”
(naʿărê bĕnê yiśrāʾēl), not consecrated priests, who carry out the sacrifice, the blood
of which Moses then manipulates (Exod 24:4–8). Another surprising difference in
this ascent tradition is the addition of Aaron’s two sons (Nadab and Abihu) and sev-
enty elders who together with Moses and Aaron are able “to see the God of Israel”
and eat and drink (wayyirʾû ʾēt ʾĕlōhê yiśrāʾēl . . . wayyeḥĕzû ʾet-hāʾĕlōhîm wayyōʾkĕlû
wayyištû; Exod 24:9–11).
112. Milgrom (1991: 557) is commenting on Leviticus 8 (on which see the many
references that follow), yet his comments resonate with Exod 19:10–25. For addi-
tional discussion about whether Moses was considered a priest, see pp. 617–619.
113. Aaron likewise has no consecration ritual in Exod 19, yet in contrast to Moses,
Aaron elsewhere undergoes considerable consecration and ordination rites.
114. Though the MT is easily understood, its cryptic nature has led to it being rewritten
by the Syriac (“Moses his servant”) and Vulgate (“Moses and his people”), and
omitted by the LXX. The MT is lectio difficilior.
115. There are two variant readings attesting to either Moses alone as Yahweh’s shepherd
(rōʿeh ṣōʾnô; LXX, Tg, Syr, Hbw mss) or together with Aaron (rōʿê ṣōʾnô; MT). See
Paul 2012: 574; Oswalt 1998: 602 n. 44; and Barthélemy 1986: 439–441. Due to the
consistent emphasis placed on Moses alone in the present context, we prefer the
former.
116. The subject of the singular verb yizkōr in Isa 63:11 has been taken to be God due to
the previous verse or the people, in line with the following verses, where they are the
clear speaker.
117. Whatever variant one chooses to read in Isa 63:11 (see note 115), Moses remains
Yahweh’s shepherd, either by himself or with Aaron at his side.
118. Milgrom (2007: 851) speaks of an “unbridgeable gap” between divine holiness and
human attempts at holiness. In writing of P’s picture of society, Rooke (2000: 14)
underscores the divide between “God’s holiness . . . [and] human sinfulness and
unholiness . . . [that has] to be reconciled . . . if the cultic community is to be mean-
ingful; reconciliation is achieved by stipulating ‘degrees of holiness.’ ” It needs
Notes 879
to be noted that this is a concern not only of priestly writers and editors. Propp
(2006: 151), in commenting on the redactor who combined J and E traditions about
Sinai/Horeb, notes how “the cumulative picture is of a delicate and complicated
process whereby Israel becomes covenantly bound to Yahweh, a gradual bridging of
the nigh-unbridgeable gulf between the divine and the earthly.”
119. To these priestly voices one must add Deuteronomy’s notion of election of Israel as a
holy people. See p. 648–649.
120. E.g., Levine 1989: 49; Milgrom 1991: 556. A case in point is Rooke’s (2000) compre-
hensive look at priesthood in ancient Israel, which ignores Ps 99:6 altogether.
121. Reexamining the exact nature of the priestly prebends, Milgrom (1991: 558) quali-
fies that Moses, according to P, “was the interim priest only by necessity and divine
dispensation.”
The study by Gray (1971: 196), originally published in 1925, also emphasized
how “the Mosaic priesthood . . . was according to P the priesthood of a week.” Yet in
contrast to Milgrom, Gray (1971: 210) envisions Moses as a priest “in early Hebrew
tradition” due to embracing a version of the Midanite hypothesis. In Gray’s words,
one can detect “behind the narrative of Exodus 18 a tradition of a Midianite priest
instructing Moses and initiating him into the priesthood.” For a fuller discussion of
the Midianite hypothesis, see Chapter Six, pp. 271–279.
122. The exception that proves the rule is the illicit example of King Ahaz (2 Kgs 16:13).
123. See Cross 1973: 195–215; Halpern 1976; and Leuchter 2012. Cf. van der Toorn
1996b: 302–306 and Hutton 2010a: 160–161.
124. No single word can translate Hebrew zār, which involves culturally and cultically
laden dynamics of being “foreign,” “inappropriate,” and “forbidden.” For P, note es-
pecially the reference to Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu offering “foreign/illicit fire”
(ʾēš zārâ) in Lev 10:1–3, for which they die (on which see Chapter Seven, pp. 370–
372). Blending in the traditions of Num 3:10 and Num 18:7, it is conspicuous that
the “outsiders who die” are the very sons of the high priest!
For a lengthy analysis of the term zār and the formula “the encroacher shall be
put to death” (hazzār haqqārēb yummat), see the classic treatment in Milgrom
1970: 5–59.
125. Bell (1992: 94–117), in her study of “the ritual body,” summarizes the most influ-
ential voices that have promoted the “body” and the “socialized body” as cross-
discipline, analytical categories. Bell includes Bourdieu, Comaroff, Douglas,
Durkheim, Foucault, Gilbert, Gubar, Hertz, Lakoff, Mauss, Rappaport, Showalter,
Smith, and Turner. See too the discussion of priestly consecration as rites of pas-
sage by Milgrom (1991: 538, 566–569), Klingbeil (1997: 510–513), and Grabbe
(2003: 213) as they interact with the works of van Gennep and Turner. To Bell’s list
should be added the archaeological study of status, and especially mortuary data
that correlates the expenditure of energy and resources in treating the dead body
with the ranking of social status. Here see Wason 1994, building on Tainter 1977.
Turning to the clothing of the body, see Roach and Eicher 1965; Schwarz 1979;
Cordwell and Schwarz 1979; Hansen 2004; and Batten 2010. Where the former are
anthropological in nature, Batten includes literature pertaining to the ancient Near
880 Notes
East, including biblical texts. See too Matthews’ (1995) study of the anthropology
of clothing as marking changes in social status in the Joseph narrative, Prouser’s
(1996) depiction of the symbolic use of clothing in the David and Saul narratives,
and several studies of the gendered use of garments in Genesis 37–39 by Bal
(1987: 89–103), Furman (1989), and Huddlestun (2002).
126. This is not to overlook the mention of ritual washing with Moses himself washing
the bodies of Aaron and his sons (Exod 29:4; 40:12; Lev 8:6). Yet our preserved
sources minimize washing in contrast to clothing and anointing.
127. On kābôd in P, see Chapter Seven, pp. 368–373.
128. For a detailed description of priestly vestments, see Haran 1985: 165–174. For the
function of these garments in ritual contexts, see Haran 1985: 210–215. My treat-
ment of this material is very much indebted to Haran. See too the treatment of
vestments and their symbolism in Rooke 2000: 16–20.
129. For an artistic rendering of the two contrasting vestments, see Propp 2006: 434
fig. 16. Batten (2010: 151) remarks: “If [the priests’] garments were made according
to the biblical instructions, they must have been spectacular.”
See too Golani’s (2013: 74–75) comments about the cultic significance of jewelry
set against a broader archaeological discussion of jewelry from the Iron Age II Levant.
130. Specifically, Aaron’s role here is “to bear the people’s transgression” so that they may
find favor before Yahweh as they consecrate as their holy gifts (yaqdîšû bĕnê yiśrāʾēl
lĕkol-mattĕnōt qodšêhem; Exod 28:38). For speculations about the precise meaning
of this expression, see Propp 2006: 448–449.
131. In contrast to the usage in P, two narratives in 1 Sam suggest a royal involvement
with using the Urim and Thummim and presumably outside of an inner sanctum.
1 Sam 23:6–12 is cryptic in that it mentions David using the ephod yet without any
explicit mention of the Urim and Thummim. Yet the context is clear in noting two
crucial factors: David summons Abiathar, the (high) priest who has custody of
the ephod (and outside of a temple context), and binary questions are posed that
Yahweh then answers. The logical interpretation is that David employed Abiathar
as high priest to ask binary questions of Yahweh as he manipulated the Urim and
Thummim objects. The same scenario is found in 1 Sam 30:7–8. Once again David
asks questions of Yahweh through the agency of Abiathar, the (high) priest who
possessed the ephod that seemingly contained the Urim and the Thummim divina-
tory objects. These two explicit mentions of David employing Abiathar suggest that
a similar situation lies behind David inquiring of Yahweh in 1 Sam 23:1–5, which
elliptically makes no mention of David’s use of personnel or means (cf. too 2 Sam
2:1; 5:23–24).
In contrast, Saul uses the Urim (only) in 1 Sam 28:6 with no mention of any
priestly involvement. Such usage could suggest a customary royal practice, or it
could be DtrH’s attempt to suggest that Saul is carrying out illicit cult similar to the
illicit necromancy in the narrative.
In short, biblical monarchs were certainly involved as religious officiants (see
Chapter Nine, pp. 498–503), yet from the meager data at hand, the prerogative of
using the Urim and Thummim seems to have been that of the (high) priest alone,
Notes 881
yet one that could be used outside of the sanctuary. This makes its occurrence in
Deut 33:8 quite noteworthy. See pp. 637–639.
132. On the rationale for having bells and who hears them, see Propp 2006: 445–446.
133. My late colleague Raymond Westbrook and I have addressed the identity of the ʾîš
ʿittî in Lev 16:21 (see Westbrook and Lewis 2008). The hapax legomenon is often
translated as “a man in waiting” or “a man designated for the task,” renderings that
do little to advance a meaning that is appropriate to the context. Based on Hittite
and Greek scapegoat rituals and on a reanalysis of the etymology of ʿittî, we argue
that the ʾîš ʿittî refers to a criminal acting as “a buffer between the high priest and the
sin-ridden scapegoat.”
134. Cf. the perfumed/spiced oil (šmn rqḥ) used as cultic offerings at Ugarit (e.g., KTU
1.41.21, 1.148.21).
135. For additional examination of “sancta contagion/ contamination,” see Haran
1985: 175–177 and Milgrom 1991: 443–456; 1992.
136. The literary relationship of Lev 8 and Exod 29 has occasioned much discussion
concerning which tradition is derivative from the other and how they both relate
to Exod 40. These tangled discussions are beyond the scope of the treatment here.
For entry into this debate with secondary sources, see Watts 2013: 443–448; Feder
2011: 43–53; Nihan 2007: 124–147; Klingbeil 2000: 231 n. 3; 1998: 56–96, 104–
107; Fleming 1998: 408–413, esp. 411–412; and Milgrom 1991: 545–549. See too
Levine’s (1965: 310–314) demarcation of Lev 8 as a descriptive text versus Exod 29 as
a prescriptive text.
To make matters even more complex, note too how Knohl (1995: 65–68, 104–
105) assigns Exod 29:38–46 and Exod 40 to H.
137. See Lev 16:21; 24:14; Num 8:10–12. For summaries of the various ways to interpret
the hand-laying ritual, see Wright 1986; Milgrom 1991: 151–153; Propp 2006: 457–
458; and Gilders 2013: 16–17.
138. See Propp 2006: 466–467 on the “virtue” of translating a polysemous kpr.
139. Again we need to note that Knohl (1995: 65– 68, 104–105) assigns Exod
29:38–46 to H.
140. Exod 29:36 briefly mentions the anointing of the altar. but not its paraphernalia.
Milgrom (1991: 513–516, 545; followed by Feder 2011: 45–48) argues that Lev 8:10–
11 is an interpolation from Exod 40:9–11. Thus he concludes: “Lev 8 in its final form
is subsequent not only to Exod 29 but also to Exod 40.” Grabbe (2003: 209) posits
that what we have here is simply evidence of “the ancient writer’s logic”: “How can
Aaron offer sacrifices as part of his consecration ceremony if the sacrificial system
has not already been initiated?”
141. For the rationale of the sevenfold anointing, cf. Milgrom 1991: 515–517.
142. The blood daubing on the right ear, thumb, and big toe has been seen as either purif-
icatory (so Milgrom 1991: 528–529) or as an indexical sign (so Gilders 2004: 78–82,
96–104). For a summary of these positions, see Feder 2011: 44–45, which sides with
Gilders.
As for blood on the altar, Meshel (2013) has challenged the consensus that sees
the act of blood manipulation to result in the blood landing on the side walls of
882 Notes
the altar due to the Hebrew expression using sābîb (zāraq [ʾet haddām] . . . ʿal-
hammizbēaḥ sābîb). Instead Meshel argues that the blood lands on the perimeter
of the upper surface of the altar (cf. Ezek 43:18; Deut 12:27; 2 Kgs 16:12–13).
143. Milgrom (1991: 525) see the comprehensive atonement function of the altar in
Lev 8:15b as divergent from the “limited . . . immediate function of the consecra-
tory sacrifices” in Exodus 29:33, 36–37. See too Feder’s (2011: 48–53) diachronic
reconstruction.
144. See note 124. The narrative in Lev 8–10 does address the zār with respect to
the Nadab and Abihu incident in Lev 10:1–3, on which see Chapter Seven,
pp. 370–372.
145. Lev 8:15 also includes putting the bull’s blood on the horns and base of the altar
in echo of Exod 29:12, yet with the added remark that by such ritual Moses
“consecrated it to make atonement for it” (wayĕqaddĕšēhû lĕkappēr ʿālāyw).
There is a debate about whether the rituals described in Lev 8 would have been
repeated on every day of the week. Milgrom (1991: 538) advocates this position. In
contrast, see Klingbeil 1997: 512, which provides additional bibliography.
146. Grabbe (2003: 213 n. 12) does not speculate on the nature of the danger.
Milgrom (1991: 569), following Victor Turner, speculates that the nature of
the peril may be “the anarchical, amorphous status of the consecrands,” or, fol-
lowing Mary Douglas, that the danger lies in “the anomalous position of the
consecrands . . . that defies classification.” Elsewhere, Milgrom (1991: 538) is
more confident in stating that the danger to the priests during this liminal stage
of consecration has to do with being exposed to human sin and impurity—hence
their confinement within holy space. In a related discussion on the pollution of
the sanctuary by human contamination, Milgrom (1991: 261) refers to “malefic
impurity.”
Propp (2006: 530–531), while writing on Exodus 29 (which does not mention
the possibility of death, as does Lev 8:35), nonetheless also explores this material
as a dangerous rite of passage. For Propp, the “ordination” (milluʾîm) ram—which
he translates “the Filling Ram”—is the key, for it does indeed die and its “blood
represents the priests’ own blood.” “The bloodied finger, toe and ear are symbolically
severed, which in turn symbolizes the priests’ death” (emphasis Propp). See further
Propp’s (2004) broader study of symbolic wounds.
147. See Chapter Seven, pp. 370–372.
148. See Chapter Nine, pp. 498–503, on the cultic role of kings in ancient Israel. Cf. too
the anointing of David as king, though without explicit mention of a pouring ritual
(1 Sam 16:13; 2 Sam 12:7). The anointing of David in Ps 89:21 (Eng 89:20) is partic-
ularly fascinating, with the ritual substance being referred to as “holy/consecrating
oil” (bĕšemen qodšî mĕšaḥtîv). For a much fuller analysis of royal anointing, in-
cluding ancient Near Eastern references, see Mettinger 1976: 185–232 and the older
Kutsch 1963.
149. The distribution of priestly cultic authority resonates with the distribution of judi-
cial authority, priestly and otherwise. See Chapter Nine, pp. 523–528, on the organi-
zation of early Israelite judiciaries.
Notes 883
150. For the enduring influence of Noth’s construction on later scholarship, see Fleming
1998: 401 n. 1; Klingbeil 2007: 65; and Watts 2013: 448–449. Martin Noth’s original
German edition, Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament, was published in 1957.
151. Fleming 1998: 405–408; cf. 1992a: 178–179. See too Mettinger 1976: 185–232.
152. Fleming 1992b includes an overview of the festivals at Emar that represent “deeply
rooted native Syrian traditions.”
153. On the Emar “days of sanctification,” see p. 608. The text describing the installation
of the high priestess of the storm god is Emar 369, for which there is a burgeoning
amount of research. See Arnaud 1986: 326–337; Dietrich 1989; and Fleming 1992a.
For a convenient translation, see Fleming 1997a: 427–431. For correspondences
with Lev 8, see Fleming 1998 and Klingbeil 1998.
See Fleming 1992: 71–198 for a detailed description of divine and human per-
sonnel (pp. 71–105) as well as the itinerary (pp. 105–119), the provisions (pp. 120–
157), specialized rites (pp. 157–173), and the progress of the priestess (pp. 173–198).
A sister text, the mašʾartu installation (Emar 370), describes the installation of a
priestess for the goddess Aštartu of Battle (ša taḫāzi). In what is preserved there is no
mention of an anointing ritual, though Arnaud (1986: 338, 341) reconstructs the be-
ginning to refer to “the day of sanctification” ([i-na u4-m]i qa-ad-du-ši), on which see
p. 608. See Arnaud 1986: 338–346; Fleming 1992: 98–99, 209–211, 229; 1992b: 54,
58–59. For specific mentions of Aštartu of Battle at Emar, see Smith 2014a: 196;
2014b: 56–57.
154. The double anointing via the pouring of oil on the head of the high priestess is
mentioned on day 1 and day 2 of the installation ritual. For the text, see Arnaud
1986: 326–327 and Fleming 1992: 10, 14, 49, 51. For discussion, see Fleming
1992: 174–179.
155. See Lewis 2006a: 343, where I provide bibliography and note my indebtedness to
Milgrom for material from both Evans-Pritchard and Bourdillon. See too Gilders’
(2004) comprehensive study of blood rituals in the Hebrew Bible. The debates be-
tween Gilders (2004, 2013) and Klawans (2006, 2011)—whose specifics are be-
yond the scope of the present treatment—have done the field a supreme service in
forcing interpreters to think through whether blood was used symbolically and/or
instrumentally.
156. For the primary texts of the zukru festival, see Emar 375 (for the shorter single-day
rite) and Emar 373 (for the longer seven-day festival). See Arnaud 1986: 350–371
and Fleming 2000: 233–267. For a convenient translation of the expanded ritual, see
Fleming 1997b: 431–436. See too the detailed study in Thames 2016.
157. For the specific texts dealing with oil and blood (Ìmeš [damu] and ÚŠmeš [šamnu])
and equating the sikkānu standing stone with deities, see Fleming 1998: 410 n. 42
and Michel 2013: 189, 192. Cf. the discussion of Hebrew maṣṣēbâ/maṣṣēbôt in
Chapter Five, pp. 169–196, and Chapter Seven, pp. 333–336.
158. Milgrom is followed by Gilders (2004: 103) and Feder (2011: 45). In addition,
Feder’s (2011) study underscores both the antiquity of blood rituals in indigenous
West Semitic religion of the Late Bronze Age as well as their Hurrian/Hittite her-
itage (esp. the zurki “blood” rituals imported from Kizzuwatna). It it hard to ignore
884 Notes
such significant material, no matter how one constructs the dating and develop-
ment of the Hebrew Bible’s various priestly traditions. On the Kizzuwatna rituals
and the use of blood in Hittite ritual, see respectively the foundational studies of
Miller (2004) and Beckman (2011) as well as the review of Feder by Mouton (2014).
159. H, or the Holiness Source/School/Code, is typically said to be found in Lev 17–26
and earmarked by its repeated use of the root qdš. For possible additional texts, see
the influential list in Knohl 1995: 104–106.
160. Knohl (1995: 69, 105, 192) sees Lev 11:44–45 and Num 15:40 also to be a part of the
Holiness School.
161. I here follow those scholars who see an etymological connection between the ʾiššeh–
offerings and the Hebrew word for fire (ʾēš), as opposed to those (e.g., Hoftijzer
1967; Milgrom 1991: 161–162; Rentdorff 2004: 63) who see these as food offerings
related to Ugaritic ʾtt. Thus ʾiššeh can refer to offerings that are incinerated. See
Eberhart 2002: 40–52, 361–381 and Watts 2013: 209–211 for balanced discussions
that include the readings of the versions.
162. See Chapter Seven, p. 288. For detailed summaries of the ambiguous phrase rêyaḥ
nîḥōaḥ, see Milgrom 1991: 162–163 and Watts 2013: 211–214. Cf. too Knohl’s
(1995: 128–137, 170–172) nuancing of the ways that P and H differ in using this
phrase. Where H is comfortable with anthropomorphic language, P tends to
suppress it.
163. See earlier on Exod 29:33–34, which also describes the holy nature of priestly food.
H (in Lev 21:10, 12), like P (in Exod 29:33), draws a harsh line prohibiting the “out-
sider” (zār) from eating the holy food of priests.
164. Our treatment is merely a sketch. See the fuller analyses of the Nazirites in Olyan
2000: 61; Knohl 1995: 160–162; Levine 1993: 229–235; Cartledge 1989; 1992: 18–
23; Mayer 1998; Milgrom 1990: 355–358; and Diamond 1997.
165. For scholars using the language of consecration, see Lundbom 2013: 931; de Hoop
1999: 217; Mayer 1998: 307–308; Westermann 1986: 241; Speiser 1964: 370. In con-
trast, Gunkel (1997: 461) argues that “the old meaning of nāzîr [that he translates as
‘Israel’s champion’] is to be accepted here, and not the later, weakened ‘consecrated,
noble, prince’ (Lam 4:7).” While the portrayal of Joseph presents no priestly role,
it does describe him as an intermediary with regard to dream interpretation
(Gen 37, 40–41) and nḥš divination through the use of a cup, perhaps suggesting
leconomancy (Gen 44:5, 15).
166. The use of bōšet, “shameful,” in Hos 9:10 is the common replacement of the name of
the deity Baal with a derogatory slur. See Andersen and Freedman 1980: 541 for the
speculation that the historical deity (the “baʿal,” i.e., lord) worshipped at Baal-Peor
may have been Yahweh of Midian.
167. On this figure, see Chapter Seven, pp. 349–350.
168. While the context of the MT clearly has to do with Samuel being a Nazirite, there
is no explicit use of the term nāzîr either in 1 Sam 1:11 or in 1 Sam 1:22. Many
translators (e.g., McCarter 1980a: 53–54, 56) restore nāzîr in 1 Sam 1:11 based on its
use in 4QSama and LXX and in 1 Sam 1:22 based on 4QSama (but not LXX). Other
translators (e.g., Tsumura 2007: 118, 125; Tsevat 1992) hold to the MT.
Notes 885
169. The MT of 1 Sam 1:11 mentions only the uncut hair provision, while the LXX and
4Qsama also include the intoxicants. Thus McCarter (1980a: 53–54) restores the
viticulture stipulation as “probably original,” while Tsumura (2007: 118) refrains.
Samuel’s mother being mistaken by Eli as being drunk precisely when she is making
her vow (1 Sam 1:13–15) surely plays into a Nazirite scenario.
170. The verb plʾ, used here in the C stem, occurs elsewhere in the D (Num 15:3, 8;
Lev 22:21) and C stems (Lev 27:2) for those undertaking a vow. See Cartledge
1989: 413 n. 12.
171. My reference to modern figures is heuristic only. Cartledge (1989: 410) critiques
those who simplistically equate conditional Nazirite vows with modern religious
vows that are “unconditional expressions of personal piety and simple devotion to
God.” For Cartledge (1989: 417), Nazirite vows were conditional promises “held
out in prospect of answered prayer.” Nazirite abstinence should be understood “as
future payment for present requests.” From this Cartledge extrapolates without
warrant that the motivations of all Nazirites vows were merely transactional: “the
Nazirites were not expressing their [unselfish] devotion so much as they were
paying their debts” (1989: 422). Such a broad conclusion is overly reductionist. We
simply do not know what was in the heart of these individuals. Just because a vow
is conditional does not imply anything one way or another about the sincerity of
an individual’s devotion. Cartledge (1989: 409) admits as much when he begins his
study by acknowledging that “there is no indication of what motivation lies behind
the taking of the vow.”
172. For fuller discussions of the incredibly complex and voluminous research on
priesthood and the Levites, see Wellhausen 1957: 121–167; Gray 1971: 179–270;
Gunneweg 1965; Cody 1969; Cross 1973: 195–215; Levenson 1976: 129–158;
Halpern 1976; Duke 1987, 1988; Nelson 1991, 1993; Rehm 1992; Levine 1993: 150–
151, 273–290, 423–432; Albertz 1994: 57–59, 219–223, 427–436; Grabbe 1995: 41–
65; 2003; 2004: 224–237; van der Toorn 1996b: 302–306; Dahmen 1996; Nurmela
1998; Blenkinsopp 1998; Knoppers 1999; 2003b; 2004: 820–826; Propp 1999: 231–
232; 2006: 565–574; McConville 1999; Rooke 2000; Schaper 2000; Sweeney 2001;
Péter-Contesse 2003; Liss 2006; Stackert 2007: 198–204; 2011; Leuchter 2007; 2012;
Na’aman 2008; McBride 2009; Hutton 2011a, 2011b; Leuchter and Hutton 2011;
Altmann 2011; Cook 2011; Watts 2013: 123–129; and Samuel 2014.
Na’aman (2008: 266 n. 67) writes that “the investigation of the origin of the Levites
has been treading water for many years, and neither new data nor new ideas have
been adduced in recent ties to move it forward.” In addition, one’s reconstruction
of the history of the priesthood is tied to one’s position on the nature of the various
sources and their dating. Grabbe (2004: 227) is astute in his assessment: “Although
scholars have tried [to date texts], there is usually a circularity in the process, with
a position about the development of the priesthood being the starting point rather
than the endpoint.”
Lastly, note Watts’ (2013: 129) appeal for sensitivity to rhetoric. Though Watts
underscores that there were clear “rivalries and conflicts between priests and
priestly families” not to mention “simmering Levite resentments,” he advises that
886 Notes
“interpreters should not confuse rhetorical creativity with the social divisions that
put such rhetoric to use.” Thus Watts (2013: 123) is of the opinion that the various
priestly traditions “do not contradict each other.”
173. Thus we find conclusions like Houtman’s (2000: 620, 666), that “in the Pentateuch in
its extant form, [Exod] 32:25–29 is evidently intended to legitimate the consecration
of Aaron and his sons as priests” (emphasis mine). In contrast, see the treatment of
Exod 32:25–29 that follows. See Houtman for various ways to unpack Aaron the
Levite vis-à-vis the Levites.
174. Albertz (1994: 58) writes: “Judges 17–18 offers a quite credible picture of the Levites
in the period before the state.”
175. On Judg 17–18 and family/household religion, see especially Ackerman 2008a: 129–
141. See too Chapter Eight.
176. On the oracular function of Levites, cf. too Exod 4:14–15, where Aaron “the Levite”
is the one chosen to serve as an oracular conduit to convey the words that Yahweh
speaks to Moses.
177. Source- critical discussions of Exod 32 have resulted, according to Houtman
(2000: 617), in “a hodgepodge of conceptions” (cf. Propp 2006: 148–149). The
verses that are relevant for the present discussion (Exod 32:26–29) are viewed as in-
tegral to the chapter by some scholars, while others see them coming from another
hand (thus Houtman 2000: 618).
178. Admittedly, the pointing of milʾû (seemingly a G stem second-person masculine
plural imperative) is difficult: “Be full with respect to your hand.” If the Levites have
brought about their ordination through their valor, we might expect a second-
person masculine plural D Pf millēʾtem (“you have filled your hand”) along with the
LXX’s and Vulgate’s understanding (Houtman 2000: 668). The best solution may be
to see this form as a mispointed third-person masculine plural D Pf (mallĕʾc) used
impersonally (“they have filled your hand” → “your hand has been filled”). Thus
Propp 2006: 563, following Rashbam and Luzzatto. On the other hand, perhaps for
an important ordination procedure with Moses speaking (performatively?), the MT
tradition may not have wanted to be blatant in assigning agency to the Levites.
179. Deut 33:8–11, the so-called Blessing of Moses, is seen by many scholars as an ar-
chaic poem independent of the book of Deuteronomy, perhaps composed as early
as the tenth century BCE (Lundbom 2013: 916–917; cf. Lewis 2013b). Compare
similarly the archaic Blessing of Jacob in Gen 49.
180. Reconstructing hābû lĕlēwî following 4QDeuth, 4QTestim, and LXX and assuming
a loss in the MT as a result of some type of haplography after lĕlēwî ʾāmar (so Cross
1973: 197). In addition, as Duncan (1995: 280) notes, one would certainly expect a
verb in the opening phrase. For the Qumran material, see Duncan 1995: 273–290.
181. This is an attempt to translate the awkward syntax of the MT. An alternative so-
lution would be to translate “the loins of his foes,” reanalyzing MT’s motnayim as
motnê-m(i) with an enclitic m (so Cross and Freedman 1997: 67, 76 n. 33, following
Albright).
182. In contrast, there is no mention of parents in Exod 32:27, 29 as in Deut 33:9.
Interestingly, the place where we find a priestly figure distancing himself from his
Notes 887
father and mother is in the Aaronid high priest’s purity sanctions with regard to
corpse contamination in Num 21:11 (cf. too the Nazirite in Num 6:7).
183. Thus Cross (1973: 197–206) concentrates on Levi and Moses being in parallel here
as evidence of a Mushite priesthood. See additional literature in note 123.
184. For priestly judicial activity, see Chapter Nine, p. 854 and note 93.
185. Num 16 is part of a larger complex that runs from Lev 16 through Lev 18, to which
Milgrom (1990: 129) assigns the rubric “Encroachment on the Tabernacle.” As long
recognized, the material gathered here is a complex literary tapestry that weaves
together various traditions (JE and P as well as H, according to Knohl) about re-
bellious behavior. On the redaction of this material, see Milgrom 1990: 414–423;
Levine 1993: 410–417, 423–432; and Knohl 1995: 73–85, 105. What facilitates the
editing of these independent traditions into a whole? In the words of Milgrom
(1990: 129), it is “the archconspirator . . . the Levite Korah, who instigates or is asso-
ciated with all four rebellious groups.”
186. See Chapter Seven, pp. 370–372. On King Uzziah’s cultic violation in 2 Chr 26:16–
20, see pp. 661–663.
187. On the “work profile” (ʿăbōdâ) of the various Levites, see Milgrom 1990: 343–344.
On the Kohathite Levite’s porterage (only) of the Ark that keeps them from coming
into lethal contact with “the Holy (Shrine),” see pp. 596–597 on Num 4.
188. On Yahweh’s kābôd in P and elsewhere, see Chapter Seven, pp. 358–379.
189. The ongoing narrative includes yet another legitimation of Aaron’s priesthood (and
his tribe of Levi) over persistent challenges. Here the sign is a divine manipulation
of nature. In yet another contest—involving a wordplay, with maṭṭeh designating
staff and tribe—God miraculously causes Aaron’s staff to sprout, blossom and even
produce ripe almonds (Num 17:16–26 [Eng 17:1–11]).
190. According to Knohl (1995: 53–54, 105), the three relevant passages treated here
(Num 3, 8, 18) should be assigned to H. For a discussion of scholars who consider H
to be more expansive than the traditional Lev 17–26, see Stackert 2007: 12–18.
191. The various procedures of maintaining the Tabernacle complex are broken down
by Levitical clan (Gershon, Kohath, Merari) in Num 3. We have already noted the
strict division of labor when it comes to the non-priestly Kohathite Levites’ role in
transporting the Ark (in contrast to its priestly wrapping by the Aaronids within the
Holy Shrine) (see note 187).
192. See Milgrom 1970: 29 n. 103; 1990: 64. See too note 195.
193. See pp. 619–629 and Levine 1993: 273–274.
194. For a study of the diversity of testimony on child sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible as
well as a diachronic study of the various firstborn traditions (Exod 13:2, 13:11–13,
22:28b–29, 34:19–20; Lev 27:26–27; Num 3:11–13; 8; 18:13–18; Deut 15:19–23),
see Dewrell 2017. Dewrell wisely differentiates the mlk sacrifices from firstborn
sacrifices.
195. Milgrom (1990: 17–18) extrapolates from ancient Near Eastern comparative mate-
rial as well as rabbinic teachings, that “the first-born originally held a priestly status.”
He posits this as a possible reason for “the deliberate avoidance by the priestly texts
of the word kadosh, ‘holy,’ in regard to the Levites.”
888 Notes
196. Cf. e.g., Rooke 2000: 104–119. Rooke (2000: 108 n. 7) also provides a nice summary
of scholarly positions on how the cultic material in Ezek 40–48 relates to the book as
a whole.
197. It should be noted that we do have a reference to yhwh qādôš bĕyiśrāʾēl,
“Yahweh, the Holy One in Israel” (Ezek 39:7), which Block (1998: 464) mentions
elsewhere.
198. Block (1997: 725) points out how Ezek 22:26 “represents the only text . . . that casts
members of Ezekiel’s own social class, the priesthood, in a negative light.” Greenberg
(1997: 462) notes how this material was “evidently borrowed from Zeph 3:4” (so too
Block 1997: 724).
199. See Block 1997: 655–656 for a description of how the use of this phrase in Ezekiel is
distinct from the mountain concept within Zion Theology.
200. On “sancta contagion/contamination,” see note 135.
201. Outside of Ezekiel, Yahweh’s concern about his holy name (šēm qodšô) being pro-
faned occurs in H (Lev 18:21; 20:3, 21:6; 22:2, 32). For the ideological portrayal
of illicit cult as part of identity formation, see Rom-Shiloni’s (2011) analysis of
how Ezekiel focused on polemically differentiating his exilic community from the
Judeans who remained in Jerusalem. See too Liebermann 2019.
202. Translating Ezek 36:20 as simply “they have gone forth” rather than “they (had) to
go forth,” Greenberg (1997: 729) adds that Yahweh’s name would also be desecrated
by being associated with the “corrupt,” “miscreant” exiles, for “the deportees of
Jerusalem [constituted] exemplars of depravity.”
203. That gods were thought to be tied to their land is illustrated in the story about the
conversion of the Aramean military commander Naaman to Yahwism. In order to
worship Yahweh properly when he returns to his home country, the Aramean must
bring with him some of the land (two mule-loads) of Yahweh’s domain (2 Kgs 5:17;
cf. Ps 137:4).
204. For the use of divine names in warrior contexts, see Lewis 2011.
205. On the meaning and use of rêyaḥ nîḥōaḥ, see Chapter Seven, p. 288.
206. I borrow the phrase “sanctifying power” here from Block (1997: 420–421), who also
regards Ezek 37:26–28 as the climax of Ezekiel’s restoration and astutely points out
the “striking resemblance” to the priestly vocabulary in Lev 26:1–13.
207. For the ways in which these regulations relate to what we find in Leviticus, see Block
1998: 640–644.
208. Where Ezekiel 44:15 mentions the Zadokite priests (hakkōhănîm halĕwiyyim bĕnê
ṣādôq) having charge over the miqdāš, Ezekiel 40:45 mentions “priests” (kōhănîm)
having charge over the Temple (habbāyit). There is a long-standing debate regarding
the identity of the latter. Some scholars, with Wellhausen (1957: 121–151) at the
helm (e.g., Levenson 1976: 129–151; Zimmerli 1983: 368, 458–459), think that Ezek
40:45 is an early stratum referring to the priestly status of non-Zadokite Levites who
subsequently became demoted. Others (e.g., Duke 1988; Block 1998: 537–538, 583;
Milgrom and Block 2012: 80–81, 141–148) regard both groups of priests in Ezek
40:45–46 as Zadokites.
Notes 889
209. See Rooke’s (2000: 116–119) summary as well as the literature in note 172. However
one understands the Ezekelian perspective, it is clear that it lost out to P’s views as
the position of the high priest was prominent in the Second Temple period.
210. Dating back to Wellhausen’s time, the transgressions were associated with the
high places that are referenced in Josiah’s reform (2 Kgs 23). This has now been
called into question (e.g., Duke 1988). For various options for the Levites’ idola-
trous “abominations,” see Milgrom and Block 2012: 145–153. Milgrom and Block
(2012: 145) draw attention to the thousands of Judean pillar figurines (JPFs), in-
cluding “hordes in the very shadow of the Jerusalem temple,” such that “Ezekiel
fires his verbal missiles at the idolatry of his own time in Jerusalem and Judah, an
idolatry practiced by the people and supported by their Levite advisors.” For a com-
prehensive study of the JPFs, see Darby 2014, though she does not weigh in on the
idolatry mentioned in Ezek 44.
211. Duke (1988) suggests a more nuanced analysis of Ezek 44:6–16, arguing that the
Levites are being restored to their traditional role of guarding the sanctuary rather
than being demoted and punished. For Duke, the punishment that is mentioned
here is the Levites bearing the responsibility for the people’s cultic encroachment.
Milgrom and Block (2012: 150–153) argue similarly that “the Levites’ punish-
ment [is] for their failure to guard the sanctuary . . . not for their complicity in
Israel’s idol worship.” While this position has key strengths (esp. how it echoes
similar vocabulary in Num 18 and how the Levites are not demoted priests à la
Wellhausen), its weakness is not dealing sufficiently with the explicit mention of
“idols” (gillûlîm; Ezek 44:10, 12; 48:11; cf. 14:11) and the “shame” (kĕlimmâ) that
they incur (Ezek 44:13).
212. And yet see the discussion of Deut 23:15 (Eng 23:14) that follows (about the camp
needing to be holy due to Yahweh’s presence) as well as Deut 32:51, where Yahweh
says that Moses and Aaron “broke faith” with him (mĕʿaltem bî) in that they did not
treat Yahweh as Holy (lōʾ-qiddaštem ʾôtî) among the Israelites at Meribath-qadesh.
213. For literature on these religious officiants and the question of cultic prostitution, see
pp. 668–670. See too Gruber 1986; Westenholz 1989; van der Toorn 1989, 1992b;
Goodfriend 1992; Henshaw 1994: 218–256; Bird 1997b; Assante 1998, 2003; Day
2004; Stark 2006; and Bird 2015.
214. See additional discussions in Weinfeld 1992: 190– 209 and Chapter Seven,
pp. 353–356.
215. Yadin (1962: 290–291) notes how the DSS War Scroll (1 QM, col. VII, lines 6–
7) uses the nearly exact vocabulary of Deut 23:11 (Eng 23:10) to describe how
“any man who is not pure with regard to his sexual organs” (ʾyš ʾšr lwʾ yhyh ṭhwr
mmqwrw) shall not participate on the day of battle. Yet rather than Yahweh himself
being encamped, the War Scroll mentions “holy angels together with their armies”
(mlʾky qwdš ʿm ṣbʾwtm yḥd).
216. See Chapter Seven, pp. 348–349, and Lewis 2013b: 793.
217. See too Deut 33:2, which has Yahweh acting as divine warrior on behalf of his
people, yet the holy ones in this older tradition seem to be members of his military
890 Notes
entourage, not the people of Israel. See note 216. The holy ones in Deut 33:3 could
refer to the people of Israel, but this is not certain. See Tigay 1996: 321 for a sum-
mary of various viewpoints.
218. See too E. E. Fleming 2016, which extends Moran’s insights to the political use of ḥpṣ
and nʿm with respect to David and Jonathan.
219. Again, see Moran’s insightful treatment. Moran (1963: 77–78) writes of how the
love language in Deuteronomy “is commonly predicated of Israel in relation to
Yahweh; indeed, it epitomizes the book’s central preoccupation, namely, the observ-
ance of the Law . . . Love in Deuteronomy is a love that can be commanded . . . a
love defined by and pledged in the covenant—a covenantal love.” More recently,
see the rich literature on the Neo-Assyrian adê tradition and Deuteronomy as a re-
sult of the publication of Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST) by Lauinger (2012).
Lauinger (2019) nicely reviews the various views of Crouch, Levinson, Pakkala,
and Steymans on whether EST can serve as a literary model for Deuteronomy (esp.
chapters 13 and 28), either for emulation or for subversion.
220. On the severity of blotting out one’s name (identity deformation), see Lewis 2017.
221. For an exploration of divine wrath in biblical tradition and at Ugarit, including hy-
postatic representation, see McCarter 2008a and Chapter Seven, pp. 350–352.
222. Propp (2006: 573) sees Deut 10:6 and Deut 32:50–51 coming from other hands,
thus leaving only Deut 9:20 as the sole “extremely pejorative” mention of Aaron in
the entire book.
223. For literature on the history of the priesthood overall, see note 172. Focused studies
on the Levites in Deuteronomy include Wright 1954; Emerton 1962; Abba 1977;
Duke 1987; Dahmen 1996; Achenbach 1999; Sweeney 2001:137–169; Leuchter
2007; Na’aman 2008; McBride 2009; Cook 2011; and Altmann 2011.
For a primary example of the gnarled complexities of reconstruction, see
Dahmen’s (1996) influential study that advocates multiple levels of redaction. See
too the harsh critique by Na’aman (2008: 260–261), who writes of “Dahmen’s hypo-
thesis [being] fraught with difficulty.”
224. E.g., Sweeney 2001: 137–169. But contrast Leuchter 2007.
225. Na’aman (2008: 274–277) goes further to suggest that the occasion for these Levites
becoming associated with the landless poor and migrating to Jerusalem was the de-
struction of Levitical settlements (especially in the Shephelah) during Sennacherib’s
701 BCE campaign in Judah.
226. The only use of the root qdš in conjunction with the Levites is found in Deut 26:12
where the Levites receive “the sacred portion” (haqqodeš) along with non-native
residents, orphans, and widows.
227. Since the groundbreaking work of Martin Noth, it is common to find treatments of
DtrH’s understanding of the priesthood and holiness to include the book of Joshua.
See, for example, Nelson 1991; Gammie 1989: 118–122; and Rooke 2000: 43–79.
Thus structurally I have followed this scholarly tradition in placing the Joshua
material here. Yet readers should be aware of trends in the study of the book of
Joshua that treat it as an independent composition apart from DtrH. See especially
Dozeman 2015: 18–32. Yet contrast Nihan 2012.
Notes 891
228. For the distribution of the root ʿbd in the MT of Joshua (and LXX renderings),
and its use for worship and cultic service in the closing chapters, see Dozeman
2015: 403–404.
229. Preuss 1995: 240–241; von Rad 1962: 203–203–212; Eichrodt 1961: 209–210.
Eichrodt (1961: 201 n. 1) builds upon Hänsel’s coining of the term Eiferheiligkeit
(“jealousy-holiness”) to argue further that such a theology constitutes “the basic
element in the whole OT idea of God.” So too Butler (1983: 275), to whom I am in-
debted for this reference.
230. On judicial roles for the šōṭĕrîm, see Chapter Nine, pp. 526–527. On the use of
the phrase “jealous God” (ʾēl-qannôʾ), see Guinn-Villareal 2018 for an argument
against reductionist translations that limit the root qnʾ and noun qinʾâ to the realm
of emotions and thereby miss the social-anthropological implications of the term.
231. See Chapter Nine, notes 13 and 48.
232. For references to Phoenician kings being called khn, see Chapter Nine, note 11.
Without any additional comment, 2 Sam 8:18 records briefly that David’s sons were
priests. On the prominent role of ʾUmmîʿaštart, the fifth-century BCE Phoenican
“priestess of ʿAštart” (khnt ʿštrt), see note 282.
233. On the Levitical cities in Josh 21 and 1 Chr 6:39–66, see Knoppers 2003a: 430–450
and Hutton 2011a.
234. See note 172. See especially Nelson 1991 and McConville 1999.
235. See the mention of two kmr priests of the Aramean moon god Śahr in the Nerab
inscriptions (KAI 225:1; KAI 226:1).
236. This list is certainly incomplete when it comes to the many individuals who served
as priest over the hundreds of years in question. A glance at the fuller Levitical gene-
alogies in 1 Chr 6:1–38 (that have their own ideologies) reveals a most complicated
history. See Knoppers 2003a: 415–430.
237. See Chapter Nine, note 11.
238. Dozeman (2015: 329–330) argues that sacral status accrues to Jericho here not
due to any association with a cultic sanctuary (contrast the holy mountain in
Exod 3:1–5), but rather due to the city being “placed under the ban as a sacri-
fice to Yahweh . . . The holy status of Jericho signals the divine claim on the city
through execution of the ban.” See too Dozeman’s (2015: 329–330) remarks (fol-
lowing Savran 2005) about the composition of the theophany of Josh 5:13–15 as
it relates to the similar wording of Moses removing his sandals on holy ground in
Exod 3:5.
239. Divine lethality is implied in Josh 3:4–6, where the people must keep a substan-
tial distance (about half a mile) away from the Ark as well as undergo a process of
sanctification due to the “wonders” that Yahweh will do in their midst (hitqaddāšû
kî māḥār yaʿăśeh yhwy bĕqirbĕkem niplāʾôt; Josh 3:5). Comparing similar language
of a holy Yahweh working military wonders (ʿōśēh peleʾ) in Exod 15:11 (see pp. 578,
582), Dozeman (2015: 287) suggests that our author is drawing a comparison be-
tween the Ark crossing the Jordan and the Song of the Sea.
240. Special mention is given to David’s holy treasures (2 Sam 8:11; 1 Kgs 7:51). Note,
however, that such “holy” votive gifts, though set apart for the divine, could be
892 Notes
repurposed, as when Jehoash sends them off as booty to King Hazael of Aram (2
Kgs 12:18).
241. See further Wright 1995 and Philip 2006: 25–28. Wright astutely points out the
literary use of purity and impurity throughout the David-Bathsheba-Uriah story
in 2 Sam 11–12. With respect to constructing 2 Sam 11:4, I agree with McCarter
(1984: 286) and Wright (1995: 218 n. 9) that the sense of the MT stands even if one
omits (as one should) miṭṭumʾātâ following the lectio brevior reading of 4QSama.
242. The larger narrative of this complex story (which relates the death of Uzzah for
mishandling the Ark) begs for Eleazar being (according to P’s parameters in
Numbers 4) at least a Kohathite Levite to transport the Ark if not an Aaronid
priest to handle the Ark per se. See the reformulation of the tradition in 1 Chr
13:2–3; 15:11–15 that explicitly mentions priests and Levites, yet without any
mention of Eleazar. For further discussion, see note 77. Edelman (1992) writes
that “Eleazar is said to have been consecrated as a priest to have charge of the ark”
(my emphasis) and that “it is likely that Abinadab [Eleazar’s father] was himself a
well-known priest.”
243. For a more detailed discussion of P’s leḥem happānîm, see Milgrom 2001: 2091–
2101. Milgrom (2001: 2092, 2097) uses the 1 Sam 21 tradition (juxtaposed with
comparative ancient Near Eastern material) to assert that ‘there can be no doubt
that the bread display was integral to Israelite worship from earliest times.”
244. On the literary use of purity and impurity throughout the David-Bathsheba-Uriah
narrative, see Wright 1995.
245. On DtrH’s articulation of a “solidarity between monarch and people” to promote the
temple as a national place of worship, see Knoppers 1995a: 251–252 = 2000: 393–394.
246. For redactional issues, see Chapter Seven, pp. 365–366. On the central role of the
priestly handling of the “highly cultic” Ark elsewhere in DtrH, see McConville
1999: 76–77, 80–82, 86. McConville writes: “This activity of the priests . . . not only
marks the ark out as holy, but by the same token, shows that Dtr holds cultic matters
and the priestly role in them to be very significant.”
247. On DtrH’s portrayal of the imposing Cherubim and their connection to an aniconic
Yahweh, see Chapter Seven, pp. 398–405.
248. See Knoppers’ (2003a: 245–265) most helpful overview of the various forms and
functions of genealogies, as well as his study (2003b) of priestly genealogies.
249. A related example is DtrH’s portrayal of Jehu’s cunning “consecration” ceremony
(qaddĕšû ʿăṣārâ), which brings about the death of the religious officiants of Baal in 2
Kgs 10:18–28.
250. See especially the overviews in Ramsey 1992; Rehm 1992: 305–307; and Rooke
2000: 63–72, as well as Rowley 1939; Cody 1969: 88–93; Cross 1973: 209–215;
McCarter 1980a: 87–93; Olyan 1982; Nelson 1991: 136–141; McConville 1999; and
Knoppers 2003a: 405–406, 414–415.
251. Compare Yahweh’s servant Moses as the faithful one (neʾĕmān) in Num 12:7.
252. Note here that McCarter (1980a: 92) is referring to the Josianic Deuteronomist
(Dtr1). See McConville’s (1999: 87) study of the priesthood throughout DtrH and
his conclusion: “For Dtr, priesthood is bigger than the Davidic synthesis of palace
Notes 893
and temple. When it falls into Babylonian exile, it is the end of a chapter in its story.
But in Dtr’s open-ended history, there is no obituary for priesthood as such.”
253. For a lucid and comprehensive overview, see Knoppers 2003: 47–137.
254. For these statistics, I am indebted to Kornfeld (2003: 527), who in turn is indebted
to Müller (1997: 1106–1107). Kornfeld writes: “[The root qdš] occurs 48 times in
the Dtr History but then 120 times in the Chronicler’s History, including 60 times in
2 Chronicles alone.”
255. On the Chronicler’s expanded coverage of Jehoshaphat in 2 Chr 17–21 in contrast
to the minimal attention he receives in DtrH, see Williamson 1982: 277–303 and
Japhet 1993: 742–803.
256. Our interpretation squares with that of Knoppers (2004: 638–639) in seeing hadrat-
qōdeš as referring to Yahweh rather than the sanctuary or any type of holy apparel
worn by worshippers. If one does see qōdeš as a reference to the sanctuary (see our
comments on Ps 29:2 in Chapter Seven, pp. 361–362), the meaning would be es-
sentially the same. For the sanctuary would only possess radiant holiness (hadrat-
qōdeš) due to Yahweh taking up residence.
257. For discussion of the so-called Name Theology, see Chapter Seven, pp. 379–392.
258. See Chapter Five, p. 133, on the nuancing that could take place to acknowledge the
obvious role of artisans while at the same time giving the gods their due.
259. It needs to be reiterated again that for P holiness is not about personal piety but
rather about status, rank, and power.
260. Knohl (1995: 104–106) advocates for an expanded H. Yet even in this enlarged
corpus, “the verb bḥr (elect) appears in HS [the Holiness School] only in connection
with the sanctity of priests, the sons of Aaron . . . the verb qdš (sanctified) . . . never
appears in the context of the Levites; its absence indicates that HS’s intent was to
stress the special sanctity of the priesthood” (Knohl 1995: 192).
261. The only reference to neʾĕmān, “faithfulness,” in adjacent material is found in
Neh 9:8, which reaches back into patriarchal times to portray Yahweh as finding
Abraham to have had a “faithful heart” (māṣāʾtā ʾet-lĕbābô neʾĕmān lĕpānêkā).
As for royalty, the Chronicler’s illustrious portrait of Hezekiah speaks of his being
“the truthful/faithful one” (hāʾemet < √ʾmn) before Yahweh (2 Chr 31:20; 32:1) but
with no mention of an enduring “faithful house” (bayit neʾĕmān). Japhet (1993: 972)
notes how Hezekiah’s trifold epithet of being “good and right and faithful before
Yahweh” is found nowhere else.
As for sacerdotal officiants, Chronicles regularly speaks of them in “positions
of trust” (ʾĕmûnâ; 1 Chr 9:22, 26, 31; 2 Chr 31:15, 18). The priests and Levites in
Jehoshaphat’s judiciary are charged with adjudicating “faithfully” (beʾĕmûnâ; 2
Chr 19:9).
262. I borrow terminology here from Japhet (1993: 950), who speaks of the Levites’
blood conveyance as the Chronicler’s “innovation when compared with the sac-
rificial laws of Leviticus 1ff.” Elsewhere Japhet (1993: 1047) writes of “underem-
ployed” Levites who have lost “the raison d’etre of their existence as a clerical order.”
Underscoring their intermediary role further in Chronicles’ portrayal of Josiah’s
most organized Passover, Japhet (1993: 1045) writes: “Except for the acts which are
894 Notes
exclusively priestly [the manipulation of blood], everything connected with the

Passover sacrifice is now transferred to the Levites: slaughter, flaying, conveyance of
the blood, removal of the fat parts, roasting of the Passover sacrifice, and its distri-
bution according to fathers’ houses.”
263. For analysis of this skin disease, which is often referred to as leprosy, see Kitz 1994.
264. Note the fascinating and unique comment that Uzziah “was a lover of soil” (kî-ʾōhēb
ʾădāmâ hāyâ) in 2 Chr 26:10.
265. On the sociological and exclusionary use of a ṣāraʿat diagnosis by priests, see Kitz
1994 and Garfein 2004: 53–54.
266. See Knoppers’ (2004: 619–620) balanced conclusion about the Chronicler’s por-
trayal of the prominent roles of cultic singers and musicians, roles that are absent
from DtrH as well as P. Situating this material within its broader historical con-
text, Knoppers notes how “musicians and singers were a constituent feature of
temple worship” throughout the ancient Near East. Thus rather than Chronicles
inventing fictional scenarios, “the complete absence of singers from the Pentateuch
and from most of the Deuteronomistic work tells us more about the limitations of
these sources than it does about the conditions of the Jerusalem Temple during the
monarchy.”
267. Williamson (1982: 377) and Japhet (1993: 972) are correct that those translations
(e.g., RSV, NRSV) that explictly insert the subject being solely the priests go beyond
the MT that leaves the subject unexpressed. Williamson is likely correct that both
priests and Levites are being referenced.
268. For ʾĕmûnâ designating a “position of trust” (so JPS) rather than faithfulness (so
RSV, NRSV, NIV), see note 261.
269. For the voluminous research on the Levites, see note 172. For a summary of how
scholars reconstruct the role of Levites and priests in Chronicles, see Knoppers
1999; 2003b; 2004: 820–826.
270. The obvious priestly infraction would be Uriah’s carrying out various cultic actions
under the direction of King Ahaz, notably replacing the Solomonic Yahwistic altar
with a Damascus-inspired Aramean model (2 Kgs 16:10–16). Yet in contrast to
DtrH, the Chronicler is silent with regard to the priest Uriah’s involvement in Ahaz’s
apostasy. Instead 2 Chr 28:22–25 focuses solely on the king sacrificing to the gods
of Damascus as well as dismantling the Jerusalem sanctuary, constructing multiple
altars around Jerusalem, and erecting high places in every city of Judah to make
offerings to other gods.
271. Chronicles strongly emphasizes the Aaronids’ prerogative to offer incense (lĕhaqṭîr)
within the sanctuary in three places (1 Chr 6:34 [Eng 6:49]; 1 Chr 23:13; 2 Chr 26:18)
and the firm impression is that it is their sole prerogative, as in other traditions (e.g.,
P in Exod 30:7; Lev 2:2; 3:5; 7:31; 10:1; Num 4:16; 16:5–7, 16–18, 35; 17:5, 11–12
[Eng 16:40, 46–47]; cf. Zadok as a priest offering incense in 1 Sam 2:28). The sole
complicating factor is found in 2 Chr 29:11, which refers to Yahweh choosing the
Levites as his ministers offering incense (lihyôt lô mĕšārĕtîm ûmaqṭirîm). While the
verb hiqṭîr can refer to making an offering go up in smoke (and thus not neces-
sarily involving qĕṭoret incense; see Clements 2004), the immediate context refers
Notes 895
to the failure of former officiants to offer incense in Yahweh’s sanctuary (ûqĕṭōret lōʾ
hiqṭîrû . . . baqqōdeš lēʾlōhê yiśrāʾēl; 2 Chr 29:7; cf. 2 Chr 28:24). Thus (pace Japhet
1993: 919) the offering of incense seems to be referred to in 2 Chr 29:11.
Yet scholars universally recognize the potential inconsistency, especially with 2
Chr 26:18. Thus Williamson (1982: 354) writes that the priests and Levites referred
to in 2 Chr 29:4 must be in view throughout this section, despite the sole mention
of the Levites in 2 Chr 29:5. He argues: “It would be unthinkable for the Chronicler,
following his emphatic assertions in 26:16–21, to contemplate anyone else [other
than priests] undertaking this duty.” Japhet (1993: 919) argues similarly that this
material is “addressed to the tribe of Levi as a whole” with the specific reference to
maqṭirîm “directed at the priests among the ‘Levites.’ ”
To return the discussion back in favor of the Levites offering incense, see Deut
33:8–11.
272. The sole exceptions that prove the rule are the cases of Moses in Exod 24:6–8 and
King Ahaz in 2 Kgs 16:13. The Chronicler makes no mention of King Ahaz en-
gaging in the cultic act.
273. Williamson (1982: 314, 322) calls Jehoida “the Chronicler’s ideal priest.” He is re-
corded as living to the age of 130 years. Due to his benevolence “for God and his
house,” the Chronicler has him “buried in the city of David among the kings” (2 Chr
24:15–16). Williamson writes about burial locations expressing personal assess-
ment and concludes: “Clearly no greater honour is this respect was possible than
that recorded here of Jehoida.”
See too McConville’s (1999: 82–87) advocacy of “the exceptional character of
the reform of Jehoida” that goes unappreciated because “the emphasis in studies of
DtrH has fallen too heavily on Josiah.”
274. We have four references to the prophetic “consecration” of war activity (Mic 3:5;
Jer 6:4; 22:7; Joel 4:9 [Eng 3:9]), which come as no surprise given solid biblical
and extra-biblical evidence for the prophetic involvement in war. For the extra-
biblical material, see the collection of prophetic texts from Mari and Neo-Assyria
in Nissinen, Seow, and Ritner 2003 and Nissinen et al. 2019. On the cultic nature of
war in biblical tradition, see Chapter Eight, pp. 463–464. On prophetic involvement
with cult and cult places, see Nissinen 2013: 104–122.
275. On the history of the “prophet versus priest” antagonism hypothesis, see Zevit 2004.
Ezekiel’s dual priest/prophet identity construction is particularly fascinating in
light of his refugee status where he finds himself unable to carry out the majority
of his priestly duties due to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. These include
the priest’s ability to maintain his own purity as well as his role in sanctifying the
community. See especially Ezekiel’s objection to God’s command to cook food over
human dung due to its defiling nature (Ezek 4:14). For an insightful study of iden-
tity formation in the book of Ezekiel, examining the role of the body and bodily
practices, see Liebermann (2019).
276. Petersen 2002: 6, 227–231; Overholt 1996: 24–68; Rofé 1988: 13–51.
277. Ackerman (2013: 175–178; 2016) writes about the ways in which an institutional-
ized and bureaucratized priesthood together with blood rituals and purity codes
896 Notes
(cf. Lev 12:1–8; 15:19–30) would have restricted the cultic agency of women.
“The Leviticus purity laws would have significantly limited women’s access to the
Jerusalem temple during their reproductive years.”
278. See Ackerman’s (2016) discussion of the MT vs the LXX and DSS renderings of 1
Sam 1:25. In contrast to the MT, the latter two witnesses have Elkanah alone sacri-
ficing (cf. 1 Sam 1:4).
279. Susan Ackerman (personal communication) sees the ṣōbĕʾōt-women as guardian
figures proving apotropaic protection within sacred space.
280. On this difficult “bridegroom of bloodshed” passage, see Propp 1999: 233–238.
Ackerman (1998a: 92– 102), building on the work of Benjamin Mazar, uses
Zipporah’s activites to suggest that Jael may also have been a cultic functionary.
281. See Ackerman 2008a: 136–141.
282. One the former, see pp. 626–629; on the latter, see the Conclusion, pp. 685–687.
Ackerman (2013: 160–165) finds at least fourteen Phoenician inscriptions that
document the presence of priestesses to which she adds numerous iconographic
representations. Ackerman (2013: 175–178), building on Nancy Jay’s theoretical
work on blood sacrifice within patrilineal societies, suggests that the activities of
Phoenician priestesses did not include blood sacrifice, which remained an exclu-
sively male rite.
283. Chavalas (2014: 2–3) blames William Robertson Smith for uncritically promoting
the idea of sacred prostitution among Semitic deities that was then popularized
by Sir James Frazer’s Golden Bough (cf. Assante 2003). See too Nyberg 2008 and
DeGrado 2018: 25.
284. Dion (1981: 44, 47) remarks: “Whenever . . . qādēš turns up in Kings, the parallel
place in Chronicles is sure to bypass it.” He attributes this to the “deliberate suppres-
sion of particularly abhorrent memories.” Dion (1981: 45, 47) also analyzes the var-
ious LXX manuscripts and concludes that the Greek translators are so “in the dark
when confronted with the word qādēš” that the institution “was apparently little
known among the Jews of the last two centuries B.C.”
285. Van der Toorn (1989) does find cultic prostitution in a narrow sense, describing
women who engaged in the practice as it was economically related to the
temple. Specifically, women engaged in prostitution in order to pay off reli-
gious vows that they had made without their husband’s approval. Cf. Nyberg
2008: 313.
286. Much of this has to do with pejoratively defining “the other.” Westenholz (1989: 248)
writes: “To the Hebrew author, the pagan priestess must be a harlot, and vice versa,
the harlot must have been a pagan priestess.”
287. In Ugaritic administrative texts, the qdšm are royal functionaries who are often
listed next to khnm, “priests.” A single ritual text (KTU 1.112.21) notes how a qdš
can function as a singer. See Gruber 1986; Westenholz 1989: 249–250; Pardee
2002a: 239–240.
288. Thus for DeGrado (2018: 32–34), what we have in Hos 4:14 (that juxtaposes zōnôt
and qĕdēšôt) contains a “double valence” that she translates: “For it is the men who
go off with sluts, and with the qdešot functionaries they sacrifice.”
Notes 897
289. Gammie (1989: 41–44) defends the need for biblical scholars and historians of reli-
gion to appreciate both theology and the social sciences.
290. In some respects, such a self-proclamation is equivalent to Yahweh’s speaking of his
mighty holiness in the first-person prophetic discourse (e.g., Isa 43:14–17).
291. Ezek 36:23 and 39:25–27 doubly emphasize holiness in adding that Yahweh’s self-
display of his redemptive holiness is tied to the sanctifying of his holy name. In one
instance Ezekiel does mix in cultic vocabulary with his holy redemption. In Ezekiel
20:41, Yahweh’s manifesting of his holy power (niqdaštî) is prefaced by a remark
about accepting the people “as a pleasing/appeasing odor” (rêyaḥ nîḥōaḥ), on which
see Chapter Seven, p. 288.
292. For an introductory survey, see Kang 2008. Other works addressing the biblical text
include Cohn 1981; Bokser 1985; Gorman 1990; Levine 1997; Japhet 1998; Biran
1998; Zevit 2001; Gittlen 2002; Berquist and Camp 2007, 2008; George 2009; Davis
2013; and Flebbe 2016.
293. Noted works include Haran 1978; Gorman 1990; Jensen 1992; George 2009; and
Calaway 2010.
294. There are far too many theoretical works to list here. A short list includes van der
Leeuw 1938; Eliade 1949; Lefebvre 1974, 1991; Soja 1989, 1996; Smith 1978, 1987b,
1993; Gorman 1990; Scott and Simpson-Housley 1991; Branham 1993; Chidester
1994; Kunin 1998; Flanagan 1999; Knott 2005; Tweed 2006; Kort 2007; George
2007; Berquist and Camp 2008; and George 2009: 17–44. The last of these provides a
nice overview of spatial theory.
295. For Israel’s perceptions of space, see Faust’s (2010) remarks about the consistency of
“bounded landscapes” with boundary walls differentiating “inside” cultured space
(with living human settlements) from the “outside” and nature (cultivated fields,
grazing areas, burial sites). Faust (2010, 2017, 2019) also challenges the consensus
of historians of Israelite religion regarding the prevalence of Israelite and Judan
temples. Faust (2019: 1) argues “that cultic activity in temples was the exception
rather than the norm and that typical Israelite cult was practiced in the household
and in other, non-temple settings.”
For additional archaeological studies, see Mierse 2012 and his bibliography.
Special note should be made of those studies that attempt to wed theory, text and
material culture. A good example is found in Davis’ (2013) look at Tell Dan in its
northern cultic context.
296. For statistics, see Kornfeld 2003: 527. On holiness in Sirach and the Wisdom of
Solomon, see Gammie 1989: 153–172.
297. This verse is commonly translated as an expression of piety regarding Job not
“denying” (cf. the meaning of the verb kḥd in Rabbinic Hebrew) God’s precepts
(thus RSV, NRSV, NIV). Some scholars go so far as deleting it as a pious gloss.
Driver and Gray (1950: 61) refer to Job 23:11–12 and remark that Job is insisting
that he has “not disowned or disregarded God’s (moral commands).”
For Job 6:10 being a statement of challenge, Seow (2013: 460) writes: “Job, it
seems, sees himself as a theological whistleblower. He dares to expose the hard
truth, even if it is theologically dangerous to do so, and he takes comfort in that fact.”
898 Notes
Habel (1985: 147) writes more forcefully: “From Job’s vantage point the decisions of
God relating to his life are ugly, unfair, and unholy. For these decisions to be desig-
nated the decrees of the “Holy One” is clearly satirical.”
298. While the general “absurd” meaning of Qoh 8:10 is agreed upon and matches what
we find in Qoh 8:14 soon to follow, regrettably the specific meaning of the passage is
hard to determine. For example, Fox (1989: 249–251; 1999: 282–284), followed by
Seow (1997: 284–286), argues that the absurdity has to do with a proper burial being
given to the wicked (who are eulogized within sacred space and given a funeral pro-
cession to the gravesite) in contrast to neglecting (“forgetting” < MT’s yištakkĕḥû)
the corpses of the righteous (cf. Job 21:32–33). For comparison, Schoors (2013: 625)
has the wicked being unjustly “praised” (reconstructing instead yištabbĕḥû < LXX)
for their hypocritical devotion” within sacred space.
299. Blau 2010: 272; Fox 2009: 855; Burnett 2001: 21– 24; Waltke and O’Connor
1990: 122–124; GKC §124 g–i. One could also reanalyze qĕdōšîm as a singular with
enclitic m (qādôš-m).
300. For a broad study of fear in the ancient Near East (esp. the expression “fear not!”),
see Nissinen 2003.
Conclusion
1. One could certainly choose Asherah, yet since the discovery of the Kuntillet ʿAjrud
finds in the mid-1970s, she has not lacked for discussion, dominating the scholarly
landscape. See Chapter One, note 2.
2. It is still common to find scholars (e.g., Schmitt 2013: 224) arguing that “LBA evi-
dence paints a picture of [ʿAthtartu/ʿAštart as] a second-tier goddess with no prom-
inent functions in mythology.”
3. Debates over the etymology of the name ʿAthtartu/ʿAštart are as complicated as any
of those regarding the name Yahweh. Brief treatments can be found in Anthonioz
2014: 125 and Smith 2014b: 33 n. 3. The fullest treatment is that of Wilson-Wright
(2016: 16–25).
4. In this passage the Philistine “Temple of *ʿštrt” (as a single building) is best under-
stood as being devoted to the singular deity ʿaštart rather than to the Masoretes’
plural *ʿštrwt/ʿaštārôt. Cf. LXX, McCarter 1980a: 441; Smith 2002a: 127.
5. Hadley (1996: 132; 2007) favors calling this process “de-personalizing” or “de-
deification.” Smith (2014a: 323; 2014b: 79) uses the terminology “genericization.”
See too the earlier work by Delcor (1974: 14), who concludes that we have here “une
manière de démythiser des croyances profondément enracinées dans l’âme des
paysans israélites.”
6. The present treatment covers only ʿAštart and not Dagan and Shagar, for which
see Hadley’s (1996, 2007) analysis. On these three deities occurring together in the
Emar zukru festival, see note 10.
Though it is less attested, Hadley (2007: 169–170) suggests that the reference
to “new wine” (tîrôš) in Deut 7:13, 28:51 may designate a fourth Canaanite deity
Notes 899
based on the Ugaritic presence of Tirāṯu in a deity list (KTU 102.9) and (partially
reconstructed) in a ritual where he receives an ewe sacrifice (KTU 1.39.16). Pardee
(2002a: 285) asserts that Tirāṯu is “certainly a wine-god.”
7. With the singular referents *Dagan and *Shagar in Deut 7:13, it is likely that ʿštrt was
originally pointed as singular (ʿaštart) and not the plural (ʿaštārōt) of the Masoretes’
understanding. Similarly, see the “Temple of *ʿštrt” in 1 Sam 31:10 in note 4.
8. A full analysis of the goddess would necessarily have to evaluate the many treatments,
including Weinfeld 1972a; Olyan 1988; Ackerman 1989, 1992, 1998a: 117; 2008a: 142–
145; Houtman 1999; Ellis 2009; and Smith 2002a: 126–132; 2014b: 81–82.
9. See, for example, Christian and Schmitt 2013a; Sugimoto 2014; and Wilson-Wright
2016.
10. “Aštartu of Battle” also appears in the longer zukru festival, though with the variant
“Aštartu of the man of Battle” (dIš8-tár LÚ ša taḫāzi), referencing the goddess’s sup-
port of soldiers (see Emar 373+, line 15). Though Aštartu is mentioned here, the four
primary deities of the zukru are Dagan bēl bukkari (“Lord of the first yield [of ani-
mals?],” dNIN.URTA, Šaššabêttu, and Šaggar. (See Chapter Ten, note 153.) Note how
the three reconstructed deities in the Deuteronomic idiom mentioned earlier (Aštart,
Dagan and Šagar) are all attested here in the longer zukru festival.
11. New Kingdom Egypt appropriated six primary Syro-Palestinian deities. In addition
to Astarte, we also find Anat, Baal, Hauron, Qedeshet, and Reshep. Standard works
on these Levantine deities in Egypt include Helck 1966 and Stadelmann 1967, which
now need to be updated with Zivie-Coche 1994, 2011; Cornelius 2004; Schneider
2003, 2006; Tazawa 2009, 2014; and Wilson-Wright 2016: 27–70.
For the prevalence of Astarte in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Dynasties, see
Tazawa 2009: 83, 113, table 11. For the various media documenting iconographic
and epigraphic attestations of Egyptian Astarte, see Tazawa 2009: 83, 104, table 10.
For the geographic breadth of Astarte worship, from northern to southern Egypt, see
Tazawa 2009: 83, 109, map 5. For the complicated relationships of Egyptian Astarte
with Anat, Qedeshet, and Hathor, see Tazawa 2009: 163–165; 2014: 111–123.
12. See Clemens 2001: 380–381. Cf. too the mention of a house/temple in KTU 1.116.8–
10 that Pardee (2002a: 93) suggests “could be either the royal palace or the temple
of ʿAttartu.” Consider also how twice “ʿAttartu of the Steppe Land” is described as
participating in a royal “entry ritual” that typically involved the procession from one
temple to another (discussed later).
Cf. too the mention of a kunaḫu sanctuary in RS 17.22+, 17.87.21–23; Smith
2014a: 185–186; 2014b: 38–39; Wilson-Wright 2016: 113.
13. See the preliminary publications of RIH 98/02 (KTU 1.180) by Pardee (2007a) and
Bordreuil, Hawley, and Pardee (2010).
14. For ʿAthtartu’s other associations with incantatory texts, see KTU 1.100.20; KTU
1.107.39; KTU 1.179:18 (RS 92.2016); Smith 2014a: 186–187; 2014b: 40–41; and
Wilson-Wright 2016: 67–68. Schmitt (2013: 221, 225) and Tazawa (2014: 110; cf.
2009: 94–95, docs. 44, 46; EA 23) comment on Egyptian Astarte’s association with
apotropaic magic. See too Mathys’ (2008) analysis of ʿAštart’s role in the so-called
900 Notes
Magische Qaudrate, four fragmentary Phoenician marble inscriptions of the fourth

century BCE from the Phoenician sanctuary of Bostan esh-Sheikh near Sidon.
15. For a new edition of KTU 1.92, see Pardee 2008. Smith (2014a: 194–195; 2014b: 54)
and Wilson-Wright (2016: 137–138) also document Aštartu’s hunting capabilities
at Emar.
16. Ṯaʾuṯka (Šauška), the Hurrian equivalent of ʿAthtartu, appears throughout the text.
Cf. EA 23, where a statue of the goddess Šauška/Ishtar (dINANNA) of Nineveh is sent
to Nimmureya (Amenhotep III), the king of Egypt, by Tushratta, the king of Mitanni.
17. See Chapter Nine, pp. 499–500. Waters (2015: 151–163) surveys other Ugaritic
threshing floor passages that have a loose connection to sacred space (e.g., the pres-
ence of the rapiʾuma at threshing floors for ʾIlu’s banquet in KTU 1.20–22), although
none of these connections are as explicitly cultic as KTU 1.116.1.
18. Cf. DULAT 2003: 807–809; Heltzer 1976; 1978; 1999: 425–427, 446, 450–451;
McGeough 2007.
19. Rollefson (2007: 102; cf. Akkermans and Schwartz 2003: 72–73) underscores the
“surprising array of animals in hyperarid deserts” that could be hunted, yet “due to
their low densities, they are generally not dependable food sources.” Mythologically,
KTU 1.23.68 describes how hunger forces “the gracious gods” to hunt for food in the
steppe land (called both šd and mdbr).
20. On ʿAthtartu-ḫurri, see Wilson-Wright 2016: 115–120.
21. Cf. KTU 1.112.6–8, which mentions the king’s sons and daughters going up seven
times to the “ḫmn sanctuary,” followed by the divine statues doing likewise.
22. Similarly, both Smith (2014a: 186–187; 2014b: 43–44, 76) and Wilson-Wright
(2016: 108–120, esp. 114–116) emphasize ʿAthtartu of the Field /Steppe Land as
“a divine guarantor of treaties and oaths.” Here too, such a role need not deny the
goddess’s agrarian nature, as the commodities associated with ʿAthtartu of the Field/
Steppe Land (esp. blue and red wool and linen textiles) played a major role in interna-
tional tribute (e.g., KTU 3.1//RS 17.227, RS 17.382+, 380) and commerce (cf. Heltzer
1999: 439–447; McGeough 2007: 324–332).
23. Cf. Pardee 2000: 334–335; 2002a: 69–70; Smith 2014a: 185–186; 2014b: 39; Wilson-
Wright 2016: 112–113.
24. KTU 1.79 and 1.80 were both found in the Royal Palace. For gt texts, see Heltzer
1999: 425–426 and McGeough 2007: 130, 376–377.
25. On family, household, and local religion at Ugarit, see Lewis 2008a and Chapter Eight,
pp. 474–477. The “house/family sanctuary” in KTU 1.80.2 is that of an individual
(ʾUbbinniyana), while the “house/local sanctuary” in KTU 1.79.8 involves a local as-
sembly of some sort (bt qbṣ). Both texts describe a religious officiant by the name
of Ṣitqānu. In one text he sacrifices (dbḥ) seemingly a kid (gdy) to the god Rashpu
(1.79.8), while in the other text he slaughters (tbḫ) a ewe and a ram, yet without men-
tion of any deity as recipient.
26. Wilson-Wright 2016: 112–113, following Pardee 2000: 334–335. Contrast del Olmo
Lete 1999: 88–89, which needlessly minimizes the rural nature of this text.
27. For text and translation of KTU 4.182, see McGeough 2011: 130–133. For detailed
analysis, see Clemens 2001: 356–370.
Notes 901
28. See Matoïan and Vita 2014, 2009 on the vital importance of wool production for the
economy of Ugarit, as well as McGeough 2007: 119–121, 168–169, 210–211. See too
Rowe 1995 on the maqqadu “grazing tax” paid (in sheep and goats) to the king for use
of royal pasture land. For sorting out what can be known about the varied and con-
fusing textile terminology used at Ugarit, see Vita 2010.
29. Rarely have past scholars nominated ʿAthtartu as this Mistress of Animals, yet see
Pope 1965a: 251.
30. For bibliography on Figure C.2, see Lewis 2005a: 72 and Cornelius 2004: 110–111.
31. For bibliography on Figure C.3, see Cornelius 2004: 109.
32. Bloch-Smith (2014: 179) mentions the military presence at the shrine to Astarte at
Mitzpe Yammim, a sixth-/fifth-century BCE Tyrian outpost in northern Israel (with
a fortified watchtower). Astarte is mentioned in a secondary inscription on a bronze
situla originally made in Egypt (see Berlin and Frankel 2012: 46, 50, 59, 61–64 and
Frankel and Ventura 1998: 46–49). An individual presents this votive offering due to
the goddess “hearing his voice.”
Should one desire an explicitly articulated Phoenician military deity, see Baʿal ʿOz
(the Lord of Might) in fourth-century BCE Kition. This appropriately named deity
gives “[po]wer and military victory” ([ʿ]z wnṣḥt) to his chosen king and people over
their enemies. See KAI 288 and Mosca 2009.
33. For a full list of independent occurrences of the name ʿAštart in the epigraphic record
as well as in onomastica, see Bonnet 1996: 165–169. For archaeological summaries
with additional bibliography, see Bloch-Smith 2014 and Esteban and Pellin 2016.
34. For the primary text, see Dupont-Sommer 1970: 15 and Yon 2004: 188, 193, 212–
213 (#1100 = D21; fi gure 17). For additional discussion, see Karageorghis 1976: 105;
Markoe 2000: 120–121; and Bloch-Smith 2014: 170.
The description of the offering for the individual in lines 2–3 is broken: [ʾ]yt PN
š wk[bš ʾt š]ʿr z. Yet the mention of the tonsure ritual is clear: PN šʿr z glb. For sim-
ilar tonsure rituals together with hair offerings, compare De Dea Syria, 60, as noted
already by Karageorghis (1976: 105) and Bloch-Smith (2014: 170). On tonsure
regulations for Aaronid priests and Nazirites, see Chapter Ten, pp. 630–631, 634.
The realia of sacrifice at the Kition Kathari Temple I include, according to Bloch-
Smith (2014: 172), “large numbers of sheep and lamb bones (some carbonized), plus
cattle, fallow deer, fish, and birds.”
35. For alternative readings of this most difficult text, see Peckham 2014: 134–135, which
sees personal vows being offered along with ritual weeping.
36. Actually there are two texts here—the so-called temple tariff inscriptions—with
differing scribal hands. See KAI 37 A and B.
37. Peckham (1968: 324) suggests that the occasion “commemorates the building of the
temple of Astarte and implicitly describes a ritual, which may or may not have been
celebrated annually, associated with that event.” On gendered roles in Phoenician
cult, see Ackerman 2013: 173–178.
38. Another (amuletic, silver) text, though unprovenanced, describes an ʿAštart cult
at sixth-century BCE Byblos involving an individual’s familial vows for his ances-
tral house (bt ʾbyʾ) together with the provisions of cult (an altar, animal sacrifices,
902 Notes
and money) to be carried out by a named “chief priest of the temple of the goddess
ʿAštart” (rb khnm bt ʾlm ʿštrt). The Byblian king Šipitbaʿal is listed as “the guarantor”
(hnṣr) of the vow. See Peckham 2014: 382–383, following Lemaire.
39. Alternatively, Ackerman (2013: 172) suggests that ʾUmmîʿaštart “may have come into
the title ‘priestess’ by virtue of her marriage to the ‘priest,’ Tabnit.”
40. If the priestly office was hereditary, then perhaps Eshmunazor II was also a “priest of
ʿAštart” like his grandfather and father, and yet his mother chose to keep quiet about
it on his coffin inscription!
41. See Puech 1994: 52–61, 71 and Bonnet 1996: 30–31, 157.
42. See Aufrecht 1989: 145–148. I am indebted to Smith (2014b: 79) and Bloch-Smith
(2014: 183 n. 59), who previously noted this inscription.
43. See Mitzpe Yammim in note 32.
44. Granted, there is no explicit reference to Manasseh and Amon worshipping ʿAštart,
with the DtrH instead concentrating on the goddess Asherah (2 Kgs 21:3, 7; cf. 2 Chr
33:3, 19).
45. On the two Taanach cult stands, see Chapter Seven, pp. 315–317, 323–325, 411–415.
Smith (2014a: 196, 205–208; 2014b: 56, 73–74, 78) also notes the goddess’s name
(written in hieroglyphics) in a Late Bronze Age seal from Bethel, and he suggests
that the goddess is being referenced in Old Canaanite arrowheads mentioning “the
servant of the Lion.”
46. As noted in Chapter Nine, note 6, Emar provides the exception to the rule. And yet
while the Emar king has a limited active cultic role in the zukru, the festival nonethe-
less underscores royal patronage and benevolence.
47. See Ackerman 1989: 109–124 (= 1999: 21–32); 1992: 5–35; 2003: 461–463; 2008a:
141–145; cf. 2013.
48. Though Jeremiah’s response in Jer 44:25 is addressed to men and women (cf. 44:19–
20), note the series of third-person feminine plural verbs in Jer 44:25 (tĕdabbērnâ,
tāqîmnâ, taʿăśênâ).
49. See Chapter Six, pp. 261–262, on how different genres (myths, deities lists, ritual
texts) give us different pictures of the “mythological” (or “narrative”) pantheon, the
“canonical” (or “synthetic”) pantheon, and the “functional” pantheon.
50. Generalizations such as what we find in Cogan and Tadmor 1988: 294 need to be
better nuanced: “Josiah’s act of cultic reform . . . [is] presented in terms and style al-
most identical to that of Deuteronomy.”
As the reader will see, on the Deuteronomy material, I am indebted to earlier in-
sightful studies by Delcor (1974) and Hadley (1996, 2007).
51. A possible exception is the mention of “[the] Baal of Peor” (baʿal-pĕʿôr) in Deut 4:3,
on which see Hadley (2007: 173–174). Deut 32:6b–9 constitutes a special case, as
any older (El-)Elyon traditions have been fused with those of Yahweh (cf. Ps 82). See
Chapter Four, pp. 90–95, and Chapter Nine, pp. 565–569.
52. The rhetoric used in these anti-image polemics has been well studied (e.g., analyses
of the Bilderverbot by Dohmen [1987, 2012] and others), and especially in light of
the mīs pî image texts from Mesopotamia (Dick 1999b; Walker and Dick 2001). See
Chapters Five and Seven.
Notes 903
53. For a listing of all the passages regarding “detestation” (šiqqûṣ), “abomination” (tôʿēbâ),
“filth” (gillul), and “man-made” (maʿăśēh yĕdê ʾādām) in Deuteronomy and the DtrH
that Weinfeld labels “Deuteronomic phraseology,” see Weinfeld 1972b: 323–324.
54. The word šāwʾ can designate worthlessness (being inconsequential, next to nothing)
or falsity (that which is empty or lacks substance; Hos 10:4) as well as something that
results in nothingness (Hos 12:12; Job 15:31b) or is done for no reason (in vain), as
seen in Jer 2:30; 4:30; 6:29; 46:11.
55. Using Deuteronomy 6:13 (“Yahweh your deity you must fear, and him you must
serve, and by his name you must swear”), Propp (2006: 174) astutely observes: “A
deity is acknowledged and reified by invocation and imprecation no less than by
sacrifice.” Thus the inability to invoke a deity by name negates any conceptual
reification.
56. See too McClellan’s (2011: 73–75, 78–79) study of deity in LXX Deuteronomy, where
he argues (especially due to LXX Deut 4:19, 17:3 and 32:43) for a de-deification pro-
cess whereby astral deities become “non-sentient astral bodies.” For the LXX trans-
lator, Yahweh possesses “ontological uniqueness,” with “the sons of the gods” lowered
to the “entirely separate and derivative class” of angels.
57. Such rhetoric is similar to how the eighth-century BCE Hosea asserts that Yahweh
(and not Canaanite Baal) is Israel’s true lord (baʿal), who provided agricultural
bounty (grain, wine, oil, flax) as well as sheep and goats (wool) that Israel mis-
takenly used in the Baal cult (Hosea 2:10–11 [Eng 2:8–9]; cf. Hosea 2:18–19 [Eng
2:16–17]).
58. An exception might be studies (e.g., Darby 2014: 367–397, 404–405) of the way
in which Judean pillar figurines were used in healing rituals and apotropaically.
Though past missteps of analyzing the figurines included an “Astarte Phase” (Darby
2014: 35–36), the goddess may hypothetically have been associated with healing
and protection. Yet at present we have no explicit textual material to support this
hypothesis.
59. For the primary texts, see Cammarosano 2018.
60. In addition to combining divine attributes, the mourner’s Kaddish (in Aramaic)
contains beautiful alliteration and assonance, so it is no surprise that it is used else-
where in daily prayer books:
yitbārak wĕyištabbaḥ wĕyitpāʾar wĕyitrômam wĕyitnaśśēʾ wĕyithaddār
wĕyitʿalleh wĕyithallāl šĕmēh dĕqudšāʾ bĕrik hûʾ lĕʿēllāʾ min kol birkātāʾ wĕšîrātāʾ
tušbĕḥātāʾ wĕneḥĕmātāʾ daʾămîrān bĕʿālmāʾ wĕʾimrû ʾāmēn
Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be
the Name of the Holy One. Blessed is He. Beyond any blessing and song, praise
and consolation that are uttered in the world. Now say: Amen.
The Lord’s Prayer (used corporately and privately due to Jesus’ directive in Matthew
6:9//Luke 11:2) also combines attributes, notably starting with divine parentage before
turning to divine kingship:
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy
will be done; on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And
904 Notes
forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead
us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. [For thine is the kingdom, the
power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.]
Note how both of these prayers continue the long-standing use of the divine Name
to encapsulate divine essence. (See the discussion of Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic
Name Theology in Chapter Seven.)
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Subject Index
References to boxes, figures, tables, and notes are denoted by an italicized b, f, t, and n. The index of authors’ names and
their citations is not comprehensive. Readers should use digital searches and consult the Notes and the Works Cited.
Aaron adonay, as substitute for Yahweh, 725n77, 731n136, 732n145,

anointing rituals for, 625 212, 213 735n11, 755n1, 756n5,
cultic activities by, 752n191 agrarian goddess, ʿAthtartu 756n7, 759n35, 837n186,
Yahweh’s anger against, 650 as, 681–83 839n214, 839n215,
Aaronid priests agriculture, association of El 843n262, 852n74, 852n75,
in Chronicles, 659–60 Shadday with, 103–4 886n174 and passim
in handling of Ark, 597 Aharoni, Yohanan, 184, 246, Albright, William F., 31–32, 213–
holiness of, 640–41 706n52, 710n77, 748n165, 14, 220–21, 270–71, 319,
regulations for, in Holiness 866n12 705–07nn48–49, 51–55
source, 631–32 Ahaz (Judean king), 502–3 Albright-Freedman-Cross
ritual acts required for, 619–29 Ahijah (biblical figure), 752n192 hypothesis, on name
abcedaries, 764n86 Ahiram of Byblos (Phoenician Yahweh, 220–22, 270–71
Abihu, death of, 370–73 king), 402, 403f Aleppo Citadel, 156f
Abijah (biblical figure), Ahlström, Gösta, 75, 126, 157, 158, Alt, Albrecht, 84–85
752–53n192 200, 202 altar, consecration of, 624, 625
Absalom (biblical figure), 513 Ai, cult stand from, 415, 416f Amarna letters (EA)
abstract representations of Yahweh, AIAR (W. F. Albright Institute of El in, 74–75
336–44, 422–25 Archaeological Research), exile of statues in, 140
divine fire, 344–58 705–6n48 materials for icons in, 132
divine radiance, 358–79 Akitu festival, 28, 259 references to Canaanite religion
in Hebrew Bible, 344–79 Akizzi, mayor of Qatna, 132, 133 in, 258
Name Theology, 379–92 Akkadian language, 56, 57, 60, traveling rituals in, 137
and other deities in ancient Near 74, 215, 259, 266, 337, Amenhotep II, 679
East, 338–41, 340f 390, 400, 445, 454, 517, Amenhotep III, 737n51, 761n53,
pairing of iconoclasm and 526, 669, 714n19, 717n6, 761n59, 782n210, 798n130,
aniconism, 341–44 719n21, 719n23, 740n86, 900n16
sacred emptiness, 392–415, 748n163, 757n9, 778n172, American School of Oriental
416f–17f 798n135, 815n144, Research, 705–6n48
abuse of justice, prosecution 803n179, 817n18, 818n26, Ammonites, El worship by, 83
of, 535–38 834n162, 838n198, Amorite hypothesis, 108, 717n6
academic disciplines, 48–49 839n217 and passim Amorite language, “Yahweh”
Ackerman, Susan, 44–46, 84, 502, Alaca Höyük, city gate, 149, 149f in, 220
667–668, 677, 685, 687, aladlammu (lamassu) sculptures, Amorites, El Shadday for, 108
689–691, 711n87, 711n92, 399–400, 399f, 814n272 Amos, book of
781n196, 788n27, 841n240, Aladlammu Seal, from Seyrig prosecution of abuse of justice
842n253, 847n28, 853n83, collection, 305–6, 306f in, 535–36
866n13, 886n175, 895n277, Alalakh, precious metals in, 303–4 twisting of justice in, 550–51
896n278, 896n279, Albertz, Rainer, 9, 26–27, 39, 42, amulets
896n280, 896n281, 43–44, 50, 56, 57, 58–59, deities represented in, 328, 330
896n282, 899n8, 901n37, 83, 84, 107, 111, 112, 214, Egyptian, in Israel,
902n39, 902n47 and passim 218, 235, 255, 272, 274, 304, 772–73n148
active presence, of Yahweh, 218–19 306, 479, 493–94, 522, 586, anachronisms, 760n44
Adad (deity), 266, 268, 439–40, 702n4, 707n56, 711n88, Anat-Astarte, representations
458, 804–5n193 714n18, 722n50, 723n54, of, 324
1020 Subject Index
ʿAnatu (deity), 441–42, 462, 819n40 El worship in Iron Age, 82–83 Ashurbanipal, violence done by
ancient or eternal god, El as, 97–99, and Yahweh’s origin from troops of, 466, 572–73,
109, 110 North, 270–71 572f, 800n156, 814n272,
Andersen, Francis, 359–60, archaeology, 710n83 and passim 842n251, 850n51
452, 535–36 data about ʿAštart from, 694 Ashurnasirpal II, 396, 430, 431f,
anger, hypostatic use of, 351 evidence of empty-space 573, 814n272
aniconism aniconism in, 409–17, 410f, Aššur/Astarte (deity), 97, 157, 231,
of ancient Israel, 119, 155, 156 411f, 413f–17f 265, 268, 344, 365, 368,
in Deuteronomist sources, 291 and Israel’s ethnogenesis, 710n81 375–77, 376f, 396, 797n126,
divine fire in, 356–58 material culture as source 818n34, 827n99
iconoclasm and, 341–44 material, 68–69 Assyria, king’s association with
and Jeroboam I’s bull processual, 40 divinity in, 497
images, 318–20 in religious scholarship, 31, Assyriology, 703–4n22
and lack of male figurines from 39–41, 706n53 ʿAštart/Astarte (deity), 675–96
Iron Age, 302–4 Yahweh iconography in, in ancient Israelite
material, 333–36, 421–22 287, 297 religion, 693–96
representations of Yahweh in, archaic biblical Hebrew, 715n27, Astarte in Egypt, 679
333–36, 421–22 782n210, 822n68 Aštartu at Emar, 678–79
anointing rituals, 622–29 Ariel, 197, 315 ʿAthtartu at Ugarit, 679–83, 684f
anthropomorphic language, in Ark, 397 biblical portrayal of,
Ezekiel, 374–79 divine radiance in narrative 676–78, 687–89
anthropomorphic representations of, 364–65 in Deuteronomy, 691–93
of Yahweh, El associated with, 805n199 in Phoenicia and its extended
287–313, 418–19 as focal point for sacred world, 576, 668, 676,
absence of, from Iron Age, emptiness, 394–97, 425 684–87
298–304 hidden allusions to, 812–13n262 as Queen of Heaven, 689–91
as divine images, 290–97 holiness of, 595–99, 604–5, Astarte (ʿAštart), 679, 680f, 901n32
in material culture, 297–98 891n239 Aštartu (ʿAštart), 509,
in textual sources, 287–90, 786n5 moved to Jerusalem 678–79, 899n10
and Yahweh as member of divine temple, 655–56 Aster, Shawn, 339, 374, 797n124,
couple, 304–13 and name as practical presence of 797n125, 797n126,
anthroponyms, related to divine Yahweh, 408 797n127, 798n135,
names, 59–60 Arnuwanda I (Hittite king), 515–16 798n136, 803n179,
apocalyptic literature aroma, consecration with, 622 803n180, 805n193,
divine justice in, 532–34 Arslan Tash 809n227, 825n81
Yahweh as warrior in, 469–70 Canaanite and Aramean religion Ataroth/Ataruz, 172, 193–94,
apotropaism. See protection in, 268, 576 202–205, 203f, 204f, 205f,
(apotropaism) incantations from, 55, 268, 576, 208, 333, 422, 743n122,
Appollo Hylates, sanctuary of, at 727n98, 727n102, 742n103, 749n172, 749n173,
Kourion, 308 779n181, 779n183 749n175, 750n176,
ʾAqhatu story, 79, 134, 215, stela from, 151f 751n186, 769n125, 792n80
262, 474, 476, 483, 516, art, in ancient Israelite religion, 7–8 Aten (deity), 339–40, 340f
838n200, 840n225 artisans, in ancient Near ʾAthiratu (deity), 475–76,
Arad, 41, 55, 296, 576, 750n185, East, 133–35 475f, 738n63
768n115, 832n149, 866n12 Asherah (deity) ʿAthtar (deity), 828n108
aniconic representations of analysis of, 701n2 ʿAthtartu (ʿAštart), 441, 679–83,
Yahweh in, 296 as consort of Yahweh, 237–39, 684f, 819nn38–39, 900n22
desacralizing of temple at, 238f, 239f, 243, 327–28 atonement rituals, for kings, 498
303, 788n32 divine images of, 120, 122, 125, attendant beings of fire, for
masseboth at, 121, 122f, 172, 167, 168, 326 Yahweh, 347–50
183–87, 185f–86f, 194, 296, and El Shadday, 730–31n132 auditory experience, of Yahweh’s
333, 422, 748n164, 749n175 image of, in Jerusalem Temple, presence, 613
material culture in fortress 292, 294 Avalos, Hector, 138
temple at, 463 and Kuntillet ʿAjrud, 763n78 Ayn Dara, Iron Age temple at, 393
name of Yahweh on ostraca as part of divine couple, 304–13, abstract images of divine, 341,
from, 246–47, 247f 305f, 307f, 309f, 312f 342f, 343f
Aramaic language, use of, 265 representations of, 412 invisibility as focal point
Aramean religion, 264–268 Ashkelon, bull statuette from, 153, for, 408–9
and bull-headed warrior from 154, 160f, 324 sacred emptiness in, 425, 426
Bethsaida, 332
Subject Index 1021
and superlative power of gods as bronze figurine from, 165, 168f bribery, 536–38
kings, 511 cult stand with fenestrations bronze statuary
ʿAzzīʾiltu, 837–38n197 from, 415, 417f El representations in, 156–65,
seal from, 166–69, 170f 166f–70f
Baal Beth-Shemesh ʾIlu representations in, 142–44,
iconography of, 202, 206 Ark of the Testimony at, 143f–44f
in inscriptions at Kuntillet 596, 874n77 Buddhas of Bamyan, destruction
ʿAjrud, 586 bronze figurine at, 163, 164, 166f of, 343
Baʿal, divine images of, 151, 152, Beth ʿOlam, 727n103 bull-headed warrior, from
160–61, 164f, 165f Bethsaida, 41, 120, 189, 190, 191f, Bethsaida, 330–32, 331f
Baalam oracles, 89–90, 94 264, 267, 302, 330–33, the Bull of Jacob, 197–98
Babel and Bible (Delitzsch), 704n28 331f, 742n110, 749n171, bull of Samaria, 320–21
“Babel-Bibel” controversy, 24–25 794n101, 831n130 bull riders, divine, 319–20, 319f
Bahn, Paul, 336–37 Beya, Moses as, 229 Bull Site
Bailey, Lloyd, 318 Bible and Orient Museum, bull representation of Yahweh
Baʿlu (deity) University of Fribourg, from, 322
cosmic warfare in myth of, 306–9, 307f massebah at, 174–76, 175f
440–42, 459, 460–61 biblical polemics, 692–93 metal expertise from Iron Age
as family god, 474 Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris, at, 302
and ʾIlu, 80, 82, 118 France), 305–6, 306f theriomorphic representations
as storm god, 267 Biran, Avraham, 187, 189, 710n77, of El from, 200, 202, 202f
Barkay, Gabriel, 42–43, 249–250, 749n169 bull symbolism
710n77, 768n117, Bird, Phyllis, 42, 45, 111, 668–69, in ancient Near East,
769n120, 769n122, 711n85, 711n87, 711n96, 751–51n190
843n263, 866n12 842n249, 889n213 for El, 116, 197–200, 318
Beck, Pirhiya, 316, 326, 742n110, birth narratives, 479 for ʾIlu, 150–53, 158f–61f,
790n49, 793n88, 793n90, blazing mountain (image), 754–55n210
794n98 353–54, 356 on Taanach cult stand, 323–24,
Becking, Bob, 292–94 Blenkinsopp, Joseph, 446, 470, 323f, 420–21
Beckman, Gary, 217, 497, 708n64, 533, 537 for Yahweh, 317–33, 319f, 321f,
721n45, 737n39, 738n69, Blessing of Jacob, 277 323f, 325f, 329f, 331f, 420
750n177, 844n4, 884n158 blessings, god of family as giver Bull ʾIlu, 76, 78, 117, 588, 720n26,
Bedouin tribalism, 23 of, 476 725n74
belief, in Yahweh as judge, 528–30 Bloch-Smith, Elizabeth, 46, 121, burial
Bell, Catherine, 3, 15, 42, 49, 172, 180, 181, 185, 187, of ancient Near East
613–614, 640, 704n35, 189, 317, 394, 511, 676, statues, 141
709n67, 848n38, 876n101, 684–685, 688, 709n76, of precious metals, 303
879n125 710n83, 732n149, 736n36, Burkert, Walter, 495
Bellow, Saul, 52, 473 748n164, 748n165, burning bush, 345
Ben-Ami, Doron, 175, 176, 180, 749n175, 798n133, 901n32, burnt offerings, 406–7, 501, 502
181, 710n77, 742n117, 901n33, 901n34, 902n42 Byblos, 155f
742n118, 747n157, 747n160 and passim
beneficence, of ʾIlu, 79 Block, Daniel, 643–44 Cain (biblical figure), 272
benevolent protector, El as, 111–13 bloodletting, after divine Callot, Olivier, 151–52
Ben-Tor, Amnon, 141, 159, 162, warfare, 470–71 Campbell, Edward, 301, 301f, 302,
402 and passim blood manipulation 787n24, 787n26
Bes (deity), 120, 325f, 326–30, 329f, in anointing rituals, 624, 627–29, Canaanite Gods in Metal
421, 793n89 881–82n142 (Negbi), 258
Beset (deity), 327, 328 by consecrated priests only, 665 Canaanite religion and culture,
Bethel, 2, 59, 85, 99–101, 112, 113, in study of ancient Israelite 253–64, 286
135, 171, 174, 187, 195, 196, religion, 51 and Chaoskampf in Hebrew
198, 199, 227, 295, 320, 335, Bordreuil, Pierre, 236, 260, 714n14, Bible, 459–60
382, 386, 387, 419, 502, 602, 718n17, 774n154, 789n35, as construct, 253–54
619, 667, 713n6, 728n116, 899n13 El worship in, 74–75
737n42, 746n153, 747n156, Bourke, Stephen, 205–06 in Middle Bronze Age, Late
753n192, 769n125, 792n73, bovine imagery, 754n206–7 Bronze Age, and Iron
847n30, 902n45 breast, association of El Shadday Age, 256–59
Bethsaida gate shrine, 190, 191f, with, 102 name of Yahweh in epigraphs
330–32, 331f, 794–95n101 Brettler, Marc, 512–13, 521, from, 252
Beth Shean 802n167, 822n65, 851n67 Philo of Byblos on, 255–56
1022 Subject Index
Canaanite religion and culture circumvention, in description and legitimization of

(cont.) of Yahweh, 378–79 royalty, 453–60
Phoenician epigraphic sources city gates, 149, 513, 524, 539, 544, in mythology from
on, 254–55 850n57 Ugarit, 439–42
pre-Israelite, 253, 773–74n152 City of David preternatural dragons in, 433,
Ugarit and conceptualization empty throne in seal from, 405 434f–37f
of, 259–64 striding lion seal from, swallowing of death by
and Yahweh’s origin from 314–15, 314f Yahweh, 460–61
North, 270–71 classical nomenclature (of source Yahweh’s divine battle at
caring father, Yahweh as, 481–82 criticism), 62, 65, 274 sea, 448–53
Carr, David, 53, 448, 714n20, clay Yahweh’s engagement in, 442–61
770n131, 856n111 humans as, 839n217, 841n238 and Yahweh’s kingship, 510
Chaoskampf traditions, 150 used for divine images, 739n80 covenant lawsuits, 539–43
in ancient Near East, 430–33 Clines, David, 555–56, 860n156, creation myths
in Hebrew Bible, 443–46, 860n159, 870n44 combat myths and, 444, 445
448, 459–60 clothing and gods as parents, 477–78,
in Levant, 439–42 of ancient Near East 481, 838nn202–3
royal legitimization in, 454 icons, 135–36 creator
royal military might in, 510 as offering to ʿAthtartu, 682–83 El as, 109, 110
in Ugaritic religion, 262 symbolic uses of, 879–80n125 Elkunirsha as, 81
use of language in, 817n16 washing of, for ʾIlu as, 76–77
chariot riders, representation consecration, 611 Yahweh as, 94–95
of, 308–9 of Yahweh in radiance, 454–55 crises of everyday life, connection
Chemosh (deity), 2, 33, 71, 134, clothing rituals, for Aaronid of Yahweh to, 493–94
140, 235, 254, 261, 285, 304, priests, 619–22 Cross, Frank Moore, 34–36, 74,
335, 419, 428, 429, 462, 501, cloud pillar (as symbol), 453 84, 86, 87, 90, 97, 102, 104,
691, 729n116, 749n172, Collins, John, 47, 99, 533, 534 , 105, 107, 111, 113, 210–11,
755n211, 762n69, 769n125 711n87, 711n92, 725n76, 220–22, 236, 241, 245, 251,
cherubim 736n36, 855n102, 855n103 253, 270, 271, 276–78, 349,
composite, 320 combat myth, in Ugaritic 363, 395, 396, 454, 459, 619,
as focal point for sacred religion, 262 706n52, 708n61, 708n62,
emptiness, 394f, 397–400, comparanda, ancient Near 713n8, 716n6, 717n13,
398f, 399f, 409, 425, Eastern, 67, 69–72 718n18, 719n23, 720n30,
815–16n289 compassion, language to express 722n50, 723n57, 723n60,
function of, 813n271 Yahweh’s, 492 728n105, 728n109, 728n111,
as thrones for rulers, 400–402, composite beasts, 433, 434f–36f (see 728n113, 729n123, 730n127,
401f–4f, 814n276 Mischwesen) 732n156, 752n192, 759n35,
Chesterton, G. K., 8 consecration 766n98, 767n107, 767n110,
childbirth, connection of Yahweh of ancient Near East icons, 135 768n111, 769n125, 770n128,
to, 489–93 with anointing, 622 782n205, 782n208, 783n214,
child rearing, by Yahweh, 481–82 for holy war, 464 805n195, 812n252, 812n253,
children of Nazirites, 634 813n269, 820n52, 822n69,
humans as rebellious, 482–89 of priests, in 828n106, 828n108, 830n129,
sacrifice of, 64, 542, 715n25 Chronicles, 661–65 832n145, 866n12, 869n37,
Chronicles process of, in Exodus, 608–15 887n183 and passim
cultic activities of king in, rituals for Aaron and Aaronid Crouch, Carly, 42, 285, 785n233,
499–500 priests, 619–29 785n235, 890n219
David in, 697–98 of women, 668–70 CT 13.33-34 (Old Akkadian
and divine image of Yahweh in contrastive approach, to Ugaritic cuneiform text), 431–33
Jerusalem Temple, 296 studies, 260 cultic holiness, 606–15
hypostatic use of fire in, 352 coronation rituals, 512–13 cultic prostitution, 668–70
on Jehoshaphat as king of cosmic warfare, 430–61 cultic status, 612
justice, 520–21 in ancient Near East, 430–33, cult inventories, 696–97
singers and musicians in, 66 431f, 432f Curtis, A. H. W., 152, 198
Yahweh alone in battle in, 466 and archaic lore in Israelite
Yahweh as the Holy One religion, 446–48 Dagan (deity), 677
in, 657–65 in Enuma Elish, 437–39 Dagon (deity), 254, 303
Dahood, Mitchell, 95, 98, 228
Subject Index 1023
Dalley, Stephanie, 233–34, 270 Decalogue, Ark as storage place Deuteronomy, book of
dance, in ancient Israelite for, 408 allusions to geographic origin of
religion, 7–8 de facto traditions, of Yahweh in, 280
Daniel, book of aniconism, 333 and aniconic tradition, 357–58
divine images in, 134–35 DeGrado, Jessie, 45, 669, 896n288 ʿAštart in, 691–93
God as eschatological judge Deir ʿAlla creation and fatherhood in, 481
in, 533–34 Canaanite and Aramean religion Dagan, Shagar, and ʿAštart in, 677
Danilu (Ugarit patriarch), 476–77 in, 268–69 discipline by Yahweh in, 484
Darby, Erin, 46, 132, 735n11, El Shadday in, 105, 113 divine fire in, 353–56
748n164, 789n41, 841n238, El worship in, 90 divine law in, 561
889n210, 903n58 Delitzsch, Friedrich, 24–25 divine radiance in, 361
dataset size, of textual demonization approach, to El as benevolent protector in, 112
sources, 66–67 Ugaritic studies, 259–60 El as father in, 110
dating, in iconographic studies, de Moor, Johannes, 87, 229, 232, El Olam in, 98–99
126–27, 126f–28f 719n20, 721n38, 760n51, El Shadday in, 104
Daughter Zion, 485, 486, 488–89 761n52 Elyon and Yahweh in, 91–92
David (biblical figure) the Destroyer, El Shadday as, 104–5 and essence of fire, 358
abuse of justice by, 534–35 destruction, of ancient Near East fiery attendants of Yahweh
and attributes of Yahweh, 697–98 statues, 141 in, 348–49
infusing of divinity in kingship Deuteronomic Law of the King, 503 humans as rebellious children
of, 505 Deuteronomistic History (DtrH) in, 483
as judge, 855n105 ʿAštart in, 676–77, 691–92 Levites in, 637–39
as king of justice, 517–18 cultic activities of kings in, limits on judicial power of kings
kinship of Yahweh with, 219 501, 502 in, 543–45, 561
Philistine idols destroyed divine fire in, 353 love expressed in, 890n219
by, 739n77 divine radiance in, 366 Name Theology and,
role of, in cultic activities, 499– holiness in, 651–53, 660–61 379–80, 384–86
500, 880n131 holy personnel in, origin myths of Israelite
royal legitimization of, 455–58 651–53, 651–57 judiciaries in, 526–27
Yahweh as supporter of human involvement in warfare self-identification in, 285
underdog, 465 in, 464–65 Yahweh as absolute judge in,
Davis, Andrew, 196, 712n5, lack of singers and 528–29
748n168, 752n190, 791n57, musicians in, 66 Yahweh as the Holy One in,
800n148, 837n187, Name Theology and, 379 647–51
841n239, 897n295 priestly personnel in, 651–57 Deutero-
Dawn (deity), 77, 474 throne imagery in, 405 Isaiah /Second Isaiah, 485,
Day, John, 262, 443, 444, 445 , of Yahweh as the Holy One 490, 491, 599, 600, 603, 649,
452, 512, 677, 696, 701n2, in, 651–53 738n60, 842n245, 875n92
703n22, 718n18, 819n43, Deuteronomistic sources Dever, William, 40–41, 126, 157–
820n45, 821n58, 821n62, active presence of Yahweh 158, 163, 202, 232,, 241,
829n111, 849n42, 889n213 in, 218–19 242, 298, 707n56,709n73,
and passim aniconism in, 291 709n76, 710n81, 710n83,
Day, Peggy, 837n189, 841n240 anthropomorphic 735n16, 735n18, 742n118,
Day of Atonement/Purgation, 498, representations of Yahweh 745n142, 754n203,
621, 622, 646, 808n218, in, 288–89 762n66, 766n99, 766n100
875n85 Asherah images in Jerusalem and passim
death Temple in, 294–95 de Wette, Wilhelm, 20–21, 702n5,
of Abihu and Nadab, 370–73 bull images of Jeroboam 702n6, 702n8
of gods, 758n23 I in, 198–99 Dewrell, Heath, 64, 730n129,
lethal God hearings, 355, 367 David as king of justice in, 518 733n161, 772n140, 847n31,
lethal God sightings, 296–97, destruction/mutilation of statues 857n124, 887n194
355, 557 in, 141 Dick, Michael, 133, 554, 556
lethal holiness of Yahweh, 494 divine fire in, 353–56 direct communication, of Moses
swallowing of, by divine radiance in, 366 with God, 562–63
Yahweh, 460–61 hypostatic use of name in, 388 disappearance, of gods, 217–18
Deborah (biblical figure), 13, 273, kings of justice in, 519 disarmament
411, 524, 667, 781n196, on masseboth, 173–74, 335 rhetoric of, 471–72
853n83 superlative quality of Yahweh’s Yahweh as teacher-judge
kingship in, 509 after, 530
1024 Subject Index
discipline, by Yahweh as divine kingship, 503–4, 705n40 drawing process, for iconographic
father, 484–86 divine kinsman, El as, 111 analysis, 127–28, 129f–32f
divination, for decisions about divine mercy dreams and visions
battle, 464 in book of Jonah, 571–74 communication of God with
divine accessibility, provided by Psalms on, 569–71 Moses vs., 562–63
Ark, 597–99 divine “name,” to depict presence of El’s association with, 81–82, 90,
divine beings, surrounding Yahweh, 379–80 100–101
Yahweh, 863n180 divine parent, Yahweh as, 477–82 DtrH. See Deuteronomistic
divine council/assembly, 565, divine radiance, 358–79, 423–24 History (DtrH)
863n180 in Chronicles, 658 Durkheim, Émile, 23, 26, 36, 50,
and El worship, 113 consecration required to 704n33, 712n2, 712n4,
judgment by, 534 mediate, 662–63 879n125
Yahweh’s judgment of, 565–67 divine kābôd in pre-priestly Dusk (deity), 77, 474
divine couple cultic settings, 364–68
Asherah as consort of Yahweh, in early poetry, 359–62 EA. See Amarna letters (EA)
237–39, 238f, 239f, and enthronement in Jerusalem Ebal, Mt., 41, 173, 284, 383, 561,
243, 327–28 Temple, 510–11 784n231
Yahweh as member of, 304–13, kābôd Yahweh in Ebla, Yahweh at, 228
305f, 307f, 309f, 312f Ezekiel, 373–79 Edomites, 285–86
divine empowerment kābôd Yahweh in Priestly Egypt
of David, 456–58 sources, 368–73 abstract images of divine in,
of human troops in Moses’ request to see kābôd of 339–40, 340f
battle, 464–65 Yahweh,362–63 ʿAštart (Astarte) in, 679, 680f
divine figures, representations radiance to depict presence of contact between Canaan
of human figures vs., Yahweh, 358–59 and, 256–58
308, 310 divine speeches, in Job, 555–57 El worship in Ramesside
divine fire, 344–58, 423 divine traits, overlapping period, 75
and aniconic of, 590–91 judicial instructions in, 516
tradition, 356–58 divine visitation, 476–77 justice as theme in wisdom
attendant beings of fire for divine war, synergism of human literature of, 547
Yahweh, 347–50 war and, 462–64 king’s association with divinity
crafting essence of fire, 358 divine warrior(s) in, 496, 504
Deuteronomic/Deuteronomistic on cosmic scale, 430–42 materials for icons in, 130–32
views of, 353–56 in inscriptions at Kuntillet name Yahweh in, 229–33
fire to depict presence of ʿAjrud, 583–87, 584f–85f Egyptian Papyrus Amherst 322,
Yahweh, 344–47, radiance of, 359–61 728n116, 739n73, 792n73
802–3n174 divinity Ein Gedi, 245–46, 246f
hypostatic use of fire, 350–53 Aramean, 265–66 El
and radiance of Yahweh, 370–71 conceptualization of, 73, 575 characteristics of, 722–23n50
divine images, passim in Deir ʿAlla, 269 characteristics of Yahweh
anthropomorphic in environmental context, 2 vs., 427
representations of Yahweh female, 675–696 distinction between Elyon
as, 290–97 of kings, 496–98, 504–7 and, 87–88
criteria for identifying, 142 as organizing principle, 9–10 Elyon traditions associated
materials used for, 739n80 in Ugaritic religion, 261–64 with, 88–90
misidentification of, 121–22 Dobbs-Allsopp, F. W., 448, 554 and epigraphy related to, 54–55
of Yahweh, 290–97 passim as family deity, 473, 723n54
divine justice Documentary Hypothesis, 54, 84, as father, 480–81
and apocalyptic 707n53 and “the Holy One of
literature, 532–34 domestic religion Israel,” 602–3
and ideal of just divine representations of figures in, identification of Yahweh with,
judge, 545–57 310, 311 209, 868n26
in Job, 551–57 See also family religion in inscriptions at Kuntillet
non-royal frameworks dragons ʿAjrud, 586
for, 521–24 allusions to, in Hebrew Iron Age representations
on personal level, 521–23 Bible, 443–46 of, 298
proverbial understandings divine warriors’ battles judicial authority of Yahweh
of, 547–49 with, 431–33 over, 565–67
royal framework for, 513–21 preternatural, 433, 434f–37f as mother, 489
Subject Index 1025
and Yahweh as “He Who Causes Elohist source (E) zukru festival at, 627–
to Be,” 221–22 Midianite hypothesis 29 , 747n156, 876n99,
and Yahweh in Hebrew Bible, 427 and, 276 883n156, 899n10, 902n46
and Yahweh in Masoretic on Moses’s father-in-law, empty space aniconism,
tradition, 568–69 781n197 333, 409–17
and Yahweh’s origin from the revelation of name Yahweh empty throne, of Yahweh, 405
North, 271 in, 223–26 Enlightenment, religious
El Berith, 85–86, 111, 174, use of, 65 scholarship during, 18–19
723–24n60 El Olam, 97–99, 727n100 enthroned-benedictory deities,
El Bethel, 99–101 epigraphy related to, 55 images of
El Elyon, 86–95, 112 and Yahweh, 210, 217 with animal thrones, 401–5,
distinction between El and El Roi, 95–97, 110, 112 401f–4f
Elyon, 87–88 El Shadday, 101–9, 489, 729n121 from Israel, 156–57
Elyon traditions associated with dating of, 105–7 Late Bronze Age, 298
El, 88–90 as the Destroyer, 104–5 and representation of
Elyon traditions associated with and El as father, 110 Yahweh, 298
Yahweh, 90–92 as God of the Mountain, 102 from Ugarit, 143–44, 143f, 144f
and “the Holy One of as God of the Steppe Lands, enthronement
Israel,” 601–2 103–4, 108 of Yahweh, 400–401, 405
and origin of Yahweh in ethnic place/sanctuary associated of Yahweh in Jerusalem, 510–11
self-identification, 285 with, 108–9 Enuma Elish
Yahweh Elyon traditions and El and revelation of name cosmic warfare in, 437–39
Elyon motifs, 92–95 Yahweh, 225 traveling rituals in, 136
El iconography, 10–11, 119–208 El worship, 10, 73–118 epigraphic sources
and ancient Near Eastern characteristics not associated on Canaanite religion, 254–55
iconography, 128–41 with El, 114–15 of name Yahweh, 234–52
Beth Shean seal, 166–69, 170f and divine council, 113 lack of, from tenth century
bronze statuary, 156–65, 166f–70f El as benevolent BCE, 251–52
and iconography of Ugaritic ʿIlu, protector, 111–13 from ninth and eighth
142–55, 156f–61f El as divine kinsman, 111 centuries BCE, 234–43,
and iconography of El as father, 110–11 234f, 235f, 238f, 239f,
Yahweh, 318 El as original god of 241f–43f
masseboth representations, 169, Israel, 115–18 from seventh and sixth
171–96, 335, 336 El Bethel, 99–101 centuries BCE, 243–51,
methodology for studying, El Elyon, 86–95 244f–50f
119–28, 129f–32f El Olam, 97–99 epigraphy
theriomorphic representations, El Roi, 95–97 related to “the Holy One,” 576
196–208 El Shadday, 101–9 as textual source, 54–55,
Elide priesthood, divine radiance functions of El deities, 109–10 709–10n76
in, 364–65 and the God of the Esarhaddon (Neo-Assyrian
Elijah (biblical figure) Fathers, 83–85 king), 133, 458, 466, 478,
fire associated with, 350 and Hittite Elkunirsha 573, 659, 685, 688, 690,
holiness of, 665–67 myth, 81–82 728n116, 771n138, 850n51
as prophet, 5 in Iron Age, 82–83 Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty
as prosecutor of abuse of in Late Bronze Age Levant, (EST), 54, 716n31,
justice, 535 74–76, 210 890n219
the Elim, 84–85 onomastica in, 59 eschatological judge, God
Elisha (biblical figure) and revelation of name Yahweh, as, 532–34
holiness of, 665–67 226, 227 Eshmunazor I (Sidonian
as prophet, 5 in Shechem, 85–86 king), 685–87
Elkunirsha and Ashertu, myth at Ugarit, 76–81 Eshmunazor II (Sidonian king),
of, 81–82 elders, see town elders 686, 687
ʾĕlōhîm, designation, 344, 509, Emar anointing rituals E source See Elohist source (E)
568–69, 724n65 at, 626–27, 883nn153–54 ethnic self-identification, Yahweh
Elohistic Psalter, 724n65 ʿAštart (Aštartu) at, 678–79 as part of, 284–86
El Elyon motifs from, 92–94 cultic holiness at, 608 European superiority prejudice
ʾĕlōhîm in, 724n65, evidence of indentured of, 703n19
782–83n212, 784n229 slavery from, 486–87, Eusebius of Caesarea, 255–56
Elyon traditions in, 88–90 486f the existing god, Yahweh as, 217–18
1026 Subject Index
Exodus, book of association of Yahweh Fleming, Daniel, x, 53, 154, 200, 271,
anointing rituals in, 622–25 with, 249–50 324–325, 421, 608, 626–628,
battle at sea in, 448–50, 452–53 and community as holy, 648–49 678–679, 712–13n6, 713n7,
dating chapter 15 of, 822n69 and divine justice on personal 716n3, 747n156, 761n53,
divine radiance in, 369, 377–78 level, 521–23 761n59, 766n104, 780n187,
El worship in, 91 and El as God of the 782n210, 784n227,
fatherly redemption in, 486 Fathers, 83–84 785n232, 793n83, 876n99,
fiery attendants of Yahweh and “the Holy One of 883n150, 883n151, 883n152,
in, 350 Israel,” 602–3 883n153, 883n154, 883n156
fire to depict presence of Yahweh incantations in, 66, 769n122 and passim
in, 345 and personal piety, 42–44 Fleming, Stuart, 121, 313
handling of Ark in, 598 Queen of Heaven as, 689, 690 food, consecrated, 624, 632, 654–55
hypostatic use of names in, 389 women’s participation forgeries, of text sources, 55, 236,
Levites in, 637 in, 667–68 713n9, 714n14, 866n12
Midianite hypothesis and Yahweh as divine Foundation Inscription of
and, 275–76 warrior, 449 Yaḫdunlim, King of
Moses’s judicial role in, 562 fascinans, defined, 337, 870n45 Mari, 717n7
name Yahweh in, 214–15, father Fox, Michael V., 7, 547, 550,
217, 218 El as, 110–11, 480–81 555, 556, 673, 701n6,
origin myths of Israelite judiciaries ʾIlu as, 76 722n49, 858n133, 858n134,
in, 525–26, 528 redemption of humans 858n138, 898n298
praise for Yahweh in, 5 by, 486–89 Freedman, David N., 84, 220–21,
process of consecration reproving of humans by, 484–86 270–71, 349, 535–36
in, 608–15 Yahweh as, 479–82 Fribourg school of iconography,
revelation of name Yahweh in, fatherless, father to, 482 37–38, 128, 129
223–24, 225 Faust, Avraham, 232, 473, 672, Friedman, Richard, 406–7
self-identification in, 285–86 710n77, 710n78, 710n81, Frymer-Kensky, Tikva, 45, 539,
Yahweh’s holiness in, 578–79 762n66, 785n233, 897n295 564, 611, 711n87, 711n96,
exodus from Egypt, 115–18 fear, in stories of Yahweh as divine 877n107
expansive holiness warrior, 453, 468–69, functional pantheon, 261–62
in Holiness source, 630–31 825n82, 826n99
in Priestly tradition, 632–36 feast of Asiph, 28 Gad, El and, 83, 720n27, 750n176
Ezekiel (biblical figure), 665, female divinity, 675, 696 Gafney, Wilda, 46, 534, 545,
895n275 feminist contributions, to Israelite 726n88
Ezekiel, book of religion scholarship, 44–46 Geller, Stephen, 22, 357, 702n13,
anthropomorphic (see Ackerman, Bird, 707n56, 802n171, 802n174
representations of Yahweh Frymer-Kensky, Meyers Genesis, book of
in, 289–90 et al.) cherubim in, 397
apocalyptic battle in, 470 fields, ʿAthtartu as goddess El as benevolent protector in,
bull symbolism in, 317 of, 681–83 112, 113
cherubim in, 400 fiery transcendent El Bethel in, 99–100
discipline by Yahweh anthropomorphisms, El Olam in, 97, 98
in, 484–85 for Yahweh, 346, 375– El Roi in, 95–97
historical study of, 716n31, 78, 799n141, 834n168 El Shadday in, 102, 106–7
809n225, 841n241, Finkelstein, Israel, 232, 710n77, Elyon associations in, 95
888n201, 895n275 710n81, 754n203, 762n67 fiery attendants of Yahweh
holiness in, 897n291 fire in, 349
kābôd of Yahweh in, 373–79, 424 abstract representation of Hagar in, 726n88
Yahweh as the Holy One in, Yahweh as, 344 and revelation of name Yahweh,
643–47 crafting essence of, 358 224, 226–27
depicting presence of Yahweh Yahweh as absolute judge
faithfulness, 657 with, 344–47 in, 528
family as focal point for sacred Germany, religious scholarship in,
judicial authority in, 523 emptiness, 405–7, 425–26 19–23, 702n4
viewing gods as, 474–76, 475f hypostatic use of, 350–53 Gezer, misdating of limestone altar
family language, applied to See also divine fire from, 126, 127f, 128f
deities, 718n7 First Isaiah, 599 Gideon (biblical figure), 272–73
family religion Fishbane, Michael, 483– Gilgamesh Epic, 23, 69, 215,
ancient Israelite religion 84, 833n161, 862n170 740n86, 758n22
as, 5–6 flaming torch (symbol), 345 Gilmour, Garth, 240, 309–11
Subject Index 1027
Ginsberg, Harold Louis, 29, 31, 97, Hagar (biblical figure), 59, 95, 96, characterization of Nineveh in,
262, 361, 705n45, 706n50, 97, 100, 572, 573
758–59n28, 774n156, 110, 112, 227, 545, 726n88, clothing of images in, 136
804n187, 830n128 726n92 content edited out of, 560
gittu, 682 Hallo, William, 70, 158, 287, 304–5 in context of ancient Near
Giveon, Raphael, 231, 731n142, Halpern, Baruch, 396, 517, 534 East, 69–70
761n53 Hamath, 233–34 cultic images in, 293
glory Hammurabi (Babylonian king), culture-specific practices
and divine radiance, 361–62 513–15, 514f, 517 in, 263–64
as focal point for sacred Hartman, L. F., 101–2 divine fatherhood in, 479
emptiness, 407, 426 Hathor, temple to, at Dendera, divine “name” in, 379
“Glory of Yahweh,” 368–70 328, 329f divine names in, 57–58
God of seeing, El as, 95–97 Ḫatti, royal cult in, 497 encounters with Yahweh
God of the Fathers, El as, 83–85 Hazor, xi, 41, 131, 141, 303, 324, in, 171–72
God of the Mountain, El Shadday 412, 576, 717n6, 739n81, equating of El and Yahweh
as, 102 742n110, 742n115, in, 427
God of the Steppe Lands, El 743n125, etymology of name
Shadday, 103–4 748n163, 749n175, Yahweh, 213–14
gods 750n185, 772n144, exile of statues in, 140, 141
as family in Ugarit, 474–76, 475f 792n77 Exodus 3:14 on name
lists of, 776–78nn171–172 cherub carving from, 398, 398f Yahweh, 214–15
Yahweh’s judicial authority cherub throne on scarab from, function of El in, 110
over, 565–68 402, 404f ḥērem warfare at, 463
Goliath (biblical figure), 465 divine images of El from, historical study of, 715n27
Gottwald, Norman, 24, 41 159–63, 163f–64f, 168 historicist reductionism of
Grabbe, Lester, 211, 230, 233, 256, masseboth at, 171, 172, 176–83, scholars of, 426, 816n297
625, 627, 717n6, 731n139, 177f–79f, 181f–84f, 193, Judahite revision in, 53
761n53, 879n125, 881n140, 194, 195, 422 judicial system of Israel
882n146, 885n172 misidentified figurine from, 126, in, 523–24
Greenberg, Moshe, 33, 289, 345, 126f, 157–58, 162f, 180–81, law collections in, 714n23
378, 707n56, 708n58, 183f, 184f, 298, 333 leonine metaphors and images
708n60, 790n53, 808n221, statue of storm/warrior god in, 313
888n198, 888n202 from, 149, 154f, 165f magic use of divine images in,
Greenfield, Jonas, 264, 266, 267, theriomorphic representations 139, 140
511, 718n18, of El from, 197, 200, 201f masseboth mentioned in, 169–
719n19, 733n156, 777n172, healing 96, 333–36
778n176, 798n133, 850n53 cultic images for, 138, 738n61, materials for icons in, 132–33
Greenstein, Edward, 552, 556–57, 903n58 meaning of name
701n7 , 738n63, 804n187, and ʾIlu, 78, 79, 89, 475, 720n31 Yahweh, 210–11
819n38, 837n192, incantations to gods for, 773n148 Midianites and Kenites
860n153, 860n154 healing rituals, 3, 138 in, 272–79
Gruber, Mayer, 490, 492, 669, Hebrew Bible myth in, 708n63
843n259 abstract representations of origin myths of Israelite
Gunkel, Hermann, 23–25, 28, 44, Yahweh in, 344–79, 423 judiciaries in, 525
262, 443, 703n21, 703n22, active presence of Yahweh origins of Yahweh in, 210–27, 271
704n27, 817n16, 819n43, in, 218–19 pronunciation of name
884n165, allusions to geographic origin of Yahweh, 211
Yahweh, 279–80, 282 and putative name
Habakkuk anthropomorphic “Jehovah,” 212–13
allusions to geographic origin representations of Yahweh quickening and consecration
of Yahweh in, 280–81 in, 287–90, 382, 418 rituals in, 135
divine radiance in, 359–61 Aramean religion in, 264 religious personnel in, 4–5
fiery attendants in, 348 archaic vocalization of name representations of deities in, 303
Yahweh as divine warrior in, Yahweh, 219–20 revelation of name Yahweh
451–52, 801n164 artisans’ role in, 134 in, 223–27
Hackett, Jo Ann, 45, 105, 269, bull symbolism for Yahweh royal legislation in, 559–61
709n75, 710n76, 711n96, in, 317 and source criticism, 61–68
724–25n71, 730n129 Canaanite religion in, 254 and textual criticism, 61
Hadad (deity), 264, 266, 332, 334, Chaoskampf traditions in, 443– traveling and pilgrimage
747–48n163 46, 448, 459–60 in, 137–38
1028 Subject Index
Hebrew Bible (cont.) concept of, 14–15 women as, 667–70

Ugaritic religion in themes of cultic objects, 866n12 holy spirit, living in Moses, 614–15
of, 262–63 early attestations of holy war, 429–30, 462–64, 655. See
Yahweh as “He Who Causes to cultic, 606–15 also warfare
Be,” 220–23 in early texts, 578–83 homogegnization, of ancient Near
Yahweh as “He Who Is,” 215–18 expansive, 630–36 East cultures, 70–71
Yahweh as king in, 508–9 expressed with Horeb, Mt., 109, 282, 356, 666,
See also specific books destructive power or 753n198, 782n205,
Hebrew language benevolence, 593–95 805n196, 879n118
in Canaanite family, 253 ideological, 613–15 horse symbolism, on Taanach cult
personal names attesting to God lethal (See lethal holiness) stand, 323–24, 323f, 420
as divine father in, 480 of Levites, 636–43 Hosea, book of
“Yahweh” in, 218–22 management of, in Priestly discipline by Yahweh in, 484
Hebrew poem, oldest known, 240 traditions, 616–43 holiness of Yahweh in, 593–95,
Hebron, Yahweh of, 701n1, 875n90 management of cultic, 605–6 615–16, 873n75
Hendel, Ronald, 42, 51, 158, 164, Rudolph Otto’s approach to humans as rebellious children
296–97, 349, 355, 376, understanding, 587–88 in, 483
423, 733n161, 796n120, and power, 587–88, 603–4, 645 Jeroboam I’s bull images
799n141, 801n159, in Priestly traditions, 616, in, 320–21
807n216, 860n159 878–79n118 revelation of name Yahweh
ḥērem warfare, 55, 462– of prophets, 665–67 in, 226
64, 763n70, 832n147 Holiness source (H), 786n5, Yahweh as caring father
hermeneutics, 38–39 854n93, 881n136, 884n159, in, 481–82
Herzog, Ze’ev, 122f, 184, 185, 186f, 884n160, 886n162, Yahweh as mother in, 492–93
187, 303, 710n77, 748n166, 887n190, 893n260 House of the Magician-Priest
788n32, 866n12 and passim holy personnel in, 630–32 at Ugarit, 123, 124f,
ḥesed relationships, 542–43 Moses viewed in, 618–19 144–46, 145f
Hess, Richard, 56, 58, 74, 229, 628, priesthood in, 660 H source. See Holiness source (H)
712n2, 713n11, 714n16, Holladay, John, 40, 317, 520, humans
717n11, 723n53, 741n98, 710n82, 766n100, 790n52 involvement of, in non-cosmic
756n5, 770n129, 808n217 holy garments, 619–22 warfare, 464–66
He Who Blows, Yahweh as, 223 “the Holy One” as rebellious children, 482–89
He Who Causes to Be, Yahweh in inscriptions at Kuntillet redemption of, by father, 486–89
as, 220–23 ʿAjrud, 587 representations of divine figures
He Who Fells with Lightning, Northwest Semitic deities vs., 308, 310
Yahweh as, 223 referred to as, 575–76 reproving of, by father, 484–86
He Who Is, Yahweh as, 215–18 “the Holy One of Israel” synergism of divine war and war
Hezekiah (biblical figure), 335, and ancient Israelite religion, involving, 462–64
466–67, 847n27, 893n261 600–602 human sacrifice, 64, 730n129,
Hiebert, Theodore, 359, 452 in Isaianic traditions, 599–603 733n161, 772n140, 847n31,
Hillers, Delbert, 259–260, 346–47 holy personnel, 3–5 857n124, 887n194
history-of-religion method, of in Chronicles, 659–61 hunting, association of El Shadday
biblical studies, 24 , 703n21, in Deuteronomist with, 103
819n43 History, 653–57 huntress, ʿAthtartu as, 681
Hittites Deuteronomistic conceptions Hurowitz, Victor, 121, 133, 364, 391
Elkunirsha myth of, 81–82 of, 651–53 hypocorism, 760n48
gods as mother and father in Deuteronomy, 647–51 hypostasis
for, 478 in different traditions, 15 of Bethel, 728–29n116
judicial instructions for, 515–16 in Ezekiel, 643–47 for fire, 350–53
Hobab (biblical figure), 274, gradations in, 617 of names, 386–90, 407
275, 527 and gradations of status, 612
Hoffner, Harry, 217, 497, 626, in handling of Ark, 596–97 iconoclasm, aniconism and,
721n45, 844n4 in Holiness source, 630–32 341, 343–44
holiness holy prophets as, 665–67 iconographic studies, 119–28,
of Ark, 595–99, 604–5 Nazirites, 632–36 129f–32f
as awesome power, priestly personnel, 653–57 limitations of, 120–21
577–78, 582–83 in Priestly traditions, material culture use, lack of, 120
in book of Joshua, 652–53 615–43, 629–30 misdating in, 126–27, 126f–28f
centrality of Yahweh’s, 577 role of Levites as, 636–43 misidentifications in, 121–23,
in Chronicles, 658–59 in Ugaritic religion, 263 124f–25f, 125
Subject Index 1029
misinterpretations from drawing burned by priests, 622, 664, Yahweh as divine parent
process, 127–28, 129f–32f 894–95n271 in, 477–78
misuse of material culture consecration required to Yahweh as law giver in, 560–61
in, 121 burn, 662 Yahweh as mother in, 490–92
iconography indentured slavery, 486–87, 486f Isaianic Apocalypse, 460–61
decline in anthropormorphic ineffable, language of, 343–44 Isaianic traditions, “the Holy One
representations of gods, injustice, unaddressed, 534 of Israel” in, 599–603
787–88n27 Instructions of Amenemope, 547 Ishbaʿl inscription, 234–35, 234f
immortality of gods in, 216, 216f interdisciplinary work, Ishtar/Mulissu (deity), 401, 401f,
study of, 37–38, 709n71 necessary for religious 402f, 466, 478–79, 737n51
of ʿAštart, 689 scholarship, 49–50 Israel
See also El iconography; Yahweh intolerance, and El, 115 aniconic tradition of, 119,
iconography invisibility, as focal point for sacred 155, 156
ideal just divine judge, 545–57, 564 emptiness, 407–9, 426 discipline of, by Yahweh, 484–86
divine justice for Job, 551–57 Iron Age early Israelite judiciaries, 525–28
and justice as theme in wisdom absence of anthropomorphic El as original god of, 115–18
literature, 546–47 images of male deity from, establishment of, 716n3
proverbial understandings of 298–304 geographic location of, 253
divine justice, 547–49 abstract images of divine from, iconography of El in, 155–208,
and theodicy in 341, 342f, 343f 166f–70f, 173f, 175f, 177f–
Qoheleth, 549–51 Canaanite culture in, 258, 286 79f, 181f–86f, 188f–93f,
ideal just human judge, 534–45 El Shadday in, 105–6 201f–7f
and covenant lawsuits, 539–43 El worship in, 73, 82–83, 210 judicial system of, 523–24
and judgment oracles, 538–39 kings in, 495 king’s role in cultic activities in,
as prosecutor of abuse of Yahweh’s name in, 210, 498–503
justice, 534–38 229, 270–71 lack of male divine figures in
ideological holiness, 613–15 Isaiah, book of Iron Age, 302–4
ʾIl association of Yahweh with law writing in, 558–59, 564
in Aramean religion, 267 masseboth in, 336 as rebellious child, 483
as proper name, 716–17n6 bloodletting after divine warfare Yahweh as father of, 479, 481–82
Ildayyi (Ḫasi ruler), 75 in, 470, 471 Yahweh as mother to, 489–90
ʾIlu cosmic warfare by Yahweh as Yahweh as national god of, 209–10
abode of, 718n16 king, 510 Yahweh as redeemer of, 487–88
in Baʿlu cycle, 440, 441 discipline by Yahweh in, 485 Israelite religion, ancient
characterization of El, divine combat myth in, 444–46 archaic lore in, 446–48
110, 112–14 on divine justice in ʿAštart in, 693–96
dependability of, 217 future, 530–31 definitions of, 52–53,
and El Shadday, 103, 104, 108 divine radiance in, 366–68, 377 712–13nn6–7
as family god, 474–75, 477 El Elyon in, 87 developments in study
and healing, 720n31 fatherly redemption in, 487–88 of, 50–52
as holy, 582–83 fiery attendants of Yahweh distinctiveness of, 30–31
iconography of, 142–55, in, 348 divine radiance in, 359
156f–61f fire to depict Yahweh’s presence and “the Holy One of Israel,”
Ugarit statuette of, 127, in, 346 600–602
129f, 130f God as eschatological judge, 533 literature, music, art, and dance
worship of, at Ugarit, 76–81, 118 holiness in, 591–93 in, 7–8
ilu/ʾel (Semitic word), 73 holiness of Moses in, 614–15 and priestly cult, 14
Ilumilka (Tyrian messenger), 75 humans as rebellious children reflection in, 6–7
image ban texts, 303, 902n52, in, 483 religious personnel in, 3–5
796n116 hypostatic use of names in, 387 and royal cult, 13
immortality, of Near East infusing of divinity in kingship viewed as primitive, 703n19
gods, 215–17 in, 506–7 Yahweh as divine warrior in,
impotency, ʾIlu as sufferer of, 78 inviolability of Jerusalem in, 468 429–30, 443–46
incantations location of El’s mountain in, 108 Israelites, Shasu nomads as,
in family religion, 66, 769n122 procession of deities in, 137–38 231–32
to healing gods, 773n148 prosecution of abuse of justice
on plaques, 779n181 in, 536–37 Jacob (patriarch of Israel),
incense Yahweh alone in battle in, 466 73, 99–101
burned by Levites, 639, Yahweh as absolute judge Jacob-El, 112
894–95n271 in, 529 Jacob-el (as toponym), 75, 717n12
1030 Subject Index
Jacobsen, Thorkild, 338–39 building of, 500–501 infusing of divinity for kings
Jael (biblical figure), 273, 277–78 dedication of, 655–56 of, 505–7
Jahaziel, 658 destruction of, and inviolability “Kings of Justice” of, 517–21
Jahwist/Yahwist source (J) of Jerusalem, 469 lack of male divine figures in
anthropomorphic represen divine image of Yahweh Iron Age, 302–4
tations of Yahweh in, 288 in, 290–97 royal judicial ideology of, 517
cherubim in, 397 divine radiance in dedication Judean pillar figurines (JPFs),
Midianites and Kenites of, 365–66 735n11, 748n164, 789n41,
portrayals in, 272 enthronement of Yahweh 841n238, 889n210, 903n58
on Moses’s father-in-law, 276, in, 510–11 (see Darby)
781n197 fire and glory as focal points in, Judges, book of
revelation of name Yahweh in, 406, 407 allusions to geographic origin of
224, 226–27 name and invisibility as focal Yahweh in, 279
use of, 65 points in, 408, 409, 415 divine radiance in, 377
Jehoiakim, injustice of, 519–20 “name” of Yahweh in, 356 fiery attendants of Yahweh
Jehoida (biblical figure), 895n273 and Name Theology, in, 350
Jehoshaphat (biblical figure) 381–83, 392 human involvement in warfare
acknowledgment of Yahweh pragmatic focal points in, 465
by, 658 in, 425–26 Kenites in, 273
as king of justice, 520–21 sacred emptiness of, 393 Levites in, 637
Jehovah, as putative and Yahweh’s holiness, 659 support for Midianite hypothesis
name, 212–13 Jethro (biblical figure) in, 277–78
Jekke, stela from, 150f in Midianite hypothesis, 272–76, judgment oracles, 538–39
Jeremiah (biblical figure), 665 781n197 judicial authority of
Jeremiah, book of, 139 in origin myth of Israelite Yahweh, 565–69
on David as king of justice, 518 judiciary, 525–26 judicial system, of early
on divine justice in future, Ji, Chang-ho, 193, 203, 205 Israel, 523–24
531, 532 Job, book of, 672–73 justice
humans as rebellious children divine combat myth in, 445–46, God’s twisting of, 550–51
in, 483 820–21n57 ideal just divine judge, 545–57
on Josiah as king of divine justice in, 551–57 ideal just human judge, 534–45
justice, 519–20 divine speeches and theophany prosecution of abuse of, 535–38
Name Theology in, 383 in, 555–57
and Yahweh in family El Shadday in, 104–5 kābôd of Yahweh, 358–379
religion, 473 filing of Job’s legal as body, 808–9n224
Jeremias, Jörg, 306–9 complaint, 554–55 in Ezekiel, 373–79
Jericho, 891n238 Job’s imaginary lawsuit in, 553–54, and honoring of Yahweh as
Jeroboam I 897–98n297 parent, 483–84
bull images of, 198–200, remembering archaic lore Moses’ request to see,362–63
318–21, 420 in, 447–48 in pre-priestly cultic
cultic activities by, 502, twisting of justice in, 551, 552 settings, 364–68
752–53nn191–193 Joel, book of in Priestly sources, 368–73
Jerusalem bloodletting after divine warfare Kant, Immanuel, 18–19
abuse of justice in, 537 in, 471 Karnak battle reliefs, 230, 231
enthronement of Yahweh rhetoric of disarmament in, 472 kashrut, 63–64
in, 510–11 Jonah, book of, 571–74, Katumuwa inscription, 333–34,
geometric humanoid figures 864–65n195 334f, 407, 722n49, 776n171,
on potsherd from, Joseph, as Nazirite, 633, 884n165 777n171, 778n172,
309–13, 312f Joshua, book of, 652–53, 890n227 795n108, 815n286
inviolability of, 467–69, 511 Josiah (biblical figure), 519–20 Kaufmann, Yehezkel, 32–34, 35, 71,
as sanctuary in Name Theology, JPFs (Judean pillar figurines), 110, 318–20,
382–83, 392 735n11, 748n164, 789n41, 707n56, 707n57, 707n58,
Yahweh of, 701n1 841n238, 889n210, 903n58 708n60, 708n63, 752n192,
as Yahweh’s daughter, 485, 486 (see Darby) 876n105
Jerusalem Temple (Solomonic J source. See Jahwist/Yahwist Keel, Othmar, 37–38, 119–120,
Temple) source (J) 147–148, 158, 166–69, 170f,
Ark and cherubim as focal Judah 197, 243, 256–57, 267, 299,
points of, 394–95, 398–99 divine kingship in, 504 303, 305f, 306, 313, 323,
Subject Index 1031
324, 326 327, 330, 332, 405, Yahweh alone in battle in, 466 Kohathite Levites, 597, 599,
412, 415, 701n2, 709n71, kingship 604, 636, 639, 640, 645,
710n83, 718n16, 738n62, cosmic warfare and 847n25, 887n187, 887n191,
741n97, 741n98, 743n124, Yahweh’s, 510 892n242
744n134, 744n136, cultic enactment of Korah, 372–73, 640–41
744n138, 750n184, 765n90, Yahweh’s, 511–13 Kotharu-wa-Hasisu (deity), 134,
772n148, 787n19, 787n22, divine, 503–4, 705n40 190, 440, 441, 477, 681,
787n27, 789n40, 790n51, and divine speeches of Job, 556 736n34, 755n1, 818n35
792n72, 792n76, 792n77, in El traditions, 95 Kraus, Hans-Joachim, 92, 454–55
794n97, 794n101 and enthronement of Yahweh in Krebernik, Manfred, 228, 233, 716n3
passim Jerusalem, 510–11 Kugel, James, 10
Kenites, in Hebrew Bible, 272–73 for ʾIlu, 80 Kuntillet ʿAjrud
Ketef Hinnom and inviolability of allusions to geographic origin of
amulets from, 328, 330, 768n117, Jerusalem, 469 Yahweh from, 281
769n120, 769n122 Judean, 505–7 and Asherah, 38, 42, 54–55, 125,
discoveries at, 42–43 superlative quality of 125f, 167, 236, 237, 238f,
name of Yahweh in inscriptions Yahweh’s, 509 239, 239f, 240, 243, 281,
from, 247–50, 248f, 249f of Yahweh, in Zion theology, 511 293, 305, 308, 325-28, 330,
Ketiv-Qere practice, Jehovah as “kings of justice,” 517–21, 564 409, 411, 701n2, 711n87,
result of, 212–13 kinship 740n82, 763n73, 763n78,
Khirbet Ataruz (see Ataroth) El’s association with, 111 765n88, 765n89, 765n90,
masseboth at, 193, 193f of Kenites and Midianites, 272 774n154, 794n94, 816n290,
theriomorphic representations and origin of Yahweh in 898n1
of El from, 202–5, 203f–5f ethnic self-identification bull representations from, 322,
Khirbet Beit Lei, 55, 166, 211, process, 285 325–30, 325f, 421
245, 408, 481, 765n93, Kirta (Syrian king), 75, 95, 114, discoveries at, 42, 236–41,
767n107, 789n42, 828n108 474–75, 497–98, 516, 517, 711n87, see Meshel
Khirbet el-Qom, 38, 167, 241–44, 738n63, 837n192, 844n9 empty-space aniconism and
243f, 250, 766n99, 766n101, Kirta Epic, 262, 681 pithoi from, 409–11, 410f
769n121 ʾIlu in, 78–79, 81, 82, holy warrior in inscriptions at,
Khirbet Qeiyafa, 60, 234–35, 234f, 95, 497, 870n47 583–87, 584f–85f
252, 762n67, 770n132 immortality of gods in, 216–17, iconography from, 325–28, 325f
kings 725n79 name Yahweh in inscriptions
divine election of, 848–49n40 Kisilevitz, Shua, 195–96 from, 222
infusing of, with divinity, 504–7 Kition, ʿAštart at, 255, 684–85, 690, name Yahweh in texts from,
limits on judicial power of, 694, 901n34 236–40, 238f, 239f,
543–45, 561 Klein, Jacob, 496–97 241f, 243
religious lives and divinity Knohl, Israel, 288, 375, 617, 630, representations of divine couple
of, 496–98 632, 640, 786n5, 786n6, from, 305, 325–28
as religious personnel, 3–4 786n11, 807n214, 854n93,
role of, in cultic activities, 498–503 875n82, 876n105, 881n136 Lachish
Kings, book of 881n139, 884n159, aniconic representations of
allusions to geographic origin of 884n160, 884n162, Yahweh and, 296
Yahweh, 282 884n164, 887n185, name of Yahweh on ostraca
Ark in, 408 887n190, 893n260 from, 250–51, 250f
ʿAštart in, 691 Knoppers, Gary, 66, 198–99, 366, “the Lady of Byblos,” Phoenician
bull symbolism in, 317 385, 386, 395, 519, 520, temple of, 154, 161f
on cherubim, 398 521, 655, 658, 665, 709n76, Lamentations, book of, 523
and divine image of Yahweh in 739n74, 751n190, 752n192, lamps, as focal points, 406
Jerusalem Temple, 296 753n195, 758n23, 781n204, Lapp, Paul, 316–17, 316f, 323
divine images in, 134 807n206, 811n245, Late Bronze Age
divine radiance in, 365–66 811n246, 845n11, 845n13, ʿAthtartu at Ugarit
fire to depict Yahweh’s presence 846n19, 851n67, 851n69, during, 679–84
in, 347 851n72, 853n89, 891n236, Canaanite culture in,
Name Theology and, 385, 892n245, 892n248, 256–59, 261
810–11n243 893n253, 893n256, El figurines from, 163, 166f–69f
on Solomon as king of 894n266, 894n269 and El worship in, 74–76, 97
justice, 519 passim gods as family in, 473–76, 475f
1032 Subject Index
Late Bronze Age (cont.) 725n71, 731n133, 808n217, Locus 3283 of Hazor, standing
male divine figurines in, 298–302, 808n218, 812n253, 833n155, stone in, 180–83, 181f–83f
299f–301f 874n80, 881n136, 887n185 Lord of the Dream/Sleep, 81–82
Shadday in, 105 and passim Lord’s Prayer, 903–4n60
Lauinger, Jacob, 716n31, 890n219 Levinson, Bernard, 518, 525–526, love
lawgiver, God as, 558–61 545, 561, 714n21, 714n23, expressed in Deuteronomy,
Laws of Hammurabi, 25, 513–15, 802n169, 845n13, 890n219
514f, 517, 804n191, 850n58, 849n48, 851n72, 853n91, language to express
853n84, 861n161 854n93, 862n169, 862n170, Yahweh’s, 492–93
lawsuits, covenant, 539–43 863n177, 876n100 and love spells, 311–12, 312f
law writer, God as, 558–61 passim Lundbom, Jack, 383, 483, 520, 649,
legal codes, 558 Levites 689, 699, 728n114, 840n230,
biblical law collections and Ark, 874n77 842n248, 842n251, 849n49,
as, 714n23, 862n168 in Chronicles, 661, 663–64 850n51, 853n89, 861n165,
royal appropriation of, 513–17, cultic privileges of, 641–43 886n179 and passim
861n161 in Deuteronomy, Luwian Karatepe inscription, 81, 98,
legal fictions, for conflicts of theory 649–51, 660–61 479
and practice, 561 holiness of, 636–43
legitimization of royalty intermediary role of, Maccabees, book of, 465
Ark for, 396–97 893–94n262 Machinist, Peter, 69, 71, 497, 505,
and Yahweh as cosmic modern research on, 706n48, 725n72, 758n23,
warrior, 453–60 885–86n172 807n209, 863n179 and
Lemaire, André, 245, 306, 713n8, in Priestly tradition, 660 passim
724n71, 762n69, 763n73, rebellion of, 639–41 Maeir, Aren, 269, 710n77, 776n169
764n84, 766n94, 766n102, restrictions on, in book of magic rituals
767n107, 767n110, Ezekiel, 646–47, 889n211 icon use, in ancient Near East,
768n111, 776n171, 870n42 Leviticus, book of 138–39, 139f
and passim anointing rituals in, 624 use of potsherds with figures in,
Lemche, Niels Peter, 38, 39, divine radiance in, 369–72 311–12, 312f
709n74, 709n75, ḥērem warfare in, 463 Malachi, book of
710n76, 771n134, holiness of community creation and fatherhood in, 481
774n155 in, 630–31 humans as rebellious children
lethal God hearings, 354, 355, 357, holiness of Yahweh in, 615 in, 483–84
358, 367, 423, 802n171 priesthood in, 631–32 retribution in, 550
lethal God sightings, 96, 296–97, sources for, 807n214 male deities
353, 355, 367, 378, 379, 510, Levy, Thomas, 40, 231, 251, absence of Iron Age images
557, 801n159, 802n170, 745n144, 780n188 of, 302–4
860n159 lexicography, 713n12 fatherhood for, 479–80
lethal holiness, 424, 583, 595–99, Lincoln, Bruce, 29, 708n66, 848n38 Late Bronze Age figurines of,
605, 606, 609, 611–12, Lind, Millard, 465, 817n9, 831n140 298–302, 299f–301f
621, 625, 642, 654, lions Manasseh, 134, 292, 294, 559, 688–89
656, 666, 667, 891n239 at Arad, 750–51n185 Mandell, Alice, 237, 245, 310, 408,
of Ark, 891n239 Bes representations as, 715n27, 766n101, 766n102,
in Exodus, 611–12 326–30, 329f 767n107, 770n131, 789n42,
as manifestation of power, 671 as representation of El, 196 812n260, 815n287, 816n292
and Yahweh as family god, 494 as representation of Yahweh, Marduk (deity), in cosmic warfare,
lethality, of fire and radiance of 313–17, 314f–16f 437–39, 454
Yahweh, 370–73, Lipiński, Edward, 83, 233, 265, 267, Mari
377–78, 389, 423 718n18, 722n50, 723n51, cylinder seal from, 147–48, 148f
Levant 730n130, 741nn91–93, Foundation Inscription
Chaoskampf myths in, 439–42 750n182, 769n125, 778n172, from, 717n7
El worship in, 74–76, 83 784n229, 835n176, 868n21 Marsman, Hennie, 42, 44, 45, 46,
inscriptions with images in, and passim 479, 711n94
739–40n82 Lissovsky, Nurit, 237, 240 marzeaḥ, 773nn149–150
role of artisans in, 133 listen, charge to, 539 and Canaanite culture/
Levenson, Jon, 33–34 literature, in ancient Israelite religion, 258, 721nn32–33
Levine, Baruch, 14, 89–90, 96, 107, religion, 7–8, 862nn168–69 enduring of, through millennia,
116, 208, 268–69, 273, 528, Liverani, Mario, 513, 797n127, 79, 773n150
563, 597, 618, 626, 720n31, 875n95 ʾIlu at, 79–80
Subject Index 1033
Masoretic Text (MT), 57, 59 874n79, 885n169 and and definitions of Israelite
Masoretic tradition passim religion, 52–53
El Bethel in, 100 McCarthy, Dennis, 214, 218 and definitions of religion, 49–52
and hybrid name Meek, James, 275–76 history of, 1–2
Jehovah, 212–13 Megiddo material culture as source
understanding of Psalm 82 bronze figurine from, 164, material, 68–69
in, 568–69 165, 167f for studying iconography, 119–
massebah/masseboth, 169–96, cult stand with fenestrations 28, 129f–32f
333–36, 744–45n141 from, 415, 417f texts as source material, 53–68
attributions of use of, 121, male divine figurines from, Mettinger, Tryggve, 39, 116, 121,
122f, 123f 298–99, 299f, 300f 169, 171, 194, 219, 220, 226,
in Hebrew Bible, 745n143 representations of human figures 294, 297, 319, 320, 333, 357,
purpose of, 747n157 from, 310 362, 381, 382, 383, 384, 386,
as representation of Yahweh, 422 Shemaʿ-servant of Jeroboam (II) 395, 408, 415, 421, 495, 510,
representations of El on, seal from, 313 710n83, 729n119, 758n26,
169, 171–96 Mekal, 120, 744n133 767n106, 791n59, 807n214,
representations of Yahweh melammu, 339, 797nn125–27 810n240 and passim
on, 333–36 and divine radiance in Ezekiel, Meyers, Carol, 42, 44–47, 111, 122,
material aniconism, 375–76, 376f 310–311, 400, 406, 494,
333–36, 421–22 and divine radiance in 524, 690, 710n83, 711n87,
material culture Isaiah, 368 711n92, 711n93, 711n96,
aniconism in, 333–36, 421–22 Meṣad Ḥashavyahu 711n97, 711n98, 712n99,
anthropomorphic inscription, 554–55 756n5, 794n100, 796n118,
representations of Yahweh Mesha stela (Moabite stone), 842n253, 853n84 and passim
in, 297–98, 419 235, 235f, 251, 429, 462, Micah, book of
bull representations of Yahweh 749n172 bloodletting after divine warfare
in, 322–33 Meshel, Ze’ev, 42, 236–37, in, 471
in iconographic analysis, 120–21 325–26, 327, covenant lawsuit in, 539–43
as source material, 68–69 583, 586, 710n77, inviolability of Jerusalem in,
theriomorphic representations 711n86, 763n73, 467, 468
of El in, 200–208, 201f–7f 763n74, 763n75, prosecution of abuse of justice
materiality, 9, 40, 43, 53, 310, 393, 763n79, 764n83, in, 537–38
407, 408, 697, 767n107, 764n85, 764n86, 765n87, Michalowski, Piotr, 497, 504,
789n42, 816n292 765n88, 766n94, 705n40
Mazar, Amihai, 120, 175, 175f, 176, 766n95, 866n12, 884n34, Middle Bronze Age, Canaanite
200, 202, 710n77, 710n83, 868–69n36, 869n37 culture in, 71, 153, 154,
742n109, 742n110, 746n154, and passim 160f, 176, 177f, 183, 195,
754n203, 754n204, 843n263 Mesopotamia 256–59, 447, 740n83,
McBride, Dean, 380–82, 386 abstract images of divine 743n124, 772n144,
McCarter, P. Kyle, 218, 219, in, 338–39 772n147, 820n48
236, 245, 251–52, 269, divine kingship in, 504 Midianite/Kenite hypothesis,
283, 322, 326, 351–5 3, justice as theme in wisdom 271–82, 780n187
364, 365, 386, 401, literature of, 546–47 instruction of Moses and Jethro
465, 535, 586, 657, kings as judges in, 513 in, 275–76
696, 701n1, 710n83, myths in, 708n64 and Midianites vs. Kenites in
717n13, 737n49, 739n78, role of artisans in, 133 Hebrew Bible, 272–73
750n184, 754n207, Messenger/Angel of Yahweh and Moses’ father-in-law in
762n69, 764n81, 764n82, (malʾak-Yahweh) Hebrew Bible, 273–75
765n92, 767n107, divine fire associated overview, 271–72
767n110, 768n111, with, 349–50 topographic allusions
770n127, 770n129, divine radiance associated with, supporting, 279–82
770n132, 784n226, 353, 355, 377 updated versions of, 276–79
785n234, 788n30, and Name Theology, 389–90 Midianites, in Hebrew
788n31, 806n203, metal figurines, production Bible, 272–73
811n249, 811n251, of, 302–3 “Mighty One of Jacob,” 84, 100, 105,
823n74, 824n76, 824n79, methodology, 48–72 174, 197, 199, 287, 318, 420,
832n145, 833n154, academic disciplines for subject 601–603
855n196, 870n48, study, 48–49 Milgrom, Jacob, 14, 51, 107, 370,
871n49, 873n76, 874n77, and comparanda, 69–72 407, 424, 499, 605–6, 614,
1034 Subject Index
Milgrom, Jacob (cont.) holiness of, 614–15 Nablus, bronze figure from, 164, 170f
616, 617, 618, 619, 621, as holy personnel, 617–19 Nadab, death of, 370–73
625, 626, 629, 635–36, 642, as intercessionary, 650 Nahum, book of, 471, 571, 835n179
786n8, 807n214, 807n215, in Midianite hypothesis, 271–76 name(s)
844n8, 864n187, 876n105, in origin myths of Israelite as focal point for sacred
877n109, 878n112, judiciary, 525–27 emptiness, 407–9, 426
878n118, 879n121, 879n124, request to see kābôd of Yahweh lack of data about, 56–57
881n135, 881n140, from,362–63 obliteration of, 692–93
881n142, 882n143, seeing of “human” body parts of placement of, to designate divine
882n145, 882n146, Yahweh by, 377–78 presence, 383–91
883n155, 883n158, special status of, in Yahwistic, 756n5
887n185, 887n187, Exodus, 612–13 Name of Yahweh, 387–89
887n195, 888n208, in victory at sea against Name Theology, 379–92, 424–25,
889n210, 889n211, 892n243 Pharaoh, 452–53 672, 809–10n233
and passim and Yahweh as judge, 561–63 Ark in, 408
militaristic wilderness theophany, mother, Yahweh as, 489–93 in book of Kings, 810–11n243
583–87, 721n44 Motu (deity), in cosmic warfare, 57, and divine “name” to
military camps, holiness in, 647–48 161-62, 262, 365, 440, 442, depict presence of
military context, for Name 460–61, 720n31, 819n40 Yahweh, 379–80
Theology, 388–89 mourner’s Kaddish, 903n60 and divine radiance, 366
military power, of Yahweh, Mousseiff Ostraca, 236 Jerusalem as sanctuary
600, 603–4 Mowinckel, Sigmund, 27, 214, 395, in, 382–83
Milkom (deity), 303, 304, 509, 504, 512, 704n36 national catastrophes of 597 and
788n31 MT (Masoretic Text), 57 586 BCE, 381
Miller, Patrick, 11, 87, 88, 349, murmuring motif, 372–73 placement of name to designate
800n147, 805n199, Mushite priesthood, 4, 619, 653, divine presence, 383–91
806n204, 817n9, 831n140 782n205, 879n123, 887n183 reactionary nature of, 381–82
Miller, Robert, 448 music tenets of, 380–91
Minet el Beida, 683 in ancient Israelite religion, 7–8 throne imagery and, 405
Miqneyaw seal, 241, 242f lack of textual sources on, 66, Nathan (biblical figure), 534–35
miracles, performed by Elijah and 894n266 national deities, and El, 114–15
Elisha, 666 mutilation, of ancient Near East nations, gods as warriors on behalf
Mischwesen, 149, 150, 157f, 320 statues, 141 of, 428–29
battles with, in Chaoskampf myth Naveh, Joseph, 244–45, 244f, 245f,
tradition, 430–31, as category of religious 311–12, 713n9,
431f, 432f thought, 24 764n86, 765n87,
cherubim vs., 397 in Hebrew Bible, 708n63 766n102, 766n105,
enthroned deities atop, 401, Mesopotamian, 708n64 767n107, 767n110,
401f, 794n94 new definitions of, 789n42, 817n9, 832n145
and other composite mythic 35–37, 709n67 and passim
beasts, 433, 434f–37f myth-and-ritual approach, to biblical Nazirites, 884n164, 884n168
Mistress of the Animals, 2, 148, studies, 27–29 and consecration, 660, 667,
683, 683f, 901n29 mythological pantheon (narrative 884n165
Moabites, 285–86 pantheon), 261 as religious personnel, 4
modern values, overlaid on mythopoeic, 35, 37, 262, 349, 442, Nazirite vows, 4, 15, 377, 617,
premodern societies, 454, 459, 565-569, 602, 632–36, 833n155,
711–12n98 801n164, 827n103 885n169, 885n171
Molten Sea, 173, 317, 419, 511 mythopoetic, 37, 262, 349, 442, Near East, ancient, 1, 9–10, 13, 67,
Monroe, Lauren, 462, 716n3, 459, 565–569, 602, 69–72, 128–41 and passim
780n188, 780n190, 801n164, 863n183 abstract images to depict divine
832n147, 833n157 in, 338–41, 340f
Moorey, P. R. S., 121, 153, 164, 313 Na’aman, Nadav, 185, 187, 231, artisan’s role in, 133–35
Moran, William L., 74, 140, 649, 237, 240, 260, 293, 294–97, broad cultural continuum
717n8, 717n9, 737n51, 303–4, 321, 381, 395, in, 71–72
758n21, 758n23, 840n229, 595, 651, 702n5, 710n76, burial of statues, 141
842n247, 875n95, 890n218, 729n118, 761n55, 761n56, clothing of icons, 135–36
890n219 762n64, 763n78, 765n89, as context of Hebrew
Moses (biblical figure) 768n117, 774n155, 788n32, Bible, 69–70
as Beya, 229 854n93, 885n172, 890n223, cosmic warfare in, 430–33,
father-in-law of, 273–75 890n225 and passim 431f, 432f
Subject Index 1035
destruction/mutilation of 830n123, 830n124, 833n153, 733n161, 741n101,

statues, 141 834n162, 839n208, 851n60, 793n89, 795n111, 817n3,
divine images in, 291, 293, 393 895n274, 898n300 837n186, 884n164, 899n8
divine kingship in, 503–4 non-cosmic warfare, 461–70 onomastica, as textual source,
filial duties of children apocalyptic battles, 469–70 56–60, 714n18 and passim
in, 482–83 inviolability of Zion/Jerusalem See also personal names
god as mother and father in, 467–69 (onomastics)
in, 478–79 and synergism of human and “On the Proper Distinction
gods as kings in, 507–8 divine war, 462–64 Between Biblical and
homogenization of cultures underdog ideology and human Dogmatic Theology and the
in, 70–71 involvement in, 464–66 Specific Objectives of Each”
icon use in magic Yahweh alone in, 466–70 (Gabler), 702n4
rituals, 138–39 non-cultic understandings, of opening remarks, covenant
immortality of gods in, 215–17 Yahweh, 577–605 lawsuit, 540
justice as theme in wisdom non-elite communities Ophel, potsherd from, 309–11, 309f
literature of, 546–47 and family religion, 43–44 Oppenheim, A. Leo, 51, 129,
king as embodiment of justice holiness of, 630–31, 640, 737n38, 797n124
in, 513 648–49, 660 oracles
kingship in lore of, 495 Nazirite vows as path to holiness Baalam, 89–90, 94
law writing in, 558 for, 634–36 for decisions about battle, 464
materials used for icons, 130–33 in study of ancient Israelite judgment, 538–39
in myth-and-ritual approach, 28 religion, 51–52 oral traditions, passing down
procession and traveling rituals Non-P, 62, 65 and passim archaic lore via, 447–48
for icons, 136–38 non-static cult, 62–65 Ornan, Tallay, 46, 148–149, 159,
quickening and consecration the North 160, 161, 164, 237, 313–14,
rituals for icons, 135 Deir ʿAlla and Arslan 326, 327, 328, 330, 332,
royal cult in, 496–507 Tash, 268–69 359, 405, 411, 678, 689,
taking divine images in battle origin of Yahweh from, 270–71 739n71, 742n110, 742n120,
in, 140–41 and Yahweh in Aramean 743n121, 763n73, 789n44,
warrior gods in, 428–29 religion, 264–68 791n61, 791n62, 791n63,
worship of ʿAštart in, 694–95 Northwest Semitic deities 793n87, 794n98, 795n104,
Nebo,Yahweh cult in, 235, 251, 284, hypostatization of, 387 796n116, 815n285,
462, 769–70n125, Northwest Semitic divinity 815n289 and passim
782n205 onomastic record of, 57–58 orphans
Nebuchadrezzar, King (biblical and Yahweh, 575–77 abuse of justice against, 536–37
figure), 134–35, 295–96, 458 Noth, Martin, 56, 626–27, Yahweh as father for, 482
Negbi, Ora, 143, 163, 258, 301, 810n236, 883n150, Yahweh as redeemer of, 487–88
744n129, 744n133, 890n227 Otto, Rudolph, 11, 337–338, 355,
787n20 and passim Numbers, book of 372, 422, 424, 430, 443,
Neo-Assyrian Empire cherubim in, 400 461, 587–88, 598–599,
gods as mother and father divine radiance of Yahweh 658, 666–667, 796n117,
in, 478–79 in, 372–73 796n123, 817n15, 870n45
treatment of prisoners of war in, El Elyon in, 89–90
572–73, 572f El Shadday in, 106, 107 palladium, Ark as, 595–97
New Testament, lion references handling of Ark in, 597 pan-Babylonian school, 25
in, 313 hypostatic use of name in, 388 parallelomania, 70–71
Niebuhr, H. Richard, 337 Levite rebellion in, 639–41 parallelomania approach, to
Niehr, Herbert, 136, 265, 290, 291, Moses’s judicial role in, 562 Ugaritic studies, 259
292, 294, 321, 394, 405, origin myths of Israelite Pardee, Dennis, 57–58, 103, 120,
723n51, 743n123, 776n169, judiciaries in, 527 135–136, 217, 236, 259, 260,
779n179, 787n13, 787n17, Yahweh as divine warrior 263, 440, 448, 498, 714n16,
791n69, 844n6 in, 430 714n17, 714n18, 714n22,
Nimrud prisms, 292–95 Yahweh as mother in, 489–90 718n17, 718n18, 719n22,
Nineveh 720n29, 720n30, 721n33,
in book of Jonah, 571–74 offspring deities, representations 721n34, 721n37, 721n38,
legal transactions in, 559 of, 324–25 722n49, 724n61, 727n98,
Ninurta, temple to, at Kalhu, oil, in anointing rituals, 627–29 735n19, 738n63, 769n123,
430–31, 431f Olyan, Saul, 15, 43, 44, 138, 635, 774n154, 775n157,
Nissinen, Martti, 5, 269, 466, 636, 639–640, 641, 647, 775n159, 775n160,
778n175, 809n225, 826n98, 659, 701n2, 722n50, 775n165, 778n172,
1036 Subject Index
Pardee, Dennis (cont.) plowshares, from swords, revelation of name Yahweh,

778n178, 795n108, 836nn180–81, 223–25, 225f
799n144, 804n187, 836–37n185 on ritual acts required for
804n188, 817n4, 818n36, poetic conventions, in Ugaritic Aaronid priests, 619–29
818n38, 819n40, 837n192, texts, 262 use of, 65
837n196, 838n197, 844n7, pollution, and consecration, 611 priests
844n10, 875n96, 899n6, Pope, Marvin, 76, 85, 87, 88, 123, adjudication by, 528, 529, 538,
899n12, 899n13, 900n15 716n4, 718n16, 719n19, 563, 854n93
and passim 719n20, 719n24, 721n38, anointing rituals for, 625–26
parent, divine, 477–82 741n96, 821n57, 901n29 in Chronicles, 661–65
Parker, Simon, 79, 217, 262, 497, Postgate, Nicholas, 497 and cultic activities of kings,
775n162 pouring, in anointing 498–500, 502–3
Pella (Ṭabaqāt Faḥil), 205–8, rituals, 625–26 in Deuteronomistic
206f–7f power History, 656–57
people’s retort, covenant of Elijah and Elisha, 667 in Deuteronomy, 650–51
lawsuit, 540–41 and holiness, 603–4, 645 in Holiness source, 631–32
perceptive hymns, related to holiness, 577–78, Nazirites vs., 635–36
Mesopotamian, 546 582–83, 587–88 and prophets, 5
perpetual flame, as focal point, 407 practice of religion, study of, 3 prophets vs., 895n275
Persian period coin, 404f, 405 prayer, votive, 606 types and ranks of, 4, 653, 885n172
personal gods, and El, 84–85 precious metals, divine images procession ritual
personal names of, 303–4 for ancient Near East icons,
(onomastics), 58–59 pre-Israelite Canaanite 136–38, 137f
connection of Yahweh to religion, 253–264 Ark in, 395–96
childbirth in, 493 pre-priestly cultic settings, divine processual archaeology, 40
connection of Yahweh to crises kābôd in, 364–73 programmatic traditions, of
in, 493–94 preternatural dragons, 433, aniconism, 333
in Hebrew Bible, 479–80, 726n91 434f–37f prophecies, about Yahweh as
and hypocorism, 760n48 priestly cult, 605–665 and passim judge, 530–32
indicators of divine justice and ancient Israelite prophets
in, 522 religion, 14 as holy personnel, 665–67
in texts from Kuntillet ʿAjrud, in religious scholarship, 4–5 in Israelite religion, 5
763–64n79 and royal cult, 846n18 priests vs., 895n275
view of God as divine father priestly personnel, 605–665 as prosecutors of abuse of
in, 480 and passim justice, 534–38
view of Ugaritic gods as family Priestly sources/traditions (P) Propp, William, 66–67, 283–84,
in, 476 Aaronid priests in, 659–60 317, 345, 350, 405–406,
Yahwistic names, 756n5 anointing rituals in, 622–24 428, 599, 606, 610, 618, 621,
personal piety anthropomorphic 753n198, 759n39, 780n190,
and family religion, 42–44 representations of Yahweh 781n197, 804n191,
and holiness, 643 in, 288, 289 813n271, 823n73, 824n75,
incantations in, 769n122 cherubim in, 397 825n82, 825n83, 830n127,
and onomastica, 58–59 cultic privileges of Levites 876n103, 879n118,
See also holiness in, 641–43 882n146, 890n222, 903n55
Pettinato, Giovanni, 228 dating of, 21, 65, 107 and passim
Philo of Byblos divine radiance in, 368–73, 375, Propp Principle, 66–67, 283
on Canaanite religion, 255–56 382, 424 protection (apotropaism)
Elyon in, 87, 88 El Shadday in, 107 association of Bes with, 328–30,
Phoenicia, ʿAštart in, 684–87 on handling of Ark, 598 329f, 421, 772–73n148
Phoenicians, epigraphic sources holy personnel in, 615–43 association of Yahweh with,
from, 254–55, 771n138 and humanities in religious 247–49, 248f, 249f, 328
Phoenician language, 869n40 service, 7–8 in family religion, 66
pilgrimage, 137–38 Levite’s rebellion in, 639–41 as function of cherubim, 399–400
pillar of fire (symbol), 345 and Leviticus, 807n214 king as protector, 515
pithoi, name Yahweh on, 237–40, Midianites and Kenites Proverbs, book of
238f, 239f portrayals in, 272–73 discipline by Yahweh in, 484
plaintiff, speech to accused by, 540 Moses viewed in, 618–19 on divine justice in future, 532
Nazirite vows in, 632–36 on holiness of Yahweh, 673
Subject Index 1037
on ideal just divine Qoheleth, book of, 7, 14, 445 ancient Israel’s distinctiveness
judge, 547–48 affirmation of God’s role as judge in, 30–31
Psalms, book of in, 549–51, 564, 574 archaeology in, 39–41
allusions to geographic origin of holiness of Yahweh in, 672–73 “Babel-Bibel” controversy, 24–25
Yahweh, 279–80 Qubbah, stela from, 149, 153f by Frank Moore Cross, 34–35
Ark in, 396 Qudshu-Astarte-Anat, 122, during Enlightenment, 18–19
battle at sea in, 450–51 124f, 720n30 feminist contributions to, 44–46
benediction in, 699 Queen of Heaven, 509 Fribourg school of
cherubim in, 400 ʿAštart as, 688–89, 689–91 iconography, 37–38
on David as king of justice, 518 biblical references to, 677–78 and hermeneutics, 38–39
divine combat myth in, 443–44 quickening ritual, for ancient Near history of, 1–2
on divine mercy, 569–70 East icons, 135 history-of-religion method, 24
divine radiance in, 361, 362, by Yehezkel Kaufmann, 32–34
367–68, 376, 827n103 Rad, Gerhard von, 65, 382, 652, by Carol Meyers, 46–47
El as benevolent protector 810n235, 853n89 myth-and-ritual approach
in, 112 radiance, 358–379 to, 27–29
El Elyon in, 86–90 abstract representation of and new definitions of
El Olam in, 98, 99 Yahweh as, 344 myth, 35–37
Elyon and Yahweh in, 92 clothing of Yahweh in, 454–55 in nineteenth century
on enactment of Yahweh’s depicting presence of Yahweh Germany, 19–23
kingship, 511–13 with, 358–59 personal piety and family
fiery attendants of Yahweh in, See also divine radiance religion in, 42–44
348, 349 Rainey, Anson, 74, 228, 231– by William Robertson
fire to depict Yahweh’s presence 32, 235, 260, 576, 710n76, Smith, 23–24
in, 345–46 717n9, 717n13, 718n17, social sciences in, 41–42
God as caring judge in, 522–23 759n28, 769n125, 771n134, theological approach to, 26–27
holiness and power of Yahweh 772n143, 774n155, Ugaritic discoveries in, 29–30
in, 605 829n117, 866n12, 875n95 Rendtorff, Rolf, 17, 35, 87, 88, 369,
hypostatic use of fire in, 351 and passim 807n213, 807n214
hypostatic use of names Rakib-El, 196, 266, 309, 722n50, Renfrew, Colin, 336–37
in, 387–88 732–33n156, 750n180, reproof, of humans by
on ideal just divine 771n138, 777n171, 848n40 father, 484–86
judge, 548–49 Ramses II, 59, 75, 230, 232, 504, Reshef, divine figurines of, 299,
infusing of divinity in kingship 747n159, 761n53, 761n59 299f, 300f
in, 506, 507 Ramses III, 59, 75, 232, 832n144 resolution, covenant
on judicial authority of Rationalism, 18–19 lawsuit, 540–42
Yahweh, 565–69 reactionary nature, of Name retribution
judicial ideology in, 517 Theology, 381–82 in Jonah, 574
origin of specific poems in, realia, for Yahwistic cult, 67–68 and Yahweh as ideal just divine
804n187 rebellion, of Levites, 639–41 judge, 549–50
remembering archaic lore redemption Reuel (biblical figure), 274, 276,
in, 447–48 of humans by father, 486–89 781n197
royal legitimization in, 454–59 by Yahweh as judge, 543 revisionist hermeneutics, 39
superlative quality of Yahweh’s Redford, Donald, 230–32, 339, 496 rhetoric, by just human
kingship in, 509 Red/Reed Sea, 448–453, 454, 466, judges, 543
twisting of justice in, 551 823–24n75 Rhyton Sanctuary at Ugarit, 146–
Yahweh as caring father in, 482 reflection, in ancient Israelite 47, 146f, 259, 721n33
Yahweh as mother in, 489–90 religion, 6–7 rîb (covenant/prophetic
Yahweh’s holiness in, 579–82 Rekhmire (Egyptian vizier), 516 lawsuit), 539–43
P sources. See Priestly sources/ religion, definitions of, Rib-Adda letters, 606
traditions (P) 49–52, 712n2 Ribichini, Sergio, 254
purification rites religious lives, of ancient Near East Richter, Sandra, 380, 383, 384,
dangers related to, 882n146 kings, 496–98 390–91, 408, 746n149,
for kings, 498 religious personnel. See holy 784n231, 809n233,
related to military personnel 810n235, 812n257,
camps, 647–48 religious topics, 812n258
related to warfare, 833n155 scholarship, 17–47 Rimmon, Horvat, 312
purity, consecration and, 611 by William Foxwell ritual body, 3, 15, 619-29, 879n125
Albright, 31–32
1038 Subject Index
ritual performance, see Bell, Reuben (biblical figure), 235, Yahweh of, 237–39, 238f, 293,
Catherine 251, 272, 284, 781n204, 295, 322, 701n1
of consecration, 608–10, 782n205, 276–77 Samson (biblical figure), 353, 377,
620, 625, 629 ruin cults, 179, 180, 195, 747n158 464, 633
for ʿAshtart, 685 rulers, as parents, 479 Samuel (biblical figure), 172,
for Levites, 642 559, 633, 634, 645, 657,
of priests, in Deuteronomistic Sabaean texts, ḥērem warfare in, 55, 884n168
History, 654 462, 763n70, 832n147 Samuel, book of, 589–90
study of, 3, 15, 42, 49, 130, 135, sacral kingship, 28, 504–5 active presence of Yahweh
208, 393, 406, 612, sacred emptiness, 392–417, 422 in, 218–19
for Zadokite priests, 646 and abstract representations of cultic activities of king in, 499
rituals, study of, 3, see Bell, Yahweh, 336–38 on David as king of justice, 518
Catherine archaeological evidence of divine radiance in, 364–65
Robertson Smith, William, 23–24, empty-space aniconism, hypostatic use of name in, 388
28, 41, 44, 703n16, 703n17, 409–17, 410f, 411f, Yahweh as supporter of
703n19, 703n20, 703n22, 413f–17f underdog, 465
896n283 Ark and cherubim as focal Zadok prophesied in, 657
Rooke, Deborah, 45, 46, 503, 618, points for, 394–405, sanctuary, Yahweh as, 592–93
619, 878n118, 879n120, 394f, 398f, 399f, 401f–4f, Sanders, Seth, 53, 56, 57, 251, 262,
880n128, 888n196, 815–16n289 713n7, 713n11, 714n18,
889n209, 890n227, fire and glory as focal points 756n5, 762n68, 775n166,
892n250 for, 405–7 816n295, 832n147
Rollston, Christopher, 53, 58, name and invisibility as focal Saphon, Mt. (Mt. Zion),
236, 252, 713n9, 754n207, points for, 407–9 108–9, 821n58
762n67, 763n72, 770n132, sacred space, 2, 9, 69, 671–72 and Sargon II, 140, 292–95, 814n272
866n12 passim śārîm, 525, 526, 537, 856n112
Roth, Martha, 514–515 delimiting, in Exodus, 611–12 Sarna, Nahum, 97, 197, 218, 467,
royal cult in Deuteronomistic History, 654 730n130, 746n153, 780n189,
and ancient Israelite exclusion from, 877n108 799n139, 800n149, 823n75,
religion, 13 and gradations of status, 612, 664 826n97, 877n109
in ancient Near East, 496–507 holiness of, 607 Sass, Benjamin, 241, 306, 766n98,
and dedication of Jerusalem importance of, 2–3 776n171, 789n35, 792n71,
Temple, 655–56 kings as builders of, 499–501 792n72, 832n145, 843n263
and Deuteronomy, 849n48 made holy by Yahweh, 671–72 Sasson, Jack, 524, 571, 791n57,
differing views of, 845n13 marked by anointing, 622 853n83, 854n96, 864n195
and priestly cult, 846n18 on Mt. Sinai, 877–78n109, Saul (biblical figure), 464, 518, 559
Queen of Heaven as, 689, 690 878n111 and geographic origin of
in religious scholarship, 3–4 in Name Theology, 379–80 Yahweh, 278–79
and worship of ʿAštart, 685–87 restrictions on Levites in, 643 role of, in cultic activities, 499
and ʿAthtartu, 682 in Ugaritic religion, 263 Schaeffer, C. F. A., 29, 123, 127,
royal entry ritual, for for Yahweh the Holy One, 576 130f, 131f, 145f, 159f,
ʿAthtartu, 682–83 sacred time 705n43, 742n109
royal judicial ideology, of and consecration, 610–11 Schloen, David, 43, 80, 272, 277–
Judah, 517 importance of, 2–3 79, 474, 710n78, 782n205,
royal legislation sacrifice 782n206, 782n207,
in Hebrew Bible, 560–61 child, 64, 542, 715n25 782n208, 795n107
need for, 558–60 as cultic activity of king, 501–3 Schmidt, Brian, 42, 47, 291, 292,
royal status, anointing rituals of humans, 733n161 327, 328, 409–11, 415,
for, 626–27 Levities as, 642–43 701n2, 711n87, 725n72,
royalty in Ugaritic religion, 263–64 763n73, 766n101, 769n121,
Ark for legitimization Śahr (deity), 267, 332 793n89, 793n90, 794n94
of, 396–97 Samʾal, inscriptions from, 82, 196, Schmitt, John, 490–91
divine images’ association 266, 750n180, 750n181, Schmitt, Rüdiger, 9, 42, 43, 44, 50,
with, 134 752n190, 775n158, 59, 83, 111, 255, 304, 306,
religious roles of, 880–81n131 776n171, 869n40 479, 493–94, 679, 701n2,
royal framework for divine Samaria 713n11, 722n50, 723n52,
justice, 513–21 bull of, 320–21 723n54, 735n11, 756n5,
Yahweh as cosmic warrior for divine images of Yahweh in, 295 837n186, 839n214, 852n75,
legitimization of, 453–60 898n2 and passim
Subject Index 1039
Schneider, Thomas, 232–34, 496, and King Hammurabi, Smoak, Jeremy, 240, 245, 310,
679, 762n62 513–14, 514f 408, 766n101, 767n107,
Schniedewind, William, 53, Shasu nomads, 60, 229–34, 251, 768n117, 770n131, 789n42,
236, 237, 251, 258, 715n27, 284, 696, 761n53, 761n59, 815n287
763n73, 763n74, 765n89, 782n210, 784n227 social sciences, in religious
769n124, 772n144, 781n201, Shaʿtiqatu, 77, 78, 138, 719n21, scholarship, 41–42
782n210, 791n64, 794n98, 720n31 social status
822n64, 822n67, 849n43 Shechem of Levites, 637
Scholnick, Sylvia, 555, 556 El worship in, 85–86 and mortuary data, 879n125
Schwemer, Daniel, 9–10, 266, 267, masseboth at, 172–74, 173f and ritual garments, 620
738n69, 780n186, 787n20, Shelby White-Leon Levy Program and sacred space, 612,
817n9, 839n204 for Archaeological 877–78n109
Scroll of the Wars of Yahweh, 430 Publications, 309 sociological approach, to biblical
Second Isaiah, see Deutero-Isaiah Shemaʿ-servant of Jeroboam (II) studies, 23–24
sea seal, 313 Solomon (biblical figure)
in Baʿlu cycle, 440–42 Shemaʿyahu son of ʿAzaryahu seal, cultic activities of,
Marduk’s battle against, 437–39 321–22, 321f 500–501, 846n20
Yahweh’s battle at, 448–53 Shiloh, temple at, 364–65, 383, dedication of Jerusalem
sea, parting of, 824nn78–79 805–6n199 Temple, 655
seeing Sidon, worship of ʿAštart at, 688–89 infusing of divinity in kingship
of deities, 96–97 sikkānu stelae, 628, 745n141, of, 505–7
of “human” body parts of 747n156, 883n157 as king of justice, 518–19
Yahweh by Moses, 377–78 Sinai, Mt., 109, 225, 271, 278, 279, Solomonic Temple. See Jerusalem
lethal God sightings, 296–97, 280, 283, 284, 345, 357, Temple (Solomonic Temple)
355, 557 369, 370, 424, 542, 608, Sommer, Benjamin, 32, 34, 65, 324,
Sefire inscriptions, Elyon in, 87–88 609, 610, 612, 613, 616, 337, 372, 375, 384, 422,
Seir, location of, 231, 232 782n205, 784n229, 877– 426, 598, 701n1, 707n26,
Sellin, Ernst, 26, 315–16, 315f, 575, 78n109, 878n110, 878n111 708n58, 715n27, 786n3,
670, 744n129, 816n291, Singer, Itamar, 81 792n78, 806n202, 806n204,
865n1 singers, 66, 894n266 808–809n224, 810n242,
Sennacherib, 296, 466–67, 571, 573, Sippar Tablet of Nabu-apla-iddina 816n297, 817n15, 875n84
599, 739n73, 776n170, II, 190, 192f Song of Hannah, 588–91,
834n164 slavery, indentured, 486–87, 486f 870–71nn48–50
Seow, C. L., 87, 90, 94, 109, 117, Smith, Mark, 9–10, 37, 39, Song of Moses, 91–92
553, 554, 721n41, 722n46, 42, 67, 80, 81, 84, 117, Song of the Ark, 388–89, 396
722n48, 724n62, 725n80, 217, 260, 263, 264, 322 šōpār horn, 609, 610, 611, 613, 876n105
726n86, 733n158, 734n168, 324, 331, 412, 428, 440, source criticism, 18, 21, 24, 44,
805n199, 812n262, 474, 511, 575, 607, 675, 61–68 and passim
845n16, 858n134, 859n141, 678, 681, 687, 689, 696, source material
859n142, 897n297, 706n50, 706n51, 708n61, material culture as, 68–69
898n298 708n62, 709n68, 712n2, texts as, 53–68
Septuagint, El Shadday in, 101–2 718n16, 718n17, 719n22, the South
Serabit el-Khadim, El worship 719n23, 720n26, 721n36, and Midianites vs. Kenites in
at, 75–76 722n50, 723n59, 725n72, Hebrew Bible, 272–79
seraphim, 349 728n109, 730n126, origin of Yahweh from,
serpentine stela, ʾIlu depiction on, 731n143, 734n168, 271–72, 867n19
144, 144f 755n211, 758n26, textual allusions to Yahweh’s
seven-headed monsters, 435f–37f 764n82, 773n151, origin in, 279–82
sexuality, rhetoric of, 489, 842n249 773n152, 775n161, South City Trench of Ugarit, 143–44,
Seyrig collection, Bibliothèque 775n164, 785n239, 143f, 740n86
Nationale, 305–6, 306f 785n240, 792n80, sovereignty
Shaddayyin deities, 90, 105, 269, 796n123, 805n199, of El, 109–10
730n129 822n68, 827n102, of Yahweh, 507–11
Shagar, in book of 828n108, 830n126, sphinxes, on cult stands from
Deuteronomy, 677 863n179, 864n184, Taanach, 315–17,
Shaked, Shaul, 311–12 883n153, 898n5, 899n8, 315f, 316f
Shalmaneser III, 190, 192f 900n15, 900n22, 902n42, sprinkling, in anointing
Shamash, 546 902n45 and passim rituals, 625–26
divine image of, 190, 192f
1040 Subject Index
Stager, Lawrence, 84, 121, 172–74, Targums, anthropomorphism of bull, 317–33, 319f, 321f, 323f,
230, 231, 277, 278, 282, 324, divine in, 290 325f, 329f, 331f
710n78, 710n83, 742n111, Taylor, J. Glen, 324, 411–12, 415, lion, 313–17, 314f–16f
742n112, 745n147, 792n81, 816n290 Thompson, Thomas L., 38, 39,
746n149, 780n188, Tel Dan 75, 83, 709n74, 710n75,
782n208, 798n132, divine bull rider on plaque from, 717n6
840n221 319–20, 319f, 420 thrones
standing stones, 169–96, 333–36, masseboth at, 187, 188f–92f, 189, cherubim as, 400–402, 401f–4f
744–45n141 (see massebah/ 190, 195, 196 empty throne of Yahweh, 405
masseboth) metal working from Iron Age enthronement of Yahweh,
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 44–45 at, 302 400–401, 405, 510–11
state formation, god as king prior Telepinu, disappearance of, 217 sizes of, 511, 736n36
to, 508 Tel Kinneret (Tell el-ʿOreme), bronze Thutmose III, 59, 75, 516
statistical evaluations, on textual figurine from, 164, 169f Tiamat (deity), in cosmic
sources, 66–67 Tel Moẓa, masseboth at, 195 warfare, 216, 265, 266, 437–
Steiner, Richard, 256, 322, 349, Tell Ahmar, stela from, 152f, 153f 40, 443, 445, 451, 818n29,
739n73, 773n148, 792n73, Tell Asmar, image of seven-headed 818n34, 821n57, 823n75
792n74, 800n155 dragon from, 436f Tigay, Jeffrey, 57, 58, 349, 478, 648,
steppe lands, ʿAthtartu as goddess Tell Balâṭah, divine figurine from, 708n59, 710n83, 725n73,
of, 681–83 301–2, 301f 725n74, 749n175, 756n5,
storm imagery, to depict presence Tell Beit Mirsim, lion heads on 758n22, 854n95
of Yahweh, 345–47, libation tray from, 315 Tiglath-Pileser III, 140, 140f, 187,
799n144 Tell Ras Shamra, Canaanite 367, 466, 750n181, 848n40
Strawn, Brent, 197, 313, 327, 711n87, religious culture in artifacts Tirzah (Tell el-Farʿah North),
750n183, 750n84, 751n185, from, 259, 260 masseboth at, 121, 123f
751n188, 826n94, 834n167 Tell Revov, cult stand with Tishpak (deity), as divine
streams of traditions, 62, 64, 65, fenestrations from, warrior, 431–33
224, 274, 379, 393, 424, 426, 415, 416f Toews, Wesley, 78, 116, 320, 752n192
461, 464, 604, 816n297 Teman, Yahweh of, 222, 239–40, toponyms, related to divine
striding figures, in divine images, 239f, 251, 281, 360, 586, names, 59, 60
298–99, 299f, 300f 701n1, 765n92 town elders, in judicial system, 515,
sukkôt celebrations, 3, 501, 512, Tetragrammaton, 59, 210, 524, 526, 527, 529, 563,
827n101 213,756n8, 757n12, 835n173 850n57, 852n82, 853n89,
Sumer, king’s association with textile production, goddess 855n108, 857n127
divinity in, 496–97 of, 690–91 tradent, 107, 363, 418, 816n295
Sumerian King List, 496, 844n3, texts, as source material, 53–68. See trade and caravan routes, 4, 11, 42,
845n13 also specific texts 176, 230, 236, 237, 277, 278,
supremacy, of El, 109 textual criticism, 61 279, 283, 284, 782n206
Suriano, Matthew, 245, 757n12, Thanksgiving Hymns at traditional texts, as sources, 227
766n101, 767n107, Qumran, 478 traditions, streams of, see streams
767n110, 768n117, theodicy, 49, 469, 564–65, of traditions
795n106, 815n286 644, 857n127, 863n178 traveling ritual
Syria, name Yahweh in, and challenges to testify against for ancient Near Eastern
230, 233–34 Yahweh, 545–46 images, 136–38
Syro-Palestinian deities, and divine justice for Job, 447, and divine image of Yahweh in
iconography of, 120, 122 551–57 Jerusalem Temple, 292, 294
in Jonah, 573–74 tree and horned animals motif,
Taanach cult stands and justice as theme in wisdom 160, 164f
bull representations of Yahweh literature, 546–47 tremendum, 337, 828n108, see Otto,
on, 323–25, 323f, 420–21 in Qoheleth, 549–51 Rudolph
fenestrations in, 412, 413f–15f theological approach, to biblical Trible, Phyllis, 45, 492, 711n91,
lions on, 315–17, 315f, 316f studies, 26–27, 706–7n53 732n147, 842n249,
representation of invisible theophany, in book of Job, 557, 843n258, 843n259
Yahweh on, 860–61n159 Tropper, Joseph, 260, 757n9,
411–15, 411f, 413f–15f theriomorphic representations 757n15, 774n156, 774n157
Tabnit, Sidonian king, 686, of El, 196–208 Trufant, Susanne Müller, 374
686f, 687 of ʾIlu, 148–55, 149f–55f Tukulti-Ninurta I and II (Assyrian
Taliban, 343 of Yahweh, 313–33, 419–21 kings), 375, 376f, 505
Subject Index 1041
Tushratta of Mitanni, 132, 737n51, University of Fribourg bloodletting after, 470–71

900n16 (Switzerland), 306–9, 307f cosmic, 430–42
typology, 706n52 unprovenanced objects, use holiness in military camps, 647–48
of, 306–8 as holy enterprise, 583
Uehlinger, Christoph, 38, 119, 120, updating, of textual sources, 63 purification related to, 833n155
166–69, 170f, 197, 243, Urim and Thummim, 5, 499, rhetoric vs. realia of,
256–57, 287, 291, 292, 293, 621, 624, 637–638, 639, 835–36n179
297, 299, 302, 303, 305f, 649, 846n17, 854n93, synergism of human and divine
306, 307, 308, 313, 323, 324, 880–81n131 war, 462–64
326, 327, 328, 330, 374, 412, Uruk, images of composite beasts taking of images in, 140–41
709n71, 710n83, 743n124, from, 433, 434f–35f views of, 470–73
744n134, 744n136, Uzzah (biblical figure), 15, 395, violence done by troops in,
744n138, 744n139, 765n90, 596, 604, 612, 892n242 572–73, 572f
766n101, 772n148, 787n19, Uzziah (biblical figure), 661–63 warrior goddess, ʿAštart as, 678–79
787n22, 787n27, 788n28, warrior judges, 464
789n35, 789n40, 790n51, van der Toorn, Karel, 9, 43, 82, 84, 90, warrior nature, holiness related
794n94, 794n97, 794n100, 111, 211, 223, 228, 231, 233, to, 578–83
809n227 and passim 272, 278–79, 291, 292, 293, warrior or storm deities
Ugarit 294, 322, 337, 422, 668, in ancient Near East, 428–72
ʿAštart (ʿAthtartu) at, 713n12, 728n110, 729n116, Baʿlu and ‘Anatu, 267, 439–442
679–83, 684f 731n134, 732n149, 739n73, and bull-headed warrior from
clothing of divine images 757n9, 759n31, 759n36, Bethsaida, 331, 332
in, 135–36 780n187, 782n209, 789n43, El, 112–13, 115–18
and conceptualization 792n73, 792n74, 796n123, El Shadday, 104
of Canaanite 817n15, 832n148, 833n153, Hadad, 266–67
religion, 258–64 837n186, 838n198, 843n261, ʾIlu, 80–81
cosmic warfare in mythology 879n123, 889n213, 896n285 images from Israel of, 154f, 165f,
from, 439–42, 444 and passim 298–301, 299f, 300f, 301f
cultic holiness at, 606–7 van Seters, John, 38, 96, 391, 408, images from Syria of, 149,
discoveries from, in religious 709n75, 805n196 150f–53f
scholarship, 29–30 Vatke, Johan Karl Wilhelm, 20–21 Late Bronze and Iron Age images
drinking mug from, 123, 124f Vaux, Roland de, 108, 215, 218, of, 149–156, 298–302,
El worship at, 76–81 219, 222, 558–59, 749n174, 299f, 300f, 301f
god as king in, 80, 161, 508, 757n13, 758n17, 810n234, and representation of
719n22 852n82 Yahweh, 298
gods as family in, 473–76, 475f Victorious Bull, El as, 76, 78, 198 and weapons of Yahweh as
ḥērem warfare at, 462 Virolleaud, Charles, 29, 228, 259, divine warrior, 450–51
iconography of ʾIlu, 142–55, 705n43, 705n45, 737n46, Yahweh as, 361–62,
156f–61f 760n50 429–430, 442–472
image use in magic rituals, visitation, divine, 476–77 washing, of clothes, 476, 609, 611,
138, 139f vocalization, of name 612, 620, 621, 844n8
judicial ideal at, 516–17 Yahweh, 219–20 Weinfeld, Moshe, 231, 345, 356–58,
king’s association with divinity voice, of Yahweh 375, 379, 648, 761n56,
in, 497–98 and aniconic tradition, 357–58 799n144, 833n155, 852n81,
ritual processions in, 136–37 and divine fire, 353–56, 423, 903n53
statuette of ʾIlu from, 127, 802–3n174 Wellhausen, Julius, 21–24, 27, 28,
129f, 130f and transcendent anthro 39, 44, 65, 83, 96, 223,
warrior gods in, 428–29 pomorphism, 799n144 702n10, 702n11, 702–
Yahweh at, 228–29 votive prayer, 606, 607 703n13, 703n15, 703n17,
Ugaritic language 703n22, 704n23, 706–
as Canaanite, 260, 774nn156–157 W. F. Albright Institute of 707n53, 753n193, 807n214,
as written language, 775n166 Archaeological Research 851n72, 888n208, 889n211
Ugaritic texts, discovery of, 29–30 (AIAR), 705–6n48 Wenham, Gordon, 226–27
Ultimate Magistrate, Yahweh Walker, C. B. F., 133, 735n22, Westbrook, Raymond, 524, 527,
as, 529 736n31, 736n22, 902n52 558, 780n190, 836n181,
ʾUmmîʿaštart, 686–87 warfare 856n112, 861n161,
underdog ideology, in non-cosmic Ark procession in, 396 861n162, 881n133
warfare, 464–66
1042 Subject Index
Westermann, Claus, 87, 97, 112, as royalty, 502, 845n11, 847n28 epigraphic sources, 234–52
114, 600 studies of religion and, etymology of, 213–14
West Semites 44–47, 711n92, 711n93, Exodus 3:14 on, 214–15
El worship by, 73–74, 711–12n98 in Hamath, 233–34
76–81, 111 Wyatt, Nick, 116–17, 121, 709n71, “He Who Blows” interpretation
epigraphic sources of name 726n90, 727n103, of, 223
Yahweh from, 234–52, 728n110, 733n162, “He Who Causes to Be”
234f, 235f, 238f, 239f, 734n168, 740n88, 780n187 interpretation of, 220–22
241f–50f “He Who Is” interpretation
Whitelam, Keith, 38, 40, 518, X mark, in interpretation of of, 215–18
559, 561, 851n67, 861n164, potsherd, 310–11 hypostatic function
861n165, 862n167 of, 385–90
widows, abuse of justice Ya, at Ebla, 228 as marker of
against, 536–37 Yadin, Yigael, 158, 180, 267, ownership, 390–91
Wiggins Steve, 701n2, 720n30, 706n52, 710n77, 792n77, as marker of practical presence,
837n194, 837n195 889n215 384–85, 408
Wildberger, Hans, 336, 367, Yah, land of, 232–33 in material from Shasu (Shosu)
368, 601 Yaḫdunlim, King of Mari, nomads, 229–32
Williamson, Hugh, 294, 367–68, Foundation Inscription meaning of, 210–11
472–73, 483, 511, 599, 601, of, 717n7 pronunciation of, 211
602, 797n127, 798n136, Yahô, Temple of, pillars at, 196 and putative name
807n210, 836n182, Yahweh “Jehovah,” 212–13
836n183, 840n227, 847n27, attributes of, 697–99 revelation of, 223–27
850n52, 856n111, 857n127, challenges to testify for shepherd from land of
894n267, 895n271, 895n273 against, 545–46 Yah, 232–33
Willis, John, 472, 834n169 characteristics of El vs., as symbol of divine
Wilson, Ian, 357–58, 384, 810n240, 114–15, 427 presence, 383–84
811n244 clothing associated with, 136 at Ugarit, 228–29
Wilson, Robert, 5, 42, 518, 523–24, conceptualizations of, 697–99 Yahweh, origins of, 11, 209–86
527, 538, 703n15, 862n174 data available about, 696–97 and Aramean religion, 264–68
Wilson, Veronica, 328 and El in Hebrew Bible, 427 and Canaanite religion, 253–64
Wilson-Wright, Aaron, 269, 676, and El in Masoretic in epigraphic sources, 234–52
679, 680–82, 695, 715n27, tradition, 568–69 in extra-biblical
821n62, 898n3, 899n9, in Elohistic Psalter, 88–89 sources, 227–34
899n11, 900n15, epigraphy related to, 54–55 in Hebrew Bible, 210–27
900n20, 900n22 Hazor figurine misidentified as, Midianites and Kenites in
Winchester plaque, 122, 124f 126, 126f Hebrew Bible, 272–79
Winter, Nancy, 308, 505 identification of, with El, from North, 270–71
wisdom 209, 868n26 from South, 271–72, 867n19
and divine council of El, 113 in inscriptions at Kuntillet textual allusions to Southern
personification of, 858n133 ʿAjrud, 586 origin, 279–82
wisdom literature language for encounters Yahweh as divine warrior, 12, 361–62,
archaic lore in, 447 with, 171–72 428–73
divine combat myth in, 445 as national god of Israel, 209–10 on cosmic scale, 442–61
holiness of Yahweh in, 672–73 in non-cosmic warfare and legitimization of
justice as theme in, 546–47 alone, 466–70 royalty, 453–60
reflection in, 6–7 onomastica in study of, 59–60 in non-cosmic battles, 461–70
womb imagery, 489–90, 843n259 as potter, 477, 481, 485, 839n217 other divine warriors on cosmic
women as warrior, 117–18, 361–62, scale, 430–42
in biblical scholarship, 44–47 429–430, 442–472 and views of warfare, 470–73
as holy functionaries, 667–70, wrath and benevolence and Yahweh as judge, 530–32
686, 687, 896n282, 902n39 of, 594–95 Yahweh as the Holy One, 14–15,
in legal matters within Yahweh, name of, 210–52 575–673
household, 524, active presence in Hebrew in Chronicles, 657–65
853n83, 853n84, 853n85 Bible, 218–19 Deuteronomistic conceptions
as Nazirites, 4, 15, 632, 634, 635 archaic vocalization of, 219–20 of, 651–53
religious life of ancient, 44, and Beya as Moses, 229 in Deuteronomy, 647–51
see Meyers, Carol and daily use of, 756–57n8 early attestations of, 606–15
Ackerman, Susan at Ebla, 228 in Ezekiel, 643–47
Subject Index 1043
holy personnel in Priestly anthropomorphic 819n40, 826n92, 828n110,

traditions, 615–43 representations, 287–313 830n128, 830n129
and holy prophets, 665–67 divine fire, 344–58 Yaqub-ilu, 75, 717n12
in Joshua, 652–53 divine radiance, 358–79 Yau-bidi, king of
non-cultic understandings of, masseboth Hamath, 233–34
577–605 representations, 333–36 yhwh, pronunciation of, 211
and Northwest Semitic holy and Name Theology, 379–92 Yon, Marguerite, 30, 123, 144,
gods, 575–77 and sacred emptiness, 392–415, 146, 147, 151, 705n43,
priestly personnel in 416f–17f 735n8, 735n13, 735n14,
Deuteronomist theriomorphic 740n86, 740n88, 741n89,
History, 653–57 representations, 313–33 741n90, 741n94, 741n95,
systematic cultic frameworks Yahweh in family religion, 761n52, 774n154, 901n34
for, 605–6 12, 473–94 Yurco, Frank, 231–32
and women as holy historical context for, 473–77
functionaries, 667–70 humans as rebellious Zadok, 645, 646, 653, 656, 657, 660,
Yahweh as judge, 12–14, 513–74 children, 482–89 894n271
divine justice and apocalyptic Yahweh as divine Zadokite priests, 645–46, 660,
literature, 532–34 parent, 477–93 888n208
and early Israelite Yahweh as mother, 489–93 Zevit, Ziony, 2–3, 9, 50, 54, 69, 97, 176,
judiciaries, 525–28 Yahweh of Hebron, 701n1, 875n90 180, 181f, 185, 187, 236, 240,
God as law writer and Yahweh of Hosts, 219, 221–22, 244f, 245–246, 246f, 257–58, 315f,
lawgiver, 558–61 245, 271, 318, 336, 367, 401, 319, 327–28, 333–334, 397,
and ideal of just divine 412, 483, 510, 530, 536, 399, 412, 415f, 499, 502–503,
judge, 545–57 767n106, 797n127, 817n9 619, 665, 672, 695, 710n83,
and ideal of just human Yahweh of Samaria, 237–39, 238f, 712n1, 712n2, 712n3, 713n8,
judge, 534–45 293, 295, 322 715n27, 751n190, 755n1,
non-royal frameworks for divine Yahweh of Teman, 239–40, 239f, 756n5, 763n77, 764n86,
justice, 521–24 360, 586 765n92, 766n103, 767n107
overarching belief in, 528–30 Yahweh Sabaoth (Yahweh of and passim
prophecies about, 530–32 Armies) Zimri-Lim (Mari king)
and role of Moses, 561–63 cherubim for, 400–401 carrying out of justice by, 515
royal framework for divine and focal point for Jerusalem legitimization of, 266, 439, 458
justice, 513–21 Temple, 395 Zincirli (see Samʾal)
Yahweh as king, 12–13, 495–513 and inviolability of masseboth from, 333–34, 334f
cultic enactment of, 511–13 Jerusalem, 467–69 reference to ruler as parent
royal cult in ancient Near East, Yahweh Sebaoth, 221–22, 245, 245f, from, 479
496–507 see Yahweh of Hosts Zion. See Jerusalem
and Yahweh as Yahwisms, with divine Zion-Sabaoth tradition, 373, 380, 381,
sovereign, 507–11 images, 292–93 382, 386, 400, 418, 422, 425
Yahweh as parent, 12, 477–493 Yam/Yammu (deity), in cosmic Zion theology, 50, 283, 384, 396,
Yahweh-El-Olam, 97, 99 warfare, 30, 115, 117, 467–69, 511, 513, 834n165,
Yahweh Elyon 228–29, 261, 262, 360–61, 836–37n185, 888n199
and El Elyon motifs, 92–95 427, 440–46, 448–453, 456, Zuckerman, Sharon, 179, 180,
El traditions vs., 90–92 457, 459, 681, 772n146, 710n77, 747n158
Yahweh iconography, 11–12, 287–426 800n147, 801n164, 818n35, zukru festival, 627–29, 747n156,
abstract traditions, 818–19n38, 819n39, 876n99, 883n156, 899n10,
336–44, 825n86 902n46
Citation Index
References to boxes, figures, tables, and notes are denoted by an italicized b, f, t, and n.
HEBREW BIBLE 15:1 84, 113, 224 26:25 224

Genesis 15:6–7 224 27:11 285
1:11 729n121 15:17 345, 354 28 171
1:27 489, 842n249 15:19 272 28:3 102, 730n131
2:2–3 225 16 726n88, 726n90 28:3–4 102, 110
2:7 133, 288, 719n21, 737n40, 16:1–6 524 28:5 264
839n217 16:7 726n92, 733n162 28:10–22 99
2:8 288 16:11 95, 227, 726n91 28:11 100
3:8 288 16:11–14 96, 110 28:12 101, 730n130
3:14 842n254 16:13 85, 95, 227 28:13 100, 224, 795n109
3:15 824n75 16:13–14 96 28:14 100
3:21 288 16:14 733n162 28:15 100, 101, 240
3:22 215, 727n100 17:1 209, 224, 729n121, 28:16 224, 227, 795n109
3:24 349, 353, 397, 399, 730n131 28:18 100, 135, 194, 335
813n271 17:1–2 101, 110 28:18–19 100, 174
4:1 226, 722n49 17:7 225 28:18–22 745n145
4:1–7 224 17:11 225 28:19 227
4:1–16 272 18 224 28:20 100, 101
4:26 224, 226, 228, 284, 760n43 18:9–15 489 28:22 100, 135, 174, 194, 335,
6:2 477 18:21 288 730n130
6:6 288 18:22–32 288 28:23 172
7:1 224 18:22–33 574 29:7 101
7:5 224 18:25 546, 550 29:31–35 224, 489
7:16 288 19:24 799n146 30:1–8 489
8:20 224 19:30–38 285 30:22–24 489
8:20–21 224 20:1–18 489 30:24 224
8:21 288, 786n5 21:1 224 30:27 224
9:16–17 225 21:1–7 489 31 100, 523, 524
12:1 224 21:19 726n92 31:1–17 99
12:1–3 649 21:33 85, 97, 98, 99, 31:3 101, 795n109
12:4 224 210, 758n25 31:7 100
12:7–8 224 22 733n161 31:10–11 101
12:8 100 22:2 846n18 31:13 85, 100, 174, 194, 335,
12:10 761n55 22:23 264 737n42, 737n42
12:18 227 24:1 224 31:32 524
13:4 224 24:2–4 265 31:34 137
13:18 224 25:2 272 31:37 524, 528
14 113 25:8 732n150 31:42 84
14:10 826n92 25:17 732n150 31:44–49 121, 171, 336
14:18 507 25:19–28 489 31:49 528, 795n109
14:18–22 85, 86, 95, 602 25:20 264 31:49–54 524
14:19 81, 95, 97 25:21–23 224 31:50 528
14:19–20 88, 461 25:25 285 31:53 84
14:20 113 26:12 224 31:53–54 528
14:22 81, 95, 97 26:24–25 224 32 289
1046 Citation Index
Genesis (Cont.) 49:25 100, 102, 106, 107, 110, 6:20 759n39
32:3 285 112, 225, 730n131, 731n134, 7:1 6, 562, 830n127
32:29–30 215 732n152, 733n165 8:8 617
32:31 100 49:25a 730n132 8:14 216
33:20 73, 85, 100, 111, 174, 226, 49:25c 730n132 8:25–29 617
287, 723n60 49:26 633 8:27–28 867n19
33:23 287 49:29 732n150 9:11 596
35:1 100 49:33 732n150 9:18 804n190
35:1–16 99 50:20 633 9:23–24 799n142
35:2 115 Exodus 10:25 617
35:2–4 303 2 275, 276 12:43–50 67
35:3 100 2:3 823n75 13 642
35:4 100, 141 2:5 823n75 13:2 887n194
35:5 100, 113 2:15b–22 273, 276 13:3–10 67
35:6–15 194, 335 2:16 274, 275 13:6–7 610
35:7 85, 100, 227, 737n42 2:18 274, 781n197 13:9 563
35:8 100 2:21 274 13:11–13 887n194
35:9–15 99, 176 3 276 13:12a–13 64
35:10 99 3:1 272, 273, 274, 275 13:15 643
35:11 99, 102, 110, 730n131 3:1–5 891n238 13:21 350, 453
35:14 100, 135, 174, 176, 3:1–6 345, 350, 351, 354, 355, 13:21–22 345
730n130, 737n42 802n168 13:21–14:22 452
35:15 737n42 3:1–8 345 14:2 824n79
35:17–18 364 3:1–4:18 798n137 14:4 671, 827n99
35:19 121 3:2 407 14:7 452
35:19–20 171 3:2–4 799n140 14:9 452
35:29 732n150 3:5 607, 617, 672, 891n238 14:10 453
36:3–4 781n203 3:6 276 14:13 452, 453
36:8–9 285 3:12 214, 218, 223, 758n27 14:13–14 658
36:9–13 203 3:13 85, 276 14:14 350, 452
37 884n165 3:14 214, 215, 216, 218, 220, 14:16 452
37–39 880n125 221, 222, 363, 757n16, 14:17–18 452, 671, 827n99
37:28 272 758n27, 805n197 14:19 350
37:36 272 3:14–15 214, 223 14:19a 453
38 523, 524 3:15 214, 216 14:19b 453
38:15 668 3:15–16 85, 276 14:21 452, 453
38:21–22 668, 669 3:16 276 14:23 452
38:24 668 3:18 617, 867n19 14:24 345, 350, 452, 453
39:23 224 4:5 85 14:25 350, 452
40–41 884n165 4:12 101, 214, 218, 222, 14:25–26 452
42:2ff 761n55 223, 758n27 14:26–27 452
43:14 729, 730n131 4:13 758n17 14:27 452, 826n96
44:5 6, 224, 884n165 4:14 636 14:28 452
44:15 6, 224, 884n165 4:14–15 886n176 14:30 452
46:3 85, 111 4:15 214, 218, 222, 758n27 14:31 453, 452
48:3 730n131 4:16 562, 830n127 15 84, 270, 448, 454, 462,
48:15 100, 112, 233 4:18 274 464, 578, 580, 582, 583,
49 84, 112, 270, 731n135, 4:19 274 587, 590, 593, 603, 708n62,
886n179 4:22 482 818n33, 822n69
49:2–27 822n68 4:22–23 486 15:1 325, 450, 824n76
49:3 277 4:24–26 667, 802n170 15:1–5 734n172
49:4 277 5:1 867n19 15:1–12 449–50, 825n82
49:6 803n179 5:3 617, 867n19 15:1–18 430, 448, 822n68
49:9 824n75 5:8 617 15:1b–18 824n76
49:9–10 313 5:17 617 15:2 211, 449, 578–9, 822n70
49:24 84, 112, 194, 197, 233, 6:2–3 223, 224, 225, 284, 427 15:3 288, 389, 429, 825n83
335, 336, 601 6:3 91, 101, 107, 108, 209, 15:4 823n73, 823n75
49:24–25 105–106, 174, 197, 276, 868n20 15:6 288, 449, 450, 452, 578–9
318, 602 6:16–25 636 15:7 450
Citation Index 1047
15:7–8 450 19:5 608 23:24 194, 745n143

15:7b 578–9 19:7 877n109 23:27 797n127,
15:8 288, 325 19:10 608, 609, 610, 611, 614 799n143, 826n99
15:10 825n82 19:10–11 607 23:37–39 64
15:10–11 449 19:10–15 876n100 24 612, 877n109, 878n110,
15:11 5, 71, 360, 451, 578, 19:10–20 876n100 878n111
582, 583, 589, 615, 803n180, 19:10–25 608–10, 612–13, 616, 24–40 805n196
825n82, 869n36, 891n239 876n100, 877n109, 878n112 24:1 613
15:11–18 578–9 19:11 609, 610 24:2 613
15:12 450, 452, 825n82 19:11b 876n100 24:2–3 614
15:13 449, 576, 578, 588, 593, 19:12–13 609, 877n108 24:3–8 121, 171
598, 599 19:12–13a 876n100 24:4 563
15:14–15 588 19:12 609, 611 24:4–8 619, 878n110, 878n111
15:15–16 286 19:12ab–13 876n100 24:6–8 895n272
15:16 449, 822n70 19:13 612, 616 24:9 613
15:17 576, 578, 588, 593, 19:14 608, 609, 611 24:9–11 370, 371, 613, 807n215,
598, 873n74 19:15 609, 610, 611 838n201, 877n109, 878n111
15:18 453, 508, 510 19:15b 876n100 24:10 136
15:19 325 19:16 610, 804n190 24:11 838n201
15:19–23 64 19:16–19 347 24:12 542, 563
15:21 325, 430, 823n72 19:16aa 876n100 24:15–18 369
16:10 806n206, 867n19 19:17 609, 612 24:16 806n206
16:19–21 64 19:18 345, 354, 610, 876n100 24:16–17 369
16:22ff 225 19:18–19 608 24:17 344, 345, 354, 407,
16:23 758n17 19:19 611, 613, 617, 876n100 799n139
17:1–7 638 19:20 613 24:17–18 369
17:14 563 19:20–25 876n100 25 398, 405
17:15 221 19:21 355, 609 25–31 874n82, 878n109
18 273, 275, 276, 525, 526, 19:21–22 612 25:2 598
528, 544, 781n198, 853n91, 19:21–24 609 25:8 369, 598, 874n82
879n121 19:22 596, 608, 609, 612, 614 25:8–22 598
18:1 272, 275 19:23 609, 611, 617, 877n108 25:10 397, 598
18:1–12 781n198 19:24 596, 609, 612, 613 25:17–18 598
18:1–27 274 20:2 226, 408 25:18–22 397
18:8 275 20:4 287, 356 25:20 397, 813n271
18:8–11 781n198 20:7 692 25:21–22 598
18:9–11 275 20:12 483, 484, 524 25:22 397, 598
18:9–12 273, 276, 525 20:15 613, 802n172 25:31–40 406
18:11 275 20:15–18 673 26:1 398
18:12 275, 526, 527 20:16 613 26:28 824n75
18:13–26 273, 525, 562 20:16–18 614 26:31 398
18:13–27 520, 781n198 20:18 347, 613 27:20–21 406
18:15b 528 20:19–23:19 63 27:21 629, 641
18:15b–16 525 20:21 845n12 28–29 619
18:16 562, 853n88 20:22 463 28:1 622
18:19 276 20:23 133, 287, 303 28:2–3 620, 629, 663
18:19b–20 525 20:24 381, 382, 392 28:6–12 620
18:20 562, 853n88 21:15 524, 840n227, 853n84 28:15 621, 639, 854n93
18:21 276, 528, 856n112, 863n181 22:17 6, 840n227 28:15–30 620
18:21–22 526 22:21–24 482 28:29 621, 639, 854n93
18:23 276 22:27 693 28:29–30 621
18:25 528, 856n112, 856n114, 22:28b 542 28:31–35 620
863n181 22:28b–29 64, 887n194 28:35 592
18:25–26 526 23:10–19 68, 610 28:36–38 620
19 612, 617, 862n175, 876n100, 23:14–27 501 28:38 880n130
877n109, 878n113 23:19 63, 714n23 28:41 637
19:1–2a 876n100 23:20–21 381 29 618, 622, 624, 627, 628,
19:2b–25 876n100 23:20–22 389 881n136, 881n140, 882n146
19:3 613 23:23–24 335 29:1 622
1048 Citation Index
Exodus (Cont.) 30:32–33 622 34:29 619

29:1–6 623 30:38 622 34:29–35 791
29:1b–3 623 31:1–11 7 35–40 874n82, 878n109
29:4 624, 629, 880n126 31:3 8 35:5–9 736n28
29:4–5 612 31:4 8 35:30–35 7
29:5–6 624 31:12–18 225 35:30–36:1 599
29:6 634 31:16–17 225 35:31 8
29:7 623, 624, 625 31:18 289, 542, 563 35:32–35 8
29:8–9a 623 32 198, 199, 318, 619, 637, 36:8 398
29:9 629, 641 752n191, 753n195, 886n177 36:33 824n75
29:9–10 629 32:1 137, 200 36:35 398
29:10 623, 624 32:1–4 736n35 37 398
29:10–14 623 32:2–4 304 37:1 397
29:12 619, 882n145 32:4 116, 132, 753n196 37:7–9 397, 598
29:15 623, 624, 629 32:5 318, 752n191, 791n58 37:17–24 406
29:15–18 623 32:5–6 200 37:29 622
29:16 619, 624 32:5b 752n191 38:8 667
29:19 623, 624, 629 32:7–14 351 39:1–31 619
29:19–21 623 32:8 116, 736n35, 753n196 39:2–7 620
29:20 624 32:16 542 39:8–21 620
29:20–21 619 32:19 200, 753n196 39:22–26 620
29:21 623, 624, 625, 627, 32:20 141, 200, 736n35, 39:27 629
628, 629 752n192, 753n196 39:30 634
29:21a 629 32:21–24 752n191 39:30–31 620
29:21b 625 32:23–24 736n35 40 622, 881n136, 881n140
29:22–25 623 32:24 753n196 40:2 369
29:26–28 623 32:25–29 637, 886n173 40:9 624
29:28 629 32:26–29 638, 886n177 40:9–10 629
29:29 637 32:27 637, 638, 886n182 40:9–11 881n140
29:29–30 623, 639 32:29 637, 638, 886n182 40:10 624
29:31–34 623 32:35 753n196 40:12 629, 880n126
29:31–37 624 33 378, 787n14 40:12–15 619
29:32 629 33:2–3 389 40:13 625
29:33 624, 637, 844n163, 33:7–11 563, 785n2 40:13–15 626
882n143 33:11 288, 562, 618 40:15 620, 626, 629, 635, 641
29:33–34 618, 624, 884n163 33:17–23 359, 362, 363, 366, 40:31 629
29:35 625, 629 377, 378, 805n195, 862n173 40:34 369
29:35–36a 623 33:19 381, 758n17, 805n197 40:34–35 366, 806n206
29:36 624, 625, 629, 881n140 33:20 96, 287, 296, 355, 377, 40:34–38 369
29:36–37 624, 625, 882n143 378, 557, 588, 597, 612, 40:35 367
29:36b–37 623 801n159 Leviticus
29:37 622 33:21–22 796n111 1ff 893n262
29:37b 629 33:22 379 1–7 643
29:38–42a 623 33:23 287, 289 1–8 619
29:38–46 881n136, 881n139 34:1 563 1:5 619
29:42 369 34:5 172 1:11 619
29:43 623, 672 34:5–6 381 2:2 894n271
29:43–44 369, 663 34:6 377, 481 2:3 629
29:43–46 369 34:6–7 839n216 2:10 629
29:44 369, 371, 623, 629 34:9 569 3:2 619
29:45–46 369 34:11–14 335 3:5 894n271
30:7 894n271 34:11–26 63 3:8 619
30:9 808n217 34:13 194 3:13 619
30:19 629 34:14 221, 335, 733n163 4 598
30:22–30 629 34:17–26 64 4:3 625
30:22–38 622 34:18–26 68, 610 4:5 625
30:26–29 622 34:19–20 887n194 4:15 642
30:29 622 34:26 63 4:15–20 597
30:30 622, 625, 629 34:27–28 563 4:18–20 642
Citation Index 1049
4:25 619 9:9 619 19:3–36 630

4:30 619 9:23 370, 806n206, 807n215 19:10 876n106
4:34 619 9:23–24 370, 407 19:18 864n187
5:1 556 9:24 407 19:21 876n106
6:2 406 9:24a 371 19:26 499
6:2–6 406 10:1 894n271 19:30 631
6:5–6 406 10:1–2 640 19:37 630
6:6 407 10:1–3 370, 371, 372, 424, 592, 20 630
6:9 629 625, 663, 879n124, 882n144 20:1 630
6:13 625 10:2 371 20:3 888n201
6:15 625 10:2–3 370 20:6 806n206
6:16 629 10:3 371 20:7 605, 631, 670
6:20 629, 876n106 10:7 626 20:7–8 630, 631
7:2 619 10:10 631, 644 20:9 840n227
7:31 629, 894n271 10:11 563, 639 20:24b–26 631
7:36 626 11:1–2a 630 20:26 630, 631
7:38 867n19 11:25 876n106 20:27 668
8 618, 624, 625, 627, 628, 11:28 876n106 21–22 631
878n112, 881n136, 881n140, 11:40 876n106 21:1–8 631–2
882n145, 883n153 11:42 842n842 21:6 888n201
8–9 622, 624 11:44–45 605, 615, 630, 670, 21:7 617
8–10 807n217, 882n144 884n160 21:7–8 661
8:1–4 624 11:47 631 21:8 605, 631, 670
8:2 629 12:1–8 896n277 21:10 624, 625, 631, 884n163
8:6 624, 629880n126 13:6 876n106 21:10–15 631
8:7 620, 876n106 13:34 876n106 21:11–12 631, 633
8:7–9 612, 624 13:54–56 876n106 21:12 631, 632, 634, 884n163
8:8 620 13:58 876n106 21:16–23 632
8:9 620, 634 14:8 876n106 22:1–9 632
8:10–11 624, 629, 881n140 14:10 806n206 22:2 888n201
8:11 624, 625 14:47 876n106 22:6–7 632
8:12 612, 624, 625 15:5–8 876n106 22:10–16 632
8:14 624, 629 15:10–13 876n106 22:21 885n170
8:15 619, 624, 629, 882n145 15:17 876n106 22:32 888n201
8:15b 882n143 15:19–30 896n277 23 610, 876n105
8:18 624, 629 15:21 876n106 23:4–8 68
8:19 619, 624 15:27 876n106 23:24 876n105
8:22 624, 629 16 625, 646, 887n185 24 826n91
8:23 612 16:1–2 372, 808n218 24:5–9 655
8:23–24 619, 624 16:2 597, 621, 875n85 24:9 629
8:24 624 16:4 498, 621 24:11 692
8:29b 618 16:21 621, 881n133, 881n137 24:14 881n137
8:30 619, 620, 624, 625, 627, 16:22 335 24:16 692, 757n8
628, 629 16:23 621 25:9 876n105
8:30–33 612 16:23–24 498 25:39–55 486
8:30b 625 16:26 621, 876n106 26:1 194, 335, 745n143
8:31 629 16:26–28 621 26:1–13 888n206
8:31–35 624 16:28 621, 876n106 26:27 484
8:33–35 625 16:29–34 622 26:46 563
8:34 624 16:32 620, 622, 626, 641 27:2 885n170
8:35 625, 882n146 16:42 806n206 27:26–27 887n194
8:36 629 17 845n12 27:28–29 463
9 369, 424, 625 17–26 884n159, 887n190 Numbers
9:1 629, 878n109 17:15–16 876n106 1:1 867n19
9:1–14 610 18 630, 887n185 1:5–15 59, 65, 106, 107,
9:1–24 369 18:21 255, 715n25, 888n201 731n137, 796n111
9:4 370, 484, 807n215 19 630, 635 1:6 729n124
9:6 370, 484, 806n206, 807n215 19:2 605, 630, 660, 661, 670 1:12 105
9:7 624 19:3 483 1:50–51 642
1050 Citation Index
Numbers (Cont.) 7:36 729n124 15:40 630, 884n160

1:50–53 640 7:41 729n124 16 639–41, 659, 887n185
2:3–29 106, 107 7:89 400 16–17 643
2:12 729n124 8 887n190, 887n194 16:1–35 372
2:14 106 8:7 642 16:2–3 639
2:25 105 8:7–10 642 16:3 639, 640
3 619, 887n190, 887n191 8:10–12 881n137 16:5 660, 849n49
3:3 625 8:11 642 16:5–7 640, 894n271
3:5–10 641, 642 8:13 642 16:8–11 640
3:9 629, 642 8:13–14 642 16:9 641, 643
3:10 620, 624, 626, 629, 641, 8:14–22 641 16:10 849n49
879n124 8:15 642 16:11 639, 641
3:11–13 887n194 8:16 642, 643 16:16–17 640
3:12 642, 643 8:16–17 642 16:16–18 894n271
3:12–13 642 8:17 643 16:18 641
3:13 643 8:18 643 16:19–21 372, 641
3:14 867n19 8:19 629, 642 16:32 372
3:35 729n124 8:21 642 16:35 372, 639, 641, 662,
3:38 629 9:1 867n19 894n271
3:40–42 642 9:1–15 68 16:42 806n206
3:42 643 9:5 867n19 17:1–5 641
3:45 642, 643 9:15–16 345 17:1–15 372
3:48 629 10:9 463 17:5 639, 640, 662
3:51 629 10:10 876n105 17:7–10 373
4 596, 597, 604, 641, 847n25, 10:19 729n124 17:16–26 887n189
887n187, 892n242 10:29 274, 275, 781n197 17:27–28 592
4:4–12 597 10:29–32 273, 276, 527 18 887n190, 889n211
4:5 629 10:35 430, 812n252 18:1–7 641
4:5–6 874n81 10:35f 813n267 18:2–5 641
4:15 629, 874n80 10:35–36 388, 396, 430 18:3 639
4:15–20 597 11–12 528, 562 18:6 642
4:16 894n271 11:4–15 527 18:7 620, 624, 629, 639,
4:17–20 597 11:10–25 527 879n124
4:19 629 11:12 490 18:13–18 887n194
4:27 629 11:16 527 18:15–17 642
5:11–31 523 11:16–25 525, 526, 527, 528, 19 264
5:23–28 200 562, 854n91 20:2–13 638
6 633, 769n122 11:21 838n203 20:24 732n150
6:1 634, 636 11:26–30 527 20:26 732n150
6:1–21 633 11:29 562 21:2 833n150
6:2 635 11:31–33 351 21:8 138
6:4 633 12 289 21:8–9 132, 736n35
6:5 633, 636, 660, 661 12:1–16 527 21:9 284, 784n230
6:6–8 633 12:6 562 21:11 887n182
6:6–12 633 12:6–8 562 21:14 430, 448
6:7 887n182 12:7 892n251 22–24 90, 269
6:8 633, 634, 636, 660, 661 12:7–8 562 22:4 780n191
6:9–12 634, 635 12:8 563, 618 22:7 780n191
6:10–11 635 12:8b–9 562 22:20–22 351
6:13 634 13:8–16 759n39 22:22–23 172
6:13–21 634 14:9 372 22:31 172
6:14–15 634 14:11 372 22:31–35 351
6:16–17 634, 635 14:12 372 22:34 172
6:18 634 14:14 345 23–24 84
6:19–20 635 14:14–16 372 23:7 780n185
6:23–27 484 14:21 367 23:7–10 822n68
6:24 240 15:3 885n170 23:8 116, 733n157
6:24–26 247, 248, 769n122 15:8 885n170 23:18–24 822n68
7:1 624 15:31 859n144 23:19 288
Citation Index 1051
23:21 850n50 4:12 354, 357, 786n7 9:20 637, 650, 752n191,
23:21b 509 4:15 354, 357, 786n7 890n222
23:21b–22 318 4:15–16 356, 358, 384 9:21 353, 753n196
23:22 116, 198, 733n157, 4:19 91, 903n56 9:24 650
733n162 4:20 648, 649 9:26 649
24:3–9 822n68 4:23–24 358 9:26–27 650
24:4 89, 106, 113, 724n68 4:24 344, 353 9:29 648, 649, 650
24:8 116, 198, 318, 733n157 4:31 481 10:1–5 408
24:9 197 4:32 824n75 10:2 563
24:15–19 822n68 4:32–34 360, 447 10:4 354, 563
24:16 89, 94, 96, 106, 109, 113, 4:33 354 10:6 650, 890n222
724n68, 726n89 4:35 509 10:8 651
24:20 824n75 4:36 354, 355, 356, 384, 392, 10:9 651
25:3–4 351 648, 802n174 10:17 509, 526, 531
25:6–18 272 4:39 509 10:17–18 521, 544
25:13 629, 641 4:40 766n95 10:18 482, 487
26:58–59 636 5:1–5 802n172 12–26 811n244
26:59 759n39 5:4 354 12:3 194, 335, 353, 693,
27:13 732n150 5:4–5 354 801n166
27:21 528, 620, 621 5:6 408 12:5 380
27:27 233 5:8 356 12:5–6 380, 385
28–29 610 5:11 692 12:7 380
28:2 632 5:12 647 12:11 380, 385
28:16–25 68 5:16 483, 524, 766n95 12:12 380, 651
31 272, 833n155 5:19 354, 355, 647 12:13–14 380, 385
31:2 732n150 5:19–23 354 12:16 499
31:19 833n155 5:20 357 12:18 380
31:20 833n155 5:20–21 355 12:18–19 651
31:21–23 833n155 5:21 354, 355, 407 12:25 529, 766n95
31:24 833n155 5:22 563 12:26 647
32:34 749n172 5:23 354, 355 12:27 882n142
33 782n205 5:26 766n95 12:28 529
33:2 563 6:4 509 12:31 715n25
35:12 528 6:13 903n55 13 716n31, 890n219
35:24 528 6:17–18a 865n195 13:1 561
36:13 563 6:18 529 13:8 824n75
Deuteronomy 7:1–8 785n236 13:19 529
1:2 231 7:5 194, 335, 353, 801n166 14:1–2 483
1:5 526, 562, 853n88 7:6 648, 660, 661 14:2 648, 660, 661
1:9–18 520, 525, 526, 527, 7:7 651 14:21 63, 648, 660, 661
544, 562 7:8 649, 650 14:23 380
1:12 526 7:9 657 14:27 651
1:13–17 856n114 7:12–13 459 14:29 651
1:15 526, 527, 853n89, 856n112, 7:13 105, 269, 676, 677, 692, 15:19–23 887n194
863n181 693, 898n6 16–18 544
1:16 526 7:25 141, 353, 801n166 16:1–8 68
1:16–17 526, 560 8:5 484 16:1–17 501
1:17 521, 526, 531, 562 9:3 344, 353, 358 16:2 380
1:30 137, 385 9:6–7 650 16:6 380
1:33 345, 353 9:6–24 650 16:11 380, 651
2:1 286 9:7–21 198 16:14 651
2:1–6 286 9:8 650 16:16–17 610
2:5 286 9:10 289, 354, 563 16:18 526, 850n57
4 802n167, 802n171, 802n172, 9:12 753n196 16:18–20 520, 526, 527, 544
802n173, 802n174 9:13–15 650 16:18–18:22 845n13
4–5 355, 356 9:14 650 16:19 521
4:3 902n51 9:15 345, 353, 354 16:22 194, 335, 353, 746n150
4:11 345, 353, 354, 357 9:16 753n196 17:2 544
4:11–12 356, 358, 384 9:19 650 17:2–3 544
1052 Citation Index
Deuteronomy (Cont.) 26:11–12 651 32:21 692

17:3 903n56 26:11–13 651 32:31 795n111
17:4 544 26:15 648 32:35 518
17:5 544 26:18–19 648, 660, 661 32:37 795n111
17:6–7 544 26:19 725n79 32:39 509, 692
17:8 544 27 173, 746n150, 746n151 32:40–42 835n174
17:8–12 528 27:1–8 173, 383, 784n231 32:41 800n156, 824n75
17:8–13 520, 852n76 27:2 746n150 32:41–42 471
17:9 544, 651 27:3 561 32:43 903n56
17:10–11 544, 544 27:5–6 463 32:43a 725n74
17:12 544 27:8 853n88 32:50 650, 732n150
17:14–17 518 27:9 648, 651 32:50–51 890n222
17:14–20 405, 503, 544, 559, 27:9–10 651 32:51 650
845n13, 849n47, 849n48 27:12 651 33 270, 728n109
17:15 849n49 27:14 651 33:2 232, 280, 286, 348, 349,
17:18 651 27:16 840n227 352, 353, 359, 360, 361,
17:18–19 545 27:19 471 366, 430, 453, 576, 578, 583,
17:18–20 561, 849n48 28 716n31, 890n219 782n210, 783n214, 800n150,
17:19 558 28:1 725n79 803n184, 825n80, 835n177,
17:20 545 28:1b 849n48 863n180, 868n24, 889n217
18:1 651 28:4 105, 269, 459, 676, 692, 693 33:2–3 580, 648, 812n253
18:1–8 544, 651, 660 28:9 648, 660, 661 33:2–29 822n68
18:3 651 28:18 459, 676, 692, 693 33:3 890n217
18:6–7 651 28:38 105, 269 33:5 508
18:9–22 544 28:51 105, 269, 459, 676, 692, 33:6 277
18:11 6 693, 898n6 33:8 639, 651, 881n131
18:15–21 862n174 29:9 531 33:8–11 619, 637–9, 649, 660,
18:16 354, 355 29:9–14 649 886n179, 895n271
19:12 526 29:11–12 648 33:9 886n182
19:15–19 528 29:17 691, 692 33:9–10 638
19:17 651 29:19 351 33:9a 638
20:1 648 31:6 137, 385 33:9b 638
20:1–4 464 31:9 563, 651, 862n176 33:11 638
20:4 137, 385, 464, 648 31:19–20 485 33:16 345, 353, 633, 784n229,
21:1–9 526, 528 31:22 563 799n140
21:5 528, 529, 651 31:24 563 33:17 113, 198, 824n75
21:6–7 529 31:24–29 598 33:23 289
21:9 529 31:25 651 33:26 732n156
21:10 648 32 539, 568, 719n19, 725n72, 33:26–27 98–9
21:18–20 526 857n120 33:27 112, 115
21:18–21 483, 484, 523, 32:4 521, 795n111 33:28 717n12
840n227, 840n228, 841n234 32:6 104, 473, 477, 478, 34:10 288, 562, 563
22:7 766n95 483, 489, 722n49, 822n70, Joshua
22:13–21 523 839n212, 842n250 1:5 218
22:15–18 526 32:6b 110, 481 1:7 531, 561
23:10 648 32:6b–9 91, 110, 568, 602, 1:9 218
23:10–15 654, 655 827n103, 849n44, 902n51 3:4–6 891n239
23:11 889n215 32:7 6, 360, 447 3:5 464, 654, 660, 891n239
23:11–12 464 32:7–9 285 3:10 96, 726n93
23:15 385, 464, 583, 647, 32:8 88, 91, 791n67 3:13 824n79
810n242, 889n212 32:8–9 479, 483, 649, 3:16 824n79
23:17 647 725n72, 755n2 5:10–15 67
23:18 668, 669 32:10 104 5:13–15 463, 891n238
23:18–19 668 32:11 468 5:15 607, 617, 654, 672
24:8 639, 651 32:13–14 104 6:4 463
25:7–9 526 32:15 795n111, 889n212 6:6 463
26:2 380 32:18 110, 473, 477, 478, 483, 6:8 463
26:2–4 380, 385 489, 732n148, 795n111, 6:9 463
26:5 264 842n250 6:12 218, 463
26:12 890n226 32:20 824n75 6:13 463
Citation Index 1053
6:15 463 5:8 285, 829n115 17:1–4 667

6:16 463 5:9 462 17:1–5 132
6:19 463, 654, 832n149 5:10 278 17:2 764n80
6:20–21 463 5:11 829n115 17:3 135, 577, 654, 788n27
6:24 463, 768n116 5:12 812n252 17:3–5 637
7 351, 523 5:13 784n227 17:4 134
7:13 654, 660 5:13–16 833n155 17:5 637, 639
8 832n147 5:14b 854n96 17:6 521
8:30–31 464 5:16 232 17:10–12 637
8:31–32 563 5:19 278, 411 18 637
8:32 561 5:22 198 18:1 521
8:33 527, 528 5:23 831n139 18:5 464
10:10 826n99 5:24–26 273 18:5–6 637, 639
10:24–26 836n179 5:30 278 18:14 637, 639
11:17 231 6:1–8:12 272 18:17–18 637, 639
12:7 231 6:19–24 353 18:20 637, 639
13:21 780n191 6:21 353 18:24 140, 637, 806n204
14:1 653 6:22 353 18:30–31 637
16:5 88 6:22–23 353, 801n159 19–21 523
20:1–6 850n57 6:24 221 19:1 521
20:4 524, 526 6:25–32 739n76 20:9 464
20:6 528 6:26 133 20:26 464
21 653, 891n233 6:34 464 20:27–28 464
21:1 653 6:36–40 464 20:28 653
23:2 527 7 465 21:25 521
23:6 561, 563 7:2 465 1 Samuel
24 174, 652, 746n152 7:13 464 1 284, 713n7
24:1 527, 653 8–9 723n60 1–6 805n199
24:15b 652 8:10 465 1:1–20 489
24:18b 652 8:24–27 736n35 1:3 653
24:19 652 8:33 86 1:4 896n278
24:19–21 652 9 174, 746n152 1:7 768n116, 832n149
24:21–24 653 9:4 84, 86 1:9 653
24:26 561 9:6 174, 746n152 1:11 633, 884n168, 885n169
24:26–27 174, 746n151 9:13 79, 744n135 1:13–15 885n169
24:33 653 9:46 84, 86, 174 1:20 726n91
Judges 11:10 555 1:21–28 667
1:16 274 13 378, 379, 389, 424, 489 1:22 633, 884n168
2:16 530, 836n185 13–16 464 1:25 896n278
3:31 462, 780n194 13:2–23 349, 353, 377 1:27–28 726n91
4 853n83 13:4 633 2 593, 603
4:4 781n196 13:5 633 2:1 590
4:4–5 524 13:6 350, 355, 377 2:1–2 593
4:9 273 13:7 633 2:1–10 588. 589–90,
4:11 274 13:8 350, 377 670, 822n68
4:15 273, 826n99 13:10–11 350, 377 2:2 589, 605, 615, 651, 658
4:17–22 273 13:14 633 2:3 90
4:18 274 13:16 350 2:4 590
5 84, 270, 272, 273, 277, 708n62, 13:16–20 407 2:4–8 589, 590
710n83, 723n59, 853n83 13:17–18 215, 350 2:8 591
5:2 462, 464, 833n155 13:18 377 2:9 590
5:2–31 822n68 13:19–22 350, 351 2:10 589, 590, 591, 651, 658,
5:3–5 430 13:20 353, 370 725n82, 871n49
5:4 232, 583, 784n229, 835n177 13:21–22 350 2:12–17 364
5:4–5 279, 283, 347, 360, 14:6 464 2:22 667
580, 724n65, 783n212, 14:19 464 2:22–25 364
784n229, 867n17 15:14 464 2:27–36 657
5:5 784n229 16:17 633 2:28 894n271
5:6 273, 462 17–18 84, 619, 637, 737n49, 2:35 645, 657
5:6–7 278 788n27, 886n174, 886n175 2:35–36 653
1054 Citation Index
1 Samuel (Cont.) 14:35 499 4:12 836n179

3:3 815n282 15:6 273, 782n209 5:10 219
3:10 172 15:7 836n179 5:17–25 461
3:13–14 693 15:13 764n80 5:21 141, 739n77
3:20 657 16:5 654, 660 5:23–24 880n131
4:1–7:1 364 16:7 289 6 396, 596, 813n266
4:3 595 16:13 499, 882n148 6:1–11 596, 604, 652
4:3–4 395 16:13–14 464 6:2 383, 401
4:4 221, 401 16:18 219 6:5 396
4:6 806n202 17:37 219 6:6–7 351
4:6–7 648 17:45 389, 405 6:7 596, 874n79
4:6–8 596 17:45–47 465 6:8 612
4:7–8 364, 395 17:46 465 6:8–9 596
4:19 364 17:47 389, 833n160 6:12–16 7
4:19–22 364, 366, 407 17:50–51 465, 833n160 6:13 499
4:21 364, 805n199 17:51 836n179 6:14 396
4:22 364 18 531, 851n68 6:16 499
5 138, 254 18:5 531 6:16–17 396
5:1–4 596 18:14 219, 531 6:17 499
5:1–5 141, 303 18:15 531 6:17–18 655
5:4 141, 788n30 18:17 462 6:21 396
5:9 596 18:27 836n179 7:2 813n262
5:10–11 596 18:28 219 7:4–17 458
6:4 119 18:30 531 7:6 219, 813n262
6:4–15 139 20:12 528 7:11–16 114, 500
6:11 119 21 892n243 7:11–17 849n43
6:13–14 596 21:1 653 7:11b–16 534
6:14–15 596, 604 21:1–7 648, 654–5, 660 7:12 218–19
6:15 596, 642 21:2–7 877n107 7:13 391, 810n243
6:20 596, 652 21:5 655, 848n36 7:14 458, 505, 839n212
7:1 596, 654, 656, 660, 661 21:6 464, 655 7:15 505
7:5–11 464 21:7 848n36 7:16 657
7:10 826n99 21:10 464 7:26 391
7:12 336, 746n153 22:11–19 653 8:2–6 836n179
8 405 22:20–23 653 8:9–10 233
8–12 849n47 23:1–5 499, 880n131 8:11 463, 654, 891n240
8:5 513 23:6 653 8:15 518, 855n105
8:11 513, 556 23:6–12 499, 880n131 8:17 645, 653
8:11–18 558 23:13 758n17 8:18 637, 653, 845n11, 891n232
8:20 513 24 518 11 535
9:13 634 24:8–22 556 11–12 892n241
10:1 499, 625, 634 24:13 518 11:4 654, 892n241
10:5–6 7 24:16 518 11:8–13 655
10:6 464 25:28 462, 657 11:11 464
10:8 634 28 668 11:27b–12:14 849n47
10:10 464 28:6 880n131 12:1 534, 855n106
10:25 559 28:9–10 559 12:1–15 535
10:27 836n179 28:13 801n160 12:7 499, 882n148
11:6 464 30:7–8 464, 499, 880n131 12:30 141, 303,
12:5–6 528 30:25 559 737n49, 739n75
13:9 464 31:1–13 461 12:31 836n179
13:9–14 499 31:9 137 14:1–20 518
13:11–14 845n14 31:10 464, 676, 689, 899n7 14:4–11 528, 535
13:12 464 2 Samuel 14:16 856n112
14:3 more, 653 1:17–27 461 14:17 518, 529
14:6 465 1:19–27 822n68 15:1–6 513
14:15 465 1:21 464, 833n154 15:2–4 850n57
14:24 471 2:1 880n131 15:2–6 849n47
14:31–35 499 4:7–8 836n179 15:3–4 855n105
Citation Index 1055
15:8 264, 331 3:9 519 8:16–20 386

15:20 758n17 3:12 519 8:16–21 408
15:24–29 645, 653 3:12–13 846n21 8:17 366
15:35 653 3:13 366, 505 8:19 366
15:36 653 3:15 500, 519, 846n20 8:20 366
18:1–5 513 3:16–28 519, 851n71 8:21 408
18:18 121, 171 3:28 519, 529 8:22 384, 390
19:9 513 4:2 653 8:23–53 384
19:11 653 4:5 653 8:27 384, 811n243
20:8 860n156 4:12 411 8:29 366, 380, 386
20:26 653 5:5 500 8:30 384, 390, 648
21:19 833n160 5:15–8:13 501 8:32 384, 390
22 270, 345, 349, 376, 378, 5:17 500 8:33 366
799n141 5:19 380 8:34 384, 390
22:3 795n111 6 398, 399, 814n274 8:35 366
22:8–11 346, 453 6:16 654 8:36 384, 390
22:8–15 347 6:16–36 501, 655 8:39 384, 390, 648
22:10–11 400 6:19–28 398 8:41–44 386
22:11 809n228, 814n275 6:20 398 8:42–44 366
22:13–15 346, 453 6:23 119, 398 8:43 380, 384, 390, 648
22:14 92, 602, 732n156 6:23–27 398 8:45 384, 390
22:15 376, 453, 826n99 6:23–28 399, 405 8:48 366, 386
22:16 824n78, 834n172 6:27 398 8:49 384, 390, 648
22:29 406 6:29 398 8:54 384, 390
22:32 795n111 6:32 398 8:58 558
22:35 458 6:35 398 8:62 385, 811n244
22:51 505 7:13–47 847n22 8:62–64 396, 501, 541, 655
23:1 823n74 7:21 119, 196 8:64 654
23:1–7 458 7:21–26 317 9:3 654, 659, 672
23:5 727n104 7:25 317 9:7 654, 659
23:33 843n263 7:27–37 317, 790n49 9:25 501
24 351, 352, 849n47, 855n107 7:29 315, 317, 398 10:9 519
24:1 352 7:36 315, 317, 398 10:19–20 317
24:10 352 7:39 317 11 661, 689, 846n21
24:14–16 855n107 7:44 317 11:1–10 753n193
24:15 352 7:49 406 11:1–11 849n47
24:16 352 7:50 654 11:1–13 518
24:17 352 7:51 891n240 11:5 509, 676, 684, 688, 691
24:18–25 499 8 365, 366, 385, 386, 392, 396, 11:5–8 134
24:25 855n107 655, 807n206, 810n243, 11:7 509, 691
1 Kings 811n245, 847n25 11:7–8 501
1–2 518 8:1–12 366 11:8 667
1:5 513 8:1–13 366 11:33 509, 676, 684, 688
1:7 653 8:3–11 501, 655, 660 11:38 219
1:7–8 645 8:4 654, 656 12 753n194, 791n57
1:22–39 645, 653 8:5 385, 392, 396, 501, 541, 655 12:25 199, 752n190
1:37 219 8:5–9 385, 386 12:25–33 198, 320, 752n190
1:38 760n44 8:6 365, 407, 595, 654 12:28 134, 200, 753n196
2:3 531, 563 8:6–7 656 12:28–29 752n190
2:5 860n156 8:7 397, 405 12:28–33 100, 187, 197, 502
2:26 596, 604 8:8 654 12:29–33 200
2:26–27 383, 645, 653 8:9 408 12:31 199, 654, 656
2:35 645, 653 8:10 654, 656 12:32 753n196
3:2 391, 846n20 8:10–11 364, 365, 366, 368, 385, 12:32a 752n190
3:2–4 500, 655 386, 392, 806n206, 811n244 13:1 502
3:3 519, 847n31 8:11 367, 407, 656 13:1–10 662, 847n30
3:3–4 846n20 8:12 366, 806n206 13:32 199
3:3–15 518 8:13 283, 501 13:33 654, 656
3:4 541, 851n70 8:16 366 13:33–34 657, 847n29
1056 Citation Index
1 Kings (Cont.) 3:9–20 666 16:17 296

14:9 752n192, 791n66 3:15 7 17:7–23 199, 752n192, 791n66
14:22–24 847n31 3:27 255, 715n25 17:10 194
14:23 194, 335 4:1 487 17:16 199, 295,
14:24 668 4:1–7 666, 667 752n192, 791n66
15:12 668 4:8–17 489 17:21–23 199, 752n192, 791n66
15:12–13 141, 302 4:8–37 666 17:24–28 295
15:13 134, 292, 667 4:9 654, 665–7 17:30 387
15:14 847n31 4:38–41 666 17:31 715n25
15:15 654 4:42–44 666 17:32 656
16:29–34 713n6 5 666 18:4 138, 141, 194, 335,
16:33 134 5:17 888n203 784n230, 788n32
17:1–7 666 5:18 266 18:5 496, 519, 846n21
17:8–16 666 5:26–27 666 18:13–19:37 834n163
17:17–24 666 6:1–7 666 18:22 335
18 281, 347 6:12 666 18:34 295
18:4 302 6:15–23 466 19:15 400, 401
18:19 502 6:16 466 19:18 353
18:20–40 666 6:17 350, 739n72 19:22 652, 658
18:24 347 6:18 360 19:32–38 467
18:26 845n16 6:18–23 666 19:35 461
18:27 217 8:1 758n17 21:1–16 849n47
18:36 347 9:3 499, 625 21:3 134, 788n29, 902n44
18:38 347 9:6 499, 625 21:6 255, 715n25
18:38–39 370 10:1 490 21:7 134, 292, 294,
18:41–45 666 10:5 490 788n29, 902n44
18:46 666 10:7–14 836n179 22:4 653
19 281, 283, 347, 805n196 10:18–27 713n6 22:13 351
19:5–8 666, 801n161 10:18–28 752n192, 892n249 23 889n210
19:9–12 666 10:20 654 23:3 558
19:9–13 805n196 10:26–27 132, 141, 171, 23:4 653
19:11–12 347, 800n149 194, 335 23:4–6 294
19:12–13 786n7 10:29 752n192 23:5 653
19:18 136 10:31 563 23:6 141, 292
20:39–40 535 11 502 23:7 136, 668, 842n253
21:1–24 535 11–12 503, 653 23:8–9 335
21:8 526, 535, 855n108 11:18 141 23:10 255, 715n25
21:10 693 12:3 847n31 23:11 324, 353, 412,
21:13 693 12:4 654 421, 792n77
21:16 855n108 12:18 654, 892n240 23:13 509, 676, 684, 688, 691
22 405 13:20–21 666 23:13–14 325
22:5ff 464 14:6 563 23:14 171, 194
22:10 513 15:4 847n31 23:14–15 141
22:19 289, 294, 405 15:5 662 23:15 753n192
22:19–22 565 15:35 847n31 23:15–20 753n192
22:19–23 814n276 16:3–4 502 23:17 351
22:22 352 16:7 841n242 23:20 653
22:39 790n48 16:8 296 23:21–23 67
22:43 847n31 16:10 264 23:25 496, 519, 563, 846n21
22:47 668 16:10–11 815n288 23:27 391
23:4–15 302 16:10–16 502, 653, 894n270 24:13 296
2 Kings 16:12 849n49 25:13–17 296
1:9–16 666 16:12–13 882n142 25:18 653
2:11 801n162 16:13 502, 848n32, 879n122, Isaiah
2:11–12 350, 666 895n272 1:2 481, 539
2:19–22 666 16:14 296 1:2–3 483, 603
2:23–25 666, 667 16:14–18 502 1:4 599
3:2 132, 134, 141, 171, 194, 335 16:15 848n32 1:7–8 486
3:4 769n125 16:15–16 502 1:10 856n114
Citation Index 1057
1:11 769n125 8:21–22 693 28:16 467

1:11–17 856n111 9:2–7 313 28:29 506
1:16–17 856n111 9:3 273 29:1–2 197
1:16–20 469 9:5 99, 505 29:1–7 467
1:16b–17 536 9:5–6 505, 506, 507 29:5–6 348, 352, 353
1:17 482, 856n114, 857n127 9:6 517, 518, 530 29:6 468, 583
1:17–18a 545 10:1–2 536, 559 29:7 197
1:21 536, 537 10:2 482, 856n112 29:18–21 533
1:21–26 467 10:5 458 29:21 855n101
1:23 849n47 10:5–11 467 29:23 601
1:23–24 536 10:5–19 368 30 378
1:24 197, 318, 601 10:10–12 787n16 30:1–7 466
1:26–27 543 10:11 295 30:7 820n53
2:2–4 472, 530, 532, 836n180 10:16 368, 407 30:9 563
2:4 468, 473, 530 10:16–19 368 30:11 599
2:6–22 798n136 10:17 344, 406 30:12 599
2:10 344 10:17–21 602 30:15 468, 591, 599
2:18–19 798n136 10:20 599 30:15–16 468
2:19 344, 828n108 10:21 506 30:27 351, 809n230
2:21 344, 828n108 10:26 273 30:27–28 799n144
3:3 6 10:27b–34 467 30:27–28a 387
3:14 526 10:33–34 468 30:27–30 346, 354, 377, 405
5:4 461 11:1–5 531 30:27–33 387, 425, 467, 468
5:14 467, 831n134 11:1–9 507 30:28 809n230
5:15–16 671 11:1–10 313 30:29 796n111
5:16 577, 600, 601 11:2–4 517, 518 30:30 799n144, 809n230
5:19 599 11:2–5 506, 531 30:30b–31 387
5:23 537 11:3 526 30:31 377
5:24 563, 599 11:6–9 468 31:1 591, 599, 600
5:27 860n156 11:9 367 31:1–2 468
6 367, 511, 600, 813n268 12:2 823n74 31:1–3 466
6:1 136, 294, 405, 785n1 13:6 104 31:1–8 467
6:1–2 289 14 724n63 31:4 468
6:1–2a 510 14:3 731n143, 741n98 31:4–5 468
6:1–4 294 14:12–15 505 31:8 468, 835n174
6:1–5 366–8, 407 14:13 108, 113 31:9 468
6:1–7 349, 353 14:13–14 88 32:10ff 784n221
6:1–8 565 14:14 88, 110 33:1 104
6:3 368, 599, 600 14:24–27 467 33:17–24 467
6:4 367 14:32 467 33:22 529, 560, 563, 854n96
6:5 355, 367, 379, 510 16:5 518 34 835n177
6:5–7 406 17:4 808n224 34:2–10 471
6:6 349, 801n163 17:12–13 468 34:5–6 835n174
6:13 194, 796n112 17:12–13a 468 34:7 198
7 466 17:12–14 467 35:1–10 820n51
7:1–8:15 367 17:13 469 36:1–37:38 834n163
7:6 591 19–20 466 36:20 725n76
7:14 219, 476 19:3 831n135 37:11 571
8:3 667 19:6 823n75 37:16 400, 401
8:7 368 19:18–22 336, 422 37:24 468
8:7ff 797n127 19:19 336 37:33–38 467
8:11 591 19:19–20 194 37:36 461
8:11–15 591–3 20:6 466 40–48 470
8:12 591 21:5 464 40–55 487
8:12–13 591 24–27 460 40:12 858n132
8:12b 591 25:8 460, 461, 489, 825n82 40:19 134
8:13 615 26:4 796n111 40:19–20 133, 287, 303
8:14 592 27:1 446, 460, 470, 734n172, 40:20 132, 134
8:14–15 593 835n174 40:21–24 447
1058 Citation Index
Isaiah (Cont.) 51:9–10 360, 444, 491 6:1–7 486

40:28 99, 758n25 51:9–11 444–5, 450, 734n172 6:4 429, 464, 583, 648, 830n118,
41:5–14 287 51:11 820n51 895n274
41:7 133, 303 52:1–2 488 6:20 808n217
41:8–9 649 52:10 670 6:22–26 486
41:14 599, 603 52:11 762n69 6:29 903n54
41:25 812n254 52:12 453 7:1–15 469
42:1 649 54:5 599, 603 7:3 864n195
42:6–7 492 56:1–8 571 7:5 538
42:10 491 57:3 668 7:5–6 574, 864n195
42:13 430 57:4 831n133 7:6 482
42:13–14 12, 471, 697 59 470 7:12 380, 383, 389, 392
42:13–16 491, 875n92 59:1 644 7:16–20 509, 667, 677
42:16 843n258 59:3 470 7:18 677, 689, 690
42:25 351 59:7 470 7:20 351, 677
43:1 488 59:14 470 7:31 64
43:1–7 481, 487–8, 603 59:15b–20 835n175 8:8 532, 563
43:3 599 59:16 470 8:16 198
43:3b 488 59:17 470 8:19 386, 400
43:5–7 488 60:5 871n52 9:22–23 532
43:7 488 60:6 808n217 10:1–6 287
43:10 649 60:13 409 10:3–4 133, 134, 303
43:14 599, 603 60:16 197, 318, 601 10:5 138, 139
43:14–17 897n290 62:11 489 12:1 546
43:15 577 63:1–3 136, 471 12:12 104
43:20 649 63:1–6 470, 835n175 14:12 835n174
43:26 539, 546 63:5 470 18:6 133
43:28 865n8 63:10 615 18:11 864n195
44:1–2 649 63:10–12a 614–15 19:1–11 471
44:6 509 63:11 233, 614, 615, 618, 19:5 64
44:6–22 287 878n116, 878n117 20:9 665
44:8 796n111 63:11–12 445 20:11 828n108
44:12 132 63:12 826n95 20:18 489
44:13–17 132 63:16 488, 839n212 21:12 351
45:4 649 64:1 470 22 519
45:7 873n72 64:7 481 22:3 518, 519
45:9–12 477, 481, 485, 603, 64:8 839n212 22:7 895n274
841n236 65:6 534 22:13 519
45:10 477 66:13 492 22:15 520, 542, 865n195
45:11 599 66:15 801n163, 835n172 22:15–17 519–20
45:11a 841n239 66:15–16 470 22:16 520, 529, 532
45:21 210 66:16 801n163, 835n174 22:17 849n47
46:1 138 66:19 843n254 23:5 517, 518, 531, 532, 564
46:1–7 137 Jeremiah 23:5–6 313
46:6 133, 303 1:1 383 23:9 665
47:4 599, 603 1:5 473, 489, 649, 665 23:18 565
47:9 6 1:16–17 860n156 23:22 565
47:12 6 2:4–14 539 23:23 697, 699
48:17 599, 603 2:27 483, 732n148, 795n111 23:29 665
49:7 599, 603, 649 2:30 903n54 25:6 104
49:14 492 3:4 839n212 25:15–17 289
49:14–15 492 3:12 864n187 25:30 313
49:15b 492 3:16–17 813n263 25:31 470, 835n174
49:23 490 3:17 813n263 26:4–6 469
49:26 197, 318, 601 3:19 483, 839n212 26:10–11 850n57
50:1 492, 841n240 4:4 351 26:11 528
51 820n52 4:30 903n54 26:13 864n195
51:9 210 4:31 486 26:16 528
51:9ff 728n113 5:28 538 26:17 526
Citation Index 1059
26:17–19 467 1:3 375, 644, 665 16 737n49

27:16–18 296 1:4 373, 786n9, 808n221, 16:8 136, 841n240
28:3 296 860n159 16:8–14 785n1
30:4 849n49 1:4–26 400 16:17 133
30:14 484 1:5–25 373, 397 16:19 786n5
30:21 507, 849n49 1:7 317, 373 18 485
30:22 849n49 1:10 317, 320, 791n63 18:10 869n37
31:7–9 842n248 1:13 373 18:25 485
31:9 839n212 1:14 373 18:29 485
31:21 292 1:15–21 400 18:30 538
31:22 485 1:16 373 20:12 644
31:33 561 1:18 373 20:18–21 484
31:35 820n57 1:22 136, 373 20:20 644
32:31–35 484 1:24 104 20:25 542, 545
32:33 483 1:26 136, 373, 378, 401, 405, 511 20:25–26 64, 542
32:35 64 1:26–28 289, 290, 373, 374, 375, 20:26 542
33:14–16 313 377, 397, 790n53, 797n126 20:28 786n5
34:8–10 559 1:27 373, 786n9, 808n221 20:39 644
35:13 484 1:28 344, 370, 373, 790n53, 20:40 644
35:14 484 806n206 20:41 645, 786n5, 897n291
35:14b 484 3:12 373 20:42 671
35:15b 484 3:23 373 21 835n174
35:16a 484 4:14 895n275 21:15 800n156
35:16b 484 6:13 786n5 21:30 538
35:17–19 484 7:20 133 21:36 351
35:17b 484 8 311 22:6 888n198
35:18–19 484 8–10 805n199 22:8 644
36:30–31 849n47 8:2 289, 374, 378, 808n221 22:21 351
38:7 850n57 8:2–3 375 22:26 644
40:10 99, 758n25 8:3 379, 790n53 22:31 351
43:13 194, 335, 745n143 8:4 373 23:37 841n240
44:6 351 8:8 644 24:14 538
44:15–19 139, 667 8:14 646, 668 26:7 850n51
44:15–30 509, 677 9:2–3 621 26:11 335
44:17 677, 690 9:3 373, 407 26:20 727n100
44:17–18 677, 679, 688, 689 9:4–6 311 28 722n50
44:17–19 136 9:9 644 28:2–10 505
44:17b 689 9:11 621 28:14 813n271
44:18 687, 689 10:1 401, 511 28:16 813n271
44:19 133, 690 10:1–5 400 28:22 371, 577, 671
44:19–20 902n48 10:2 374, 621 28:22–23 671
44:25 667, 902n48 10:4 344, 373, 374, 379, 407, 28:25 645
46:10 835n174 806n206 28:25–26 671
46:11 903n54 10:5 104 29:3–5 820n53
46:18 509 10:6 374 30:2–3 104
47:3 198 10:12–13 374 30:24–25 458
47:4 104 10:13 374 32:2b–8 820n53
48:1 104 10:14 317, 791n63 34:1–10 849n47
48:7 140, 806n204 10:18 373, 407 34:17 538
48:8 104 10:19 373 36:19 538
48:13 729n116 11:12 373 36:20 645, 758n17, 888n202
51:55 104 11:22 407 36:20–22 644
51:56 104 11:23 373 36:20–23 644
51:59–64 471 12:14 829n117 36:23 671, 897n291
52:17–23 296 12:25 758n17 36:23a 645
52:20 317 13:17–23 668 36:23b 645
Ezekiel 13:19 644 36:27 561
1 809n229 14:11 646, 889n211 37:26 760n41
1:1 289, 379 14:21 835n174 37:26–27 645
1060 Citation Index
Ezekiel (Cont.) 44:15 596, 645, 646, 888n208 11:10 313, 873n75
37:26–28 888n206 44:15–16 646 12:1 873n75
37:28 644, 645 44:17–19 646 12:10 226
38–39 464, 470 44:19 644 12:12 903n54
38:4 470 44:20–27 646 13:1–2 321
38:11–13 470 44:23–24 644 13:2 133, 134, 136, 303, 320
38:15 470 44:24 528 13:4 226
38:16 671 44:27 644 13:7–8 313
38:18–23 533 45:1–7 644 14:4 668
38:19 351 45:4 646 14:4b 482
38:21a 835n174 45:18–20 619 14:5–8 594
38:21b 835n174 45:18–25 610 Joel
38:22 799n146 45:21–25 68 1:15 104
38:23 645, 671 46:19 644 2:1 784n221
39:3 470 46:20 644 2:10 784n221
39:7 644, 888n197 47:5 824n76 2:10–11 470
39:9–10 470 48:10 644 3:3–4 470
39:25 644 48:11 646, 889n211 4:2 532
39:25–27 671, 897n291 48:12 644 4:9 464, 895n274
39:26 644 48:14 644 4:9–16 471, 472, 836n180
39:27 645 48:18 644 4:12 532
40–43 644 48:20–21 644 4:16 313
40–48 646–7, 660, 888n196 Hosea Amos
40:2 644, 790n53 1:6 484 1:2 313
40:45 888n208 1:7 594 1:2–2:16 471
40:45–46 646, 888n208 1:8–9 484 1:11 864n187
40:46 646 1:9 214 2:4 563
41:4 644 2:1 96 2:6–8 535
41:18–20 398 2:1–2 594 2:11–12 633
41:21 644 2:10 737n49 3:2 649
41:23 644 2:10–11 903n57 3:8 313
42:13 644 2:16–25 594 5 856n110
42:13–14 644 2:18 235 5–6 856n110
42:14 644, 646 2:18–19 903n57 5:5 729n118
42:20 644 3:4 194, 796n112 5:7 533, 535, 855n101
43:2 373, 374 4:14 668, 669, 896n288 5:10–12 533, 535, 850n57,
43:4–5 373 4:15 729n118 855n101
43:7 393, 409 5:8 729n118 5:12 536
43:7–8 644 5:14 313 5:15 542, 865n195
43:12 644 6:1–3 594 5:18 534
43:13–27 646, 790n46 7:12–13 484 5:24 530, 536
43:15 315, 750n183 8 198, 320 5:26 137
43:15–16 197, 789n46 8:4 133, 303, 849n47 6:12b 535
43:18 882n142 8:5–6 198, 320 7:4 347, 799n146, 827n105
43:18–21 646 8:6 725n74, 753n192, 791n67 7:7 172
43:18–27 625 9:10 633, 884n166 7:11 849n47
43:19 646 10:1–2 194, 796n112 7:13 502, 713n6
43:26 646 10:2 104 7:14 873n75
43:27 646 10:4 903n54 8:4–6 550
44 889n210 10:5 729n118, 753n197 9:1 172, 294
44:1 646 10:14–15 873n75 Obadiah
44:4 373 11:1 226, 482–3 11–16 471
44:6–16 889n211 11:1–4 840n229 Jonah
44:10 646, 647, 889n211 11:1–6 594 1:2 571
44:11 647 11:2–3 483 2:6 823n75
44:12 646, 889n211 11:3–4 481–2 3:4 571, 574
44:12b 647 11:6–7 873n75 3:8 571
44:13 644, 646, 647, 660, 11:8–9 492–3 3:10 571
889n211 11:9 288, 593–5, 600, 603, 4:1 573
44:14 647 616, 873n75 4:2 481
Citation Index 1061
4:4 574 3:3–15 430 Psalms

4:11 571 3:4 803n182 1:2 563
4:11a 574 3:5 117, 309, 348, 352, 801n164 1:5 528
Micah 3:6 583 2:7 219, 458, 489, 505
1:2 857n121 3:8 117, 309, 452, 578, 801n164 2:12 351
1:4 583 3:8–9 451 7 522
3:1 538 3:8–11 451–2 7:7b 522, 530
3:1–4 849n47 3:8–15 360, 451 7:9 522
3:2–3 538 3:9 450 7:18 92, 602
3:5 895n274 3:9a 825n89 8:2 506
3:9 538 3:9b 825n89 9 522
3:9–12 469, 537, 849n47 3:11 360, 450, 451, 825n89 9:2 88
3:11 528 3:12 801n164 9:2–3 92
3:11b 467, 469, 538 3:13b–15 451–2 9:3 88, 602
3:12 467 3:15 452 9:4–9 837n185
4:1–3 472, 530, 532 3:16 784n221 9:5 522, 529
4:1–4 836n180 3:18 578 9:8b–10 522, 529
4:3 473, 530 3:19 578 9:12 728n106
4:7 850n56 Zephaniah 10:14 482
4:10 486 2:11 869n36 10:16 509
4:11–13 471, 472, 836n180 3:3 538 16:8 829n117
5:11 6 3:4 888n198 16:9 808n224
5:12 194 3:4b 644 17:15 786n8
6:1–8 539–41, 570 3:7 484 18 270, 345, 349, 376, 378,
6:1b 857n122 3:14 488 799n141, 809n229
6:2 857n122 3:15 859n147 18:3 795n111
6:2a 542 Haggai 18:7–16 734n172
6:3b 541, 545 1:13 350, 801n161 18:8 583
6:5 541, 542 2:23 532 18:8–11 346, 453
6:6 541 Zechariah 18:8–15 347, 354
6:6–7a 769n125 2:4–5 470 18:10 50, 345
6:7b 542 2:5 407 18:10–11 400
6:8 542, 865n195 2:9 406 18:11 349, 377, 814n275
6:8a 542 2:10 489 18:13–15 346, 453
6:16 559 3 565 18:14 92, 266, 602, 732n156
7:18–20 569 4:6 464, 465 18:15 376, 453, 826n99
Nahum 9:9 489, 850n56 18:16 824n78, 834n172
1:4 824n78, 826n92, 834n172 9:9–10 793n84 18:29 406
1:6 351 9:14 860n159 18:32 795n111
3:1 571 12:11 266 18:35 458
3:1–18 471 14:1–2 532 18:51 505
3:19 571 14:1–5 464 19:8 563
Habakkuk 14:1–21 461 19:15 796n111
1:12 210 14:5 576 20:2 388
2:2 853n88 14:16 827n101 20:5 765n93
2:5 461 14:16–17 512 20:6 388
2:14 367 Malachi 20:8 388
2:19 133, 134, 303 1:1 350, 801n161 20:10 388
3 270, 359–60, 448, 734n170, 1:6 483, 839n212 21:2–3 506
734n171, 782n210, 822n68, 1:6–2:9 483 21:4–8 506
825n88, 866n14 1:14 509 21:6 458, 829n117
3:2 359, 451, 578 2:10 481, 839n212 21:7 506
3:2–3 577, 755n2 2:17 546, 550 21:8 92, 95, 505, 602
3:2–5 359, 366 3:1 350, 801n161 21:10 351, 831n135
3:2a 280, 360, 784n221 3:2–3 406 22:2 548
3:3 117, 427, 576, 586, 825n81, 3:5 482 22:10–11 490, 842n254
835n177, 875n88 3:13–21 858n137 22:22b 734n169
3:3–5 360, 863n180 3:18 550 24 368, 396, 458–60, 813n268
3:3–6 347 3:20 139 24:1 368
3:3–7 280–1 3:22 563 24:3 576
1062 Citation Index
Psalms (Cont.) 45 507 68:6–7 590

24:3–4 368, 607 45:3–5 507 68:7–9 279
24:7–10 362, 386, 396, 400, 407, 45:7 13, 507 68:8 784n229, 867n19
459, 506, 510 45:7–8 507 68:8–9 283, 360, 724n65,
24:8 430, 510 45:8 724n65 783n212
24:10 430, 510 46 467, 576 68:8–11 784n229, 867n17
25:8 865n195 46:2 468 68:9 347, 583, 588, 784n229
25:8–10 854n98 46:2–3 468 68:15–17 102
25:11 574 46:4 824n76 68:16 602
26 522 46:5 93, 467, 576, 601, 875n91 68:16–17 579
26:1 522, 529 46:5–8 386, 400 68:17 279
26:6 529 46:6 468, 469 68:18 580–1, 812n253, 863n180
27:9ff 843n254 46:7–10 836n184 68:18–19 360
27:10 492 46:8 468 68:19 211
28:1 796n111 46:9 834n170 68:20 603
29 84, 270, 359, 361, 366, 430, 46:10 468 68:20–21 580–1, 588
443, 448, 454, 460, 568, 46:11 468 68:20–22 875n88
734n172, 804n187, 822n68, 46:12 468 68:21 588
827n103, 831n131, 863n183 47 511 68:25 509, 580–1, 599,
29:1 361, 568, 827n103, 47:3 93, 94, 95, 458, 512, 602 783n214, 850n50
863n183 47:6 396 68:29 582
29:1–2 565, 869n36 47:7–9 509, 512 68:29–30 580–1
29:2 361, 381, 658, 893n256 47:9 724n65 68:31 198
29:3 361, 803n176 48 467, 850n56 68:33–36 580–1
29:3–5 361 48:2 467 68:34 867n19
29:5 803n176 48:2–3 109 68:34–36 582
29:5–6 753n198 48:3 467, 468, 469, 511, 68:36 601, 804n191
29:6 198, 200, 753n198 731n143 69:31 728n107
29:7 368, 803n176 48:4 468, 469 71:3 796n111
29:7–8 803n176 48:6–7 469 71:6 490, 843n254
29:7–9 361 48:9 467, 469 71:22 600
29:8 867n19 48:13–14 469 72:1–2 517
29:9 361 50 539 72:1–4 529
29:10 509, 510, 827n105 50:3 348 72:1–14 564
31:3–4 796n111 50:13 198 72:4 517
32:8 531 50:14 93 72:12–14 517, 529
34:4 728n107 51:3–7 574 72:19 367, 699
34:9 8 51:19 724n65 73:1 93, 875n91
35:1 852n78 54 522 73:1–2 98
35:10b 852n78 54:3 523, 529 73:11 90, 93, 115, 875n91
35:11a 852n78 56:9 534 74 443, 444, 820n45, 820n46,
35:23–24 852n78 57:3 89, 93, 95, 875n91 827n102
35:24 523, 529 58:6 6 74:1 351
36:7 729n123 60:10 136 74:1–11 444
37 548, 549 65:2 876n105 74:3 443
37:9 553 68 270, 430, 448, 578, 579–81, 74:7 443
37:25–28 548–9 588, 593, 602, 603, 604, 74:12 210, 454, 509, 817n13
37:30–33 548–9 733n166, 782n210, 822n68, 74:12–14 734n172
38:12 827n105 867n17, 868n30 74:12–15 510
41:1 531 68:1 396 74:12–17 360, 443, 444, 491
41:14 699 68:2–3 580–1, 587 74:13–14 820n49
42–83 88, 92, 784n229, 852n80 68:3 583 74:15 820n49
43 522, 852n79 68:5 211, 400, 732n156, 74:16–17 444, 445
43:1 523, 529, 566 814n275 74:19 444
43:4 724n65 68:5–9 580–1 74:22 812n252
44 447, 822n66 68:5b 867n17 75:10 98, 728n105
44:2 360, 447, 822n66 68:6 482, 487, 522, 530, 570, 76 467
44:3 833n160 576, 577, 588, 590, 593, 604, 76:3 386, 400, 467
44:4 465 839n212 76:3–4 836n184
Citation Index 1063
76:4 837n185 83:10 780n191 91:1 109, 112

76:4–7 468 83:17b 726n83 91:4 813n271
76:6–7 469, 836n184, 837n185 83:19 93, 94, 875n91 91:9 94, 602
76:8–11 468 84:3 96 91:11 813n271
77 825n88 84:4 469, 850n56 92:2 94, 602
77:2 89 86:15 481 93 443, 454, 455, 456, 511, 512,
77:4 89 87:4 820n53 513, 822n68
77:6 89, 99 87:5–6 94, 95, 602 93:1 512
77:8–10 697 89 454, 455, 448, 578, 582, 93:1–4 454–5, 510, 512
77:10 112, 732n152 583, 587, 590, 593, 603, 93:2 210, 455, 512, 513, 817n13
77:10–11 89, 99 812n254, 821n58, 822n68, 93:4 826n92, 827n105
77:11–14 93 828n106, 875n93 94:10–12 854n98
77:12 360, 450 89:2 98 94:12 484
77:14 89, 605 89:4–5 456 94:20 560, 561
77:17 451, 605 89:6 576, 582 94:22 796n111
77:17–21 450 89:6–8 579, 582, 95–99 511
77:19 784n221 869n36, 870n46 95:1 796n111
77:20 393, 409, 451, 825n86 89:6–9 455, 565 95:3 509, 512
77:21 450 89:6–19 454, 455–6, 458, 510 96:3 512
78 88 89:7 583, 869n36 96:6 804n191
78:13 824n79 89:7–9 589 96:8–13 837n185
78:14 88, 345 89:8 576, 582, 583, 588, 96:9 605, 615, 658
78:17–18 93 828n108, 875n88 96:10 512
78:21 352 89:8–9 451 97 362, 454
78:31 352 89:9 211, 579 97:1 454, 512
78:34–35 86, 88, 89, 93, 112 89:9–11 734n172 97:1–5 348, 510
78:35 86, 89, 95, 113 89:11 820n53 97:2–6 454
78:38–39 569 89:11a 829n111 97:3 352, 353
78:41 600 89:11b 829n111 97:5 583
78:49–50 351, 352, 353 89:13 821n58, 829n113 97:6 362
78:52 233 89:15 518, 855n105 97:7 454
78:54 588, 612 89:19 582, 588, 600, 670, 97:9 94, 113, 602
78:56 93, 875n91 829n114, 869n36 98:1 670
78:61 806n205 89:20 458, 829n115 98:5–6 512
78:68 467 89:20–21 457 98:9 512, 837n185
79:10–12 471 89:20–25 457 99:1 512
79:11 322 89:20–28 505 99:4–5 577
80:1 233 89:20–38 455, 456 99:6 618, 619, 879n120
80:2 401 89:21 219, 499, 882n148 102:25b–28 99
80:11 729n123 89:22–25 812n254 103 569
82 92, 565–9, 570, 602, 89:23 830n119 103:3–4 569–70
725n78, 756n2, 827n103, 89:26 457, 458, 469 103:4 570
863n179, 863n181, 902n51, 89:27 839n212 103:6–7a 570
864n184, 869n36 89:27–28 219 103:6–14 569–70
82:1 89, 113, 172 89:28 458, 505, 849n48 103:8 481, 570
82:1a 567 89:28–29 456 103:9 864n187
82:1b 567 89:29–30 456 103:10 570
82:2–4 567 89:34–37 456 103:11–12 570
82:2–5 568 89:35–38 456 103:13 482, 492, 839n217
82:5 567 89:40 829n117 103:13–14 570
82:6–7 215, 568, 569 89:41–45 455 103:19 570
82:6–8 89 89:47 351 103:20 831n139
82:6a 567 89:50 455, 829n115 103:22b 570
82:6b 567 89:51 828n107 104 362, 804n193
82:7 567, 725n79, 825n82, 89:51–52 455 104:1–2 344
863n181 89:52 828n107 104:1–4 359, 362, 805n193
82:7–8 92, 849n44 89:53 699 104:1–9 734n172
82:8 567, 568, 812n252, 90:1–2 99 104:3 732n156, 814n276
837n185 90:2 99, 109, 217, 843n258 104:4 349, 351, 353, 814n276
1064 Citation Index
Psalms (Cont.) 141:7 831n134 3:8 6, 445

104:26 821n60 143:3 727n100 4:7 552
105:1–2 448 143:5 360 5:1 576
105:3 659 144:1–2 796n111 5:10 478
106 117 144:5 51, 346 5:17 104, 484
106:9 824n78, 826n92 144:5–6 453, 826n99 5:21 104
106:19–20 200, 753n198 145:5 359 6:4 104, 734n172
106:20 117 145:8 481 6:9 734n172
106:21 117 146:9 482, 550–1 6:10 673, 897n297
106:47 659 146:10 850n56 7:8 726n86
106:48 699 148:1–2 827n103 7:12 445, 734n172
107 94 148:13 506 8:2 551
107:1 94, 602 149:2 850n56 8:3 551, 552
107:11 90, 94, 113, 602 150:1 209 8:8–10 6, 447
108:10 136 Proverbs 8:20 552
109:31 859n147 1:2–3 532 9 554, 557
110 507 1:3 531 9:2 553
110:1 507 1:8–9 840n227 9:3a 859n145
110:4 498, 507 1:12 831n134 9:3b 859n145
112:5 865n195 2:8 872n66 9:4 557
113 872n63 2:9 542, 865n195 9:4–5 551
113:8 872n64 2:21–22 553 9:4b 553
114:3 451 3:12 483, 484, 839n212 9:5–8 553
114:5 451 4:1 483 9:8 445
114:7 451 5:21 547 9:13 445, 553, 734n172, 820n53
115:4 133, 134, 303 6:20–21 840n227 9:14–15 553, 557
118:10–11 812n254 8:15 559 9:15 553, 859n146
118:14 823n74 8:15–16 547 9:16 553, 557
118:27 209 8:22 210, 722n49 9:17–18 553
119 854n98 8:22–31 547 9:20 553, 859n146
119:1 563 8:23 489 9:20–21 553
119:35 865n195 9:1–3 7 9:21 553
119:68 864n195 9:10 6, 673 9:22 552, 553, 557
119:73 725n73 10:1 840n227 9:24 553, 556
119:99 531 10:30 553 9:25–31 553
119:126 859n144 11:7 827n105 9:32 289, 553, 557
120–134 876n98 12:8 859n140 9:33 554, 555, 860n150, 873n75
122:3–5 517 15:20 840n227 10:4–6 289
122:5 534, 861n164 15:25 482 10:9 133, 719n21, 839n217
125:4 865n195 16:10–15 518 10:11 489
132 396, 511, 601, 813n265, 16:11 858n132 12:15 478
813n266 16:11–13 547–8 13:1–2 556
132:2 197, 318, 396, 601 16:18 662 13:3 556
132:5 197, 318, 601 18:12 662 13:22 860n156
132:7–8 400, 401 20:26 548 14:2 551
132:8 812n252, 813n265, 20:28 505, 548 14:15 860n156
813n266, 813n267 23:10b–11 482, 487 15:8 565
132:11–18 500 27:20 831n134 15:15 576
133:2 624 29:4 548 15:31b 903n54
135:15 133, 303 29:14 548 16:4 860n150
136:2–4 509 29:26 548 16:9 289, 554
136:13–16 570 30:15b–16 831n134 16:12 554
136:17–20 509 Job 16:12–14 554
137:4 888n203 1:5 672 16:17b 554
137:7–9 471 1:6 172, 511, 565 16:19 554, 555
139:13 722n49 1:8 552 18:13–14 461
139:13–15 489 2:1 172, 511, 565 18:14 461, 831n137
140 522 2:3 552 19:6 551
140:13 522, 529 3 820n55 19:16a 859n145
Citation Index 1065
19:26–27 557, 861n159 41:22–24 446 2:47 509

19:29–31 859n145 41:25–26 446, 821n60 3 505
21:20 104 42:1–6 861n159 3:1 134
21:32–33 898n298 42:3 557 3:1–7 135
23:4–5 556 42:5 557, 787n18 3:2–3 135
23:11–12 897n297 42:5–6 564, 574 3:4–7 135
23:15–16 831n137 42:6 860n158 3:12 134
23:16 104 42:6b 557 3:14 134
24:25 859n148 42:10–17 557 3:18 134
26 821n58 Song of Songs 4:4 6
26:1 820n57 8:6b–7a 821n62 4:5–6 576
26:7 821n58 Ruth 4:10 576
26:7–13 821n58 2:20 764n80 4:14–15 576
26:8 478 4:1–12 524, 526, 850n57 4:20 576
26:11–13 835n172 Lamentations 4:31 99, 110
26:12 820n50, 820n53, 1:10 486 5:2 778n175
820–1n57 1:15 486 5:3 778n175
26:12–13 445, 820–1n57 2:1 401 5:5 289
26:13 821n57 2:4 351, 486 5:11 576
28:25–26 478 2:5 831n135 5:23 xi, 778n175
29–31 554, 856n112 2:8 486 7 821n62, 855n102
30:19–23 554 2:13 486 7:9 136, 289, 511
31 860n154 2:15 486 7:9–10 533
31:4 555 2:18 486 7:10 534, 565
31:6 555 3 522 7:13 99, 110, 855n103
31:13 860n158 3:6 727n100 7:13–14 464
31:35 104, 310, 546, 555 3:59 523, 530 7:18 576
32–37 555 4:7 884n165 7:21–22 533, 576
33:6 133, 719n21, 758n24, 5:19 509 7:25 576
839n217 Qohelet 7:27 576
33:13 553, 557, 859n145 1:9–10 35 8:13 576
34:4 542 1:15 551 9:9–10 569
34:10–12 551 3:14 561 9:11 563
36:27–28 478 3:16 549 9:13 563
37:5–6 759n38 3:17 549 10:5 621
37:6 759n37 7:7b 859n140 10:13 725n76
37:10 478 7:15 549 12:1–3 533
38 478 8:10 898n298 12:7 99, 110
38–41 555, 859n145 8:14 549–50, 898n298 Ezra
38:1 860n159 10:11 6 1:7–11 296
38:7 7 11:9 549 5:14 778n175
38:8–9 843n254 12:5 727n100 5:15 778n175
38:8–11 445, 820n55 12:9–14 858n134 6:1–12 559
38:13 826n96 12:12–13 672 6:5 778n175
38:28–29 477 12:13 858n134 6:12 380
38:36 858n130 12:14 549, 858n134 6:19–22 67
40:2 555 Esther 7:12 850n51
40:3–5 861n159 1:19 559 7:12–26 559
40:6 860n159 2:7 490 7:19 778n175
40:8 552, 556 4:11 719n23 8:16 197
40:9 734n172 5:2 719n23 9–10 571
40:9–41:26 445–6 8:8 559 9:14 859n144
40:10 445 Daniel Nehemiah
40:14 446 1:17 101 1:9 380
40:19 734n172 1:20 6 5:8 486
40:24–26 826n91 2:27 6 8:1 563
40:25–41:26 820n56 2:31–32 134 9:3 563
41:10–13 446 2:31–36 736n37 9:8 893n261
41:17 446 2:37 850n51 9:12 345
1066 Citation Index
Nehemiah (Cont.) 28:6 839n212 18:18 511

9:13 542, 865n195 28:11–19 500 19:4b–11 520
9:14 563 28:18 405, 814n275 19:6 529
9:19 345 29:1–18 698 19:6–7 521, 529
9:29–31 569 29:2–5 500 19:8 520, 528
9:31 481 29:5 662 19:9 529, 893n261
13:23–25 571 29:10 839n212 20 658
13:26 506 29:14 659 20:6 658
1 Chronicles 29:16 659 20:8 659
2:50–55 782n209 29:23 13, 507 20:12 658
6:1–38 891n236 29:25 506 20:15 428, 658
6:34 662, 664, 894n271 2 Chronicles 20:15–17 466
6:39–66 891n233 1:3 851n70 20:17 658
7:24 724n64 1:3–6 519 20:21 658
7:25 714n17 1:8 505 21:12 350
9:22 893n261 1:12 505 23:6 661, 663, 664, 665
9:26 893n261 1:13 519 23:18 563
9:31 893n261 1:18–6:11 501 24 503
13 596, 604, 652 2:13–16 847n22 24:15–16 895n273
13:2–3 596, 604, 892n242 3:1 499, 681, 846n18 25:4 563
13:9–10 395 3:7 398 25:14–16 136, 140, 296,
13:10 596 3:8–10 398 806n204
13:11–12 596 3:8–13 398, 501, 655 26:10 894n264
14:12 141, 739n77 3:10–13 405 26:16 662
15:2–15 597 3:14 398 26:16–20 640, 847n30
15:11–15 596, 604, 892n242 4:11–18 847n22 26:16–21 661–3
15:12 663 5:4–7 501 26:17–18 503, 662
15:13 596 5:4–11 663 26:18 663, 664, 894–5n271
15:14 663 5:6 501, 655 26:19–20 663
15:18 241 5:7 595 28:22–25 894n270
15:21 241 5:7–8 405 28:23 136
16:7–36 698 5:11 663 28:24 296, 895n271
16:10 659 6:2 501 29 663
16:14 563 6:41 396 29–31 847n27
16:27 804n191 7:1 407 29:5 663, 895n271
16:29 658 7:1–3 811n244 29:7 895n271
16:35 659 7:3 370, 407 29:11 665, 894–5n271
17:13 839n212 7:5–7 501, 655 29:15 663
18:17 845n11 7:6 500 29:15–16 661
20:5 833n160 7:16 659 29:16 664
21 351, 352, 855n107 7:20 659 29:19 663
21:1 352 8:5 724n64 29:20–24 663
21:13–15 855n107 8:12–13 501 29:22 619, 661, 665
21:15–30 499 8:13 501 29:24 619, 665
21:15–22:1 499 8:14 501 29:25–30 66, 663
21:27 855n107 9:8 519 29:31 662
21:29 867n19 12:1 563 29:31–34 663
22:2–5 500 13:4–12 752n192 29:32–34 663
22:7–8 500 13:5 752n192 30:1–27 67
22:10 839n212 13:8 753n192 30:3 663
22:12 563 13:9 753n192 30:8 659
22:14–16 500 13:14–15 463 30:15 661, 663
23 500 14:2 194 30:16 563, 619, 661, 665
23:13 662, 664, 894n271 14:2–4 865n195 30:17 663
23:25–32 661 15:3 661 30:24 663
24:5 865n8 17–21 893n255 31:1 194
25:1 500 17:7–9 520 31:3–4 563
28:2 401 17:8 520 31:15 893n261
28:2–3 500 17:9 563 31:16 661
Citation Index 1067
31:18 664, 893n261 4QDeutq 725n74 Deir ‘Alla 54, 90, 96, 101, 105,
31:20 893n261 4QPs89 (=4Q236) 829 113, 116, 268–9, 284, 722n50,
31:20–21 865n195 4QSama 596, 836n179, 871n49, 723n52, 725n70, 727n100,
32:1 893n261 871n51, 872n66, 872n67, 728n103, 730n129, 746n149
32:1–22 834n163 872n69, 884n168, 885n169, I.1–2 90
32:6 513 892n241 I.2 724n71
33:3 134, 902n44 4QTestim 886n180 I.36 6
33:7 134 4QQoha 859n140 II.6 725n71
33:8 563 11QT 862n170 V 724n71
33:19 902n44 XV 724n71
34:14 563, 563 WEST SEMITIC INSCRIPTIONS Ein Gedi 54, 246
35:1–9 67 Adon Papyrus (KAI 266) 779n179 line 1 768n113
35:3 661, 664, 665 Ahiqar Elephantine Papyri 336, 559,
35:5 661 TAD 3, C1.1.79 576 729n116
35:6 663 Ahiram (KAI 1) 727n100, 771n138 El Khadr arrowhead 832n145
35:8–9 661 Aladlammu seal (Seyrig Eshmunazor (KAI 14) 685, 686,
35:26 563 Collection) 305–6 687, 771n138
36:7 296 Arad ostraca 54, 246, 768n115 line 9 576, 863n180
36:10 296 16 749n175 line 14 687
36:18–19 296 18 749n175 line 15 686, 687
18.2–3 246 lines 15–16 685
SECOND TEMPLE 18.9 246, 832n149 line 16 686
LITERATURE 21 246, 749n175 line 17 865n8
Tobit 21.2 247 line 18 681, 685, 686
1:5 792n68 40 749n175 lines 21–22 583
Wisdom of Solomon 215, 40.3 247 line 22 576
897n297 41 749n175 Geniza 18
15:6–17 736n29 49 749n175 §17:9 312
Ben Sira (Sirach, 51 749n175 Geniza 22
Ecclesiasticus) 897n296 56 749n175 §1.8ff. 311–12
42:4 858n132 60 749n175 Gezer Calendar 610
43:25 820n53 67 749n175 Hadad Inscription (KAI
48:17–22 834n163 68 749n175 214) 196, 722n50,
1 Maccabees 79 749n175 776n171, 789n34
3:18–19 465 arrowhead inscriptions 723n53, line 1 739n82
Bel and the Dragon 770n128, 832n145, 902n45 line 2 750n180
7 736n29 Arslan Tash 55, 97, 268, lines 2–3 82, 732n156, 750n180
1 Enoch 576, 727n98, 727n102, line 11 82, 732n156, 750n180
81 534 779n181, 865n6 line 14 739n82
89:70 534 I, line 2 779n184 line 16 739n82
90:20 534 I, lines 8–10 97 line 17 334
103:2 534 I, lines 11–12 576 line 18 732n156, 750n180
Jubilees I, line 14 779n183 lines 18–19 82
5:12–19 534 II 6 lines 21–22 334
16:9 534 II, line 1 779n183 Hatra 54
Dead Sea Scrolls II, lines 1–2 742n103 Hazael inscription (KAI
1QHodayota II, line 6 311) 776n171
XVII, lines 29b–31a 838n203 II, line 14 780n183 Horvat Rimmon ostracon 312
XVII, lines 35–36 478, 843n255 Bar-Rakib I (KAI 216) 776n171 Ishba‘l 54, 234
1QM (War Scroll) lines 5–6 848n40 Jerusalem inscription 54, 81, 166
VII, lines 6–7 890n215 Bar-Rakib II (KAI 217) 776n171 KAI
1QIsaa 445, 796n112, 820n50, Batnoam (KAI 11) 845n11 1 727n100, 771n138
843n256 Bod‘aštart (KAI 16) 686, 866n8 4 771n138
1QS Bukan (KAI 320) 266, 776n171 4.4–5 576, 863n180
XI:4–5 215 CIS 10 771n138
4Q158 862n170 I, 4 686 11 845n11
4Q524 862n170 CWSS 13 685, 687, 771n138
4QDeuth 886n180 205:523 755n1 13.1–2 686, 845n11
4QDeutj 91, 568, 725n74 107:186 755n1 14 685, 686, 687, 771n138
1068 Citation Index
KAI (Cont.) 214 196, 722n50, II.5–12 247

14:9 576, 863n180 776n171, 789n34 Khirbet Beit Lei 54, 166, 211,
14.14 687 214.1 739n82 245, 408, 765n93, 789n42,
14.15 686, 687 214.2 750n180 828n108
14.15–16 685 214.2–3 82, 732n156, 750n180 Khirbet el-Qom 54, 167, 241–3,
14.16 686 214.11 82, 732n156, 750n180 244, 250, 769n121
14.17 865n8 214.14 739n82 line 3 766n101
14.18 681, 685, 686 214.16 739n82 Khirbet Qeiyafa 252
14.21–22 583 214.17 334 Kulamuwa (KAI 24) 479, 722n50,
14.22 576 214.18 732n156, 750n180 771n138, 870n40
15 685, 686, 866n8 214.18–19 82 lines 10–11 839n209
16 686, 866n8 214.21–22 334 line 15 681
17 685 215 196, 722n50, 815n286 lines 15–16 732n156
24 722n50, 771n138, 870n40 215.22 82, 196, 732n156 Kulamuwa scepter inscription
24.10–11 839n209 215.59 334 (KAI 25) 722n49, 776n171
24.15 681 216 776n171 Kuntillet ‘Ajrud (KA) 54, 113,
24.15–16 732n156 216.5–6 848n40 167, 236, 248, 250, 251, 279,
25 722n49, 776n171 217 776n171 293, 305, 308, 360, 576,
26 722n50, 771n138 222 722n50 701n2, 733n162, 764n80,
26 A I.3 839n210 222.8–10 778n172 764n81, 765n87, 765n88,
26 A III.18 81 222.9 88 774n154, 811n250, 835n177,
26 A III.19 98 222.11 87 866n12, 867n19, 875n90
26 A IV.2–3 98 222.11–12 778n173 1.1–1.4 586
27.2 779n184 222.38 777n172 1.2 763n79, 869n41
27.8–10 97 223.2–3 744n140 2.1–2.9 586
27.11–12 576 223.7 744n140 3.1–3.16 586
27.14 780n183 223.9–10 744n140 3.1 236, 326, 763n79, 869n41
37 255 224 776n171 3.6 763n79, 765n85,
37, A 7 685, 865n7 225 776n171 784n222, 869n41
37, A 10 685, 690, 865n7 225:1 891n235 3.9 763n79, 766n91, 869n41
69 772n138 226 776n171 3.11–3.14 764n86
181 54, 208, 235, 251, 252, 270, 226:1 891n235 4.1–4.5 586
429, 462, 754n207, 762n70, 244 722n50 4.1–4.6 766n94
832n147 244:3 81 4.1 763n74
181.4 429 266 779n179 4.1.1 240, 281, 586, 763n79,
181.5 429 277.8–9 758n23 784n224, 869n41
181.8 763n69 309 390, 776n171, 784n229 4.2 4, 240, 281, 381, 583, 585–7,
181.9 429, 755n211 309.5 778n175, 843n259 603, 711n87, 721n44, 722n50,
181.10–11 755n211 309.6 778n175 734n171, 762n67, 763n74,
181.10–13 749n172, 770n125 309.10–12 812n257 763n79, 764n83, 782n210,
181.11–12 755n211 309.16–17 778n172, 812n257 794n99, 803n184, 816n2,
181.12 429, 770n125 309.23 778n172 817n9, 869n36, 869n37,
181.12–13 429 310 709n76, 776n171 870n43, 875n88
181.14 429 311 776n171 4.2.2 586
181.14–18 251, 462 320 266, 776n171 4.2.4 866n12
181.17 429, 755n211, 770n125 Katumuwa 334, 407, 722n49, 4.2.5 586
181.17–18 755n211 776n171, 778n172, 815n286 4.2.6 586, 587
181.18 429, 762n69, 769n125 Karatepe (KAI 26) 54, 81, 95, 479, 4.3 763n74
181.19 429 722n50, 771n138 4.4.1 586, 870n42
181.32 429 A I, line 3 839n210 Pithos A (3.1–3.5) 125, 237,
181.33 429 A III, line 18 81 239, 409–11
200 554, 860n154 A III, line 19 98 Pithos B (3.6–3.15) 239–40,
200.1 856n11 A IV, lines 2–3 98 281, 409–11, 764n80
200.10–12a 860n155 Ketef Hinnom (KH) 54, 240, Plaster inscriptions (4.1–4.6) 262,
200.12 856n11 247, 328 746n149, 765n92, 869n37
201 776n171 I 769n122 Stone basin inscription
201.23 778n172 I.10 249 (1.2) 237
202 776n171, 779n179 I.14–18 247 Lachish ewer 739n82
202.4–5 833n158 II.2–5 249, 769n120 Lachish letters
Citation Index 1069
1–18 769n123 Panamuwa (KAI 215) 196, 1.1.4.13–14 228–9

2.2–3 250 722n50, 815n286 1.1.5 719n24
2.5 251 line 22 82, 196, 732n156 1.2.1.7–8 680, 681, 685
3 769n124 line 59 334 1.2.1.16 78, 754n210
3.2–4 250 Papyrus Amherst 63 322, 1.2.1.[18] 830n119
3.9 250 728n116, 792n73 1.2.1.20–24 459
4.1–2 250 XII 11–XIII 17 792n74 1.2.1.21 720n30
5.1–2 250 XIII 9–17 739n73 1.2.1.27 459
5.7–8 250 XIV 9–17 739n73 1.2.1.32 800n147
6.1–2 250 Passover Letter from Elephantine 1.2.1.35 830n119
6.12 250 (TAD A 4.1=P. Berlin 1.2.1.36–37 440, 441
Lachish, Old Canaanite 13464) 68 1.2.1.40 680
inscription 770n129 1.A4.7.8–12 750n179 1.2.3.20 720n30
Leptis Magna 54, 81 1.A4.8.7–11 750n179 1.2.4.10 98
Magische Qaudrate 900n14 Proto-Sinaitic Inscriptions 97 1.2.4.11–23 818n35
“Marseilles” Sacrificial Tariff Pyrgi inscription (KAI 1.2.4.15–18 440
(KIA 69) 772n138 277) 758n23 1.2.4.23–27 441
Melqart Stela (Bar Hadad; KAI lines 8–9 1.2.4.27 818–19n38
201) 776n171 Qubūr el-Walaydah 722n50 1.2.4.28 824n78
line 23 778n172 Samaria ostraca 1.2.4.28–30 680, 681
Meṣad Ḥashavyahu (KAI 200) 41 321, 869n40 1.2.4.28–39 819n39
554, 860n154 Serabit el-Khadim 97 1.2.4.34–35 441
line 1 856n11 Siloam 709–10n76 1.3 774n154
lines 10–12a 860n155 Tabnit (KAI 13) 685, 687, 771n138 1.3.1.10–11 744n135
line 12 856n11 lines 1–2 686, 845n11 1.3.2.3–41 462, 835n178
Mesha stele (Moabite stone; Tel Zayit abecedary 252, 770n130 1.3.2.5–20 442
KAI 181) 54, 208, 235, 251, Tel Dan inscription (KAI 1.3.3.38–42 442, 446
252, 270, 429, 462, 754n207, 310) 709n76, 776n171 1.3.3.38–43 818n35
762n70, 832n147 Tell el-Kheleifah Ostracon 1.3.3.38–47 819n40
line 4 429 6043.1 781n203 1.3.3.39 826n92
line 5 429 Tell Fakhariyah (KAI 309) 390, 1.3.3.45 800n147
line 8 763n69 776n171, 784n229 1.3.4.25–27 754n210
line 9 429, 755n211 line 5 778n175, 843n259 1.3.4.54 78, 754n210
lines 10–13 749n172, 770n125 line 6 778n175 1.3.5.8 718n18
lines 10–11 755n211 lines 10–12 812n257 1.3.5.10 78, 754n210
lines 11–12 755n211 lines 16–17 778n172, 812n257 1.3.5.24–25 76
lines 12–13 429 line 23 778n172 1.3.5.30–31 78, 97
line 12 429, 770n125 Tell Qasile ostraca 724n64 1.3.5.35 78, 754n210
lines 14–18 251, 462 Yahimilk (KAI 4) 771n138 1.3.5.35–36 719
line 14 429 lines 4–5 576, 863n180 1.3.6.11 865n3
lines 17–18 755n211 Yehawmilk (KAI 10) 771n138 1.4.1.4 78, 754n210
line 17 429, 755n211, 770n125 Zakkur (KAI 202) 776n171, 1.4.1.29–35 190
line 18 429, 762n69, 769n125 779n179 1.4.2.2–11 476
line 19 429 lines 4–5 833n158 1.4.2.3–4 690
line 32 429 1.4.2.10 78, 754n210
line 33 429 TEXTS FROM UGARIT 1.4.2.11 719n19
Miqneyaw seal 241 ’Aqhatu (KTU 1.17–KTU 1.4.3.32 719n19
Moabite Ataruz 1.19) 134, 215, 262, 483, 516 1.4.4.2 865n3
inscription 754n207 Ba‘lu Cycle (KTU 1.1–KTU 1.4.4.8 865n3
Moussaieff ostraca 236 1.6) 150, 443, 447, 827n102 1.4.4.13 865n3
Nerab I (KAI 225) 776n171 CTA 1.4.4.16 865n3
line 1 891n235 1 iv 819n40 1.4.4.24 718n18
Nerab II (KAI 226) 776n171 2 iv 819n40 1.4.4.29–30 147
line 1 891n235 Kirta (KTU 1.14–KTU 1.16) 262, 1.4.4.38–39 78, 152
Naveh inscriptions 244–5 497, 516 1.4.4.41–42 97
Ördekburnu 776n171 KTU 1.4.4.41–43 78, 113
Palmyra (KAI 244) 722n50 1.1–1.24 261 1.4.4.47 78, 754n210
line 3 81 1.1.4 228, 229, 270 1.4.4.48 719n19
Palmyrene votive inscription 196 1.1.4.12 78, 754n210 1.4.5.3–4 76, 78, 113
1070 Citation Index
KTU(Cont.) 1.16.2.43 216 1.40 76, 263, 498, 517,

1.4.6.38–40 778n177 1.16.3 217 718n17, 718n18, 721n33,
1.4.6.38–59 474 1.16.3.4–8 87, 88 844n7, 844n10
1.4.6.40–43 755n210 1.16.4.1–2 78 1.41 79, 264, 498, 844n7
1.4.6.46 475 1.16.5.10ff 79, 475 1.41.21 881n134
1.4.6.56–57 511 1.16.5.10–1.16.6.14 720n31 1.43 136, 498, 682, 844n7
1.4.7.35–39 778n177 1.16.5.25–28 78 1.43.4 136
1.4.8.17–20 460 1.16.5.25–30 138 1.43.8 736n34
1.5.1.1–3 442, 446, 821n57 1.16.5.25–41 77 1.43.22 136, 737n48
1.5.1.19–20 460, 461 1.16.5.29 719n21 1.47 80, 775n159
1.5.1.22–23 778n177 1.16.6.44–48 516 1.48 682
1.5.2.2–4 460, 461 1.16.6.45–50 498 1.48.8–9 755n210
1.5.2.6–7 461 1.16.6.54–57 680, 681, 685 1.65 80, 718n17, 718n18,
1.5.2.21–23 778n177 1.17–1.19 476 721n33, 775n159
1.5.4.7 778n177 1.17.1.24 719n19 1.65.4 718n17
1.5.6.2 718n18 1.17.1.24ff 79 1.65.9 779n178
1.6.1.36 718n18 1.17.1.25–34 840n225 1.79 682, 900n24
1.6.1.54–63 828n108 1.17.1.31–32 718n18, 721n34 1.79.8 900n25
1.6.1.56–65 511, 736n36 1.17.1.43–48 840n225 1.80 682, 900n24
1.6.1.59–60 147 1.17.2.1–8 840n225 1.80.2 900n25
1.6.2.9–37 819n40 1.17.2.5–6 721n34 1.81.17–19 865n3
1.6.3.1–21 81 1.17.2.12–23 840n225 1.82.1 819n41
1.6.3.5 719n19 1.17.2.19–20 721n34 1.82.38 819n41, 821n57
1.6.4.4–5 365 1.17.2.24–38 476 1.83 442, 680, 681
1.6.6.27–29 80, 118, 162 1.17.5.4–8 476, 498, 840n223 1.83.8–14 442
1.6.6.51–53 818n35 1.17.5.7–8 516 1.83.13 826n92
1.6.6.55–56 146 1.17.5.10–11 88 1.84 844n10
1.10.2.1–2 778n177 1.17.5.21–31 477 1.87 498, 844n7
1.10.2.4–5 778n177 1.18.1.11–12 76 1.91 137, 682
1.10.2.32–33 778n177 1.19.1.23–25 516 1.91.10 682
1.10.3.5 719n19 1.20–22 76, 79, 721n41, 900n17 1.92 681, 900n15
1.10.3.5–7 97 1.22.8–10 832n143 1.100 720n31, 721n38
1.10.3.6–7 719n18 1.23 77–8, 79, 80, 81, 103, 110, 1.100.3 76
1.10.3.7–8 778n177 114, 152, 156, 161, 498, 508, 1.100.20 899n14
1.10.3.35–36 755n210 517, 715n24, 719n22, 719n24, 1.100.73–76 138
1.12.1.40–41 778n177 719n25, 721n33, 721n40, 1.101 121
1.12.2.53–55 778n177 726n90, 732n146, 733n159, 1.101.1–10 511
1.12.2.60–61 78 847n28, 870n47 1.101.6 754n210
1.12.2.53–55 742n107 1.23.8–9 162, 460, 831n132 1.102 80, 775n159
1.12.2.54 755n210 1.23.13 103, 104, 730n126 1.102.9 899n6
1.13 55, 831n143 1.23.23–24 738n63 1.102.15 778n178
1.13.3–7 462, 762n70 1.23.24 475 1.102.28 778n178
1.13.5–6 442 1.23.28 103 1.107 721n38
1.13.7 831n143 1.23.32–33 474, 477, 719n25 1.107.38’ 720n31
1.14.1.26ff 79, 475 1.23.37 719n23 1.107.39’ 899n14
1.14.1.35–1.14.3.51 81 1.23.40 719n23 1.108 55, 103, 105, 870n46
1.14.2.6–26 735n13 1.23.44 719n23 1.108.1 97, 98, 718n18
1.14.2.9–27 844n9 1.23.47 719n23 1.108.12 730n125
1.14.3.52–1.14.4.9 844n9 1.23.59 475, 738n63 1.111.17–18 87
1.14.4.34 720n30 1.23.61 475, 738n63 1.112 498, 844n7
1.14.4.34–43 475 1.23.61–62 831n133 1.112.6–8 137, 900n21
1.15.2.12ff 79, 475 1.23.65 867n19 1.112.21 896n287
1.15.2.16–28 476 1.23.67b–68 103 1.114 76, 79–80, 156, 718n18,
1.15.2.26–28 738n63, 837n192 1.23.68 103, 900n19 721n41, 744n135
1.15.2.27 837n192 1.24 837n193 1.114.23–24 681
1.16.1.11 720n30 1.24.5–7 476 1.114.26’–28’ 681
1.16.1.20–23 216 1.28 80 1.116.1 900n17
1.16.1.21–22 720n30 1.39 79 1.116.1–3 681
1.16.1.22 725n79 1.39.16 899n6 1.116.8–10 899n12
Citation Index 1071
1.118 80, 775n159 4.474 775n159 146:6–7 727n101

1.118.18 818n29 6.138 775n159 147:13–15 799n144
1.119 81, 118, 264, 498, 8.295 (A 4622) 740n88 149:24ff 727n101
606, 774n154, 817n4, 15.82 737n46 155:6 727n101
844n7, 875n96 15.115 737n46 155:47 727n101
1.119.6 76, 576, 876n97 17.22+ 899n12 164 137
1.119.13–16 735n13 17.87.21–23 899n12 175 717n9
1.119.14 76 17.227 900n22 175:3 75
1.119.26’–29’ 429 17.380 900n22 151:45 75
1.119.28’ 875n96 17.382+ 900n22 252 140, 806n204
1.119.28’–34a’ 607 20.024 80, 775n159 255 205
1.119.30’–31’ 607 20.024.18 818n29 256 205
1.119.31’ 715n25, 875n96 20.178 (=Ugaritica V 265:15 75
1.119.33’ 576, 876n97 #55) 838n198 287:56 103
1.121 844n10 20.182A+B (=Ugaritica V 287:60–61 381
1.122 844n10 #36) 260 288 762n61
1.123.20’ 865n3 24.246 775n159 288:5–7 381
1.123.26’ 865n3 24.264+ 775n159 288:26 231
1.128.14–15 723n60 24.266 817n4, 875n96 Ashur
1.141 146 24.278 723n60 418 736n32
1.148 80, 682, 775n159 24.325 146 Ashurnasirpal II
1.148.6 818n29 24.643 775n159 inscription 573
1.148.18–22 137, 682, 683 24.643.1–9 775n159 Atrahasis 839n217
1.148.21 881n134 88.70 741n95 1.4.223–226 216
1.148.41 818n29 86.2230 229 Babylonian Chronicle 296
1.152 844n10 92.2004 775n159 Bavian Rock inscription of
1.153 844n10 92.2004.29 818n29 Sennacherib 739n73
1.154 844n10 92.2005 765n87 Chagar Bazar
1.161.8 727n100 92.2010 765n87 inscriptions 717n12
1.162.2 830n126 92.2016 259, 899n14 CT
1.169.18 779n181 92.2016.14 865n4 13.33–34 431–3
1.170.1 844n9 92.2016.17 575 13.33–34:8–13 432
1.179 259 13.33–34:14–19 432
1.179.14 865n4 MESOPOTAMIAN/A KKADIAN/ 13:33–34:20–22 432
1.179.17 575 SUMERIAN SOURCES 13.33–34: Reverse 5–9 433
1.179.18 899n14 A. 1121+ A. 2731 Cylinder C (RINAP 3.15)
1.180 (RIH 98/02) 680, 681, lines 53–55 515 iv, lines 6–25, 1’–14’ 834n163
689, 899n13 A. 1968 830n125 Cylinder D (RINAP 3.16)
2.40.14–17 741n90 lines 6’–11’ 516 iii, line 74—iv, line 37 834n163
2.42 98 Adapa 215 Ebla (Tell Mardikh) 228
2.42.9 727n101 Adad-nirari III inscription Emar
3.1 900n22 lines 1–5 805n193 369 883n153
4.4.20–24 76 Alalakh VII 303–4 369.6 608
4.96 260 Amarna letters (EA) 258 369.22 608
4.149 847n28 17:24–28 840n229 370 678, 883n153
4.149.14–15 844n9 23 899n14, 900n16 373 883n156
4.168 135 23:13–17 737n51 373+.15 899n10
4.182 135, 900n27 26:41 132 375 883n156
4.182.55 682–3 27:33 132 Enki and Ninmaḫ 839n217
4.182.58 682–3 53:40–44 840n229 Enuma Elish 136, 150, 216,
4.219.2 679 55 132 437–9, 443, 447, 704n22,
4.226.3 730n130 83:51 840n229 705n40, 818n33
4.623.3 716n3 114:59–69 840n229 Tablet I, lines 1–2 817n13
6.10 146 121:61–63 840n229 Tablet I, lines 92–93 850n53
6.13 76 123:23 840n229 Tablet I, lines
6.14 76 134 140, 806n204 99–100 812n261, 850n53
6.62 735n8 137 606 Tablet IV, line 1 850n53
Ras Shamra (RS) 137:31–32 576 Tablet IV, line 41 821n57
1.017 775n159 138:47 840n229 Tablet VI, line 61–66 850n53
1072 Citation Index
Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty RINAP 3 (Grayson and KUB

(EST) 715n31, 728n116, Novotny 2012) 29.4 IV 38–40 737n39
890n219 4, lines 49–59 (Rassam Telepinu 217
Esarhaddon’s treaty with Baal, Cylinder) 834n163 TÜNP 1 721n45, 723n50
king of Tyre 729n116, 15 iv, lines 6–25, 1’–14’
771n138 (Cylinder C) 834n163 EGYPTIAN SOURCES
Foundation inscription of 16 iii line 74 through iv line 37 Amenophis III geographical
Yahdunlim (Cylinder D) 834n163 lists 230, 761n53
I.34–35 717n7 17 iii, lines 38–81 (King Prism, Astarte and the Tribute of the
Gilgamesh 215 Heidel Prism) 834n163 Sea 257, 679, 772n146
Tablet X, 301 [Column 18 iii, lines 15–31834n163 “The Destuction of
VI.10] 215 19 i’, lines 3’–14’ 834n163 Mankind” 735–6n23
Gilgamesh Old Babylonian 22 iii, lines 18–49 (Oriental Execration texts 257
Version Institute/Chicago Prism, Instructions of Amenemope 547,
OB VA + BM (Meisner “Taylor Prism”) 834n163 858n131
Fragment) iii, 3–5 758n21 23 iii, lines 16–42 (Jerusalem Job stone of Ramses II (Sheik
OB Yale tablet (OB III) column Prism) 834n163 Sa‘d) 731n142
iv, lines 140–143 (= Gilg Y. IV, 26 i, lines 12’–13’ 834n163 Legend of the Winged Disk 827n99
5–8) 758n22 34, line 15 834n163 London Medical
GLL A, 28–29 758n22 SAA 2 (Parpola and Papyrus 773n148
Flood Story (Eridu Genesis) Watanabe 1988) Papyrus Anastasi I 230
Segment B, lines 6ff. 844n3 2 779n180 Papyrus Anastasi VI 230,
Idrimi statue 771n134 5, line r.e.18 685 232, 251
Inanna’s Descent into the SAA 9 (Parpola 1997) Papyrus Chester Beatty
Underworld 736n23 1.4, lines 27–30 834n162 IV 839n205
Jerusalem Prism (RINAP 3.23) 1.6, line 7’ 839n208 Papyrus Harris I 232, 251
iii, lines 16–42 834n163 1.6, lines 15’–18’ 839n208 Rameses II geographical
KAR 2.5, lines 26’–27’ 839n208 lists 230, 761n53
6 433 Sargon II booty Serabit el-Khadim 257, 773n146
Khorsabad annals 294 inscriptions (Nimrud Seti I Karnak temple 230
King Prism (Heidel Prism; prisms) 292, 294–5 Shishak I’s topographical list
RINAP 3.17) Sargon II inscription from #36 728n103
iii, lines 38–81 834n163 Dūr-Šarrukīn 140 Tale of Sinuhe 257
Law of Hammurabi (LH) 513–15, Sennacherib inscriptions 573 Wadi Hammamat 832n144
861n161 Sumerian King List 495,
ii 60–62 805n191 496, 845n13 ANCIENT SOUTH ARABIAN
Prologue, vv. 16–19 514 line 1 844n3 INSCRIPTIONS
xlvii 59–78 514–15 line 41 844n3 DAI Ṣirwāḥ 2005–50 55, 462,
xlviii 3–47 515 Tiglath-pileser’s annals 233 762n70, 832n147
xlviii 41–47 517 VAT 17019 839n217 RES
xlviii 59–78 517 Verse Account of 3945 55, 462, 762n70,
§195 853n84 Nabonidus 737n38 832n147
Laws of Lipit-Ishtar 861n161
Laws of Ur-Nammu 861n161 ANATOLIAN SOURCES NEW TESTAMENT
Mari prophecy 266, 459 CTH Matthew
“Ninurta’s Return to Nibru: A Šir- 1 831n142 6:9 903n60
gida to Ninurta” 4 831n142 Luke
lines 55–63 818n26 61.II 831n142 1:46–55 589
Nimrud Prism IV 786n12 261.I §37’ 515 11:2 903n60
Nin A 261.I §38’ 515, 853n90 1 Corinthians
I 1–ii 11 830n124 261.I §39’ 516, 853n90 15:54–57 831n133
OB administrative text from 261.I §40’ 516, 853n90 Galatians
Hazor 717n6 264 831n142 1:15 842n251
Oriental Institute/Chicago 423 831n142 1 Timothy
Prism (“Taylor Prism”; 481 737n39 6:15 850n51
RINAP 3.22) Elkunirsha 54, 81–2, 86, Revelation
iii, lines 18–49 834n163 95, 719n19 5:5 313
Rassam Cylinder (RINAP 3.4) Hieroglyphic Luwian text 135, 7:17 831n133
A III 118–127 801n156 839n210 19:16 509
lines 49–58 834n163 Hittite prayer to Elkunirsha 81–82 21:4 831n133
Citation Index 1073
RABBINIC WORKS Mishnah Josephus, Antiquities

Genesis Rabbah (Gen Rab) Ma‘aser Sheni 4:10–11 866n12 VI, 1 874n77
V 8 729n121 Philo of Byblos, The Phoenician
XLVI 3 729n121 GRECO-ROMAN LITERATURE History 255
XCII 1 729n121 Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica 255 1.10.15–30 772n141
Talmud Herodotus Tacitus, Historiae
Ḥagigah 12a 102 IV, 82 798n133 V, 5 105

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The Origin and Character of God

The Origin and

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

© Oxford University Press 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in

You must not circulate this work in any other form

Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data

Printed by Marquis, Canada

10. The Characterization of the Deity Yahweh 575

1Q Dead Sea Scroll text number from Qumran Cave 1

DtrH Deuteronomistic History

NIV New International Version

The Scope of a Comprehensive Volume

Deciding on the scope of the present work presents a challenge. As a refer-

History of Scholarship and Methodology

Foundationally, the reader should be introduced (but briefly) to the history

The overwhelming task of articulating ancient Israelite religion comes into

Sacred Time, Sacred Space

The Practice of Religion

Religious Personnel: Kings, Priests, and Prophets

Again, God must be given his due.

Other Religious Actors

The Reflective Side of Israelite Religion

Thus a comprehensive treatment of Israelite religion would need to articu-

Aesthetic Presentations of Israelite Religion:

architecture (Tent of Meeting, Ark, kappōret, altar, basin), religious furnishings

Conclusion to the Scope of a Comprehensive Volume

The preceding survey articulates the breadth of scope that a comprehensive

The Scope of the Present Volume

The present volume is a synthetic presentation of core elements of ancient

An Organizing Principle: Studying Ancient Israelite Religion

James Kugel (2011: 28–​30) concurs lucidly:

Mark Smith (2001b: 103) poignantly adds:

To understand divinity is to extrapolate from the human condition to express

cults of standing stones (known elsewhere as betyls or “houses of El”) attested

Introduction: Schematizing Intellectual History

The Growth of the Critical Study of the

The Biblical Scholarship of Germany

German scholars of the nineteenth century inherited the Enlightenment’s em-

Thus for Wellhausen, Israelite religion is unilinear and evolutionary in nature,

und erläutert (Remnants of Arabic paganism collected and explained), which

William Robertson Smith: A Sociological Approach

Hermann Gunkel and the Rise of the

The “Babel-​Bibel” Controversy

The Theological Rejoinder and the Biblical

The Myth-​and-​Ritual Approach

Thureau-​ Dangin, and the diffusionist method in vogue among English

A telling sign of the decline of the myth-​ and-​ritual approach in Israelite

The Ugaritic Discoveries

Ancient Israel’s Distinctiveness Vis-​à-​Vis Its Environment

William Foxwell Albright

shows no need of or dependence upon powers outside himself. (Kaufmann

in common” (Levenson 1985: 110). Sommer (2017: 239) concurs: “Kaufmann’s

Frank Moore Cross

Cross followed Albright in critiquing Kaufmann’s position, which acted as his

The religion of Israel has been conceived as a unique, isolated phenomenon,

views are rooted ultimately in dogmatic systems, metaphysical or theological,

Newer Studies of Myth

The Fribourg School of Iconographic Study

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

James Kugel (2011: 28–30) concurs lucidly:

The “Babel-Bibel” Controversy

The Myth-and-Ritual Approach

Thureau- Dangin, and the diffusionist method in vogue among English

A telling sign of the decline of the myth- and-ritual approach in Israelite

Ancient Israel’s Distinctiveness Vis-à-Vis Its Environment

figurines, cultic stands (incense and other), divine images, domestic/house-

Much of the early history of scholarship on Israelite religion was male-

Bringing the discussion into the present—inheriting trends that emerged in

regulations (Exod 23:10–19 [Covenant Code]; Exod 34:18–26 [so-called Ritual

historical debates, we find a substantial reassessment of Pentateuchal source crit

Shechemite El/El Berith

father” in Genesis 46:3 is preferable to a redundant alternative. This is corrob