Jerusalem and the EarlyJesus Movement – The Q Community’s AttitudeToward the Temple,presented by ArchBishop Uwe AE.Rosenkranz
Jerusalem and the Early
The Q Community’s Attitude
Toward the Temple
Kyu Sam Han
Journal for the Study of the New Testament
Supplement Series 207
Copyright © 2002 Sheffield Academic Press
A Continuum imprint
Sheffield Academic Press Ltd
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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Historical Survey of the Debate
Catchpole and a Positive Assessment of the Temple
Kloppenborg and a Negative Assessment of the Temple
Temple and Allegiance
The Meaning of the Temple as the Source of Allegiance in Ancient Civilizations
The Meaning of the Jerusalem Temple in the First Century ce: The Source of Allegiance
A New Methodology: Four Types of Allegiance
Allegiance Held and Lost: An Analysis of Indicators
Allegiance to Medieval Korean Temples
Allegiance to Greek Temples and Philosophical Criticism
Allegiance to the Jerusalem Temple in the Literature of Second Temple Judaism
Summary and Conclusion
Q’s Allegiance to the Jerusalem Temple?
A Reflection on the Historical Background of the Shift in the Attitude toward the Temple
Summary and Conclusion
Index of References
Index of Authors
John S. Kloppenborg Verbin
It has been a working hypothesis since the beginning of serious study of the Sayings Gospel Q in the 1960s that the document reflects the particular perspectives of one sector of the Jesus movement in Galilee, either shortly before the First Revolt or shortly after it. It is this location that renders almost inevitable the question of the relationship of Q and the people it represents to the central institutions of Second Temple Judaism, in particular the Torah and the Herodian Temple.
Q’s perspective on the Torah was the subject of several important studies. Siegfried Schulz’s monumental study, Q: Die Spruchquelle der Evangelisten, used Herbert Braun’s notion of Torah-radicalism as a model for understanding Q’s particular view of the Torah, and led to a construction that Q represented a conservative, Torah-observant group of Jewish Christians. Subsequent study has adjusted this model somewhat for a variety of reasons: because some of Schulz’s reconstructions of Q, which favored Matthew’s wordings, have been reconsidered; because Schulz’s conclusion that many of Q’s λέγω εἰμί sayings were functionally the equivalent of prophetic speech has been revaluated; and because more sophisticated models for understanding the stratigraphy of Q have been developed, allowing scholars to situate Q’s interest in the Torah at very particular compositional junctures. A series of studies culminating in Daniel Kosch’s important monograph on Q and the Torah seems now to define a consensus that Q, generally speaking, is not preoccupied with the Torah and Jesus’ relationship to it. There remains, however, dispute concerning the particular compositional phase at which such texts as Q 16:17 and 11:42c should be located.
Kyu Sam Han’s study of Q takes up the other important element in understanding Q’s place within late Second Temple Judaism, namely Q’s relationship to the Herodian Temple. This is a pressing area of inquiry, especially in the light of our recognition that the Temple was not merely a ‘religious’ institution—not that any institutions of the ancient world were narrowly ‘religious’ in the way in which Northern European and North American discourses have tended define ‘religious’—but a major economic and political force in Jewish Palestine. The fact that a variety of views, critical and otherwise, on the Herodian Temple were adopted by other Jews of the late Second Temple period naturally raises the question of how the Q people placed themselves in relation to the key institution of Jewish life.
The investigation of Q’s perspective on the Temple is fraught with problems. In the first place, there are relatively few locations in Q that speak directly or implicitly of the Temple and so, to some extent, Han’s study must extrapolate from rather small scraps. Second, the texts Han investigates do not speak with the same voice, and this naturally raises the question of how to reconcile the seemingly positive view of tithing enunciated in 11:42c and the assumption implicit in Q 4:9–12 that the Temple is a site where angels are likely to be present, with the rather more hostile views of 11:49–51 and 13:34–35.
One of the singular strengths of Han’s study is its comparative approach, which lays out a spectrum of stances toward the Herodian Temple (and its Hasmonean predecessor) in contemporary literature, and situates these in turn in the context of attitudes towards temples and sanctuaries both in Greece and in the Koryo kingdom of ancient Korea. It is this cross-cultural and comparative method that allows Han to discern a variety of postures towards cultic sites, and in particular, to find models that may help to account for the shift in allegiance from one cultic site to another, or away from a central cultic shrine. Of particular interest are Han’s comments on the differing criticisms of Buddhist temples in Korea by Buddhist and Confucian literati.
There are important methodological caveats to be observed in applying cross-cultural observations to the situation of the Herodian Temple in Jewish Palestine. For unlike most other temple-states, Israel had a centralized cult, from the time of the Deuteronomic reforms in the late seventh century bce. This created its own set of special circumstances, especially for Jews living at a less than convenient distance from Jerusalem, which was certainly the case for Galilean Jews. The economy of a temple system normally presupposes a reciprocal exchange of tithes, sacrificial animals, and other commodities for the ‘goods and services’ that the temple has to offer. These include participation in periodic festivals and processions, and access to a site for purposes of prayer, instruction, and the display of votary inscriptions and monuments. The centralization of the cult in Jerusalem would have encumbered this exchange for Jews in Judah who lived, say, in Jericho or Hebron, but it would have been even more difficult for Galileans to enjoy a meaningful participation in the temple. It has been estimated that a Galilean who wished to participate in one of the pilgrimage festivals would have to count on an absence from his or her home for at least three weeks, probably an impossibility for most living in a subsistence level agrarian society.
It is this set of thorny problems that Han’s work engages and attempts to resolve in an intelligible fashion. Part of his solution involves distinguishing between the texts of Q that adopt a rather polemical stance toward the Temple and its officers (Q 11:49–51) and to connect these with what on other grounds has been identified with the main redaction of Q, probably effected in the 60s ce. Later, perhaps as Han suggests, after the First Revolt and the destruction of the Temple, a more positive view arose, rather akin to Matthew’s view of the Temple in Mt. 5:23–24; 23:21, or Luke’s Jerusalem-centred and temple-centred construction of the cosmos.
If Han’s conclusions are essentially correct, they point to the complexity of the ideological terrain of the early Jesus movement. Far from exemplifying a simple, unilinear drift away from the cultural context supplied by Second Temple Judaism, Q illustrates movements within that Judaism, corresponding in part at least to differing situations before and after the First Revolt.
This book reproduces, with slight modification, the substance of a doctoral dissertation presented to the Faculty of the Biblical Department of the Toronto School of Theology and the University of Toronto in the winter of 1997. I wish to thank Professor John S. Kloppenborg, my mentor, dissertation supervisor, and friend. His careful criticisms and masterful guidance are reflected in every page of this study. I shall always be indebted to him for his generous support and persistent encouragement, including a scholarly model of the mastery of the field, with the keen sensitivity to the need of his students.
I am also grateful for the assistance and helpful criticism offered by Dr Richard Horsley, Dr Ann Jervis and Dr Jon M. Asgeirsson. They stimulated my interest through various criticisms and comments, suggesting a better structure for the argument. I am grateful to Linden Youngquist for his help with English writing style.
I would be remiss if I did not express thanks to Knox College, University of Toronto for its generous financial support, in the form of Knox College Gold Medal scholarship that covered tuition fees and living expenses for three years residency. My appreciation goes also to my sister, Grace Moon, who generously supported her needy brother during the long period of his schooling.
In the original preface to my dissertation I dedicated the work to my late mother, Jung Soon, whose continuing prayer, patience and support enabled me to pursue this study, although she didn’t see the completion of the work. In addition to her, I would like to dedicate this book to three more people: to Esther Mi-kyung, my wife; to Andrew, my son; and to Eunice, my daughter. They have stood beside me, throughout the years of my education, sharing in each of my successes, struggles and failures. I especially thank Esther who has sacrificed her personal gain and professional growth for the sake of my own. Without her support and their love, this work could never have been completed.
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The importance of the Temple was taken for granted both in the writings of Second Temple Judaism and the New Testament. Morton Smith’s statement is indicative of the centrality of the Temple: ‘down to the fall of Jerusalem, the normative Judaism of Palestine is that compromise of which the three principal elements are the Pentateuch, the Temple, and the amme ha’arez, the ordinary Jews who were not members of any sect.’ Indeed, the Temple often appears at the center of Jewish history. For instance, apocalyptic writings of the Second Temple period often use moments of the Temple’s history (its erection, its destruction, its rebuilding and its future) to frame Jewish history (1 En. 89–90; T. Levi 14–18; As. Mos. 2–9). In the New Testament, Stephen’s speech in Acts 7 places the Temple in the central position of Jewish history: its erection and destruction are highlighted, as is the notion of a spiritual Temple (Acts 7:46–50). One of the charges brought against Jesus before the high priest was the claim that he would destroy the Temple and build one ‘not made with hands’ (Mk 14:58).
The myriad references to the Temple, however, also contain various criticisms. These criticisms can be different in degree and purpose. Within a single document various positions may be expounded and a given group may reflect apparently contradictory views. Thus, an absolute consensus regarding the Temple’s de facto status during Second Temple Judaism is hard to define, although few if any documents of this period reject the Temple completely.
As for Q’s attitude toward the Temple, many scholars believe that Q affirms its centrality, though with certain criticisms, based on the assumption that the Jewish people had difficulty in abandoning the Temple at least symbolically. Even the most casual reading of Q, however, impresses one with its negative attitude toward the Temple (Q 11:42a, b; 11:51; 13:34–35). Karl H. Schelkle has suggested that Q may provide evidence regarding the history of the separation of Christianity from Judaism. If he is correct, Q held a critical position toward the Temple, a position that would help illustrate the Sitz im Leben of the Q community.
Much Q scholarship has been concerned with the social position of the community. This question may be pursued by analyzing the community’s attitude toward the Law and the Temple, the two pillars of Jewish life in the Second Temple period. Several years ago, Daniel Kosch wrote a dissertation dealing with the significance of the Law for the Q community.6 The present work focuses on Q’s allegiance to the Temple. Not much work has been done with respect to this issue. David Catchpole and John Kloppenborg are among the few who have published their views on it in recent years. The two, however, do not agree. Catchpole asserts that the Q community was essentially ‘Jerusalem-centered’, and that its theology and worship were ‘Torah-centered’ and ‘temple-centered’, whereas Kloppenborg argues that for the Q community, ‘the redemptive significance of the Temple has been already abandoned’.8
Catchpole insists that because the nature of the conflict with the Pharisees was intra muros, ‘nothing disrespectful of the definitive position of law and temple is said.’ His view is based on Neusner’s and Wild’s argument that the pre-70 ce Pharisees were only a minority group and had a close relationship with Christianity. The role of the ‘tradition’ is another basis for Catchpole’s confident assessment that the Q community had a positive attitude toward the Temple. Although the Q community was critical of the Temple, it nevertheless remained committed to the ‘covenant,’11 and expected that in the end the Temple would be restored.
In contrast, based on a literary-thematic examination, Kloppenborg suggests that Q’s reaction to the Temple was negative, or at best indifferent. Observing that the Torah did not play much of a role in Q’s soteriology, he proposes that the Q community had a distinctive concept of salvation which ‘is better understood on the model of paideia provided by antique sapiential genres and chriae collections’. Thus, for the Q community, the Temple was not its redemptive medium.13 The ‘narrative world’ of Q included the Temple, but not as a positive site.
The goal of the present investigation is to determine what type of allegiance Q had toward the Temple. The first chapter will outline the arguments of Catchpole and Kloppenborg. In addition, it will show how the work of other scholars may be categorized according to one of these two positions. Moreover, because most scholars have not explicitly stated their opinions concerning the relationship between the Q community and the Temple, this survey will also include their analyses of passages that offer less direct testimony, such as Q 11:42 (the tithing law) and Q 13:34–35 (Jerusalem and house). This chapter will clarify the differences between Catchpole’s and Kloppenborg’s positions, as well as their presuppositions and arguments.
Chapter 2 will analyse the common roles of temples in ancient civilizations. A preliminary survey of literature on ancient temples suggests that attitudes toward temples were more complex than either simple acceptance or rejection. This complexity is probably based on the complex functions of the Temple. Chapter 2 will identify four varieties of allegiance to temples: ‘devoted allegiance’ (loyalty is given to every dimension of the temple); ‘critical allegiance’ (despite various criticisms, the centrality of the temple system is maintained); ‘imperiled allegiance’ (the centrality of the temple system is not rejected, although there was the threat of replacement); and ‘lost allegiance’ (the centrality of the temple system is either rejected or ignored). In Catchpole’s understanding, Q’s attitude to the Temple can be categorized as ‘critical allegiance’: while loyal to the Temple, the community nevertheless recognized that an adjustment needed to be made to its cultic practices. By contrast, in Kloppenborg’s understanding, Q’s attitude can be categorized as ‘lost allegiance,’ because the centrality of the Temple was either denied or at best ignored: the Temple cult was not the center of their atonement system.
Chapter 3 will provide a cross-cultural study of criticisms directed toward temples. Throughout the Second Temple period, the Temple served as the heart of Jewish life, not only as the cultic and ritual center, but also as the political, social, judicial, and cultural core. The criticisms of the Temple found in the writings of the Second Temple period, however, do not represent all the grades of allegiance possible among diverse groups. A cross-cultural study will illustrate four types of criticisms and elaborate their characteristics, which can then be used as ‘indicators’ that can be applied to the relevant Q passages. The analysis of other temples will begin with the criticisms raised against the Buddhist temples in medieval Korea, called the Koryo Kingdom (918–1392 ce). An investigation of the philosophical critiques of the ancient Greek temples will follow. Finally, an examination of the criticisms of the Jerusalem Temple in the writings of Second Temple Judaism will be made.
Chapter 4 will use the ‘indicators’ of each type of allegiance to provide an exegesis of the relevant passages in Q (Q 4:9; 11:42; 11:49–51; 13:34–35) in order to determine whether the Q community maintained a ‘critical allegiance’ toward the Jerusalem Temple, as Catchpole suggests, or Kloppenborg’s ‘lost allegiance’. The possibility that all Q passages may not express the same attitude toward the Temple will be considered. For instance, at first glance, 4:9 appears to take a relatively moderate position, whereas Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–5 express a thoroughly negative one. Q 11:42 is intriguing in this regard: it begins with a negative assessment of tithing, but ends with an encouragement to tithe. It is widely accepted that the Sayings Gospel underwent one or more stages of redaction. Such diversity in Q’s attitude toward the Temple will be analysed as a possible confirmation of this development.
Historical Survey of the Debate
Catchpole and a Positive Assessment of the Temple
David Catchpole regards Q’s attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple as ultimately positive. He states, ‘whenever legal material with a conservative religious coloring appears (e.g. Q 11:37–52; 16:17), that material necessarily presupposes an appreciative attitude to the temple and its cult’. Although Q contains some traditions that are critical of the Pharisees, these criticisms did not jeopardize the community’s commitment to the Temple. Catchpole’s conclusion is based on two premises. First, because the nature of the conflict was intra muros, that is, within Judaism, Q’s criticisms of the Temple express no fundamental disrespect to the Temple. He recognizes that ‘religious groups which show least sympathy for one another often have most in common in terms of heritage’. Thus, Q and the Pharisees were in essential agreement, though the Pharisees were uncomfortable with the Q community’s missionary message to Israel which consisted of the ‘prophetic announcement of the kingdom’.3 Catchpole’s view of the intra muros nature of the conflict is also based on the role of the covenant within the Q community. It was this covenant, according to Catchpole, which provided an ultimately positive assessment of the Temple, and thus ground for continued commitment in the present.
Secondly, according to Catchpole, Q itself offers an affirmation of the temple (Q 13:34–35). Though this passage is critical of the temple, the announcement of hope (Q 13:35b) is more emphatic than the announcement of temporary abandonment (Q 13:34–35a). Catchpole does not employ the idea of ‘the restoration of the Temple’ after its abandonment, a theme common in the writings of the Second Temple period (1 En. 89–90; Sib.Or. 3.294; 3.702–20; T. Benj. 9.2; Tob. 13.16–18; 14:5). But he insists that after its temporary abandonment (Q 13:34–35a), ‘a mission calling for repentance in Israel must continue and will achieve good success’ (Q 13:35b).
Catchpole is not the first to formulate these arguments. The intra muros nature of the conflict, in fact, has been advocated by many scholars who believed that the Q community was one of the many Jewish groups who never abandoned the Law, and consequently, the Temple. The proponents of this view see Q’s criticisms as rhetorical expressions of the fact that Q was actually loyal to the Temple. Among this group we will consider T.W. Manson, Siegfried Schulz, Robert Wild, Arland Jacobson, C.M. Tuckett, and Sean Freyne.
T.W. Manson did not specifically address the topic of the Temple but was one of the pioneers in theorizing that the Q community was part of Pharisaism. According to Manson, Q was critical of Pharisaic practice, rather than of Pharisaic interpretation of the Law, or of Pharisaism per se. ‘Practice’ here refers to legalistic practice. Pharisaic meticulousness was the focal point of Q’s complaint because it did not meet the fundamental demands of God’s covenant: justice and mercy. Manson attempts to distinguish the Pharisees attacked in the woes (Q 11:39–52) from the larger body of Pharisees. He states, ‘the reference could then be not to the whole body of Pharisees, but to those among them who were Pharisees only on the surface’. Thus, the position in dispute in 11:42a, b represents a small group who practiced the Torah in deviant ways within the larger body of Pharisees. The Q community focused on them because they ignored more essential ethical demands, despite their ‘meticulousness of practice’. In another example (Q 11:43—on public greetings), Manson asserts that because ‘distinguished Rabbis preferred to waive the right and be themselves the first to make the salutation’, the Pharisaic practice criticized in Q 11:43 represents a deviant sectarian view. But Manson’s argument is based on a later Rabbinic tradition that the receiving of a salutation was the right of a Rabbi, who often gave up this right. Since Q employs general wording in 11:43, it is likely that this verse reflects a popular action of the larger body of Pharisees, rather than the deviant practice of a small group.
Like Manson, Siegfried Schulz does not explicitly address Q’s attitude toward the Temple, but focuses instead on the Law and Jerusalem. He finds two strata in Q, one early ‘Palestinian Jewish Christian’ (Q1) and the other late ‘Hellenistic Jewish Christian’ (Q2). Schulz’s division of the two strata is based on Bultmann’s belief that the earliest Palestinian community (Q1) had not yet drawn the boundary between itself and Judaism. He finds that although there is a shift in some ideas from the early stage (Q1) to the later (Q2), the Torah remained absolutely binding in its ethical and cultic aspects. Thus, for him, the Q community was law-observant and its fight with the Pharisees was like a dispute between hostile brothers.15
Schulz offers three arguments to support his contention that Q faithfully observed the Torah (and consequently accepted the Temple). First, he believes that 11:42c ταῦτα δὲ ἔδει ποιῆσαι κἀκεῖνα μὴ παρεῖναι (‘it was necessary to do these things, while not neglecting those’) is not a later addition. What the Q community was criticizing in Q 11:42a, b was not the Pharisees practice of the law, but their overemphasis on the ceremonial law to which the ethical law had become subservient. The Q community disagreed with the Pharisees not because it did not observe the ceremonial law meticulously, but because Q’s radicalized Torah-observance required the same stress on the ethical dimension of the Law as on the ceremonial. Since Q expected the parousia, its allegiance to the Law became radicalized through the use of a ‘prophetic-apocalyptic interpretation’. Q 11:42c is an example of this. Q’s view of the law required a more ethical approach to tithing than the Pharisaic interpretation demanded.
Secondly, Schulz posits that the Q community kept the Sabbath and purity laws because it did not engage in a debate regarding the Sabbath and purity laws parallel with that reported in Mk 7:1–13. Such a silence implies that the Q people were not troubled with Sabbath-keeping or the purity system. Indeed, Jewish groups in history, including the Judaism of Philo, rarely rejected the significance of such ceremonial laws and observance of them is tantamount to acceptance of the Temple.18
Thirdly, for Schulz, the observance of the Passover (not the Eucharist) was the distinctive belief of the Q community. He states, ‘Israel will finally triumph, and the apocalyptic heavenly banquet with Abraham, Isaac, Jacob will be celebrated, even if the present generation in Israel is irrevocably and finally disowned by God’. The Q community’s celebration of the Passover shows that it did not know the salvific significance of the death of Jesus.20 Nobody had taught this ‘radical’ group that Jesus was the paschal lamb. This is the reason why the passion and resurrection accounts do not appear in Q.22 Therefore, the Q community continued to practice the Passover and invited people to share in it as part of their program of mission, while the ‘unrepentant generation in (or within) Israel’ neglected it. Consequently, Schulz accepts that the Q community supported the sacrifice of the Passover lamb at the Temple each year.
While Schulz believes there was a consistent attitude to the law between his two strata, his understanding of Q’s view of Jerusalem is intriguing. He notes that Q expresses a negative attitude toward Jerusalem (Q 13:34–35), and classifies these references with the later Hellenistic Jewish Christian tradition (Q2). Jerusalem in the Palestinian Jewish tradition was not disobedient and was never considered the object of prophetic announcements of violent judgment. The idea of judgment arose with the Hellenistic Christian tradition in which the polemic was directed against whole cities of Israel, including Jerusalem.26 Thus, Q’s positive view of the law stands in contrast to its increasingly negative attitude toward Jerusalem. Nevertheless, for Schulz, the Q community continued to observe the Law and thus the salvific centrality of the Temple was implicitly affirmed. Q’s criticism of the tithing law in Q 11:42 is thus meant to correct the Pharisaic underestimation of the ethical law in order to keep a balance between ethics and ceremony.
Robert Wild claims that the author of Q was either a Jewish or a Christian Pharisee. Although he also does not explicitly address Q’s view of the Temple, he argues that the Q community affirmed the Pharisaic practice of tithing: ‘there was agreement at the level of the Q community and very probably at earlier stages of tradition that the tithing of spices was indeed an obligation’. As to the nature of the conflict found in Q 11:39–42, he accepts Neusner’s view that the pre—70 Pharisees were a small sect, not a dominant group of the period. Neusner raises the question of why Jesus was embroiled in the issue of cleansing, which was a sectarian concern.29 He suggests that Jesus was so well acquainted with the legal practice of this small group because of a certain ‘closeness’ between the Pharisees and Jesus. Neusner also suggests that the cleansing practice under criticism in Q 11:39–41 could be attributed to the school of Shammai. In his view, while ‘no one took for granted the principle that the outside is made unclean automatically upon the contamination of the inside’, the school of Shammai believed that the inside could become unclean if the outside became unclean, and the outside could not be cleansed by cleansing the inside. For the Hillelites, however, the order of the cleansing was irrelevant. The condition of the outside did not affect that of the inside at all. Thus, the criticism of Q 11:39–41 (‘First cleanse the inside … the outside also may be clean’) may be aimed at the Sham-maites’ since it specifies a certain sequence.
Building on Neusner’s work, Wild argues that the criticism of Q 11:42 ‘is not at all unlike the polemic advanced by Hillel and his disciples against the position of Shammai’. According to him, meticulous observance of the tithing law along with fundamental ethics (11:42b) was the Hillelite position, whereas meticulous practice alone (11:42a) represented the position of Shammai. Thus, Q 11:42 reveals a sectarian debate that arose between the Q community and a Pharisaic group like that between the Hillelites and Shammaites. Wild draws the conclusion that since Jesus was aware of the central issues of Pharisaism, purity and tithing, he must have been brought up within the Pharisaic tradition.34 That Jesus in Q 11:39–40, Q 11:39–42 (just as in Mk 7:1–15 and 2:15–17) did not flatly reject the Pharisees’ legal interpretations and practices shows that he was sympathetic to the Pharisees. Accordingly, a far closer link existed between the Christian movement and the pre—70 ce Pharisees than is usually acknowledged. Jesus may still be seen as critically challenging the religious perspective of the Pharisees, but as an insider. Wild, therefore, understands the woes (Q 11:39–42) as debates between Christian Pharisees and other Pharisaic groups, that is as intra muros.
The fact that Jesus knew some key Pharisaic issues, however, does not necessarily mean that he was a Pharisee or that he was brought up within the Pharisaic tradition. Wild points out that the Pharisees could simply dismiss those who did not keep these distinctive laws as ‘legal sinners’ unless ‘they either felt some religious kinship with that group or felt particularly threatened by it’.
Of course, he takes the former as the case for the underlying assumption of Q 11:42. Interestingly, he also states, somewhat contradictorily, that the participation of Pharisees in the Jesus-movement might have been a threat to the Pharisees. Then, the Pharisees felt threatened by the Q people, and the conflict of Q 11:42 may reflect such tension between the Q community and the Pharisees. Indeed, Q’s criticism of Pharisaic tithing practices would have been viewed as a rejection of a Pharisaic social marker, namely, tithing. Neusner points out that the combination of the ‘purity’ and ‘agricultural’ aspects of the tithing law ended with Pharisaic table-fellowship, and its acceptance was the marker of their membership. Thus, the debate arose because Q’s view threatened this distinctive law of the Pharisees.
Arland Jacobson also claims that ‘the woes, despite their bitter tone, are the product of an inner Jewish debate‘. Following Schulz, he insists that both the Q community and their opponents saw the Law as foundational. His understanding of Q’s allegiance to the Law is based on the equation of Wisdom with Torah. For him, because Wisdom is the sender of the prophet who announces judgment (Q 11:47–51; 13:34–35), the bitter prophetic announcement of judgment found in the Deuteronomistic tradition such as in Q 11:47–51 and 13:34–35 is not a repudiation of the Law. The one who sends the prophets is the Law itself.
Based on the work of Hannes Odil Steck, Jacobson believes that the Deuteronomistic tradition provides the theological framework for the Q redaction (Q 6:23c; 11:47–51; 13:34–35; 14:16–24). In this tradition, ‘the prophets are seen primarily as calling people to return to Torah’. According to him, it was during the hasidic movement that the Deuteronomistic and wisdom traditions merged.42 The representative Q passages, for Jacobson, include this recent development of the Deuteronomistic tradition, which is not found elsewhere in early Christian tradition. He states, ‘A more primitive form of the Deuteronomistic tradition—more akin to Q—presents the Old Testament prophets not speaking of Christ but calling Israel to repentance’. Thus, he concludes that the Q community is Jewish, rather than Christian.
It is not easy, however, to distinguish the Christianized and pre-Christian Deuteronomistic tradition. Jacobson seems to define ‘Christianized Deuteronomistic tradition’ in a narrow sense, that is, that which was added to the pre-Christian Deuteronomistic tradition, by stressing the idea that the death of Jesus not only is the climax of the rejection, but also is the fulfillment of the salvific act. For example, a pre-Markan Deuteronomistic tradition has been introduced into Mk 12:1–9 with Christian coloring in which the work of Jesus is interpreted as a salvific action and a warning of judgment is given in case his work is rejected. A similar idea appears in Acts 7:52. Here, Luke adapted an existing Deuteronomistic tradition for Christian purposes; that is, the ‘Christocentric final judgment’. Paul also used a Deuteronomistic tradition for the purpose of the ‘Gentile mission’ (1 Thess. 2:15–16). However, not all the ‘Christianized’ Deuteronomistic traditions are Christocentric. Another distinctive emphasis is on eschatological judgment. Since judgment is also the prime characteristic of both Deuteronomistic traditions, it is hard to distinguish the Christianized tradition from the pre-Christian.49
C.M. Tuckett does not express his view on Q’s attitude toward the Temple explicitly, but regarding the Law he concludes that ‘Q’s Jesus displays an extremely ‘conservative’ attitude to the Law’. He states that Q sayings assert ‘the abiding validity of the Law in the present’,51 accepting P.D. Meyer’s comments that ‘the Q-community took the strict position that the law was binding down to the last detail’. Tuckett claims that the Q community was ‘a strongly conservative Jewish-Christian group within primitive Christianity’,53 and thus it attempted to reform itself within Israel, rather than form a sect separated from its Jewish contemporaries by a rigid demarcation. In addition, he agrees with Schulz and Wild that since Jesus appears to accept Pharisaic interpretations of the law, he may have had much in common with the Pharisees.55 In support of this hypothesis, he points out that Q 16:16–18, 11:42, 14:5, and 10:25–28 express nomistic concerns that exhibit a ‘strong conservative’ attitude toward the Law. This polemical reaction to the Pharisees was necessary for the Q community because non-Christian Pharisees were evidently hostile to the Christian group.57 Although they are late, Q 11:42c and 16:17 represent Q’s fundamentally positive attitude toward the Law, and were inserted with a clear redactional purpose, namely, to ‘rejudaize Jesus’.59 This redaction may have taken place when the Q people declared that they were part of the Pharisees. Consequently, ‘Q emanated from a Christian community in close touch with Pharisaism, experiencing some hostility or suspicion from non-Christian Pharisees, but also claiming to be a true part of the Pharisaic movement’.
Tuckett hypothesizes that the Christian Pharisees were probably an ‘intermediate’ stage in the process of ‘rejudaization’ from the Q people to the Pharisees. This trajectory is similar to Wild’s view that the Christian Pharisees existed only temporarily. Wild suggests that there were two dimensions in the controversy with regard to legal activities; (1) debates between Christian Pharisees and other Pharisaic schools, and (2) debates between the Christian Pharisees and other Christian groups. In contrast to Tuckett, however, Wild believes the trajectory moves in the opposite direction: from the Pharisees to the Christian Pharisees, and then to the Q people. Thus, for Wild, the emergence of the Christian Pharisees was a threat to the Pharisees, not the Q people.
Finally, Sean Freyne, whose investigations have been directed more generally toward first-century Galilee, rather than the Q community in particular, concludes that the Jesus movement had a positive view of the Temple and Jerusalem while being hostile toward other cities. He claims that ‘it was only by inference, not by explicit claim, that Jesus’ Galilean ministry challenged the temple authority’,63 and that ‘Jesus’ new way did not directly challenge the establishment, at least to the point of advocating the abandonment of the existing temple, as had the Essenes’. He recognizes some resistance to the Temple on the part of the Galilean peasants, such as a laxity in payment of the half shekel tax,65 the ‘poor man’s tithe’, and pilgrimage.67 Nevertheless, he believes that Jerusalem enjoyed the ideological allegiance of the Galilean peasants. For Freyne, the Galileans’ laxity with respect to the half-shekel tax and tithe cannot be interpreted as a rejection of the Temple. His view is based on three arguments.
First, Freyne categorizes the cities of first-century Palestine as ‘orthogenetic’ or ‘heterogenetic’, classifying Jerusalem with the former, and Herodian and the Greek cities with the latter. While the orthogenetic city bears and develops inherited traditions, the heterogenetic city creates new traditions that go beyond or are in conflict with older traditions.70 Jerusalem enjoyed the allegiance of the Galilean peasants because the Temple, as the center of an orthogenetic city, provided ‘a shared world view’, including the acceptance of the past and its myths. He states,
A shared symbolic world-view, of which the Jerusalem temple was the central focal-point, compensated for the sense of alienation that was otherwise experienced by Galileans in a social world that was dominated by their religious leaders. The Galileans remained attached to Jerusalem and the temple as the symbolic center of their beliefs, even when such loyalty was sorely tested by an uncaring, even venal aristocracy.
Interestingly, he recognizes that the Jesus movement attacked the economic pattern found in Herodian cities and in Jerusalem because both were viewed as distorting and alienating. It seems to be contradictory to his assertion elsewhere that ‘many of the villages that were economically controlled by the Herodian cities of Lower Galilee did not in any way destroy the much older and deeper loyalties to Jerusalem and its cult center’. More likely, the reaction of the Galilean peasants toward the orthogenetic city would not be consistently positive. People might have had mixed reactions even toward the orthogenetic city. The economic relationship would not have positively tied orthogenetic Jerusalem with the Galilean peasants.
Secondly, Freyne cites evidence from Josephus that Jerusalem with its Temple was the ideological center for the Galilean peasants. Under the leadership of Ananus and others, Josephus’s appointment, either as general (Wars 2.568) or as peacemaker (Life 28–29, also στρατηγός), seemed to be an extension of the Temple’s religious authority to other spheres of Galilean life. In fact, his aristocratic descent was one of the reasons why he was sent (Life 1–6). Thus, the Jerusalem council expected Josephus to implement a religious policy of strict adherence to the laws. In order to meet this expectation, Josephus reminded the Galileans that they owed tithes (Life, 63, 80).
Giorgio Jossa, however, points out that from the beginning the Galileans did not completely support Josephus as a Jerusalem delegate. While he thinks that Josephus’s original purpose was to play the role of a ‘peacemaker’, his aristocratic descent may have hurt his credibility among the Galileans. For example, Josephus was not able to disarm πονηροί (‘the evil doers’) without becoming estranged from the people and thus he was constantly compelled to make important concessions to the Galileans. Jossa also argues that although the government of Jerusalem sent Josephus to Galilee for a diplomatic purpose, that is, to generate pro-Roman sentiment, he eventually changed his purpose and sided with the Galileans, whom Jossa classifies as ‘moderate innovators’. This event shows that the Galileans did not respect the Jerusalem leadership, nor did the aristocratic descent of Josephus help him gain the support of the people. Josephus reports that the people, the δῆμος, later entrusted him with the high powers (Wars 2.565) rather than the Jerusalem council.
Thirdly, Freyne argues that the Temple symbolized and guaranteed the Galilean peasants’ attachment to the land. He supports this assertion by noting that there was a certain religious connection between the Temple and land in terms of ‘productivity’.79 The people’s attachment was based on the belief that the God of the Temple in Jerusalem was the one who provided them with the necessities of life, including the land, which became a symbol of Yahweh’s care for Israel. At times, the peasants refused to plant their crops while the sovereignty of their God in Jerusalem was being threatened, such as when Caligula brought a statue into the Temple (Wars 2.200). Thus, the Temple was important for the peasants in confirming their position as small landowners blessed by the God of Israel. Jesus’ vision seems to have retained the main conception of God’s care and concern, although he transformed its range and scope into a universal symbol.
Seth Schwartz, however, challenges Freyne’s ‘land-centered ideological control’. He proposes that the Temple and city of Jerusalem did not affect normal social relations in Galilee. Patronage was pervasive in first-century Galilee since the rich and the poor lived together.83 Country landlords controlled the social life of Galilean peasants, particularly just before the war. Josephus was one of the leading absentee landowners of lower Galilee at the time of the Jewish War, and this might be the reason why he was sent to Galilee. Josephus, however, as an absentee landlord, had a hard time gaining the support of the Galilean people. In support of this view, Schwartz points out an episode in which Josephus acted as a landlord exercising patronage: when he was unable to disarm the local brigands, Josephus persuaded the people to pay them off and then had the brigands swear to keep away from the countryside unless they were summoned or had not been paid. But he had to face the opposition of country landlords such as John of Gischala. Indeed, the ‘rural patronage’ must have been a major pattern of social control over the Galilean peasants at the time of the Jewish War.85
Although Freyne argues that the Jesus movement held a positive attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple, he also concludes that Jesus himself may have been ambivalent. On the one hand, Jesus laid the claim that he had fulfilled the significance of the Temple, though he did not completely abandon it. On the other hand, Jesus’ healing and exorcising activities in Galilee must have been for the benefit of the peasants and away from the Temple (especially away from its cultic authority). He states: ‘Should the crowds who were impressed by Jesus’ mighty deeds be equally enthusiastic about his teaching and link the two together, then the temple system itself and the centrality of Jerusalem, as the seat of divine power and presence, was in danger of collapsing’.87 Freyne’s observation of Jesus’ healing, therefore, seems to contradict his view that Jesus (or the Jesus movement) did not abandon the significance of the Temple. Jesus’ healing ministry which occurred away from the Temple must have been extremely threatening because it implicitly denied the purity system on which the Temple depended.
Kloppenborg and a Negative Assessment of the Temple
Kloppenborg suggests that Q’s reaction to the Temple was negative, or at best indifferent. He offers three reasons: (1) the Sayings Gospel does not appeal to the Law to settle disputes; (2) the ‘narrative map’ of the Sayings Gospel places the Q community in opposition to Jerusalem and the Temple; and (3) Q 11:42a, b cannot be taken as evidence that the Q community was interested in the tithe (though 42c, which is a later addition, does have that interest). Each of the three points can be linked with either the work of earlier scholars or later supporters.
First, Kloppenborg has noticed that Q has little to say in regard to individual laws or indeed the Torah as a whole. He states, ‘Q lacks Markan-types of controversies that account for Jesus’ non-observance of the Sabbath laws and regulations concerning purity. In addition, unlike Paul, Q does not reflect on the position of the Law within the scheme of salvation’. Indeed, the function of the Law and covenant in Q’s soteriology is not stated at all. Thus, either Q takes for granted the validity of the Torah or it ignores the issues with which Mark and Paul struggled. While Catchpole asserts that such silence is evidence that the Q community had not distanced itself from the Torah, Kloppenborg maintains that at the very least the Sayings Gospel’s conception of the Torah is indifferent.89 As in other Hellenistic Jewish documents, neither the covenant nor the Torah has a determinative function in the symbolic universe constructed by Q.
Instead of the Torah, the Q community sought salvation in ‘the model of paideia‘ which was found in the antique sapiential genres and chriae collections. The goal of instruction was the assimilation of an ethos that was ultimately grounded in divine order.
Kloppenborg’s view that the Q community was indifferent to the salvific significance of the Law can be linked with the work of earlier scholars, such as Karl H. Schelkle and Daniel Kosch. Schelkle views the work of Jesus as a replacement for the soteriological significance of the Law. He recognizes that the two most significant parts of the Old Testament, the Law and the prophets, lose their full validity with the arrival of the kingdom of God. The Q community, according to Schelkle, metaphorically illustrates the separation from ‘Israel’.92 The distinctive characteristic of the Q community, compared with the nomistic lifestyle of the ‘main line’ Jewish community, was that it had a self-claimed identification as the community in which the Holy Spirit worked and Wisdom spoke. Thus, he concludes that the Q community was a Jewish-Christian group still bound by the Law of Moses, but the merit of the Law of Moses had been achieved by a new law, the love of God (Lk. 11:42//Mt. 23:23), that is the Gospel. In this connection Q 16:16–17 is significant. The Old Testament Law was not literally valid because the Law had been fulfilled (Mt. 5:21–48). Schelkle argues that just as Jesus fulfilled the Sabbath law, so also he fulfilled the food and marriage laws after God’s creation order (Mt. 5:31–32; 19:3–9). The Q sermon is essentially concerned with the community that represents God’s imminent, kingly rule. The kingdom community is placed over against ethnic Israel in which the Christian community lived as a minority.
Kosch recognizes that one cannot reconstruct Jesus’ view of the Law in its entirety. Nevertheless, Jesus’ view of the Law found in various traditions is relatively consistent, and what is preserved in Q, though partial, is the best extant source for understanding his attitude. Kosch concludes that the Law was not the central concern of Q because it seldom explicitly refers to the Law as a basis for its teachings, nor does it offer a fundamental view of the Law.96 He explains the reason for Jesus’ indifference to the Law theologically: the Law has moved from the center to the periphery because the center of salvation history is the beginning of God’s ‘kingly rule’ established in and through Jesus’ Verkündigung (‘proclamation’). He distinguishes Heilsinitiative (‘salvation intention’) from Heilswerken (‘salvation work’), although these two are not principally in opposition. The eschatologische Heilsinitiative is distinctive from Heilswerken, which refers to the previous redemptive activities of God in Israel (redemptive efforts up to Jesus). He concludes:
This eschatological Heilsinitiative is, contrary to the former Heilswerken of God toward Israel, new and not derivable from it, without, however, standing in opposition to it. Therefore, the radical demand on people, which results from it, is also new and not derivable from the Torah, without in principle standing in opposition to it.
Jesus’ Forderung (‘demand’) is superior to that of the Law because in the work of Jesus, humankind can encounter God’s ‘last and radical’ Heilsinitiative. In this sense, Jesus’ message can be described as ‘eschatologische Tora’. His teaching replaced the authority of the Law as Bezugsgrüsse (‘Basis’) to any argumentation.
Hence, for Kosch, some Law-based passages (Q 11:42c and 16:17) represent an earlier viewpoint that was not commonly practiced any longer in the Q community. He calls them ‘secondary texts’ and insists that they were inserted in Q at a relatively early stage, prior to the Q redaction. Rejecting Schenk’s view that Q 11:42c belonged to the Q redaction, he argues that it (and Q 16:17) fits neither with the earlier level of the Jesus tradition, nor with Q redaction in which Jesus is indifferent to the Law. Schenk holds a ‘limited’ redaction theory that admits a single redaction: since the material included at the moment of the redaction was limited, there was only a minimal contribution of the redactor. And he did not consider Q 16:17, which is obviously similar to Q 11:42c in form and content, redactional. On the contrary, for Kosch, Q 11:42c would have belonged to the Q redaction only if the emphasis on the validity of Law had been a feature that characterized other passages in Q. The parallel tendency can only be found in Q 16:16–18 which, according to him, also belongs to a ‘secondary text’.
Secondly, Kloppenborg constructs a ‘narrative world’ of the Sayings Gospel in which the Temple is not placed in a positive location. He distinguishes the ‘narrative world’ from the ‘real’ world and argues that in Q’s narrative world, Jerusalem and the Temple are in opposition to John and Jesus. To illustrate this, Kloppenborg notes the verbal and imagery connections between Q 3:3, 7–9 and Lot’s story in Genesis, in particular through the phrase πᾶσα ἡ περίχωρος τοῦ Ἰορδάνου (‘all the area surrounding Judea’) and such words as ‘flight’ and ‘fiery destruction’. These connections reveal an analogical association between ‘this generation’ and Sodom: the inhabitants of Sodom were regularly thought to be the worst of sinners (T. Isaac 5.27). A similar thematic connection between Jerusalem and Sodom is found in Ezek. 16. Though Sodom was inhospitable to the poor while basking in its own prosperity (Ezek. 16:49), Sodom will be restored in order to shame Jerusalem, since Jerusalem’s sins make Sodom look righteous by contrast (16:49–58). Thus, Q announced that the judgment upon Sodom will be lighter than upon cities inhospitable to the Q people (Q 10:12).
According to Kloppenborg’s ‘narrative map’, Q did not expect to find a favorable hearing for the messages of John or Jesus (contra Freyne) in cities in general and in Jerusalem in particular. One must ‘go out’ to see John and hear his warnings.107 Thus, Kloppenborg concludes that ‘the deliberate mention of the ‘region of the Jordan’ in Q 3:2 establishes a sacred map in which cities, especially Jerusalem, are negatively valued, and the periphery—John’s wilderness and Gentile regions—is represented as threatening and overthrowing the center’. In the Sayings Gospel the holy city and the Temple do not provide redemption.109 Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 demonstrate that Q’s narrative map does not put Jerusalem at its center.
Jonathan Reed has developed Kloppenborg’s observation regarding the narrative map of Q. He contrasts the Q community and Jerusalem in his ‘social map’ of the Sayings Gospel. He posits that ‘some place-names in Q are only part of the imaginative world of the framer of Q, while others are part of their real world. Together, both the real and imagined places mentioned in Q make up the social map of the community behind Q’.111 There are nine different place-names that establish a set of three concentric circles converging on Capernaum (Q 10:15). The first circle with a relatively short radius is formed by Chorazin and Bethsaida (Q 10:13). The next larger circle is formed by the twin cities of Tyre and Sidon to the north (Q 10:13–14) and Jerusalem to the south (Q 13:34). The largest circle forms the mythical boundaries of the Q community’s social map: the epic city of Sodom to the extreme south (Q 10:12) and the epic city of Nineveh to the extreme north (Q 11:32). In this social map, Jerusalem is not pointed out as the Q community’s primary opponent: Q’s main antagonist is ‘this generation’, which can be found in any city.113 Reed suggests that the distance between Jerusalem and the Q community, perceived in the tone of the lament (Q 13:34), can be a ‘spiritual distance;’ thus, Jerusalem is considered a ‘spiritually barren city’.
Thirdly, Kloppenborg points out that the nature of the criticism found in Q 11:42a, b is more a rhetorical lampoon than a legal disputation. The Torah and its interpretation are not at issue. The woe attacks ‘a specific practice of tithing in a way that corresponds neither with the actual practice of all Pharisees nor even with that of any particular house or school’.116 Thus, Q 11:42a, b does not represent an actual debate on the interpretation of the tithing law, nor does it prove that the Q community kept the tithing law as interpreted by the Pharisees. Instead, it employs rhetorical devices such as exaggeration, caricature and ‘sheer ridicule’ of the Pharisaic practice. Only 42c concerns actual tithing, but Kloppenborg argues that it is a later addition (Q3).
In his assertion that Q 11:42a, Q 11:42a is a lampoon or caricature, Kloppenborg follows the work of Leif Vaage, and in turn has been supported by Ronald Jolliffe and Richard Horsley. Vaage characterizes the woes as social critiques, using his own designation ‘mythification’, ‘whereby the contrast becomes one of social groups with their representative (transcendental) personages’. He understands the issue of the woes in Q as the very notion of moral integrity itself, rather than ‘a lack of moral integrity on the part of the Pharisees, that they were somehow hypocrites and religious shysters’.119 The issues under debate in the Q woes revolve around the ‘religio-cultural system’ epitomized by the Pharisees. Thus, the Q woes are a social critique. To accomplish this, Q employs ‘lampoon’ or ‘castigation’ of the dominant ethos as part of a process of marginalization.121
Ronald Jolliffe argues that the debate in Q 11:42 is not about whether the particular herbs mentioned are to be tithed. The issue concerns the religious question of justice. Using form criticism, he suggests that the phrase, ‘Woe to those who’ is a generic formulation that serves as a reminder that ‘the woe was constructed for sapiential reasons before it was adapted to polemic’. Thus, the woe probably had no particular interest in actual tithing, but rather in justice. For him, Q 11:42a represents a popular idiom that ridicules attention to minutiae. Thus, Q’s criticism in 11:42a, b cannot be a legal debate, but a rhetorical insult used in a ‘teasing manner’.
Richard Horsley also argues that Q 11:42 is a ‘social lampoon’ rather than a legal debate, and that Q’s attitude toward the Temple was thoroughly negative. He understands Q 11:42a as ‘hyperbole and caricature, probably full of sarcasm or ridicule’ because it is not certain that the items mentioned, ‘mint, dill, and cummin’, were tithed. He posits that
the charge that the Pharisees were obsessed with even the minor items, some not even cultivated, serves to indicate how rigorous they were about the principal cultivated products subject to tithes/taxes such as grain, on which the very survival of the subsistence producers themselves depended.
Hence, the woe does not focus on the tithing law, but on the social functions of the Pharisees.
Horsley’s view is based on the identification of the Q people with Israel (the new Israel or the renewed Israel), and this notion stands over against Jerusalem, the representatives of the government, and official traditions. Applying Redfield’s model of ‘Great’ and ‘Little Tradition’ to the conflict between the Temple and the Jesus movement, he concludes that the nature of the woes against the Pharisees was a ‘social lampoon’ which reflects opposition to the ‘Great Tradition’, that is, Pharisaism.
Redfield explains that the Great tradition is cultivated in schools or temples, thus it is the tradition of the philosopher, theologian, and literates, whereas the Little Tradition works itself out in the lives of the in their vunletteredillage communities. The ‘Great’ and the ‘Little’ traditions, in fact, can stem from ‘a common historical heritage and exert mutual influence in their periodic interaction’.130 But the two traditions had different emphases, interpretations, and implications. The ‘Great’ and ‘Little Tradition’ can be thought of as two currents of thought or action that are distinguishable, yet ever flowing into and out of each other. While the ‘Great Tradition’ represented by the Pharisees legitimated the centrality of the Temple in Judea and the support of the Temple and priests by tithes and offerings, the ‘Little Tradition’ held by the Jesus people emphasized stories that expressed or supported the people’s interests. Thus, Horsley thinks that Q held a different type of allegiance to the Temple from that of the ‘Great Tradition’. This opposition was aggravated because the Temple as a social system functioned to strip the people of their resources and acted as ‘an instrument of imperial legitimization’ (Ant. 15.248). He attempts to explain the tension between the Jesus people and the Temple through the model of ‘exodus-covenant vs. the Temple system’. He identifies the former with the ‘Mosaic-prophetic’ community, and the latter with the ‘high-priestly’ community.
Horsley’s view of the role of the covenant within the Q community is opposed to Catchpole’s understanding. While Catchpole thinks that the covenant formed a positive link between the Q people and the Temple system, Horsley believes that the covenant provided an ideological ground for the Q people in their opposition to the Temple system. He proposes two examples of such opposition; the first is the Qumran community’s attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple, the second is the rejection of the Jerusalem Temple by the peasant prophet Jesus, the son of Hananiah.134
Qumran’s harsh criticisms and resentment of the Jerusalem Temple were exclusively due to the illegitimate priesthood and the consequent corruption of the sacrifice. Although the Qumran community did not completely reject the role of the Temple in the atonement system, it eagerly expected the replacement of the existing priesthood with the true one, namely one made up of themselves. Accordingly, for the Qumran community, the conception of ‘covenant’ provided the foundation for rejecting the existing Temple system because, in part, the covenantal relationship could only be maintained through the ‘legitimate’ priesthood. Thus, ‘covenant’ does not always play a role in maintaining allegiance to the existing temple system. On the contrary, it can provide the basis for the rejection of it.
Horsley’s second example, however, seems to be inconclusive. In the years prior to the Jewish War, Jesus ben Hananiah expressed his opposition to the Temple through his oracles of doom against Jerusalem and the Temple. Josephus characterizes him as a ‘crude peasant’ who uttered laments of judgment against the Temple and woes against Jerusalem (War 6.305–9). There is, however, no explicit evidence that Jesus ben Hananiah’s objections to the Temple were based on an ‘exodus-covenant’ tradition.
In summary, we have investigated Catchpole’s and Kloppenborg’s understanding of the Q community’s view of the Temple. Each view is supported by the work of other scholars. Catchpole and the advocates of Q’s ‘positive assessment’ of the Temple see the conflict appearing in Q as intra muros on the bases that (1) the Law was observed both by the Pharisees and the Q community (Manson, Schulz, Wild, Jacobson, and Tuckett) and (2) the covenant played a positive role in maintaining support of the Temple (Freyne). Kloppenborg and those who hold the ‘negative assessment’, however, insist: (1) Q does not appeal to the Law to settle disputes (Schelkle and Kosch); (2) the social/narrative map of Q does not place Jerusalem in the center (Reed); and (3) Q 11:42a, b cannot be taken as evidence of Q’s support of the Temple/tithing because the woe is not part of a legal debate about tithing, but rather a social critique (Vaage, Jolliffe, and Horsley).
Indeed, the role of the Law in the Q community, particularly tithing law, is an important indicator for defining the relationship between the Temple and the Q community. Surprisingly, Q rarely has a halakic debate. The Law was neither the beginning nor the end of any arguments in Q, apart from Q 11:42, which we have seen is a disputed text. Catchpole takes such silence as acceptance, whereas Kloppenborg understands it as indifference. In order to determine Q’s attitude toward the Temple, therefore, we need to examine the genre of Q 11:42a, b and question the literary role of 11:42c. Moreover, Q’s attitude toward the Temple should be investigated within the literary context of the entire document and the social location of the community. Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 play a significant role in this regard. Catchpole and the advocates of the positive assessment of the Temple refer to the ‘covenant’ or ‘Deuteronomistic’ tradition which frames the Sayings Gospel, whereas Kloppenborg and proponents of the negative view of the Temple appeals to the ‘social’ or ‘narrative’ map in which the Q community keeps a certain distance from Jerusalem.
In the following chapter, I will develop a new method in order to define Q’s allegiance to the Temple. This approach will be an instrument for analyzing the various criticisms directed toward temples. Not surprisingly, these criticisms are diverse in degree and purpose due to the multi-faceted roles of temples. Thus, I will proceed in my investigation by examining the meaning of the temple in ancient civilizations and the means by which temples gain allegiance from people.
Temple and Allegiance
The Meaning of the Temple as the Source of Allegiance in Ancient Civilizations
The prominent anthropologist Mircea Eliade remarks, ‘man cannot live without a “sacred center” which permits him to “cosmicize” space and to communicate with the transhuman world of heaven’. In various ancient cultures and periods the temple was considered the ‘sacred center’ which either directly created or consecrated the world. The word templum, according to Raymond Block, originated from the ancient Etruscan vocabulary of divination where it referred to a place upon which the priest would stand facing south, and from which he would note and interpret omens. Eventually, it came to connote a place devoted to the gods, representing the projection of a sacred zone in the sky onto the earth. Thus the temple was conceived of as the sanctified image of the cosmos at the center of the world and the earthly reproduction of the heavenly dwelling of the gods, the domus dei.
The temple as domus dei served various purposes for people and, accordingly, demanded a certain loyalty from them. Harold Turner, who analyzes the multifaceted role of the temple using a phenomenological approach, defines four functions of sacred places in general and of temples in particular: a temple can be a ‘meeting point’, a ‘microcosm’, a ‘center for existence’, and a symbol of immanence and transcendence’. The first three functions of the temple are also the bases of people’s allegiance. The third function can further be divided into two aspects: a ‘socio-symbolic center’ and an ‘economic center’.
One of the primary functions of the temple was to be a ‘meeting point’. Turner defines the temple as the ‘one place on earth fit for the gods to visit, where they may be encountered by men, and where the heavenly and earthly realms continue to intersect’. Thus, the temple served to secure the immanent presence of the deity. People came to meet gods at the temple, often bringing prayers and offerings in order to seek divine healing or oracles for guidance. Interestingly, though temples were thought of as meeting points with the gods, they usually were not large buildings that could accommodate numerous worshippers. Instead, the main building was often remarkably small. Turner observes that ‘there may be no more than a tiny shrine set on a temple pyramid and entered only by one or two members of the priesthood, as in the temples of the Maya’.6 Harold H. Nelson points out that the Egyptian temple was also ‘a simple affair of a single small room’. At times, the temple was simply a precious casket, a worthy place for the god to visit, but not a place of meeting for the congregation of the people.8
The temple as a ‘meeting point’ was the place of ritual. Within the temple, the ordinary became significant, became sacred, simply by being there. According to Jonathan Z. Smith, ritual is not an expression of, or response to, the sacred; rather, ‘something or someone is made sacred by ritual (the primary sense of sacrificium)‘. Sacrifice was the prevailing ritual of the temples. What made the participant sacred was not the animal, but the entrance into the sacred place, the ‘meeting point’. Dining was also one of the primary rituals. For instance, in Greek temples the meal was the main cultic activity. Because of it, the community gathered into the temple, enhancing the sense of attachment to the temple.
Pilgrimage was another common ritual that brought the worshippers to the ‘meeting point’. Victor Turner explains that pilgrimage meant release from mundane social structures and movement toward the sacred center, which was considered an axis mundi (‘axis of the world’). The movement itself is a symbol of ‘communitas’ (‘community’).12 At Talmis on the southern frontiers of Egypt survive the ruins of a temple dedicated to the god Mandulis. An inscription shows that travel itself in homage to each temple was a prime signal of piety. Pilgrimage was a rite of passage involving transformations of the participants’ inner state and outer status by virtue of being at the ‘meeting point’.14
Moreover, the temple as a ‘meeting point’ included the idea of protection, thus earning for it the people’s allegiance. The establishment of god’s dwelling on earth symbolizes a place where evil powers have been expelled and a heavenly order sanctioned. Hence, a temple was protected from violence, misfortune, disease and evil spirits. Ancient Chinese sanctuaries, for instance, contained symbolic objects, such as groups of three stones, which were designed to prevent the approach of evil powers. In ancient Jewish culture, sacred places free from violence were set apart as places of refuge. In Josh. 20, six such cities are named, some of which were the sites of well-known sanctuaries (Josh. 20:7–8). Indeed, in various cultures temples were often used as places of refuge.17
A second function of the temple common to ancient civilizations (and related to the first function) was as an earthly microcosm of the entire cosmic realm. The structure of the temple itself reflects this idea. Nelson depicts the general structure of Egyptian temples as follows:
The temple was thus pictured as a microcosm of the world, the realm of the god: The ceiling is painted blue for the sky and is studded with a multitude of golden stars. Across this ‘sky’, in a long line down the central axis of the building leading up to the ‘great place’, there flies with outstretched wings the vulture goddess.
The temple reminded the individuals of heavenly order amid disordered and imperfect human existence. The festivals sponsored by the temple constantly reminded people of the ideal order of heaven. The participants at the festivals conformed to the heavenly order while confirming that they belonged to the earthly order. The association of the festivals with the temple’s function as a microcosm can also be attested by the etymology of templum (‘temple’). Hermann Usener was the first to notice the etymological kinship between templum and tempus (‘time’). Later, Werner Müller refined this observation, noting that templum designates the spatial, tempus the temporal aspect of the motion of the horizon in space and time. Likewise, in a number of Native American languages the term ‘world’ (= cosmos) is also used in the sense of year.23 The Yokuts and Yukis say ‘the world has passed’, meaning ‘a year has gone by’. The Dakotas assert, ‘The Year is a circle around the world’, that is, around their sacred lodge, which is an imago mundi (‘image of the world’). Thus, temporal symbolism was a part of the cosmological symbolism of the temple. The temple sanctified not only the entire cosmos but also time.
The third common function of the temple in ancient culture was as a ‘symbolic center’. This is related to the function of the temple as ‘meeting point’. The faithful went up to the temple of the gods who descended to meet their people. According to Eliade’s symbolism, the sacred mountain where heaven and earth meet stands at the center of the world. Being associated with a sacred mountain, every temple is considered the place through which the axis mundi passes. Thus, the very location of the temple was considered the center of the community. It was typically thought to be erected at the highest spot on earth.
The temple as a ‘symbolic center’ was thought to provide social unity and identity for those who were in the system because it tied the people together and provided spiritual oneness. This is particularly true when a community was confronted with disaster such as a war: when the people united to fight against their enemies the temple became a source of unity. For instance, Greek temples, became war museums where war booty, usually inscribed with the names of the victor and the defeated, was deposited.28 Similarly, during World War II, the Japanese government supported Shinto shrines, which played a key role as unifying spiritual centers. In order to carry out the war more effectively, and without directly detracting from Buddhism and Confucianism, the Japanese government developed the Shinto cult into a new ‘non-religious’ state cult, which became the center for the Japanese spirit. By depoliticizing the Shinto temple, the government ironically ‘made it a more powerful tool of political manipulation’.
Festivals also enhanced social identity by attracting participants from various regions to the symbolic center of the world. The festival of the Great Panathenaea brought citizens from within the city, from the countryside of Attica and from many of Athens’ allies from abroad, to celebrate not only the birthday of their goddess but also their own identity as Athenians. Similarly, the large group of pilgrims who came to Olympia for festivals demonstrated ‘a pan-Hellenistic ideology whereby all the Greeks competed together and thus celebrated their equality and kinship as Greeks, in opposition to barbarians and foreigners like Persians or Egyptians.’
The temple in ancient cultures also played a role as an ‘economic center’. The temple in various civilizations functioned as landlord and tax-collector. The temple of the Aztec Triple Alliance (Tenochtitlan, Texcoco and Tlacopan) located at Contact received a tremendous amount of tribute levied from surrounding towns to fund special ceremonial events. The rich, powerful temple became the ‘center’.32 This is also seen in ancient Egypt where tribute was paid to the temples. Consequently, a payment of a tax or offering of gifts was a sign of one’s allegiance to the temple. A steady increase in temple wealth began with the Eighteenth Dynasty, and from the time of Thutmose III, who gained power with the help of the Amon temple of Karnak, the growth of temple wealth accelerated.34 As the Egyptian temple gradually increased its influence upon the economic aspects of daily life, it also began to determine the pattern of people’s social lives. Likewise, Mesopotamian temples were socio-economic institutions, and their powerful influence extended to every domain of life.
The function of the temples as ‘economic centers’ was not established by their wealth alone. Temples as socio-symbolic centers drew many people to settle around them, accelerating economic development. Faithful Buddhists were eager to build their houses on sites from which they could see a temple. Japanese shrines and Mesoamerican temples, which were often annexed to great trading markets, also demonstrate the centrality of temples in social life. Winston Davies points out that throughout history great market and trade centers in Japan were often developed around important temples and shrines.37 Thomas Lee has noted a similar interdependence in ancient Mesoamerica. Frequent spatial correspondence existed between important religious sanctuaries and trading ports, such as Mayan Xicalango, Chetumal and Cozumel.39
In summary, the temple in ancient civilization was more than a religious institution. It exhibited a complex social system, functioning as ‘meeting point’, ‘microcosm’, ‘symbolic center’, and ‘economic center’. Marinatos notes, ‘It is obvious that Greek sanctuaries were not mere places of worship and pilgrimage but multidimensional institutions which served the needs of their communities and the needs of the Greek city-state as a whole.’ Jonathan Smith also states that the temple and cult institutions of the various Hellenistic religions served an important sociological role.41 As to the role of the Mesopotamian temple, Oppenheim explains that the powerful influence of the Mesopotamian temple extended to every domain of the political, social and economic life. It is not difficult to imagine how this powerful, wealthy institution influenced not only the economic life, but also life patterns in general. Moreover, the temple as a social system created and maintained the loyalty of the people. This loyalty was expressed in a temple-centered symbolism that guaranteed the temple’s role of ordering people’s lives.43 Several other signs of temple allegiance included pilgrimage, payment of tithes and taxes, trust in the protective power of the temple and acceptance of temple centered symbolism such as purity hierarchy. These signs appeared when the temple system worked smoothly.
The Meaning of the Jerusalem Temple in the First Century ce: The Source of Allegiance
The Jerusalem Temple in the first century ce was the central institution of the Jewish people. And it, like other ancient temples, was also a ‘meeting point’, a ‘microcosm’, a ‘symbolic center’, and an ‘economic center’. First of all, the Jerusalem Temple was considered a ‘meeting point’ with Yahweh. Unlike many other nations of the Ancient Near East, the Jewish people had only one temple of significance, based on the idea that the presence of Yahweh resided in the ark (2 Macc. 3:28–29; War 6.127). After the suppression of the local sanctuaries and the centralization of worship, the Jerusalem Temple became the normal place to meet with Yahweh. The faithful Jews in the Diaspora made pilgrimages to Jerusalem specifically in order to ascend to the Temple where Yahweh descended to meet his people; nowhere else could the people of Yahweh feel so close to him. The Temple was valued because it represented access to God. In order to maintain this access, the system of sacrifice and the purity laws were of primary importance.45 As a ‘meeting point’, the Temple also protected the people from the attack of evil spirits. The rabbis developed this idea. Rabbi Johanan said: ‘Before the Tabernacle was built, evil spirits used to trouble the people in the world; but when the Tabernacle was built and the Shekinah sojourned below, the evil spirits ceased from the world.’ During times of war it fostered unity and encouraged people with the hope of divine protection. According to Josephus, during the Jewish War, the Jews in Jerusalem went up to the Temple just before its destruction because they thought there they would be saved from Rome by the power of God, as one of their prophets had announced (War 6.284–88).
Secondly, the Jerusalem Temple was a microcosm of Yahweh’s heavenly order. This is seen in its structure. Josephus interpreted the three main parts of the temple as corresponding to the three cosmic regions—the Holy of Holies to the heavens, the holy place to the earth and the surrounding courts to the sea or the lower regions (War 5.215–37). In addition, a late text ascribed to Rabbi Pinhas ben Ya’ir explains,
The Tabernacle [i.e. temple] was made to correspond to the creation of the world. The two Cherubs over the Ark of the Covenant were made to correspond to the two holy names [of God: Yahweh and Elohim]. The heaven, the earth and the sea are houses with bolts. The house of the Holy of Holies was made to correspond to the highest heaven. The outer Holy House was made to correspond to the earth. And the Courtyard was made to correspond to the sea. The eleven hangings of the Tabernacle were made to correspond to the highest heaven. The table was made to correspond to the earth. The two shewbreads were arranged to correspond to the fruit of the earth. ‘In two rows, six in a row’ [were set the twelve cakes] to correspond to the months of summer and winter. The laver was made to correspond to the sea and the candlestick … to the light [of heaven]. ‘And he set up the pillars’ … Jachin and Boaz, Jachin corresponding to [the moon as it is written], ‘it shall be established for ever as the moon,’ (Ps. 89:38) for it is the moon which establishes the feast for Israel, as it is written ‘He appointed the moon for seasons’ (Ps. 104:19). And Boaz corresponds to the sun which comes out in power and in strength, as it is written, ‘it [the sun] rejoiceth as a strong man to run the course’ (Ps. 19:6).
Thirdly, the Jerusalem Temple was the ‘symbolic center’. The Temple was thought to be located at the center of the world, thus, it was a place for public manifestation and announcement. Also, the Jerusalem Temple was a center of identity for first-century Jews because it played an important role in preserving and transmitting tribal traditions. Freyne argues that Galilean Jews had a positive view of Jerusalem, though they had a negative view of cities in general, precisely because Jerusalem retained and transmitted the commonly shared traditions.51 The Temple thus generated social identity and demarcated social boundaries.
Finally, the Jerusalem Temple was an ‘economic center’. It is generally believed that Temple estates produced food for the priests and raised flocks and herds to ensure an adequate supply of sacrificial meat. Josephus reports that the Temple had great wealth (War 5.222–24; 5.210–11; Ant. 14.104–10; 15.395). The sources of Temple income were various. According to E.P. Sanders, the temple tax provided a great deal of money, and income by ‘votive offerings’ (anathemata) was not small. In addition, he argues that the shops of the local merchants and craftsmen, which were located along the western and southern walls, were also a considerable source of income: common buying and selling were conducted in these shops.53 Thus, Oakman’s model of the Herodian Temple as a social system is suggestive. He sees the Temple system as a system of ‘redistributive political economy’, pointing out:
Leaving out of account the Roman administrative ‘overlay’, estate rents and Temple taxes were gathered in great measure to Jerusalem by the Judean elite; bullion of the powerful was stored in the Temple like a bank; the Temple warehoused building materials and votive objects; from there these economic surpluses were redistributed toward ends determined by the elite governing groups. The Temple directly or indirectly organized the production of Jewish Palestine. Directly, the Temple mandated that certain things necessary for the cultus be available locally or regionally. This meant primarily small and large cattle, wheat, oil, building materials, builders, the infrastructure for pilgrims, and so forth. Indirectly, the Temple oligarchy—chief priests and scribes—controlled additional estates which served their private interests.
In short, it is clear that the Jerusalem Temple commanded a certain allegiance, yet the nature, purpose and source of that allegiance were complex. This complexity indicates that the Temple functioned not only as a religious institution, but also as a social system.
A New Methodology: Four Types of Allegiance
Temples in human cultures are more than religious institutions. I have discussed the four primary functions of the temple according to which people understand its meaning and which, in turn, constitute the source of people’s allegiance to the temple. When a temple system works smoothly, allegiance is maintained and expressed through such activities as participation in festivals and pilgrimages, financial support of the temple, and acceptance of the idea of protection. When, however, the system does not function properly, criticisms arise. The degrees and the purposes of the criticisms are diverse and some criticisms are recognizable only with close observation.
Q’s criticisms of the Jerusalem Temple illustrate such an instance. Since, as was seen in Chapter 1, scholars do not agree about the nature of this criticism, a typology of possible attitudes toward temples needs to be developed in order to understand better the Q community’s position. Because the literature of the Second Temple period includes criticisms of the Jerusalem Temple by various groups, a detailed analysis may help to identify nuances.
There are, however, two important problems in using the Second Temple Jewish material alone as the typological model. First, behind the similarly expressed criticisms may underlie different sociohistorical experiences. For instance, even if two communities expressed their reluctance to offer financial support for the temple, their loyalty to the Temple could have varied: while one aimed at the abandonment of the existing temple system, the other may merely have intended to alert those in charge of the need for significant reform. Thus, one must analyze the nature and the degree of criticisms within their socio-historical settings: who criticized and why did they hold a negative view? It is difficult, however, to find the social settings/situations that gave rise to some criticisms of the Second Temple because of their anonymous and apocalyptic nature. Secondly, since the scholarly discussions of the criticisms appearing in the Second Temple period seem to focus mostly on the religious and theological aspects of the Temple, they do not provide a complete ‘lexicon’ of the possible degrees of criticism and their motivations. In particular, examples of the complete rejection of the existing Temple system are rare. Thus there are two methodological concerns: one is the need for a more differentiated ‘lexicon’ with regard to the types/degrees of criticisms and the other is a cross-cultural analysis in which the criticisms are seen to address non-theological problems.
Regarding the first concern, I suggest four different types of allegiance: ‘devoted allegiance’, ‘critical allegiance’, ‘imperiled allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’. In ‘devoted allegiance’ the temple faces no challenges. People not only observe festivals and make pilgrimages, but they may delight in them: they willingly pay the taxes and tithes and accept the sacrifices and administration of the temple. Thus, the temple is the center of social life in many respects, and the community is united based on the identity provided by the temple.
‘Critical allegiance’ characterizes a community wanting to correct improper cultic activities and/or abuses of the economic role exercised by the temple. It either attacks the corruption of individual priests or the defects of the existing cultic system. Ultimately, however, it does not challenge the existing priesthood or temple system, let alone the soteriological significance of the temple. Thus, the temple remains the center of the socio-symbolic system. Critical allegiance seeks the correction of the existing system, rather than its replacement or rejection.
In contrast, ‘imperiled allegiance’ threatens an existing temple. Its goal is the establishment of an alternative priesthood or the replacement of the existing sacrificial system, although the concept of the temple as the cultic center is not abandoned. While ‘critical allegiance’ looks for the correction of the priesthood or temple system, ‘imperiled allegiance’ demands the replacement of the priesthood or temple.
‘Lost allegiance’ includes three diverse situations in which (1) sectors of the population once loyal to a temple have ceased to be supportive (lost allegiance proper); (2) there may not have been allegiance in the first place, for example, in the case of colonized peoples where foreign temples had been imposed (indifference); and (3) an ‘ideal temple’ may have been admitted, but not as a symbolic center of an author’s community, nor as a sign of correction of the existing temple system (ambivalence). In practice it may be difficult to distinguish when it is a matter of lost allegiance, and when it is a matter of indifference or ambivalence towards a temple. This type of allegiance does not accept the idea that the temple is the immanent domus dei. The temple is no longer the institution through which the gods resanctify the world and in which they protect the people. Consequently, ‘lost allegiance’ could suggest a different medium of salvation or a competing ethical norm over against the existing, dominant ethical system.
With regard to a cross-cultural analysis, not only can it show that the four types of allegiance proposed sufficiently cover the various degrees of allegiance ascribed to temples, but it can also provide the determinative ‘indicators’ of each ‘type’. I have chosen two examples: medieval Korean Buddhist temples and ancient Greek temples. The former is of interest not only because the history of the rise, development and demise of medieval Korea provides an overview of how the temple commanded and lost allegiance, but also because in the late stages of this temple state two different types of allegiance (‘critical’ and ‘lost allegiance’) developed at approximately the same period among different social groups whose social location can be clearly identified. In addition, these criticisms were more politically than religiously oriented. The Greek temples are of interest because the various philosophical and intellectual critiques will help to identify some indicators of an extremely critical view of the temple, including the social location of the critics, indicators which are rarely found among Jews in any of the criticisms of the Second Temple period.
Allegiance Held and Lost:
An Analysis of Indicators
Allegiance to Medieval Korean Temples
A good example for understanding how allegiance to temples could fluctuate is found in the Koryo kingdom (918–1392 ce). During this period, the temple played various roles which were the sources of people’s allegiance. The temple held the allegiance of the people when the system operated smoothly, but lost it in times of social turmoil.
1. Understanding Koryo Temples: Various Functions as Sources of Allegiance
Scholars divide this kingdom into three periods in accordance with its three types of government: (1) the monarchy, 918–1170 ce (during which time the power of the government remained fairly centralized in the person of the monarch); (2) the military regime 1170–1270 ce (when Koryo was under the control of a military government and struggling against foreign invaders); (3) the reinstated monarchy 1270–1392 ce (when power was restored to the monarch despite the influence of pro- and anti-Mongolian factions).
During the monarchical period, when Buddhism was the court religion, temples exercised authority as state institutions. King T’aejo, the founder of Koryo, is said to have admonished his descendants to support and revere Buddhism. The succeeding kings and nobles faithfully adhered to T’aejo’s counsel and became zealous Buddhists.3 The early success of Koryo Buddhism was secured by the work of Prince Uich’on (1055–1101) who became the Kuk-sa (‘royal counselor’). His most important contribution was to unite the Textual (Kyo) and Contemplative (Zen) sects/schools into chon’ tae jong.
The temples of Koryo Buddhism did not influence the peasantry as religious-cultic forces alone: they also represented an economic system. When Buddhism was adopted as the kingdom’s official religion, the state gave land to the temples as a source of revenue to finance annual festivals as well as daily expenses. In addition, they expanded their land-holdings through donations from the royal house and aristocracy, and seized the peasants’ land. Because the temples enjoyed the special privilege of tax exemption, the Buddhist establishment grew increasingly powerful economically.
In addition, the Koryo temples functioned as a socio-symbolic center. All religious activities in ancient Korea were closely connected to the indigenous Shamanism which was reflected in the ancestor cult. Buddhism was also syncretized with this indigenous ancestor cult from its very beginning. The people accepted Buddhism mainly because it confirmed their ancestral worship and kinship traditions.8 Indeed, the temple from the early period up to the time of Koryo was often used as a place for ancestor worship. Dong-shick Yoo, an authority on Korean folk religion, points out that the Buddhist temple consists of three important buildings: Dae-woong-jeon (the main sanctuary for worshipping Buddha), Myung-bu-jeon (the place of the cult for the ancestor) and Sam-sung-gak (the prayer room for well being in this world). The existence of the Myung-bu-jeon clearly placed the temple at the core of kinship identity and unity for the local village community. Similarly, the Sam-sung-gak also seems to have been connected with ancestral worship. Originating from Korean Shamanism, this sanctuary was devoted to three gods who were thought to bring productivity and good luck. While it is uncertain that the Sam-sung-gak actually served as a place for ancestral worship, scholars have noted the close affinity between it and Shamanistic good-luck cults.
Another example of the temple as a center for social unity can be seen in the importance of the two national festivals sponsored by the temples: yon-dung-hoe (the Lantern Festival) and pal-gwan-hoe (the harvest/ thanksgiving festival). The Lantern Festival was observed on the fifteenth day of the first month of the lunar calendar, and the pal-gwan-hoe was celebrated on the fifteenth day of the eleventh month of the lunar calendar. Such festivals served to unify the people: the ruling class adopted them in order to enhance nationalism and political unity, while the temples used them to extend their religious influence. As the sponsor of the festivals, the temple maintained its position as a sacred institution through which Buddha resanctified the world and brought social ‘connectedness’ by reproducing the heavenly order.13 From the time of their introduction to Koryo, however, they were more than religious activities. For instance, the pal-gwan-hoe was originally a day assembly for the purpose of reminding the people of the Buddha’s eight commandments. But pal-gwan-hoe as practiced in Koryo included much more than what the Buddhist texts prescribed. Along with ceremonies for the various indigenous spirits, such as the spirits of heaven, the mountains, the rivers and dragons, during festival periods there were memorial services for those who died in battle and harvest thanksgiving celebrations. pal-gwan-hoe was not therefore merely a Buddhist activity, but a national cultural festival in which the entire nation shared a common spiritual experience by conforming to the natural order.
2. Allegiance Held and Lost
During the earliest period (the monarchy, 918–1170 ce) and the middle period (Mongol invasions, 1231–70 ce), the Buddhist temple functioned properly as a syncretistic religious system (or social system) by embracing the ideal of ancestor respect. Thus, it was able to command a high degree of allegiance. During this period, the Buddhist priests were well respected both by the court and ordinary people. The most important means by which the temple held the allegiance of the people (especially when the nation was struggling against foreign invasions) was by promising the protective power of Buddha. Andrew C. Nahm characterizes syncretistic Koryo Buddhism as a religion of ‘magical protection’. Likewise, Gyae-hyun Ahn agrees that the temple held the allegiance of the people due to the syncretism of shamanistic good-luck religion and ancestor cult.17 Thus, people expected the temple to protect them against the attack of evil spirits and foreign forces.
When T’aejo, the founder of the Koryo kingdom, declared the ‘Ten Injunctions’, he placed the importance of the protective power of Buddha in the first article. It reads, ‘The successful outcome of the great enterprise of founding our dynasty is entirely owing to the protection of many Buddhas.’ Various festivals were coupled with such protective/magical powers of Buddha.19 The notion of Buddha’s protection against foreign enemies motivated the publication of the Koryo Tripitaka (1019–87 ce). When Khitan, a hostile tribe from China,21 threatened Koryo, the government called for the allegiance of the people by appealing to the protective power of Buddha. The people responded by donating a considerable amount of property to the temple, which then took leadership in the costly publication of the Koryo Tripitaka. The people of Koryo also continued to demonstrate their loyalty to the temple and its leadership in the fight against the Mongols. During the third invasion (1255 ce) a Mongol force attacked the mountain citadel at Sang-ju. The siege was finally lifted after the Mongols had lost an estimated 50 percent of their force, including their fourth-ranking official, who was shot by a Buddhist monk from the Hwangyong temple. In this fight, the villagers were actively involved and faithfully followed the leadership of the Hwangyong monks, believing that by doing so they gained the divine protection of Buddha.
The invasions, however, continued and the Mongols eventually conquered Koryo (1270 ce). Although Koryo was able to maintain some autonomy, it remained a vassal to the Mongol empire and suffered a long period of domination that transformed almost every facet of social life. As William Henthora points out, the Mongol period with its numerous invasions was an important formative epoch in the history of Korean society.25 One of the distinctive social phenomena during this period (1270–1351 ce) is that various criticisms of the temple system arose. They can generally be classified into two groups: (1) a reformation movement within Buddhism and (2) a group of Confucian literati engaged in external critiques.
With regard to the former, we should note the rise of chogyae jong. The chon’ tae jong, which combined the Textual sect, Kyo and a noble Zen sect, had been the dominant sect of Buddhism until a rival sect called chogyae jong (a popular Zen sect) arose. When the military leaders of Koryo gained power (1170–1270 ce), they needed to curb the power of the monks who had been intimately associated with the king because the existing chon’ tae jong and its temple possessed too much economic power and social dominance. The rise of chogyae jong was, indeed, not only a threat to the dominant chun’ tae jong, but also actually replaced it. This replacement with chogyae jong corresponds to our ‘imperiled allegiance’. A peculiar phenomenon is that the government led this movement, primarily for political purposes. Unfortunately, this religio-political movement contributes only minimally to our present study because the history of Koryo is silent with regard to the exact content of the criticisms that the newly rising chogyae jong addressed against chun’ tae jong.
By contrast, the criticisms from the Confucian literati provide a significant analogy that may illustrate the distinction between ‘critical allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’. Because these criticisms were raised by non-priestly groups, they help us analyze Q’s allegiance to the Temple. I will discuss this in a separate section.
3. Moderate Versus Extreme Bae-bul-ron
A number of criticisms were raised against the system by Confucian scholars. These criticisms, as a whole, were called Bae-bul-ron (argument for the rejection of Buddhism). Scholars of Korean history classify these criticisms into two types—moderate and extreme—which correspond, in my terminology, to ‘critical allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’ respectively. Young Woo Han states:
Generally speaking, the Bae-bul-ron in the late Koryo period can be divided into two types. The one is of moderate criticisms which did not attack the ideology and teachings of Buddhism, but corruption of the priests and the temples in part. The advocates of this type knew both Buddhism and Confucianism well and thus attempted to use both for the ruling ideologies. By contrast, the other type of criticisms attacked Buddhism as a heresy which destroyed the socio-economic system of the state, and pointed out the immorality of the monks.
The representative of the former was Seung-ro Choi, the head of the royal council, and the latter was publicized by Do-jon Chung, the prime minister of the next dynasty.
The first group attacked the temple system in an attempt to correct it. Though it accused the temple system of economic exploitation, the notion of the temple as a salvific medium was firmly maintained. The prominent Korean historian Ki-baek Lee and his colleague Hyung-gu Min mention that ‘the first criticism of Buddhism was raised by Seung-ro Choi during the early period (927–89 ce) in his Si-moo-chaek [advice for national policy] which includes criticisms of the excess expenses used for the Buddhist festivals’. But they insist that Choi’s view did not intend to reject Buddhism entirely, but to repudiate it as a ruling ideology, and thus the rejection was in part and for the purpose of public policy. Choi also challenged the exploitative nature of Bo, a special fund for alms in the Koryo temple that peasants could draw from during times of financial hardship and pay back on generous terms.34 Although it began with a benevolent aim, Bo became a means of exploitation and usury when the central government lost control in times of turmoil, such as during the Mongol invasions. Insolvent peasants often became serfs when they failed to pay back the money borrowed from the temple.36 Choi’s purpose was to correct misconduct, not to abrogate Bo itself. Choi also criticized the practice of pal-gwan-hoe and yon-dung-hoe. He made a petition to the King Sung-jong (987 ce) and the King agreed. But he only suggested reducing the excessive expenditure of the two festivals.
The moderate Bae-bul-ron continued to be held by various later Confucian scholars who adhered both to Buddhism and Confucianism. During the last period of the Koryo State, Che-hyun Lee, Kok Lee, and Saek Lee led a critical movement based on the moderate Bae-bul-ron: though their tone was harsher than Seung-ro Choi, they, like Choi, did not deny Buddhism entirely. Saek Lee felt that the money collected for the festivals exploited the people and in a letter addressed to the King Kong Min argued that ‘… because such exploitation betrays Buddha and the gods, the festival will not be accepted by the deities …’39 In addition, these scholars drafted a sang-seo (a public appeal to the government) castigating the abuse of ban-seung and asserting that the government spent too much money to revere the monks in vain.41 Nonetheless, these critics did not reject the festivals and ban-seung themselves.
The advocates of the moderate Bae-bul-ron came from ruling, bureaucratic circles. Most of them had passed the national examination, called kwa-geo, and the government generally accepted their scholarly political position. Byung-do Lee points out that ‘they were not prepared to abandon Buddhist ideology and did not feel much problem in reconciling Buddhist ideology and Confucian moral teachings’. As members of the ruling class, they understood the temple to be a protective power and a place for the ancestral cult. Seung-ro Choi’s biography reveals why he held a certain degree of allegiance to the Buddhist temple. He was born during a foreign invasion and his parents hid him in a temple under the image of Buddha for 15 days for protection. Another reason why most Confucian scholars held the moderate Bae-bul-ron and remained loyal to the temple was probably because the temple included the tradition of ancestor respect. As I have observed, Myung-bu-jeon, the sanctuary for ancestors, was a center for ancestor worship which formed the core of one’s social identity and cultural unity. Hence, the Buddhist temple of Koryo was an object of loyalty for the people, not only on the basis of their reverence for Buddhist dogma, but also because it enshrined the ancient values, ideals and practices of their kinship/ancestor cult.
As the Koryo temple state declined, however, the extreme Bae-bul-ron (argument for the rejection of Buddhism) emerged. These critics did not stop at attacking the exploitative practices of the temple, but went further, publishing Bul-sa Mang-guk-ron (Buddhist festivals and activities are destroying the nation), which called for an end to the festivals’ financial support. Ki-baek Lee and Hyung-gu Min point out that ‘the extreme Bae-bul-ron was raised by the newly rising literati in order to fight against the aristocratic leaders who were tied with Buddhism’. They further note that from the third year of the King Kong-yang, the protests became increasingly more radical.47 For example, Cho Park wrote a ‘public appeal’ (sang-seo) that struck at the heart of the socio-political foundations of the temple system. He criticized the priests for their laziness and luxurious life style:
The Buddhist priests consumed food without farming at all: they put on good clothes without laboring or spinning. Their numbers are so large that many people are starving. The government should not allow their laziness. To make the things worse, they live excessively luxurious lives.
In addition, So Kim, a student at the royal university, Sung-gyun-kwan, wrote a sang-seo that called Buddhism a heresy, ridiculed the monks for being bald, and asserted that they should be put to death. In-bok Lee clearly spelled out his rejection of Buddhism on his death bed. When his brother, who was connected with the corrupt and powerful monk, Don Shin, suggested to Lee that he recite yom-bul (a Buddhist liturgy), Lee reacted by condemning the salvific power of Buddhism.
The leading figure of the extreme Bae-bul-ron was Do-jon Chung who authored Bul-see-jap-byun. In this essay, Do-jon Chung categorically criticized 10 major Buddhist doctrines including those of transmigration, cause and effect, mind, and hell, all by means of a careful comparison with Confucianism. In his conclusion, he condemned the superstitious nature of Buddhist rituals and teachings, using examples from ancient Chinese history. Chung introduced four cases from ancient Chinese history in which, he argued, the dynasties ended with miserable results because Buddha was incapable of protecting emperors. For example, an emperor who had the ‘strongest’ belief in the protective power of Buddha, the Emperor Woo of the Liang dynasty, died of starvation during a famine.53 Chung also quotes a story about the emperor Dai-jong of the Chinese T’ang dynasty, who was killed in spite of his request that the priests recite the In-wang canon in order to prevent an attack of evil spirits and protect the empire from foreign powers.
The point of recalling these episodes was certainly to attack the existing Koryo government, which also held to the superstitious belief in the protective power of Buddha and the In-wang canon. The latter criticism was especially bold, for the In-wang canon was the most popular Buddhist text throughout the Koryo period. Ahn summarizes the significance of the canon:
The In-wang canon aims at protection of the nation from evil powers and establishment of an ideal community (ban-ya-ba-ra-mil). It teaches that it should be recited twice a day in order to prevent various sufferings from disease, disaster, drought, and natural catastrophes. Most importantly, the regular recitation of this canon protects the nation from foreign invasions.
The canon thus represented an alternative to the protective power of the temple and the rejection of it represented a rejection of the temple. Such rejection is a distinctive characteristic of our ‘lost allegiance’ category.
Interestingly, the extreme Bae-bul-ron was authored by marginalized Confucian scholars: either ostracized bureaucrats or literati who originally came from local villages. For example, Do-jon Chung, a literatus, was brought up in an impoverished family, and despite his academic excellence, he was twice ostracized for over 10 years because of his radical views on the temple. Thus, Young-woo Han characterizes him as ‘a marginal man’.57 As a literatus, he accepted the Neo-Confucian ethical system as opposed to that of Buddhism.
In fact, the rising literati who were originally from villages became the bureaucratic ruling class of the next dynasty. Following the thought of Do-jon Chung, they adopted Neo-Confucianism, and rejected the existing Buddhist aristocratic temple system. Neo-Confucianism gained the favor of the people because it presented a social reform program that better incorporated ancestor respect.60 Since it emphasized a village-centered kinship community, Neo-Confucianism established a tighter local community and provided a clearer sense of belonging. Indeed, ‘Neo-Confucianism, which from the late Koryo became the major intellectual force in Korea, inspired a new class of Korean scholar-officials with a particular vision of social organization’.62 Thus, underlying extreme Bae-bul-ron was a conflict between rival socio-political systems (Buddhism versus Neo-Confucianism), though the source of the people’s allegiance to both systems was the same, namely ancestor respect. The issue was which system better interpreted and served ancestor respect. Ultimately, the temple lost its place as a socio-symbolic center because Neo-Confucianism gained the support of the people through its new social organization based on hyo (filial piety). It is not surprising that Chung was the first to build an ancestral shrine (e.g. Myung-bu-jeon) at home instead of in the temple. This demonstrates that allegiance to the temple as a place of ancestor worship was the last facet to be rejected by Do-jon Chung.65
In summary, the two types of Bae-bul-ron illustrate the distinction between ‘critical allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’. There are three indicators that differentiate one form from the other. The first is whether a critic intends to reject the protective power of the temple. For instance, the ridicule of the use of the In-wang canon was a distinctive indicator of such rejection expressed by the extreme Bae-bul-ron (i.e. ‘lost allegiance’). The second is whether the temple is still thought to be a symbol of social belonging. Removing Myung-bu-jeon from the temple and establishing a place for ancestral worship at home, Do-jon Chung rejected the temple’s socio-symbolic function. Finally, financial support can be an indicator of one’s type of allegiance. While the moderate Bae-bul-ron (i.e. ‘critical allegiance’) continuously supported the temple financially, it appealed to reduce the amount. By contrast, the extreme Bae-bul-ron refused to support the temple at all. In addition, these three indicators (protection, symbol of belonging, financial support) might be coordinated with a particular social location. In the Koryo temple-state, the extreme Bae-bul-ron can be coordinated with a marginalized social location, whereas the moderate Bae-bul-ron is found in locations closer to the centers of power.
Allegiance to Greek Temples and Philosophical Criticism
1. Understanding Greek Temples and Their Roles as the Sources of People’s Allegiance
John Gould states that the temple in the Greek polis was a social system which was maintained by hiereis (meaning primarily ‘sacrificers’) and exegetai or hierophants (custodians of religious tradition and customary law) of distinguished status. There existed in ancient Greece a variety of hereditary priestly offices.67 As a social system, the temple played various roles in the Greek polis. First, similar to other temple-states, the Greek temple was a complex divinely protected from violence. This idea derived from the conception of the temple as a place of heavenly order on earth. Ulrich Sinn and Robert Schumacker argue that one of the most important functions of Greek temples was to provide shelter to refugees. As examples they suggest the Poseidon sanctuaries at Tainaron and Geraistos, and the Heraion at Perachora and at Sounion. All were located at places accessible both by land and sea.69 The sanctuary was normally divided into two zones: the narrower one was the traditional temenos, situated around the altar and temple proper; the wider one was called the ‘cult-meadow’ where feasting took place and refugees could camp if necessary.71 Since the temple symbolized a sacred realm amid the disordered world, it had the status of an inviolable precinct.
Secondly, the Greek temple functioned as a socio-symbolic center. Urban temples were often erected in the geographical center of a city or on the summit of a hill as seen, for example, with the temples on the Acropolis at Athens, the temple of Athena at Priene or the temple of Apollo at Corinth. These temples represented ‘national monuments’ manifesting the power and wealth of their respective cities. In addition, Greek temples were not only symbols of social boundaries, but also markers of physical boundaries of cities. ‘Extra-urban’ temples were intended to mark or expand the ‘territorial influence of the city and to act as regional centers for the cult’.74 The temple of Poseidon on the Isthmus of Corinth, an extra-urban sanctuary, was a marker for Corinthian territory and an entrance-way to the Peloponnese. Moreover, there were ‘inter-urban sanctuaries’ where Greeks could meet other Greeks on neutral ground to compete in athletic contests.76 The Sanctuaries were symbolic centers of the Greek identity. Marinatos states that ‘without the inter-urban temples, Greek culture would not have achieved the kind of richness which is due to constant exposure to stimuli and regional variation’.
Thirdly, temples functioned as economic centers. Market places were often located next to temples. Both historical and theoretical documents show this structure. In Athens, for instance, Thucydides reports that the market place was surrounded by sanctuaries where administrative and court buildings were also situated.
The people’s allegiance to the temple stemmed from the various social functions that I have observed, such as a ‘divinely protected area’, a ‘symbolic center’ and an ‘economic center’. An example of allegiance is illustrated in the flourishing of anathemata (i.e. things set up in the sanctuary). Objects set up as votive offerings were testimonies to one’s allegiance to the temple. anathemata underwent an unprecedented expansion from the eighth century, primarily in connection with the votive offering. As a result, within a relatively short span of time most of the popular sanctuaries became overwhelmed with votive offerings. Burkert argues that in this period ‘the whole temple can be said to be one huge anathema to the divinity’.
A function of the temple as a ‘symbolic center’ can also be a source of people’s allegiance to the temple because it maintains social identity. For example, Herodotus records the answer of the Athenians to a Spartan delegation that sought to prevent the Athenians from defecting during the Persian War (480–479 bce). The first and chief reason (πρῶτα μὲν καὶ μέγιστα) focused on the sanctity of their temples: because the Persians had burned their sanctuaries and the images of their gods. The second reason (αὖτις δέ) for their continued allegiance was based on their ‘Greek identity’ (τὸ Ἡλληνικόν): ‘and then there is our common Greekness: we are one in blood and one in language; those shrines of the gods belong to us all in common, and the sacrifices in common, and there are our habits, bred of common upbringing’. This passage thus shows how the temples were intimately connected with the preservation of ‘Greek identity’.84
Another example of people’s allegiance to the Greek temple, though implicit, can be found in the social status of the priests. Burkert states that Greek religion might be called a religion without priests. The Greek priest, according to him, was not a tenured position, but a part-time and honorary office.86 There existed, however, in ancient Greece a variety of hereditary priestly offices. The decree concerning the priesthood of the cult of Poseidon Heliconios found in Sinope from the third century bce shows that the Greek priesthood was a well paid, tenured and honorary position. It reads,
On the following conditions, the priest(hood) of Poseidon Heliconios is to be sold. He who has been appointed will be priest for life, receiving everything […] distributed, he will supply everything during the sacred public rites, and he shall receive from the animals sacrificed publicly, all skins […] the loins, tongue, and from the private sacrifices he will receive the loins or shoulder-blade, and he will wear a crown from the twelfth day of Taureon until the twentieth day, and during the month of Poseidon from the twelfth day until the fourteenth day.
Consequently, though not many criticisms of personal corruption of the priest appeared, such examples are important indicators in defining attitudes toward the temple.
While the temple could function as a locus of social identity, it did not remain immune to criticism, especially among philosophers. Their critiques may be said to fall into two general categories, corresponding to ‘critical allegiance’ and ‘lost ambivalent allegiance’. The first group, who represented the majority, accepted the gods and their temples as the places for oracles and as sources of divine protection and fortune. Many criticisms of the temples ultimately aimed only at the correction of some misconduct and the excessive emphasis on certain rites, which ignored true piety. Plutarch’s and Apollonius of Tyana’s criticisms of the temples stemmed from this majority view.
The second group, however, displayed a radical skepticism about the practice of the cultic sacrifice. The criticisms in this category attacked the more fundamental aspects of the temple sacrifice. The Cynic accusations of the temple are examples of these. James A. Francis states, ‘Cynic values were based on explicitly denying and overturning the values and expectations of society. Cynic preachers both enabled and symbolized the rejection of the social norms and authorities.’ Although it is unclear whether the Cynic critics of the temple abandoned the existence of the gods, it is certain that they attacked the influence of the temple as a social system. Compared to the Cynics, Lucian’s view of the temple is noteworthy. Lucian of Samosata, a second century ce satirist, also thoroughly rejected the temple-centered symbolism. His critique stemmed from the belief that the temple did not serve the social needs of his time.
2. Plutarch: His View of the Temple
As a moralist, Plutarch wrote two dozen Moralia that include a number of episodes and oracles regarding temples and shrines. His familiarity and concern with the temple/shrine are evident especially in his four ‘Pythian’ works, On the E at Delphi, On the Present Lack of Metrical Oracles, On the Decline of Oracles, and On God’s Slowness to Punish. In addition, many of his views of the gods and the cult are preserved in On Superstition and A Pleasant Life Impossible. In On Superstition, Plutarch attacked the ‘superstitious’ aspects of religious belief and cultic practices. In particular, he criticized the practice of excessive devotion to images, which he felt caused men to neglect their true human benefactors. Plutarch says, ‘Then again such [superstitious] persons give credence to workers in metal, stone or wax, who make their images of gods in the likeness of human beings, and they have such images fashioned, and dress them up, and worship them’ (167D). It also leads those whom it affects to abandon their traditional religious cults and indulge in alien hocus pocus:
we hold it [the good old forms of music] to be met to pray to the gods with the mouth straight and aright, and not to inspect the tongue laid upon the sacrificial offering to see that it be clean and straight, and at the same time, by distorting and sullying one’s own tongue with strange names and barbarous phrases, to disgrace and transgress the god-given ancestral dignity of our religion (166B).
In addition, Obsolescence of Oracles contains various criticisms related to the temple/shrine. The main thrust of this work is to inquire into the reasons for the cessation of oracles. One of the reasons finds a moral explanation: the gods refuse to give answers because of the wickedness of the people. ‘It is indeed a wonder, when so much wickedness has been disseminated upon earth that not only Modesty and Righteous Indignation, as Hesiod said long ago, have deserted the life of mankind, but that Divine Providence also has gathered up its oracles and departed from every place!’ (413A). Plutarch declares that ‘the oracles have now failed completely’ (411F) and ‘the god was not there [at the temple] (ὡς τοῦ θεοῦ μὴ παρόντος)’ (412A). He also notes an apathetic attitude toward the shrines, coupled with despair about the human race:
He [Demetrius] has recently been at the shrine of Ammon, and it was plain that he was not particularly impressed by most of the things there, but in regard to the ever burning lamp he related a story by the priests which deserves special consideration; it is that the lamp consumes less and less oil each year, and they hold that this is a proof of a disparity in the years, which all the time is making one year shorter in duration than its predecessor; for it is reasonable that in less duration of time the amount consumed should be less (410B).
Plutarch, however, did not completely reject cult. He held a respectful attitude toward religious phenomena and stressed true piety. In A Pleasant Life Impossible, he suggests that some belief in the gods, however imperfect, is better than none: ‘Now we should, I grant you, remove superstition from our belief in the gods like a rheum from the eye; but if this proves impossible, we should not cut away both together and kill the faith that most men have in the gods.’ His criticisms aimed at establishing the proper attitude toward religious worship, which he himself defined as εὐλάβεια (‘handle with care’ or ‘reverence’). The whole argument of On Superstition depends wholly on the supposition that the gods are not to be feared at all: the notion that they can do harm is the result of ignorance and a fundamental error (165D, 170C, 165B).95 Fear (φόβος), in his view, is the essential characteristic of superstition (165B). Thus, the superstitious person resigns himself to divine providence (168F). Thus, Plutarch understood that the gods had not rejected the temples and left the worshippers permanently.
Plutarch’s criticisms of the temple and the cult were intended to correct their superstitious aspects (i.e. unnecessary fear). Thus, they can be classified as examples of ‘critical allegiance’ to the temple. It is worth noting that his criticisms were given from a priestly point of view. He was a priest and administrator at Delphi for 20 years or more, at a time when the temple was prospering under the patronage of emperors such as Domitian and Hadrian. Moreover, his philosophical teachings were well received by the Romans. Stadter states, ‘The Romans respected his learning, dignity, and common sense: late in life he received the honor of ornamenta consularia and appointment as imperial procurator in Achaea.’ He lived a successful life from his early years as an ambassador to his appointment as proconsul of the province of Achaea.99
In summary, his criticisms were concerned with the needs of the ruling class which controlled state religion. Since they were raised by a philosopher who was in the ‘mainstream’ of society and a priest who played a leadership role in the community, they attacked only the superstitious practice of the cult and the wickedness of worshippers, both of which had caused improper attitudes. The images of the cult and the temple as the place of oracles were fundamentally accepted. Thus, the criticisms correspond to ‘critical allegiance’.
3. Apollonius of Tyana: His View of the Temple
More sophisticated criticisms were expressed by Apollonius of Tyana. His criticism of the temple mainly focused on the cult of images and sacrifice.101 An example of the former can be seen in Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana. After spending the winter in various temples, Apollonius set out for Egypt in the spring. He found a ship bound for Ionia, but the owner would not allow him to embark since he carried cult images made of gold, ivory and stone. The owner of the ship said, ‘I do not think it proper that they should have to share the voyage with so many people and be defiled by such bad company as you get on board ship’ (Life 5.20). In response, Apollonius rebuked the owner for his wrong conception of the images of the gods and his notion of defilement.
‘And may I remind you, most worthy man,’ answered Apollonius, ‘for you appear to me to be an Athenian, that on the ships which your countrymen employed against the barbarians, although they were full of a disorderly naval crowd, the gods embarked along with them, yet had no suspicion of being polluted thereby; you however in your gross ignorance drive men who are lovers of wisdom out of your ship, in whose company as in that of none others the gods delight, and this although you are trafficking in the gods? But the image-makers of old behaved not in this way, nor did they go round the cities selling their gods. All they did was to export their own hands and their tools for working stone and ivory; others provided the raw materials, while they plied their handicraft in the temples themselves; but you are leading the gods into harbors and market places just as if they were wares of the Hyrcanians and of the Scythians and do you think you are doing no impiety? It is true that there are babbling buffoons who hang upon their persons images of Demeter or Dionysus, and pretend that they are nurtured by the gods they carry; but as for feeding on the gods themselves as you do, without ever being surfeited on this diet, that is a horrible commerce and one, I should say, savoring of lunacy, even if you have no misgivings of your own about the consequences’ (Life 5.20).
Moreover, in On Sacrifice Apollonius tries to prove that a god does not need anything of earthly origin. He neither enjoys incense nor the fruit of the earth. None of the earthly names fits his nature. He says, ‘he should sacrifice nothing at all, neither kindle fire, nor dedicate anything whatever that is an object of sense—for He needs nothing even from beings who are greater than we are … therefore we ought by no means to offer sacrifice to the great God who is over all’ (Praep. Ev. 4.13). A similar criticism is also found in Epistle 26:
The gods do not need sacrifice [θεὶ θυσιῶν οὐ δέοσται]. Then what can one do to please them? Acquire wisdom [φρόνησις; moral wisdom], it seems to me, and do good to honorable men as far as one is able. That is what is dear to the gods; sacrifice is the occupation of the godless (ταῦτα φίλα θεῖς, ἐκεῖνα δὲ ἀθέων).
In this letter, sacrifice is the practice of the ungodly (ἀθέων), while letting the gods see virtues which spring from reason (θρόνησις) is the duty of a believer. Apollonius points out that priestly pollution was the reason for misfortune: when run by such leaders the temple could not provide protection in times of serious trouble. Because of the fragmentary nature of the epistle, however, it is unclear whether Apollonius completely rejected sacrifice. According to Attridge, Apollonius did not reject the temple in its entirety, he only rationalized some elements of traditional cult. It should be noted that the next letter (Letters of Apollonius 27) criticizes the impurity of the priests, which hinders the work of the gods, and thus could be a reason why he claims, ‘the gods do not need sacrifice’ in Epistle 26.
Priests pollute altars with blood. And then some people wonder why their cities, whenever they are in serious trouble, suffer misfortune. What stupidity! Heraclitus was wise, but not even he was able to persuade the Ephesians not to try to wash away mud with mud.
Although Apollonius blamed priests of the temple of Artemis, he clearly accepted properly administered sacrifices in the temple.
65. You [Ephesians] observe all religious rituals, you observe the imperial cult. But though you are blameworthy feasters and banqueters, those who dwell in the goddess’ Temple both by night and day are blameworthy. Otherwise, thieves, pirates, kidnappers, and every criminal and sacrilegious person would not be issuing forth from the Temple. Why, the Temple is a walled shelter for robbers … 67. The Temple is open to men who wish to sacrifice, pray or sing hymns, to suppliants, to Greek and barbarians, to free men and slaves. This custom is exceedingly godly.
Further evidence that Apollonius did not completely reject sacrifice can be found in On Sacrifice (Praep. Evang. 4.13). The main focus of the document is on the correction of the conception of god. Apollonius considers god the first and only being, separated from the rest of creation (πρῶτος; ἕν; ὄντι ἐκχορισμένῳ πάντων; ὁ ἐπὶ πάντων θεός), understood as a pure thinking (τοὺς δὲ ἔστιν οὗτος ὀργάνου μὴ δεόμενος), and as the being exceeding other beings in beauty (τοῦ καλλίστου τῶν ὄντων). As pure reason, god does not need any sensual objects, nor does he await earthly adoration. What god requires, according to Apollonius, is that those who offer sacrifice display the proper attitude, which ‘consists in his turning the mind towards the supernatural good and in showing god his own perfection (μὸνῳ δὲ χρῷτο πρὸς αὐτὸν αἰεὶ τῷ κρείττονι λόγῳ)’, stating that ‘I mean the speech which passes not through the lips, and should ask good things from the noblest of beings by what is noblest in ourselves, and this is the mind, which needs no instrument’ (Praep. Evang. 4.13).
Taken cumulatively, these episodes show that Apollonius did not wish to abolish all sacrificial practices. On the contrary, by highlighting improper behaviors and attitudes, he sought to restore traditional piety to cult activity. Thus, many scholars understand Apollonius’s criticisms of the temple and sacrifice as the reformation of the cult, rather than a rejection of it.109 For instance, Francis portrays Apollonius as a defender of the social order. In fact, Philostratus’s rehabilitation of Apollonius pictures him as a socially acceptable ascetic figure. He mentions that Apollonius taught how the worship of the gods was to be conducted, so that Apollonius could not be regarded as one impure in his religion (Life 4.19).
In summary, Apollonius’s criticisms, particularly those that show a concern for reforming cult practices, correspond to ‘critical allegiance’. According to G.R. Mead, ‘Apollonius spent the major part of his life trying to reform the institutions and cults of the Empire, and remained throughout a warm supporter of monarchical rule.’ His criticism of improper sacrifices does not necessarily imply rejection of them, but was to correct the improper attitude of the worshipper or the ungodly priests (Letters of Apollonius 26–27). Thus, he stressed the internal attitude of the worshippers (Praep. Evang. 4.13). In addition, Apollonius’s reformation ultimately accepted the temple as the place of magical power. Philostratus reports many episodes in which Apollonius visited temples, rebuking priests and the worshippers alike in order to correct all kinds of misconduct. But there he also healed the sick, taught the people with wisdom, and performed miracles/divination. Therefore the temple is still viewed as a place of healing and protection of a god.
4. Diogenes of Sinope: His View of the Temple
Book 6 of Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of Eminent Philosophers includes anecdotes116 of Diogenes of Sinope who criticized not only the misconceptions about sacrifice and prayer, but also the corruption of priests and existing purity conceptions. These latter aspects are quite unusual among the philosophical critiques of religion both in their content and manner. In two places, Diogenes ridiculed the priests. First, ‘Once he saw the officials of a temple [τοὺς ἰερομνήμονας] leading away someone who had stolen a bowl belonging to the treasurers.’ He said, ‘the great thieves are leading away the little thief. A few paragraphs later, when someone expressed astonishment at the votive offerings (ἀναθήματα) in Samothrace, Diogenes said, ‘There would have been far more, if those who were not saved had set up offerings.’ It was rare in Greek literature that priests were criticized. Since Greek priesthood was often an honorary office, criticizing priests as robbers was probably more than a personal rejection of individual priests.
In addition, Diogenes rejected the purity conceptions that were associated with the temple and governed the structure and pattern of social life. In the Greek world cleanliness had important social and religious implications. Burkert states, ‘the demand for purity draws attention to the boundary which separates the sacred from the profane; the more scrupulously and intensively purification is pursued, the greater the difference in order appears’. Diogenes boldly abandoned this conception of purity in relation to the temple, stating that ‘he saw no impropriety either in stealing anything from a temple or in eating the flesh of any animal; nor even anything impious in touching human flesh, as is clear from the custom of other peoples’.121 When he was dining in a temple, during the course of the meal loaves of dirt were placed on the table; he picked them up and threw them away, declaring that nothing unclean ought to enter a temple. At first glance, this might be seen as an acceptance of the notion of the undefiled temple. Its immediate literary context, however, does not endorse such an interpretation. This episode follows one that ridicules existing purity conceptions: when someone reproached him for going into dirty places, he replied that ‘the sun too visits cesspools without being defiled’.123 Moreover, when he saw someone performing religious purification, Diogenes mentioned, ‘O unhappy one, don’t you know that you cannot get rid of errors of conduct through sprinkling any more than you can mistakes in grammar?’ Indeed, these three episodes together demonstrate that Diogenes denied the contemporary conception of purity and its effect on individual life styles.
In light of these unusually harsh criticisms, Dudley concludes that the mission of Diogenes became ‘a thoroughgoing onslaught on convention, custom, and tradition in all aspects’. Downing also recognized the Cynic opposition to religion as a complete rejection, stating, ‘In the Diogenes tradition rituals and temples are disparaged along with the mysteries, and statues of gods are irrelevant.’ According to Goulet-Cazé Diogenes saw the temple as ‘a human institution’. Respect for good fortune (Diogenes Laertius 6.42) and health (Diogenes Laertius 6.28) within the temple therefore was a purely social convention,127 since for Diogenes, religious piety did not ensure human happiness.
Diogenes’ rejection of the social norms inherent in the temple system thus corresponds to ‘lost-indifferent allegiance’. This is clearly seen in his rejection of the Greek purity code (Diogenes Laertius 6.37, 44, 51). Because purification was a social process in the Greek mind, to conform to a certain purity system meant to belong to the particular group that espoused it. As long as one wanted to belong to the temple-centered symbolic universe, the temple-based purity concept could not be denied.
Diogenes’ mission was nothing less than an attempt to overturn the traditional conventions of society by promoting a new morality based on simplicity and freedom. This mission began when Diogenes was exiled after his father’s imprisonment: ‘he [Diogenes] went to exile because his father was entrusted with the money of the state and παραξαράξαντος τὸ νόμισμα’ (Diogenes Laertius 6.20). R.D. Hicks understands the phrase as ‘adultered the coinage’. Eubulides in his book, according to Dudley, claims that ‘Diogenes himself did this and was forced to leave home along with his father.’131 Seltman, however, reconstructs the socio-historical situation of his father’s imprisonment differently.
According to Seltman, Diogenes’ father was an important state official who was innocently imprisoned (Diogenes Laertius 6.21). At that time Diogenes occupied a position of trust, and although well on in years, was forced to leave his country. Thus, he had ample justification for feeling a grudge against society. Seltman explains that the embittered Diogenes, smarting under the loss of his position, asks a god, ‘What shall I do to become famous?’ ‘Alter the currency [παραξαράξαντος τὸ νόμισμα]’ is his response. Within this larger context, then, this phrase should be understood as the calling of the philosopher, rather than his involvement in counterfeiting. Therefore, his life was focused on social reformation, including the rejection of the purity system by which society was organized. He endeavored ‘to convert men to a truer way of life, not, like Socrates, by dialectic, nor by allegory, as did Antisthenes, but by the practical example of his daily life’.135 Indeed, ‘Diogenes Laertius tells us that many saw Cynicism as ‘more a way of life’ than a philosophy’ as Downing postulates. Cynic teaching, in fact, stressed lifestyle over philosophical discourse.137 The Cynics defiantly attacked social norms and attempted to prove ‘that most of the social structure was unnecessary to support the truly free individual’. The criticisms addressed to the temple and the priests thus express a rejection of the temple-oriented purity system because such practices could not help the soul.
From Diogenes’ radical criticisms we can find some indicators that characterize ‘lost allegiance’. First, there is a rejection of the purity system associated with the temple. Second, he proposed an alternate lifestyle over against the dominant one. He intended to ‘alter the currency’ through asceticism as the core of his moral teaching. Accordingly, Cynics lived on the margins of society, challenging the existing social order.
5. Lucian of Samosata: His View of the Temple
The Lucianic corpus offers wide-ranging criticisms of the existing cult and temple system. In particular, superstitious religious practices are criticized in De Sacrificiis, Jupiter Confutantus, Jupiter Tragoedus and Demonax. In De Sacrificiis, he abandons the concept of the gods as the sources of blessing and protection, stating that ‘They sell men their blessings, and one can buy from them health, it may be, for a calf, wealth for four oxen, a royal throne for a hundred, a safe return from Troy to Pylos for nine bulls …’141 He goes on to suggest that the gods sold blessings which they were incapable of providing. Their inability to help human beings is further expressed in the following sections in which the whole family of Zeus is derided as unworthy of the respect of human beings. Indeed, in Jupiter Tragoedus, it is Zeus who worries that the spread of such critical belief would deprive the gods of their revenue.
In addition, Lucian is critical of superstitious beliefs about sacrifice and prayer. He argues against the validity of sacrifice, and disdains the ancient notion that the smoke and aroma of sacrifices serve as divine food. He also rejects the notions that the gods need human assistance, enjoy flattery or become angry.145 When Demonax, according to Lucian, is accused of never having sacrificed nor been initiated into the Eleusinian mysteries, he replies, ‘Do not be surprised, men of Athens, that I have not hitherto sacrificed to her: I did not suppose that she had any need of my offering.’ At the beginning of the same speech he says, ‘Men of Athens, you see me ready with my garland: come, sacrifice me like your former victim, for on that occasion your offering found no favor with the gods.’147 As to prayer, when one of his friends says: ‘Demonax, let’s go to the Aesculapium and pray for my son’, he replies: ‘You must think Aesculapius very deaf, that he can’t hear our prayers from where we are! A skeptical view of the temple and sacrifice is further evidenced in his statement: ‘They erect temples [ναοῦς] in order that the gods may not be houseless and heartless.’
As a result, he rejects not only the temple cult, but also the temple as the special residence of a god. Thus, Harold Attridge understands Lucian’s attitude toward the temple as one of ‘practical indifference or disdain’.151 Instead of sacrifice, Lucian emphasizes human love. He expresses his view of the temple through the life of a Cynic, Demonax.153 Using Demonax’s views, although Lucian was not a Cynic, he shared the Cynic slogan παραχάραττειν τὸ νόμισμα.’ Yet, Demonax’s view differs from that of other Cynics of his time as well as his predecessors in that his criticism was ‘mild’.155 Dudley points out, ‘In sharp contrast with his contemporary, Peregrinus Proteus, he [Demonax] mitigated the austerities of Cynic life; he abandoned its vagrancy and mendicancy’. Indeed, Lucian’s (or Demonax’) views significantly differ from those of Diogenes and other Cynics. Diogenes focuses on the competition between two different socio-symbolic systems: the one dominating and the other trying to ‘change the currency’. In contrast, Lucian (or Demonax) has been characterized by scholars as a thoroughgoing conservative. Both Lucian and Demonax enjoyed successful careers in society; they were never marginalized nor ostracized.157 Jones states,
Lucian is far from an outsider in his own society. As a youth he had imbibed that higher education which dominated the Greek culture of his day. He traveled widely in the east and west, and was known to educated Greeks and Romans. These for whom he wrote and performed were not the unlettered public but the ‘cultured,’ ‘those who pursue letters’. When he talks of contemporary culture and society he does so from the vantage point of a practiced observer: not an otherworldly ‘artist’.
Nevertheless, the stance of Lucian (or Demonax) toward the existing temple and sacrifice was more radical than those of Plutarch and Apollonius. It corresponds to ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’. His objection to the temple system stems from the larger social developments in the Graeco-Roman world. Christopher Robinson explains that since Greek temples were originally designed to serve a small social unit, their influence and power was based on the insurance of the good fortune of that small community. Thus, showing respect to them via ritual was always in part a question of public order and well being. The idea of the pax romana, however, had a destabilizing influence on men’s private lives. In the religion of the second century ce, ‘faith was not a significant criterion, since there was no theology and no real religious organization’.
Thus, in Lucian’s social world, the temple system was no longer a dominating symbolic center. Rather, it was a system unable to serve the people’s need for order and protection in the ‘universalized’ Roman world. Lucian believed that the philosopher’s duty was to ally himself with the Law and Order of the Universe, whose earthly manifestation was the law and order prevailing in the well-ordered state. Since the cultic system of temple-polis distracted the people from the order of the universe, he rejected the existing cultic system. Consequently, Lucian’s rejection had a different aim from that of Diogenes. In fact, Lucian’s criticisms of the temple were not so radical as those of Diogenes. Francis states that ‘Lucian possesses a set of norms and values independent of the structure, but based upon the culture, of his society.’162 Lucian’s criticism focused on the limitations of the temple system in the late Hellenistic world that served a new order, the universalized Roman Empire. Hence, he disparaged ‘world blessing’ and the ‘mundane concept of protection’ which stemmed from the temple symbolism that did not properly serve the larger society to which he belonged.
In summary, there are some contrasting characteristics between the criticisms represented by Plutarch and Apollonius and those of Diogenes and Lucian. First, for the former the temple was still a central locus of God’s protection and divine/magical presence, whereas the latter rejected not only the ‘mundane concept of protection’ which stemmed from the temple, but also the notion of the temple as the center of the symbolic universe. Second, Plutarch and Apollonius were insiders of the existing temple system, whereas Diogenes and Lucian were not. Interestingly, Diogenes and Lucian represented different social positions. While the former was a marginalized figure, the latter served a different social system than the temple, which needed a larger symbolic system, including a temple symbolism. Thus, Lucian’s social location with reference to the temple system was intriguing. He was neither marginalized from the temple system nor an advocate of it. He accepted that the temple had some symbolic significance, but rejected its centrality for his socio-symbolic system.
Allegiance to the Jerusalem Temple in the Literature of Second Temple Judaism
Much of the literature written during the Second Temple period explicitly or implicitly underlines the significance of the Temple, showing that the temple held the allegiance of the Jewish people. This allegiance was expressed in their faithful observance of festivals, payment of tithes and temple taxes,164 participation in pilgrimage, and adherence to the covenant. In fact, in the remaining documents, the Temple is often accepted as a significant symbolic center. Levine states:
It is eminently clear that throughout this period the Temple continued to retain its position as the central and focal institution of Jewish religious and political life. Partly as a result of the monumental archaeological finds along the western and southern walls of the Temple Mount, there exists today a greater understanding and appreciation of the significant presence of the Temple in first century Jewish life and its attraction and meaning for Jews in Jerusalem and Judea on the one hand, as well as for Diaspora Jewry on the other.
Nevertheless, it is unclear whether the remaining documents represent the people’s position on the Jerusalem Temple, or only that of the scribes. The attitudes toward the Jerusalem Temple found in Second Temple Judaism were by no means monolithic. The Temple was often the object of criticism as raised by different groups for various reasons. The levels of criticism also differed.169 Some criticized worshippers in general; others specifically accused priests and the consequent defilement of sacrifice. Some aimed at correcting the inadequacy of priests; others intended to replace them with a legitimate priesthood.
Thus, it is not always easy to discern the motivation for the criticisms. In order to do so, one must observe the broader literary historical context of the passages. I will investigate five documents from second Temple Judaism (the Sibylline Oracles, the Psalms of Solomon, the Dream Vision of 1 Enoch, the Testament of Levi and the Assumption of Moses) as well as the Qumran Literature (QL), each of which represents a different viewpoint, focusing on the social location of each document. This exploration will further elaborate the characteristics of ‘devoted allegiance’, ‘critical allegiance’, ‘imperiled allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’.
1. Sibylline Oracles
Scholars agree that the third book of Sib. Or. was written in the mid-second century bce by a Diaspora Jew in Egypt, during the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor. It consists of five main sections: 97–161; 162–95; 196–294; 545–656; 657–808. In particular, part three surveys the history of Israel from Abraham to the building of the Second Temple: lines 265–94 describe, the ‘exile and restoration’. They make it explicit that ‘your fate’ will be the loss of the Temple (267); its desolation is understood as a punishment against the people of Israel who disobeyed the law and engaged in idolatry. The trouble is the people of Israel: ‘you did not obey in your heart the holy law … in error you worshipped unseemly idols …’ (Sib. Or. 3.275–76). Nonetheless, future restoration is heavily stressed and the legitimacy of the Temple is maintained. Sib. Or. 3.293–94 reads, ‘For God himself will give a holy dream by night and then indeed the temple will again be as it was before.’ Also, in the last days ‘the Temple of the great God (will be) laden with very beautiful wealth’. The restored Temple manifests the ‘protection’ of God. The kings of the gentiles will attack the sanctuary, but the sons of the great God will all live peacefully around the Temple, defended by God himself. When the kings of the nations assault Jerusalem and its Temple, God will turn the elements against them (Sib. Or. 3.657–701). Thus, ‘there will be no other house among men, even for future generations to know, except the one which God gave to faithful men to honor (for mortals will invoke the son of the great God)’ (Sib. Or. 3.773–76).
Indeed, in the third book of the Sib. Or. the overall attitude toward the existing Temple is positive. Although in Book 3 the destruction of the Temple is seen as a supreme tragedy that will bring divine judgment on its perpetrators, the overall tone is positive because of the central role of the Temple in the future. Andrew Chester’s outline of Book 3 shows this explicitly: (1) ‘the Temple is described in exalted and glowing terms’ (213; 266–67; 302; 565; 657–60); (2) ‘both Temple and sacrifice are portrayed as central to the life and existence of the Jews’ (702–704); (3) ‘a strong contrast is drawn between temple worship and worship of idols’ (548–600; 602–34; 715–20; 772–75); (4) ‘the destruction of the temple was divine punishment on the Jews for their sin and failure to observe Torah'(266; 273–81); (5) ‘observance of Torah will lead to the restoration of the temple’ (282–94); (6) ‘observance of Torah and temple worship will result in prosperity’ (573–81; 586–87; 602–18); (7) ‘the temple belongs centrally to the vision and prophecy of a golden eschatology’ (616–23; 557–68; 702–31; 772–75). Collins also agrees ‘the temple occupied a central place in the thought of the sibyllist’.173 For instance, ‘in line 546ff worship at the true temple is the necessary requirement for salvation and the Greeks are told that they must bring their gifts to the Jewish temple’. He thinks that the destruction of the Temple is highlighted because one of the major themes of the Egyptian oracles was the ‘expectation of a time of disaster which will be followed by a radical transformation of the world’.175
In short, the attitude toward the Temple found in Book 3 can be classified as either ‘devoted allegiance’, or mild ‘critical allegiance’. There are three distinctive indicators. The first is the strong belief in a future renewal, which is explicitly addressed in conjunction with the centrality of the temple. Collins argues that the author of Book 3 shares the same eschatological view (i.e. a ‘conservative eschatology’) as the Chronicler and the author of Ben-Sira who are intimately related with the Jerusalem hierocracy. The bright and glorious future for the Temple, along with its present centrality, is a characteristic of the ‘priestly’ perspective.177 The second indicator is that the writer sees the Temple as a place of protection from evil attacks (196–294) and provides rich examples of ‘the divine protection of the Temple’ (555–67). Indeed, the Temple’s ability to provide protection is an important source of allegiance as has been seen in Koryo temples and Greek temples. Thirdly, the writer regards the Temple as a place for gifts to be given such as the Temple tax, tithes and votive offerings, which are clear expressions of allegiance: ‘To what purpose do you give vain gifts to the dead and sacrifice to idols? Who put error in your heart that you should abandon the face of the great God and do these things? Revere the name of the one who has begotten all, and do not forget it’ (546–50).
2. Psalms of Solomon
The Psalms of Solomon consist of 18 hymns, some of which are strongly reminiscent of the canonical psalms. There is a consensus that they were written in the first century bce and the authors must have been pious Jews179 in Jerusalem. The second, eighth and seventeenth psalms reflect the Roman occupation of Jerusalem in 63 bce. The authors understood this occupation to be the result of a general disregard for righteousness on the part of the rulers and people of Israel (Pss. Sol. 17:20). They considered themselves exiles, and awaited the reign of the messiah (Pss. Sol. 17:21–32). They maintained that they belonged to the circle of ‘the righteous’ (Pss. Sol. 3:3–8; 9:3; 15:13), whereas their opponents were ‘sinners’ (Pss. Sol. 15:4–13; 2:34–35; 14:6).
With regard to the authorship/origin, Mikael Winninge identifies four alternatives: Pharisaic, Chasidic (‘pietistic’), Qumran-Essene, and non-Qumran-Essene. The Pss. Sol. have been considered the product of Pharisaic circles in Jerusalem since Wellhausen. This position was adopted by H.S. Ryle and M.R. James, E. Schürer, and B. Gray, and has recently been revived by Winninge.183 The Chasidic and Qumran-Essene origins were proposed by O’Dell and Dupont-Sommer respectively, but they have not gained further support. On the other hand, the view of non-Qumran-Essene origin suggested by Wright has had significant support. He claims that the Pss. Sol. ‘originated in an Essene like community in Jerusalem that stood in opposition to the Sadducees and in contrast to the Pharisees’.
It is of course impossible to identify with certainty the sect that authored the Pss. Sol., but Wright’s detailed comparison between the Pss. Sol. and the Dead Sea Scrolls is suggestive. Although his observations may not prove that they were written by the same people, it persuasively raises a question about Pharisaic origins. A point of agreement among scholars about the origin of the Pss. Sol. is that it represents an ‘eschatological movement’. Pss. Sol. 17.15–19 reads,
No one among them in Jerusalem (acted) with mercy or truth. Those who loved the assemblies of the devout fled from them; as sparrows from their nest. They became refugees in the wilderness to save their lives from evil. The life of even one who was saved from them was precious in the eyes of the exiles.
In this passage we are not informed when this flight occurred, how many participated, where they went or for how long. But, it is to be noted that ‘exile in the wilderness’ is a frequent theme in eschatological movements. This ‘eschatological community’ often differentiated itself from the Jerusalem Temple centered community.
Two passages, Pss. Sol. 2.2–3 and 8:12–13, explicitly criticize the Temple-centered priestly community. Pss. Sol. 2.2–3 reads: ‘Alien nations ascended Thine altar; They trampled (it) proudly with their sandals. Because the sons of Jerusalem had defiled the holy things of the Lord; Had profaned with iniquities the offerings of God.’ This passage points to a defilement of sacrifice by ‘the sons of Jerusalem’, which probably refers to the priests and their community in Jerusalem. It is possible to identify the ‘sons of Jerusalem’ with priests exclusively, but the phrase probably refers to a broader group of people, since the sons are described in another expression in vv. 6 and 11. Another example is found in Pss. Sol. 8.12–13. It reads, ‘They plundered the sanctuary of God, as though there was no avenger. They trod the altar of the Lord from all manner of uncleanness; And with menstrual blood they defiled the sacrifice, as common flesh.’ Here, ‘they’ refers both to the Jerusalem priests and their community, and is a way in which the authors of the Pss. Sol. differentiate their group from the larger community of sinners.
The contrast between the pious and the wicked helps us identify the socio-religious location of the author(s) of the Pss. Sol. The Pss. Sol. stresses two types of sins: the defilement of sacrifice and the sexual corruption of the priestly community. Despite the seriousness of the criticisms, the authors of the Psalms express a great concern for the Temple and sacrifice. They neither reject the Temple, nor intend to replace the existing priesthood with another ‘legitimate’ priesthood. Although the Psalms differentiate ‘them’ from ‘us’, the criticisms must have been intra muros: the differentiation does not intend separation. Also, the authors lived in Jerusalem. Consequently, the attitude of the Pss. Sol. toward the Temple must be characterized as ‘critical allegiance’. The most significant characteristic of ‘critical allegiance’ appearing in the Pss. Sol. is that the criticisms are intra muros because the differentiation between ‘they’ and ‘the righteous’ is based on the degree of piety, not different interpretation of the purity law. The way in which the writers deal with the defilement of sacrifices and the altar does not reflect a socio-political competition between ‘they’ and ‘the righteous’.
3. The Dream Vision of 1 Enoch
The attitude toward the Temple found in 1 Enoch 89–90 is unusually harsh. This section is part of two Dream Visions about the future of the world (chs. 83–90). The first vision foretells the destruction by flood, the second outlines the history from Adam to the Maccabees and announces the coming of the Messianic Kingdom (90.20–38). According to ch. 89, the climax of Israel’s history was that the ‘tower’ (the first Temple) was built and ‘the Lord of the sheep stood on that tower, offering a full table before Him’ (89.50). Afterwards, human history went into a ruinous decline that, due to its own corruption, not even the rebuilding of the second Temple (89.73) was able to stop. The cultic pollution was due to the blindness of the shepherds who led the sheep to destruction (89.74). Two verses (89.73–74) explicitly address the causes of the condemnation and judgment:
And they began again to build as before [the second temple], and they reared up that tower, and it was named the high tower; and they began again to place a table before the tower, but all the bread on it was polluted and not pure. And as touching all the eyes of those sheep were blinded so that they saw not, and (the eyes of) their shepherds likewise; and they delivered them in large numbers to their shepherds for destruction, and they trampled the sheep with their feet and devoured them.
All the actions of the blind shepherds were reported to the Lord of the sheep (89.76–77), who found them guilty and condemned them (90.25).
The attitude toward the Temple in these chapters is much more critical than that of the Sib. Or. and the Pss. Sol. The following three factors illustrate the distinctiveness. First, the author of 1 Enoch 89–90 is negative regarding the Second Temple; a positive view is only ascribed to the first and the renewed Temple. For the author, the Second Temple did not function as the proper institution for the cultic center from the time of its erection. The author’s negative evaluation of the Second Temple becomes explicit when we compare the descriptions of the three Temples (89.50; 89.73; 90.29).
First Temple (89.50)
And that house was great and broad, and it was built for those sheep: [and] a tower lofty and great was built on the house for the Lord of the sheep, and that house was low, but the tower was elevated and lofty, and the Lord of the sheep stood on that tower and they offered a full table before Him.
Second Temple (89.73)
And they began again to build as before, and they reared up that tower, and it was named the high tower; and they began again to place a table before the tower, but all the bread on it was polluted and not pure.
Renewed Temple (90.29)
And I saw till the Lord of the sheep brought a new house greater and loftier than that first, and set it up in the place of the first which had been folded up: all the pillars were new, and its ornaments were new and larger than those of the first, the old one which He had taken away, and all the sheep were within it.
The description of the Second Temple is not only short, it is also derogatory, whereas the First and the Restored Temples are depicted in glowing and devout terms. It should be noted that the author draws a link only between the Restored Temple and the First, no doubt because the second Temple is rejected as a cultic center.
In addition, an unusually harsh view of the Second Temple is evident because the reference to its rebuilding is set in the context of the on-going corruption of the ‘shepherds’ and affliction of the ‘sheep’ under their care. The rebuilding of the Second Temple does not provide any positive impetus to stop the vicious circle and to turn it around. The author claims that from the time the ‘tower’ (the Second Temple) was erected its cult was polluted. There must have actually been an interval between the rebuilding of the Second Temple and the ‘pollution of the bread on the table of the tower’ (89.73), yet the author has eliminated it.
Thirdly, an investigation of the social location of the document coordinates with other factors in revealing that the author was in opposition to the Temple-centered leadership. Scholars note that the literary purpose and structure of the Dream Vision point to the Maccabean period which was described as the climax of the history of corruption. R.H. Charles, D.S. Russell and W.O.E. Oesterley estimate the date of the Dream Vision as 165–161 bce when Judas the Maccabee was still fighting. Martin Hengel plausibly surmises that the various pietistic groups that opposed the Antiochian decrees must have originated in the third century bce just before the Maccabean revolt. A large body of apocalyptic literature, according to him, stemmed from one of these pietist groups, the Hasidim, many of whose writings arose in response to the persecution by Antiochus IV Epiphanes.199 Michael Stone concurs that ‘many of these writings arose from the circles of the pietistic opponents of Hellenism, of which the Hasideans were part’. Although it is difficult to prove that the author of these apocalyptic writings was Hasidean,201 he proposes that the authors of Daniel and the Dream Visions of Enoch (1 En. 83–90) had a link with the Hasidim and thus they are very critical toward the contemporary priesthood and the second temple. Also, Nickelsburg finds that there is an anti-Jerusalem bias in the early strata of 1 En.. He says, ‘no passage in the early strata of 1 Enoch describes Jerusalem as pure and undefiled in the present time’. Specifically, in 1 En. 89.73–74 the pollution of the altar is connected with the blindness and the impurity of the Jerusalem priesthood. With regard to the harsh reaction to the Jerusalem Temple, there is an apparent link between 1 En. 89.73–74 and 1 En. 15.3–4. The latter reads, ‘Surely you [used to be holy], spiritual, the living ones, [possessing] eternal life; but now you have defiled yourselves with women, and with the blood of the flesh begotten children, you have lusted with the blood of people, like them producing blood and flesh, (which) die and perish.’ Nickelsburg suggests that this text ‘occurs in the context that is extremely critical of the existing temple priesthood, especially for their sexual aberrations, suggesting strong idolatrous overtones.’205 The author of the Dream Vision of 1 En. viewed the corruption of the Second Temple by the ‘Hellenized’ priesthood as serious. The Restored Temple is spiritualized in 1 En. 89–90. Indeed, 1 En. 89–90 presents more serious criticisms than the Sib. Or. and the Pss. Sol.
Nevertheless, the Temple is still central in the author’s symbolic universe. The entire history is framed by the significance of the Temple: the ‘future Temple’ would succeed the First Temple. Collins insists that ‘we need not to infer that the Second Temple was rejected in principle, but the actual cult of the early restoration period was regarded as impure.’ Thus, 1 En. 89–90 is an example of ‘critical allegiance’. The criticisms extend to the priestly sacrifice system, including individual activities and the personal corruption of the priests, as well as to the Temple itself. But the Temple is still placed in the central position in the author’s framework of history: a future renewal is explicit. In ‘critical allegiance’, no matter how critical the position in relation to the priests and sacrifice, the Temple is considered the center of life and history, that is, the symbolic universe.
4. Testament of Levi
The Testament of Levi, as it is, includes a rather critical position on an existing priesthood that is completely polluted (T. Levi 7.11). Most of the criticisms appear in chs. 14–18, which are called a ‘historical apocalypse’ based partly on the Aramaic Testament of Levi. While chs. 14–17 describe the wicked deeds of the priesthood, ch. 18 envisions the appearance of ‘a new priest’ and the inception of the eschaton as the resolution. The question is: What kind of correlation exists between the priesthood which has progressively degenerated (ch. 17) and the rising new priesthood (18.1–2)? The answer can be found through a literary-structural observation of chs. 14–18 and the investigation of the author’s theological viewpoint (i.e. priestly, deuteronomistic or pietistic).
The literary-thematic structure of the apocalypse describes the progressive disintegration of the Jerusalem priesthood (chs. 14–17) and the appearance of the eschatological priest in the likeness of Levi (ch. 18). The first two chapters of the apocalypse (chs. 14–15) comprise a literary unit, the end of which is the prediction of the ‘waste’ of the Temple because of the sins mentioned at the beginning of ch. 14, that is, the corruption of the priesthood. According to T. Levi 14.5–8, priestly corruption is described as sexual, moral, materialistic and secularized. Their greediness, false stewardship and immorality disqualified the existing priests as the proper agents of God. The passage reads:
The offering of the Lord you will rob, and from his portions you will steal, and before you sacrifice to the Lord you will take the choice portions, eating contemptuously with harlots. In greediness you will teach the commandments of the Lord. Married women you will pollute, and the virgins of Jerusalem you will defile, and with harlots and adulteresses you will have intercourse … And you will be puffed up because of the priesthood, raising yourself up against men. And not only that, but you will be puffed up against the commandments of God; you will mock the sanctuary, despising it with laughter.
T. Levi 15.1 also reads, ‘Therefore the temple, which the Lord shall choose, shall be laid waste through your uncleanness …’ The identification of ‘you’ with the priests is plausible for two reasons: (1) the whole book deals with the priesthood; and (2) the immediate context supports this correlation, ‘For your father, Israel, is pure with respect to all the impieties of the chief priests (14.2).’
The abuses of the priesthood are further elaborated in the following two chapters (chs. 16–17). T. Levi 16.1 indicates that the corruption of the priests is connected with the hindrance of the Temple cult: ‘Now I have come to know that for seventy weeks you shall wander astray and profane the priesthood, and pollute the sacrifice.’ Chapter 17 takes up this idea and explains it in detail by focusing on how the priesthood had failed completely. The ‘seventy weeks’ refers to a seven-jubilee period. For each of the periods, a different priesthood was appointed (17.2). The first priesthood was ‘perfect’ and its days were good, and the second priesthood was not as perfect as the first, but was still honorable. After the third priesthood, the purity of the priests was decreasing, so that the seventh priesthood became the worst. The last two verses of ch. 17 (17.10–11) seem to be the conclusion of all of chs. 14–17. They announce the ‘returning’ and ‘rebuilding’ of the second Temple. These events are placed in the fifth Jubilee which ‘shall be taken hold of by darkness’ (17.6): ‘And in the fifth week they shall return to the land of their desolation, and shall restore anew the house of the Lord’ (17.10). But, for the author the returning from exile and the rebuilding of the Second Temple were unable to turn the people away from their evil ways and toward godliness. The priestly corruption, which resulted in their disqualification from making proper sacrifices, is the signal for the coming eschaton at which the ‘new priesthood’ arises.
This literary-thematic structure reveals a disjunction between the existing priesthood and a sudden rise of the new priesthood because the rise of the new priesthood is preceded by the complete, irrevocable corruption of the existing one. In addition, since the new priesthood of 18.1–2 is a transcendent figure, there is hardly a material connection between the new priest and the priesthood of the seventh week. Therefore, T. Levi does not neatly fit the category of ‘critical allegiance’. The criticisms of the priests in this document are much more negative than those of Sib. Or. and Pss. Sol, and the role of the Temple is far more reduced, compared with 1 En. 89–90. The existing priesthood is found to be absolutely illegitimate, and the ‘new priest’ will arise from the priesthood which has nothing to do with the existing priestly line.
Nevertheless, the concern for the priesthood is still central to the entire document. Oesterley states that ‘the Law and the Temple services are strongly upheld’.214 Charles believes in a priestly origin. Levi is probably to be associated with the priest introduced in T. Levi 5.2, who has a direct heavenly commission. This verse highlights ‘the blessing of the priesthood’.
In addition, the history of composition supports the priestly origin of the document, although we are still far from a consensus. Collins divides the current opinions into three views. First, the T. Levi is a Jewish document with Christian interpolations. This view was formulated by J.E. Grabe at the end of the seventeenth century and commanded a consensus in the period 1900–1950: E. Kautzsch and R.H. Charles220 adopted this position. The influence of Charles, in particular, has remained pervasive and thus Jacob Jervell, Jurgen Becker and Howard C. Kee subscribe to it. Secondly, M. de Jonge and H. Dixon Slingerland222 argue that the T. XII Patr. is a second-century Christian document which drew on Jewish sources. Thirdly, Dupont-Sommer proposes that the Testament is an Essene document or a product of the Qumran community. The third view has won little acceptance. Despite the noteworthy parallels to the Qumran scrolls, the T. XII Patr. lacks references to the history of the sect and does not show a sectarian ideology.
The scholarly consensus is that the T. Levi shows Christian influence in its final form, although it is based on earlier Jewish tradition and documents.226 But, contra Becker, Christian elements in the T. Levi cannot be removed by textual criticism with any certainty. Thus, Collins points out that ‘both the distinctively Jewish (e.g. the two messiahs) and the distinctively Christian elements are quite limited, and much of the Testaments is compatible with either.’ The distinctive Christian elements are less than what we usually find in Christian works, such as Hermas, with which the T. XII Patr. is often compared. In particular, the view of the priesthood in T. Levi is very different from that of the New Testament, such as we find in the book of Hebrews and 1 Pet. (2:5, 9) which stress the supremacy of the idealized priest or the universal priesthood. In the former, the significance of Levitic priesthood is ignored, and a temple-centered symbolism is missing. In T. Levi, however, the centrality of the priesthood is maintained and the restoration will come through the transcendent Levi, a new priest. Thus, Nickelsburg points out that the main theme of the T. Levi is ‘the divine origin of the priesthood and God’s resolution of its abuse’.
Although, unlike 1 En. 89–90, the Temple does not play an active role in the author’s symbolic universe, it is an agent to bring sanctification in the future restoration. T. Levi 18.6 reads, ‘The heaven will be opened and from the temple of glory sanctification will come upon him.’ Being combined with the heavenly temple, the notion of a new priest probably represents a priestly origin of the document. Consequently, the attitude toward the Temple cannot be completely negative. Indeed, T. Levi expresses an ambivalent position to the Temple/priesthood: there is no hope for the existing priesthood; instead, the future restoration will come through the ideal, transcendent priest. The prediction of the rise of the new priest and the appearance of the heavenly Temple must be classified with ‘extreme’ critical allegiance since it does not fit easily into the category of ‘critical allegiance’.
5. The Assumption of Moses
Gaston argues that real opposition to the Jerusalem Temple makes sense only when a community adopts an atonement system other than the cult, and such an example is rare in the writings of the Second Temple Judaism. If at all, it may appear in the Ass. Mos., which was probably written somewhere in Palestine before 70 ce232 by conservative Jews. In five places, the author deals with the Temple: 2.6–9; 4.7–9; 5.3–6; 6.1; 7.6–8. All the references, taken together, reveal a negative attitude toward the Second Temple, the harshness of which is greater than any surveyed thus far. Ass. Mos. 2.6–9 reads:
 And they shall offer sacrifices throughout twenty years:  and seven shall entrench the walls, and I will protect nine, but four shall transgress the covenant of the Lord, and profane the oath which the Lord made with them. And they [10 tribes who broke away] shall sacrifice their sons to strange gods, and they shall set up idols in the sanctuary, to worship them. And in the house of the Lord they shall work impiety and engrave every form of beast, even many abominations.
These verses condemn the idolatry of the ‘ten tribes’. They describe the conflict between the ‘two tribes’ and the ‘ten tribes’, and explicitly link the corruption of the ‘ten tribes’ with the profanation of the Temple.
In addition, Ass. Mos. 4.7–9 expresses suspicion regarding the validity of the sacrifice. The verses read,
Then some parts of the tribes will arise and come to their appointed place, and they will strongly build its walls. Now, the two tribes will remain steadfast in their former faith, sorrowful and sighing because they will not be able to offer sacrifices to the Lord of their fathers.
Charles states that Ass. Mos. 4.8 implies an imperfection of the entire Temple, which is hardly found in other Jewish documents of the same period. Collins also holds that 4.8 ‘apparently denies the cultic validity of the second temple’. The reason for mourning is the unacceptability of the offering due to the hindrance of the ‘ten tribes’ (4.9). Indeed, Ass. Mos. 4.7–9 can be understood in a metaphorical way. The ‘two tribes’ refer to the righteous who are set apart, and who have spiritual leadership until the appointed time (the eschatological restoration): at the eschaton the people of God will be reduced to a smaller group, consisting of only a part of the ‘two tribes’. Thus, the term ‘two tribes’ is an honorific one, and is used in the same way in which, for instance, Paul uses the name ‘Israel’ (cf. Rom. 9:6—οὐ πάντες οἱέξ Ἰσράηλ, οὖτοι Ἰσράηλ, ‘not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel’). In contrast, ‘some parts of the tribes’ (4.7) is used in a derogatory sense. They refer to any Israelite who participated in the rebuilding of the Temple walls (v. 7), an act that is viewed as apostasy (2.7). Reading 4.8 in conjunction with 4.7, the ‘two tribes’ is a counterpart to ‘some parts of the tribes’ because the former remain faithful to the prescribed allegiance, whereas the latter fail to be faithful to this allegiance. The sadness of the ‘two tribes’ is rooted in the pollution of the Second Temple. Unfortunately, ‘some part of the tribes’ appears to be the dominant group (v. 9), and thus it is impossible for the ‘two tribes’ to bring pure sacrifices. Hence, as Tromp observes, ‘the validity of the temple cult is indeed rejected by the author of As. Mos’. Strikingly, in the Ass. Mos. there is no hint of the restoration of the Second Temple, a feature normally found in examples of criticisms ascribed to ‘critical allegiance’, such as the Sib. Or., the Dream Vision and T. Levi 18.
In other places the author explicitly condemns the corruption and impiety of the priests (Ass. Mos. 5.3–6; 6.1; 7.6–8). These criticisms are different from the examples of ‘critical allegiance’ in three respects: (1) they reveal the sins of the priests in an extraordinarily vivid fashion (5.3–6); (2) the role of priests is depicted as political leaders (or kings) of the corrupted community (6.1); (3) priests are criticized for exploiting the poor (7.6–8).
An explicit and comprehensive reaction to the Temple is found in 5.3–6, which clearly associates priestly corruption with the rejection of the Temple cult. The author recognizes that it happened at the time immediately preceding the eschatological judgment: 5.1 mentions ‘tempora arguendi’, the time is approaching. As the final judgment approaches, retribution already has begun in the form of harsh rule by the kings of the people. This retribution is probably the consequence of the apostasy described in 4.8. Ass. Mos. 5.3–6 reads,
They shall turn aside from righteousness and approach iniquity, and they shall defile with pollution the house of their worship, and [because] they shall go a-whoring after strange gods. For they shall not follow the truth of God, but some shall pollute the altar with the [very] gifts which they offer to the Lord, who are not priests but slaves (and) sons of slaves. And many in those times shall have respect unto desirable persons and receive gifts, and pervert judgment [on receiving presents]. And on this account the colony and the borders of their habitation shall be filled with lawless deeds and iniquities: those who wickedly depart from the Lord shall be judges: they shall be ready to judge for money as each may wish.
It is not difficult to identify the subject, ‘they’, which recurs several times, with the ‘ten tribes’ who ‘increased’ and ‘multiplied’ among the gentiles during the time of their captivity (4.9). A vexing question is: To whom does the ‘some’ (quidam) in 5.4 refer? Scholars argue that it refers to people in general; the same as ‘they’. But, there is no reason to use the different term quidam if there is no distinction. More likely, ‘some’ refers to a specific group among the ‘they’ (5.3). Thus, ‘some’, are distinguished from ‘they’ because the former may be the representative of the corrupted/rebellious community. A similar distinction of the ‘some’ which points out a specific group among the rebellious community can also be found in 6.1: ‘some of them shall be raised up as false priests’. Thus, Nickelsburg, Priest and Tromp understand ‘some’ as the priests. Quidam can also have a derogatory connotation (as it is used, e.g., in Rom. 3:8: sicut aiunt quidam [‘just as some say’] for τίνες), suggesting the notion of slave (i.e. objects of Hellenistic contempt).247 Thus, Tromp paraphrases 5.4 as follows:’ the altar of God is polluted by people who call themselves priests, but who are in reality no more than slaves [of contempt]’. Ass. Mos. 5.3–6 describes the total corruption of the Israelites as represented by the corruption of the priests.
Two more passages condemn the corruption of the priests as the cause for the profanation of the sacrifice. Ass. Mos. 6.1 asserts: ‘Then powerful kings will rise over them, and they will be called priests of the Most High. They will perform great impiety in the Holy of Holies.’ Evans acknowledges that the entire sixth chapter of the Ass. Mos. is directed against a wealthy and powerful priestly aristocracy. Here the enemies are identified as the wealthy rulers, kings and priests who are connected with the Temple and are depicted with the most despicable characteristics conceivable.
In addition, Ass. Mos. 7.6–8 describes not only the corruption of the priests, but also their exploitation of the poor, a phenomenon unique in the writings of the Second Temple period:
But really they consume the goods of the (poor), saying their acts are according to justice, (while in fact they are simply) exterminators, deceitfully seeking to conceal themselves so that they will not be known as completely godless because of their criminal deeds (committed) all the day long, even luxurious winings and dinings.
Because the seven lines prior to 7.6 are missing, the referent of the subject, ‘they’, is unclear. If it refers to the priests, it criticizes not only their material well being (7.8), but also their exploitation: ‘they consume the goods of (the poor)’. From the context, the most plausible reconstruction of the missing subject is the ‘rulers’ in general, rather than the priests in particular. But it should be noted that for the author the roles of ‘general rulers’ could be identical with those of priests (cf. 4.7–9). The Levite can play a role not only as the priest, but also as the judge and scribe, as T. Levi 8.17 reveals. Thus, both Ass. Mos. 6.1 and 7.6–8 assume that the priestly role extends to secular political leadership. It shows that what the author criticizes is not merely the religious aspect of the pollution of the sacrificial system and the impurity of the priesthood, but the corruption of the entire Temple-centered community.
The attitude toward the Temple as it appears in the Ass. Mos. is unique. It has some indicators of ‘critical allegiance’, such as the criticism of worshippers (2.7–9) and the corruption of individual priests (6.1). But beyond these, it expresses unusually harsh criticisms, as Charles and Tromp note. It even depicts the priests as exploiting the poor (7.6–8), and explicitly challenges the validity of the Temple cult. The reason for the challenge is complex. Priestly corruption (5.3–6) is one aspect of it. A similar challenge to the validity of the cult of the Second Temple also appears in 1 En. 89.73–74. Both depict the corruption of the priests immediately before the eschaton. But the author of the Ass. Mos. represents an even more critical attitude than that of 1 En. 89.73–74 because there is no prediction of a future renewal of the Temple in the Ass. Mos. Nickelsburg states that the author of Ass. Mos. uses the Taxo story ‘as the trigger that will bring on an imminent theophany, a repetition of Sinai (Deut. 33), which will constitute the final act of the Deuteronomic scheme.’ The Taxo story (ch. 9) is a part of the author’s view of the eschatological restoration, but there is no mention of the Temple; neither a spiritualized one, nor a restoration of the original one. The Temple is omitted from the description of the final vindication of God that is a distinguishing theme of the Ass. Mos. (cf. 1 En. 89–90, T. Levi 18). In fact, the Ass. Mos. does not offer a different conception of cult apart from the Temple, but it ignores the role of the Temple in eschatological restoration. In other words, the Temple is not the center of the symbolic universe in the Ass. Mos.
In summary, not only does the author ignore the significance of the Temple and sacrifice, but also does not explicitly mention the renewal of the existing sacrificial cult. Thus, the type of allegiance expressed significantly differs from ‘critical allegiance.’ Two indicators make this clear. One is that the Ass. Mos. underlines a group conflict. The notion of group demarcation is clearer than any other documents expressing ‘critical allegiance’, such as the Pss. Sol. and the Dream Vision of 1 En.: the ‘two tribes’ are in competition with the ‘ten tribes’ (Ass. Mos. 2.6–9; 4.7–9). The role of the priests as political leaders reinforces the radical separation and opposition of the two groups (Ass. Mos. 2.6–9; 6.1). In addition, the nature of the conflict is further defined by persecution of the powerful, but sinful group of the righteous one. Secondly, the Temple is under condemnation without expectation of a renewal of the existing sacrificial system: ‘And with fire he will burn their city with the holy Temple of the Lord and he will carry off all the holy vessels’ (Ass. Mos. 3.2). The perspective of the author is not even oriented with the centrality of the Temple as was seen in the Dream vision of 1 En.
Thus, Nickelsburg attempts to associate the Ass. Mos. with the Essene movement since that movement had a strong priestly character. Though this is conceivable, there is not much literary evidence that the Ass. Mos. was a priestly product except for a mention of Taxo, its eschatological figure, who comes from the tribe of Levi (9.1–2). There is no such exception to take over the Jerusalem Temple as found in the Qumran Literature (QL). Hence, Morton Smith, based on Ass. Mos. 4.8; 5.3–6, proposed that ‘the author of T. Mos founded a sect that declared all sacrifices of the second Temple to be impure’. It is hard to prove whether the community to which the author of the Ass. Mos. wrote established itself as an alternative to the Temple-centered community. If this is the case, then the criticism of the Temple can represent ‘lost allegiance’. What is clear is that its attitude toward the Temple is the harshest among the Second Temple Jewish writings, and the Temple symbolism and cult are ignored.
6. The Qumran Community’s Attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple
Although the Qumran literature was penned by different authors and at different times, we find a relatively consistent attitude to the Jerusalem Temple: the Temple had been profaned and its sacrifices made impure, and therefore the Temple needed to be radically cleansed. Even the most casual observation of the criticisms of the QL illustrates that they differ from the criticisms appearing in the Second Temple Jewish documents. Many criticisms of the QL are metaphorically addressed to ungodly priests (1QpHab 8.8–13; 11.4–15; 12.6–10; 4QpNah). Other criticisms point out specific sins, such as adultery, idol worship, or robbery, as the hindrance to sacrifice: the sin polluting the Jerusalem Temple was of a sexual nature (CD 1.20; 2.17; 3.5, 11–12; 4.12–5.9). Yet other criticisms attack the corrupted priests as the leaders of the ungodly community. These types of criticisms are often coupled with the pollution of the sacrifice, e.g. 4Q390. Nevertheless, because of their brevity and metaphorical nature, these criticisms do not explicitly reveal the Qumran community’s attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple.
The most distinctive way in which the QL responded to the Jerusalem Temple was the idea of ‘the community as the Temple’ (4QFlor 1.2–7 and 1QS 8.4–10). This concept was unique to the QL and thus deserves scrutiny.262 In 4QFlor 1.2–7 God commands a sanctuary of men to be built for himself. It reads:
 This (refers to) the house which [they will establish] for [him] in the last days, as is written in the book of  [Moses: Exod 15.17–18 << A temple of the Lord] will you establish with your hands. YHWH shall reign for ever and ever>>. This (refers to) the house into which shall never enter  either the Amorite, or the Moabite, or the Bastard, or the foreigner, or the proselyte, never, because there [he will reveal] to the holy ones;  eternal [glory] will appear over it for ever; foreigners shall not again lay it waste as they laid waste, at the beginning,  the tem[ple of Is]rael for its sins. And he commanded to build for himself a temple of man, to offer him in it,  before him, the works of thanksgiving.
4Q Flor 1.6 includes the expression miqdash ‘adam which could be translated either ‘a temple built by hands’, or ‘a temple [made] of people’. A majority of scholars take the latter view which identified the community with the Temple because the Qumran community understood itself as the assembly of the sons of God and the true Israel which was symbolized by the Temple.266 Since God dwells and reveals himself in the Qumran people, their assembly can be called the Temple.
My question concerns the Qumran community’s attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple when it declared that the community was the true Temple. Dupont-Sommer sees 4QFlor 1.2–7 as a reference to the spiritual Temple. He states that ‘we may think of the sanctuary of the future Jerusalem, where undefiled sacrifice will be offered to God once more, or to a sanctuary which the Essenes may have erected at Qumran itself. But it may also be taken to mean “a sanctuary of men”—a spiritual sanctuary, a sanctuary “built in men” …’ Bertil Gärtner also emphasizes the spiritualized Temple. He argues that the community as the Temple is the ‘house’ which Yahweh is to establish in the last days. The community as the ‘house of God’ bears the seal of eternity; as the eternal temple, in process of realization, they practice spiritualized sacrifices in perfect obedience to the Law.268 For Gärtner, the Qumran community held ‘the hierarchic organization and seems to be based on the organization of the priests working in the New Temple which substitutes the old one.’ Accordingly, he understands the attitude of the Qumran community toward the Jerusalem Temple as an absolute rejection, stressing the spiritualized Temple which is completely disassociated from the Jerusalem Temple.
George Brooke, however, understands that the ‘place’ (מקום) appearing in the oracle of Nathan is identified with the ‘house’ (כית), which in turn is identified with the ‘sanctuary’ (מקרש). ‘The whole description is concerned with identifying the sanctuary proleptically with the Qumran community and their role in the latter days.’ More likely, therefore, the conception of the community as the Temple connotes the temporal replacement of the defiled Jerusalem Temple with the community because the latter was the place where God revealed himself through the true interpretation of the law. Likewise, Gaston argues that the concept of the deed of the law as the alternative sacrifice does not necessarily mean ‘a concomitant rejection of actual sacrifice’. Thus, even though the conception of the community as the Temple includes spiritualization, it highlights its present significance which temporally replaces the Jerusalem Temple. It does not refer to a Utopian sense of the future renewed Temple as Gärtner thinks.
Another explicit image of the conception of the community as the Temple is found in 1QS 8.1–10 where the ‘council of the community’ is described as if it were a building. It is called ‘house’, ‘dwelling’, ‘wall’, ‘cornerstone’, and ‘foundations’. Moreover, cultic terminology is applied to the community: it is ‘an agreeable offering, atoning for the land.’ The community is called both a ‘planting’ and a ‘temple.’ For Gaston, the concept of the community as the Temple in this passage includes ambivalent attitudes to the Jerusalem Temple. On the one hand, it has nothing to do with ‘real’ opposition; on the other hand, ‘it provides an effective substitute for the Jerusalem cult’. In order to support the latter aspect he asserts that ‘the community is the temple not only as the dwelling place of God, but also fulfills the function of atonement effected by the sacrifices of the Jerusalem temple …’273 According to him, the suffering servant tradition of deutero-Isaiah underlies 1QS 8.1–10 because it quotes Isa. 48:10, a text that contains the suffering servant theme.276
There is, however, only a loose verbal connection between 1QS 8.4 and Isa. 48:10, namely, the term ‘refine’. There is no idea of the retribution of the wicked in the suffering servant in Isaiah, which is the key notion of 1QS 8.1–10; it announces judgment. The vicarious nature of the suffering of the servant in Isaiah is, indeed, not found in the Qumran idea of ‘the community is the Temple’. It is hardly convincing that the conception of the community as the Temple ‘effectively substitutes’ for the existing atonement system, as Gaston argues, because the people in Qumran did not imagine another system than the Temple that could provide atonement.
Indeed, the idea of the ‘community as the Temple’ may follow the biblical model of the ‘camp in the desert’ in which, according to Francis Schmidt, the concept of ‘Temple d’hommes’ arose. After the rupture with the Jerusalem Temple, the Qumran community attempted to answer how to live without the Temple. Schmidt explains,
By recalling the events of the founders of the history of the people of Israel, two models give meaning to the present while informing of the future: that of the Exile and that of the sojourn in the desert. Without the temple in the desert, far from the temple during the Exile, the people lived in the presence of their God. For a short time the community constitutes itself as a temple of men; once again, it now organizes itself to receive in its midst the divine presence, as in times past the people were organized in the desert around the camp of the Shekinah.
The notion that the community is the Temple refers to the Qumran way of replacing the role of the Jerusalem Temple from which the community had experienced a break during the transitional period until the future restoration of the sacrifice in that Temple.
While the existing Temple of Jerusalem had temporarily been rejected, the restoration of that Temple in the future was the important program that organized the present belief, that is, ‘the community as the Temple’. Schmidt thinks of the relationship between the Qumran community and the Temple as follows: ‘les gens de Qoumrân ordonnent le présent en fonction du premier et organisent le futur en fonction du second’ (‘the people of Qumran order the present as the primary duty and organize the future as the secondary duty’), For him, the Qumran sect was scattered far from the Temple, waiting to return and prepare for the future when the new Temple will be built. They temporarily lived without the Temple, in accordance with the past model of the desert camp.281 Thus, the roll of the Temple in the Qumran community had been modified in order to answer the question about the relations of the Qumran people to the Jerusalem Temple. Despite the separation from the Jerusalem Temple, according to Schmidt, ‘le Temple demeure à Qoumrân une institution primordiale’ (‘the temple remains for Qumran a fundamental institution’). Far from simply being considered as a spiritual construction, the Temple as conceived by the community of the new covenant will once again be materialized in a building of stones, bronze and iron. Far from there being enough rituals of substitution, there will come a day when the sacrificial ritual will be conducted again in order to make the blood flow from the altar.283 Therefore, Qumran’s attitude toward the Jerusalem Temple can be identified as ‘imperiled allegiance’ in which the Qumran community seeks for the future replacement of the Jerusalem priesthood with themselves and thus its interest in the Temple was still great (11QTemple 67.8–18).
The investigation of Qumran’s view of the temple tax and the tithe further support the characterization of its attitude as ‘imperiled allegiance’. If the Qumran community continued to support the Jerusalem Temple financially, the identification with ‘imperiled allegiance’ could hardly be maintained. Qumran had a halakah (‘ritual law’) regarding the half-shekel tax (4Q159 [4QOrdinancesa]). This small fragment contains commentaries on six laws (Deut. 23:25–26; Exod. 30:12–13; Lev. 25:39–46; Deut. 22:5; 22:13–21). The second commentary is about the half-shekel temple tax (Exod. 30:12–13). 4Q159 1.6–7 reads, ‘Concerning [ransom:] the money of the census which one gives as ransom for his own person will be half a shekel [corresponding to the shekel of the temple, as an offering to God]. Only once will he give it in all his days.’ It differs from the Rabbinic prescription of an annual payment. The issue is whether the temple tax was sent to the Jerusalem Temple or not, assuming that it was actually collected.
The purpose of the Qumran community’s interpretation of Exod. 30:12–13 can be grasped by an investigation of the halakhic method of the entire fragment, 4Q159. The six legal interpretations are both stricter and looser compared with the Pharisaic halakah. On the one hand, interpretations of the laws in 4Q159 require stricter observation; for example, the absolute prohibition of selling a slave (cf. Lev. 25:39–46) and the charge against woman’s virginity (cf. Deut. 22:13–21). On the other hand, some legal demands are generous; for example, the destitute can gather for his family from the threshing floor (cf. Deut. 23:25–26). Lawrence Schiffman points out that the general principle of the commentary seeks the so-called ‘true meaning’ in order to consolidate the sectarian community, distinguishing itself from the Jerusalem priestly one. Thus, Qumran’s interpretation of the Temple tax law might have had the intention of pointing out the falsity of the halakah of the Jerusalem community who probably maintained the annual payment of the half-shekel tax.
In fact, the half-shekel tax might not have been widespread, nor well observed in Palestine, although Finkelstein and Derrett claim so. William Horbury insists that ‘the half-shekel, probably of comparatively recent origin as a regular institution, was strongly advocated by the Pharisees.’290 Thus, this Qumran stipulation is against the Pharisees.According to him, the half-shekel offering, as a regulation for all Israel, is to be dated to the Pharisaic control of the council, possibly during the reign of Salome Alexandra.292 Thus, a one-time payment of the half-shekel tax in the Q community actually represented a rejection of support for the existing Temple system, based on the sect’s own interpretation of the biblical passage (Exod. 30:12–13) that was against the Pharisaic practice. Geza Vermes states that the reason for Qumran’s single payment ordinance of the Temple tax was not only to comply with the scriptural rule (esp. Exod. 30:12–13), but also to reject the regular support for the Temple of Jerusalem. Though the Qumran community collected the temple tax, it is hardly plausible that the community sent the collected tax to Jerusalem in support of the daily sacrifice of the Temple.
Most scholars agree that the Qumran community neither participated in the sacrifice of the Jerusalem Temple nor accepted its validity as an atoning ritual. They claim a cessation of the sacrifice in Qumran, referring to Philo’s statement that describes the Essenes as ‘especially devout in the service of God, not by offering sacrifices of animals, but by resolving to sanctify their minds’ (Omn. Prob. Lib. 75.75). O. Betz, for example, attempts to demonstrate how Philo’s observation of the practice at Qumran can be deducible, and concludes, ‘a new conception of the priestly ministry is developed not only in theory but also in practice. The sacrificial cult was not abolished, but it was to a large degree replaced and spiritualized.’ The absolute cessation of any sacrifice and the consequent rejection of participation in the sacrifice in Jerusalem have recently been reaffirmed by Brooke and Schmidt.298 This view is based on the fact that prayer in the Qumran community was equated with sacrifice and the perfect life was seen as having an expiatory function. In 1QS 9.4–5, prayer is in fact depicted as an acceptable fragrance of sweetness in place of the flesh of holocausts and the fat of burnt offerings. Thus, J. Carmignac thinks that the Qumran community believed that one day it would return to Jerusalem to re-establish a true liturgy conforming to the Law. Yet, in the interim it did not practice any animal burnt sacrifices.300
Therefore, it is hardly convincing that the members of the Qumran community traveled to Jerusalem in order to participate in the sacrificial rituals, and paid the temple tax in order to support the invalid sacrifice practiced there. Qumran’s view of the existing sacrifice is thoroughly negative: it was one of the main reasons why the community separated itself from the Temple. This community was looking forward to restoring the Temple cult someday. The collection of a one-time temple tax was conceivably done for the day of restoration of the Jerusalem Temple. It is plausible for such an eschatologically oriented community to look forward to returning and restoring the polluted sacrificial system.
A similar rule which looks forward to the day of restoration is found in CD 11.17–18: ‘No one shall offer [anything] upon the altar on he Sabbath except the burnt-offering of the Sabbath, for thus is it written, “except your Sabbaths”.’ At a glance, this rule endorses burnt-offerings within the Qumran community or the member’s participation in them in Jerusalem. But Schiffman compares this verse with the contradictory CD 6.11–14 which prescribes that abstention from the Jerusalem cult was a condition for sectarian membership. He suggests that CD 11.17–18 is ‘ideal in nature, looking forward to the restored Jerusalem cult of which the sectarian leaders would take charge.’ In short, the Qumran community had some laws that were proleptically prescribed in preparation for the future, ideal society when they would return to Jerusalem.
With regard to the tithe, the Qumran community had a detailed prescription (11Q Temple 60), but it does not mean that it supported the Jerusalem Temple financially. Rather it suggests the opposite. The Temple Scroll 60.2–7 reads,
… and all their consecrated gifts and all their fir[st born] which are male and all … of their cattle and all their holy gifts which they dedicated to me, together with every ho[ly gift] of their hillulim (cf. Lev. 19:24). And their tax contributions of birds, wild animals and fish shall be one thousandth of what they catch and of everything that they have placed under a ban and (likewise) the tax on booty and spoil. And to the Levites (is due) the tithe of corn and of (new) wine and fresh oil which they have first dedicated to me (cf. Num. 18:21); further (provision of) the shoulder from the sacrifice is (the responsibility) of those who sacrifice.’
Johann Maier posits that ‘the levitical tithe [first tithe] became obsolete in the course of the Second Temple period, or more precisely, it was usurped by the priests’. There may be a polemic purpose for the Qumran community to emphasize the levitical tithe in opposition to the Jerusalem priests.307 The levitical tithe was probably strictly collected, but it is hardly believable that it was sent to Jerusalem and priests. It is more likely that the tithe in the Qumran community would have been paid for the support of the ‘true’ priest system, that is, the Qumran community itself which was understood as the ‘Temple’ (4QFlor 1.2–7; 1QS 8.4–10). The Qumran community had its own religio-social system consisting of ‘priests, levites and lay people’. Tithing might have been legitimately used for this system until the true community returned.
Indeed, the rejection of the financial support for the Jerusalem Temple illuminates the social relationship between the Qumran community and the Jerusalem Temple. As for the social location of the Qumran community, García-Martínez states,
It is not difficult for them [people of the Qumran community] to transform it from the exile into a dwelling, a temporary residence or a stage on the path. From there, these ‘exiles of the desert’ will one day leave for the great battle which will make possible the return to a new Jerusalem and a new temple.
Although they expected to go back, their separation was radical. García-Martínez admits such a radical separation because the Qumran community had a distinctive purity conception. He points out purity concerns provide an important key for understanding the process of self-definition of the various Jewish groups of the Second Temple period, including the early Christian community, because their purpose is to safeguard a community. Having a different purity system was decisive in providing the Qumran community with its own identity. The community itself is seen as a substitute for the Temple. ‘This implies a transfer of the requirements of purity to the sphere of the community.’312
The radical separation thus resulted in a competition between the Qumran community and the Jerusalem Temple community. The former was opposing the latter because the latter had been judged to be false and its leadership had been radically rejected. The competition is depicted in the imagery of invitation of entry into the community where God’s divine protection appears (1QH 14.24–29).
24 The deep thunders at my sigh, [my soul nears] the gates of death. 25I am like someone entering a fortified city, and looking for shelter in the rampart until salvation. My God, I lean on your truth, 26for place the foundation upon rock, and the beams to the correct size, and the plumb line […] tested stone for a strong building 27which will not shake. All those who there will not stagger, for a foreigner will not penetrate it; its gates are armoured gates 28which do not permit entry; the locks are massive, and cannot be broken. No band at all with its weapons of war will enter, even though it is loaded [with weapons] 29of the wicked battle.
Although this hymn does not refer explicitly to the community as the Temple, its application of Isa. 28:16–17 to the community shows that it may have the same tradition as 1QS 8.1–10 that describes the Qumran community as the Temple competing against the Jerusalem Temple community. Gaston argues that in this hymn, the ‘I’ does not represent an individual sharing of the experience, but ‘the community itself sharing as a unit’.315 Thus, the hymn presupposes a conflict between the two communities, that is, the one centered in the Jerusalem Temple and the ‘community as the Temple’. The hymnist, using Isa. 28, emphasizes the divine protection of his community against the persecutor’s onslaught in the ‘chaotic waters of hell’. Also, he shows that salvation comes with entry into the community (1QH 14.25, 27–28).
In short, the distinctive attitude of the Qumran community toward the Jerusalem Temple shows some indicators that differentiate ‘imperiled allegiance’ from ‘critical allegiance’. Like ‘critical allegiance’, the QL attacks priestly inadequacy and the pollution of the sacrifice. But, unlike ‘critical allegiance’, its criticisms aim at a radical reformation, because they are raised by a community that has been excommunicated or has separated itself from the ruling community. This radical separation is well expressed by the ‘community as the Temple’ which presupposes a rejection of financial support as well as any other contact with the Jerusalem. Although the QL includes a legal fragment that requires payment of the Temple tax, tithe and burnt-offerings, the actual aim of these laws is to oppose the Jerusalem Temple, while looking forward to its restoration with their return. Thus, the Qumran people established a separate community with its own distinctive hermeneutics and purity conception that provided self-definition and identification. This community was engaged in a conflict against the Jerusalem priestly community. Using the imagery of persecution, 1QH 14.24–29 declares that the Qumran community is the place of God’s divine protection against persecution, and invites people into this community that is a Temple. Nevertheless, the Temple is central in the Qumran people’s symbolic universe. The Temple was never completely ignored. The harsh criticisms of the Temple ironically express the community’s burning desire for restoration/replacement.
The five Jewish Apocalyptic writings that I have observed reveal different degrees of criticisms toward the Temple. The arrangement in the above section represent my assessment of gradation: Sib. Or., Pss. Sol., 1 En. 89–90, T. Levi 14–18, and Ass. Mos. Although there are some criticisms, Sib. Or. basically provides a very positive attitude toward the Temple, thus, ‘devoted allegiance’. Most of the criticisms are addressed to the people, and the destruction of the Temple is introduced as the punishment of the people’s disobedience. Pss. Sol. deals with the problem of the priests. But it only mentions the pollution of individual priests, not the priestly system that may hinder sacrifice. There are two groups, but their distinction is made on the basis of different degrees of piety, nor of the different purity conceptions. Consequently, they are not in opposition. The criticisms appearing in the last three documents are much harsher than the first two, especially in their evaluation of the existing priesthood and the Temple. The pollution of the priesthood is so serious that it would make true sacrifice impossible and thus the existing Temple needs to be replaced with the transcendent Temple or priest.
Nonetheless, this harshness cannot be a threshold between ‘critical allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’. Interestingly, differences may be discerned among the three writings with reference to the commitment to the priesthood and/or Temple symbolism. In spite of its harsh criticisms, 1 En. 89–90 continuously holds on to Temple symbolism: the Temple is the center of the author’s interpretation of Jewish history and the restored Temple will eventually supersede the corrupted Temple. Likewise, in T. Levi 14–18 the priest, though transcendent, is the agent of the final restoration. Thus, it is hard to classify the criticisms of these two documents as lost allegiance, although there are differences between the criticisms of T. Levi 14–18 and those of Pss. Sol. Indeed, a certain disjunction between the transcendent priest and the existing priests in T. Levi 14–18 characterizes an extreme example of critical allegiance because the priesthood and the Temple, though implicit, remain at the center of the author’s symbolic universe.
The criticisms of Ass. Mos. differ from those of 1 En. 89–90 and T. Levi 14–18 in that they do not concern the centrality of the temple and priesthood. It is clear that the Temple is not the center of the author’s symbolic universe, although Ass. Mos. does not propose a new atonement system, other than the Temple sacrifice. This document probably reflects a group conflict, including persecution. The author’s community appears to struggle against and to distance itself from the Temple-centered community. Thus, it is hard to maintain that the criticisms of Ass. Mos. represent ‘critical allegiance’.
Another distinctive reaction to the Jerusalem Temple is found in the QL. It is similar to the criticisms categorized as critical allegiance (e.g. Pss. Sol., 1 En. 89–90, and T. Levi 14–18) in that the temple atonement is still maintained and the priestly system is central. But the difference is also evident. The QL expects the replacement of the hopeless, existing priesthood with the ‘true’ priesthood, namely themselves. The people of Qumran were probably priestly descendants who separated themselves from the Jerusalem Temple system in order to preserve their ‘purity’. This social location shows that the people of Qumran did not fundamentally reject the priestly-sacrificial system. Thus, I classify the criticisms of the QL as ‘imperiled allegiance’.
Summary and Conclusion
The goal of the investigation of the various temple states was not only to analyze various criticisms appearing in the exemplary temple states, but also to differentiate the indicators of ‘critical allegiance’ from those of ‘lost allegiance’. We have observed diverse criticisms in the literature associated with these states, which arise from various social locations. My exploration in this chapter provides three clear points of comparison that allow one to distinguish between critical allegiance and lost allegiance: (1) financial support of the temple; (2) the idea of the temple as the place of divine protection; (3) the centrality of the temple in the symbolic system. In addition, these three indicators can be coordinated with the social location and situation of the authors.
First of all, regardless of the severity of the criticisms, if a critic continues to support the temple financially, his attitude toward the temple must be one of critical allegiance. Despite criticisms regarding the worshippers and the priests, Sib. Or. encourages the financial support of the temple (3.545–50). In the history of the Koryo temple state, the moderate Bae-bul-ron of Seung-ro Choi, which is an example of critical allegiance, suggested only reducing the expenses for the Buddhist festivals, whereas the later, extreme Bae-bul-ron of Do-jon Chung, which I have classified as ‘lost allegiance’, rejected the Buddhist festivals entirely.
Nevertheless, statements regarding the payment of tithes and taxes do not always indicate critical allegiance. For example, the QL regulated tithes and taxes (4Q159; 11QTemple 60), though it rejected supporting the Jerusalem Temple. Qumran’s suggestion of a one-time payment of the Temple tax may have actually been rejection of the existing Temple system without violating the Law (Exod. 30:16) because it is hardly conceivable that the collected payment was sent to Jerusalem. Likewise, it is most likely that the community’s tithes were used to support its own religious system which opposed the Jerusalem Temple.
Secondly, the acceptance or the rejection of the idea of the temple as a place of divine protection is an important indicator in differentiating between ‘critical allegiance’ and ‘lost allegiance’. Sib. Or. provides rich examples in which the temple takes the central place of divine protection (3.357–701, 773–76, 194–196, 555–67). Plutarch (On Superstition 165B, 165D, 168D, 170C) and Apollonius (Letters of Apollonius 26–27; Praep. Ev. 4.13) also accepted the temple as the place of divine protection and revelation. Their criticisms aimed at the correction and/or reformation of the existing system (hence, critical allegiance).
If a criticism, however, rejects the role of the temple as the place of divine protection, then, arguably, it represents something more than critical allegiance. For example, in the extreme Bae-bul-ron, Do-jon Chung denied the validity of the In-wang canon that symbolized Buddha’s protection of the nation. Similarly, Lucian, whose criticisms I identified with ‘lost allegiance’, rejected the conception of the domus dei (Demonax 27; De Sacrificiis 11, 13). The QL’s idea in which their community was the true Temple (4QFlor 1.2–7; 1QS 8.4–10; 1QH 14.24–29) suggests that Qumran’s allegiance to the Jerusalem Temple is different from critical allegiance. By substituting their community for the Temple, the Qumran people express their expectation of return to Jerusalem and restoration of the Temple.
Finally, if a criticism rejects or ignores the temple symbolism or purity system that derives from the Temple-symbolism, it cannot represent critical allegiance. In critical allegiance the temple is the center of the symbolic universe. For example, despite his criticisms, Plutarch admits the centrality of the temple (Obsolescence of Oracles 409F). In the Dream Vision of 1 En., regardless of how severely the second Temple and priesthood are rejected, the temple is still at the center of the symbolic world. In Sib. Or. 3.702–704 both the Temple and sacrifice are seen as central. Pss. Sol. maintains the traditional purity system (15:4–13; 2:34–35). Likewise, the Qumran community, though they were so critical of the Temple, maintained the same purity centered symbolic universe as Pss. Sol. By contrast, if a criticism rejects the temple-system, then it demonstrates lost allegiance. The indifference to the temple by Diogenes of Sinope which is classified as ‘lost allegiance’ denies the existing purity system (Diogenes Laertius 6.73; 6.64). His criticisms of the temple can be described as the competition between two different ethical systems (‘change the currency!’ [Diogenes Laertius 6.20–21]). In fact, ‘lost allegiance’ often reflects a group competition in which one persecutes the other (cf. Ass. Mos. 2.6–9; 4.7–9; 6.1). The same lost allegiance appeared in the criticism of the Buddhist temple from the extreme Bae-bul-ron that held Neo-Confucianism as an alternative ethical system.
In addition, the social location of the author can be a coordinating factor in distinguishing between critical and lost allegiance. The former generally represents the position that was accepted by the insiders of a system (intra muros), while the latter are raised by the outsiders or marginalized ones. For instance, in the Koryo temple state two different types of the Bae-bul-ron were raised by Seung-ro Choi and Do-jon Chung: the former was the royal counselor, whereas the latter, who was viewed as a ‘marginalized man’, took a more extreme view. In general, the extreme Bae-bul-ron was maintained by literati, village scribal scholar-officers who were the descendants of the ostracized former aristocrats. Among the criticisms toward the Greek temples, the examples of ‘critical allegiance’ were expressed by Plutarch and Apollonius. The former was a priest and administrator of Delphi and the latter remained throughout ‘a warm supporter of monarchical rule’ though he reformed the temple and cults. By contrast, an example of ‘lost-indifferent allegiance’ appeared in the view of Diogenes of Sinope who was marginalized and exiled. In Jewish apocalyptic literature, Sib. Or. includes priestly perspectives in its expression of critical allegiance. The conflict reflected in the Pss. Sol. can be defined as intra muros because scholars agree that the provenance of the book was Jerusalem. Thus, the criticisms of this document are classified as critical allegiance. By contrast, the criticisms of the Temple appearing in Ass. Mos., however, cannot be categorized as critical allegiance. Some scholars suggest that the community of the document might have separated from the Jerusalem priestly community. An intriguing example is the Qumran community’s criticisms of the temple, which I have identified with imperiled allegiance. Though the community is marginalized, its priestly orientation buttresses the Temple-centered symbolism. In short, criticisms from a marginalized or separated community do not automatically prove ‘lost allegiance’. But they should be not classified as ‘critical allegiance’. Conversely, ‘lost allegiance’ is not always expressed by a marginalized or separated community. Lucian’s view of the temple has been classified as lost allegiance though he was not marginalized because he denied the existing temple centered symbolic universe. He criticizes a system that is no longer the dominating socio-symbolic one and that is unable to serve the people’s need for ‘order and protection’ in the ‘universalized’ Roman world. He does not explicitly oppose the temple symbolism in its entirety, but rejects its centrality; nor does he belong to the temple system.
Q’s Allegiance to the Jerusalem Temple?
The purpose of this chapter is to investigate the Q community’s perception of the Temple. We will examine four passages; Q 4:9–12, 11:42, 11:49–51, and 13:34–35.
The word ἱερόν (‘holy place’) appears in Q 4:9, although it does not express an explicit view of the Temple. Q 11:51, though it probably reads οἶκος (‘house’) rather than ναός (‘temple’), is nevertheless a clear reference to the Temple.2 In addition to these two passages, the term οἶκος is used as a reference to the Temple in Q 13:34–35. In Q 11:42 there is an implicit reference to the Temple in the debate about tithing, insofar as tithing was in part to support the Temple.
The Q Temptation story is unique in that the term Temple (τὸ ἱερόν) is explicit. In the second episode in the Matthean order, the Temple is selected as the place of temptation by the devil. Yet, almost no one has attempted to determine Q’s attitude toward the Temple by reference to this passage. The reason for this neglect is that the Temptation story does not primarily deal with the Temple. Furthermore, it is not clear on the surface whether the story expresses a negative or a positive attitude toward the Temple. One could suggest that the Temple is positively assessed here because it is the symbolic place of divine protection attended by angels, assuming that the Temple is a domus dei. Or one could suggest that the Temple is viewed negatively because Jesus’ refusal to perform miracles may be equated with the rejection of Temple symbolism as a place of divine protection. What is explicitly stated in Q 4:9–12 is that Jesus refuses the devil’s demand for a miracle because it would ‘test God’.
In order to determine the point of the story, we have to consider two questions raised in this context. One concerns Jesus: why does he reject the devil’s offer? The other concerns the aim of the devil: why does he choose the Temple as a place of a temptation? Investigations into these matters will provide some important clues for determining Q’s view of the Temple according to 4:9–12. The following investigation will begin with a survey of scholarly opinions about why Jesus rejects the devil’s offer and will analyze the reason for the devil’s use of the Temple as the place of the temptation. Then, I will define the underlying attitude of Q toward the Temple in Q 4:9–12.
1. Analysis of the Dispute in Q 4:9–12
The IQP reconstruction of Q 4:9–12 is as follows:
[[The devil]] took him to «Jerusalem»
[ ] αὐτὸν
καὶ ἔστησεν (αὐτὸν)
and put him
ἐρὶ τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ
on the pinnacle of the Temple
καὶ [εἶπεν] αὐτῳ
and said to him
εἶ υἱὸς εἶ τοῦ θεοῦ
if you are the son of God
βάλε σεαυτὸν [[ ]] κάτω·
throw yourself down
γέγραπται γὰρ ὅτι
For it is written,
τοῖς ἀγγέλοις αὐτοῦ
He will command his angels concerning you.
ἐντελεῖται περὶ σοῦ
καὶ [ ] ἐπὶ χειρῶν
and on their hands
they will bear you up,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
πρὸς λίθον τὸν πόδα σου·
[[ [ἀποκριριθεὶς] ]]
And Jesus answered him,
[εἶπεν] αὐτῷ ὁΊ
[[ [ ] ]]
It is written,
You shall not test
κύριον τὸν θεόν σου.
the Lord your God.
The focus of the dispute lies in Jesus’ answer, namely, why Jesus rejected the devil’s offer. While the devil attempts to misrepresent the person and/or work of Jesus, the latter’s response is intended to correct those who do not understand him. There are many opinions regarding the specific point of misunderstanding. The diverse views can be summarized into two basic approaches. One attempts to find a specific thought or movement in which Jesus is incorrectly portrayed. The other tries to find the right portrayal of Jesus within the literary context.
(1) A number of scholars understand the temptation story against the background of some movement that misunderstood Jesus. Accordingly they see the temptation narrative as an attempt to reject an understanding of Jesus as θεῖος ἀνήρ (‘divine man’), or as an explanation and justification of why the Q community did not participate in the Zealot movement.9 According to the latter suggestion, the third temptation in the Matthean order is an invitation to accept the ideal of ‘political-messianic worldly rule’. Jesus’ rejection of it is a rejection of the connection between Messianic hope and the temple.11 It is compared to Josephus’s report of an incident in which six thousand people had rushed to the Temple thinking that God would give them a sign of deliverance (War 6.285–6). Other scholars interpret Jesus’ refusal as a rejection of some popular expectation. Manson states that the Temptation stories picture ‘the clash between what Jesus knew Himself’ and ‘what popular expectation demanded’. Jacobson argues that the reason for the rejection is to correct a contemporary Jewish group who held an ‘enthusiastic, apocalyptic expectation of divine intervention’.14 Schottroff and Stegemann think that Jesus’ rejection distances himself from certain kinds of miracle working activities. Fitzmyer also thinks, ‘Jesus is challenged as Son to use his power to reveal himself with éclat to his contemporaries and to conform to popular ideas of what a heaven-sent leader of the people would be’.16 Claims of extraordinary power, according to him, uttered by persons who called themselves prophets, were current during the period.
(2) Other scholars interpret Jesus’ rejection from a literary point of view. Unlike other Q passages, the Temptation story is a genuine narrative.18 In the narrative, the reason for Jesus’ rejection of the devil’s offer is that the miracle performance would test God. My question is in what sense the miracle performance is a testing of God. In other words, how is it an act of obedience to refuse to jump off of the Temple? Many scholars suggest Exod. 17:1–7 as the background of the Temptation story. According to that text, God intervened and performed miracles for incredulous people. The incident at Massah reveals the sin of Israel to be their attempt to test whether the Lord was among them or not (Exod. 17:7). The people of Israel wanted to confirm God’s presence and protection through miracles, but it was a sin because God was constantly with the people of Israel during the journey in the wilderness (Exod. 13:21–22; 40:37–38; Num. 9:19–22; Deut. 8:2–4). It is ‘trust’, rather than miracle that assures God’s presence with the believers. Thus, Jesus’ answer in the story suggests that the presence/protection of God should not be doubted, as Israel had done by demanding miracles, but acknowledged through trust in God. At Massah, God’s miracle was performed ironically to reprimand his people for insisting that his presence should be made manifest. By trying to persuade Jesus that he would be miraculously saved if he jumped from the Temple, the devil tempts Jesus to follow in the footsteps of the Israelites. By refusing, however, Jesus demonstrates trust in God. Unless one already trusts God, miracles are useless to convince one of God’s presence/protection. True obedience to (or trust in) God is the way to assure God’s presence and thus does not demand a self-serving miracle.
Of these two suggestions, the latter is more correct, for the portrayal of Jesus as the model of obedience is indeed the common theme of the three temptations. All three stories are linked with the wilderness tradition of Israel: parallel points are ‘being led into the wilderness’, ‘being tempted’, and ‘forty’. The first temptation brings to mind the story of the manna (Deut. 8:3–4; Exod. 16:12–15; Num. 11:6–9, 21:5). The second temptation presupposes the deuteronomic promise of the special resting-place ‘which Yahweh your God will choose’ (Deut. 12:5, 11, 18, 21, 14:23–26, 15:20, 16:2, 6, 11, 16; 17:8, 10 etc.). Indeed, the object of the journeying is to reach Canaan, the special place of Yahweh. The third temptation corresponds to the story of Moses on Mt Nebo (Deut. 34:1–4) where God showed him ‘all the land’ a reference to the whole world according to Rabbinic interpretation (cf. Q 4:5, βασιλεία τοῦ κοσμοῦ).
There may be difficulties in maintaining tight links between the temptations in the Temple and mountain (or high places) and specific events in the wilderness. But it is clear that the wilderness tradition provides the general background of Q’s temptation story. Applying the wilderness tradition, Q intends to draw a contrast between Israel’s disobedience and Jesus’ trust in God. At first glance, the temptations in the wilderness and the Temple appear to prove the sonship of Jesus, but the investigation of the structure of the dispute shows that a defense of Jesus’ sonship is not the aim. Regardless of its placement,24 the temptation at the Temple parallels the temptation in the wilderness, the first temptation in the sequence. Both have the same rhetorical structure: after presenting a ‘condition’, the devil lays out a ‘request’ which draws a ‘response’.
εἰ υἱὸς εἶ τοῦ θεοῦ
do a certain miracle
οὐκ … ὁ ἄνθρωπος (3rd person subject)
Second (or third) Temptation:
εἰ υἱὸς εἷ τοῦ θεοῦ
do a certain miracle
with scriptural basis:
οὐκ ἐκπειράσεις κύριον τὸν θεόν σοῦ (2nd person subject)
The devil has determined the criterion by which Jesus can prove his sonship, namely, by performing a miracle. According to the devil’s logic, if the response matches the request, then the condition proves to be true. But Jesus’ response does not meet the request; rather, he counters it by citing a scriptural passage. Yet, at the literary level, Jesus’ responses adequately meet the requests and Jesus’ divine sonship is assumed to be maintained. Interestingly, in the temptation in a high place (or mountain), the sonship of Jesus is no longer in question.27
Temptation in a Mountain (or High Place)
κύριον τὸν θεόν σοῦ προσκυνήσεις (2nd person subject)
The dialogue of this temptation has a different structure. The devil offers an incentive, namely the kingdoms of the world (πάσας τὰς βασιλείας τοῦ κόσμου) in return for Jesus’ worship of him, but Jesus rejects the incentive by pointing out that the true object of worship is ‘the Lord your God’. The phrase, κύριον τὸν θεόν σοῦ, thus serves as a catchword with the temptation at the Temple (Q 4:12; 4:8). It reveals that the key idea in the Temptation narrative is to show the conflict between worshipping the devil and worshipping God. Furthermore, it intends to establish a model of the true worshiper based on Jesus’ trust in God, rather than through the expectation of miracles.
In short, the literary purpose of Jesus’ rejection of the devil’s offer is to show his true obedience, not testing God’s presence for self-serving protection. The devil’s goal is to make Jesus disobedient just as Israel was in the wilderness. By contrast, Jesus’ trust in God is offered as the model for the true worshiper.
Nevertheless, the above investigation into why Jesus in the story rejects the devil’s offer does not explicitly show Q’s type of allegiance to the Temple. Yet, the devil’s use of the Temple as the place of the temptation must not be overlooked. As it is the devil who brought Jesus to such a symbolic place of God’s protection, to τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ (‘the pinnacle of the Temple’) his use of the Temple must be deliberate in the narrative. Indeed, if a rescue alone is in view, a wilderness cliff would do just as well.
In addition, the term πτερύγιον occurs only here in the New Testament. Outside of the New Testament, there are two other references to the ‘pinnacle of the Temple’. One concerns James, the brother of Jesus, who was cast down to his death from to τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ναός according to Hegesippus (Eusebius, Hist. Eccles. 2.23.11; cf. 2 Apoc. Jas. 61.20–27). The other is found in the Narrative of Joseph of Arimathea, which states that the πτερύγιον fell when the earth quaked at Jesus’ crucifixion (3.4). Nevertheless, it is impossible to identify the referent of τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ with any certainty. Instead of trying to determine the exact location of τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ, the more important point for this study lies in its imagery.
Scholars have noted that the image of τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ is often used when referring to the protection of God. God’s offer of refuge in the Old Testament is frequently portrayed with wing imagery (πτερύγιον) as in the phrases, ‘under the shadow of thy wings’ (כַצל כנפיך, ἐν τῇ σκιᾷ τῶν πτερύγων σου) or ‘in the shelter of thy wings’ (בַצל כנפיך: ἐν τῇ σκέπῃ τῶν πτερύγων σου). This image of protection is often associated with the Temple (Ps. 36:7–8; 61:4; 91:4, 10), since the Temple, especially its precincts (τέμενος), served as a special place of divine protection in Jewish tradition.
Thus, in the narrative, the purpose for using of τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ is to make it hard for Jesus to deny the devil’s offer. The temptation intends to show that Jesus is no better than the people of Israel who tested God in the wilderness. Just as they tested God’s presence by asking for protection from thirst (Exod. 17:1–7), the devil tempts Jesus by using the symbolic center of God’s protection for the Jews.38
2. Q’s Attitude toward the Temple
The above investigation reveals that Q has an ambivalent position to the Temple. On the one hand, the temptation narrative does not portray the Temple in a negative way. It does not deal with the contrast between sonship and Temple symbolism, but stresses Jesus’ model of obedience for true worshipers, assuming that deliverance at the Temple is no problem. On the other hand, Jesus refutes the idea that the Temple is the center of God’s protection. The devil uses this popular conception to make it more difficult for Jesus to refuse the offer. But Jesus’ refusal to perform a miracle reflects the Q community’s rejection of the notion that the Temple is the central symbol of God’s protection and presence. God’s presence and protection are not confined to the Temple.
Q’s ambivalent position may also be illustrated through the imagery τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ. The imagery indeed reveals an ironic contrast. Most Old Testament instances of πτερύγιον follow the preposition ‘under’ (ἐν or ὑπὸ). Hence, the Temple is seen as the old symbolic center of God’s protection while Jesus, the new symbol, is standing ‘upon’ (ἐπί) the ‘wings’ of the Temple, rather than ‘under’ them. Thus, the imagery admits a symbolic meaning of the Temple, but denies the symbolic centrality of it as the place of God’s divine protection and presence.
A similar criticism can be found in Lucian’s view of the temple, which I have classified as ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’. Lucian (or Demonax) criticizes the ‘blessing’ and ‘protection’ associated with the temple in order to clear up the notions of ‘worldly blessing’ and the ‘mundane concept of protection’. These criticisms seem to be necessary for him in the process of establishing a new order that might better serve the new world, that is the Roman Empire.41 The temple symbolism that serves a small polis (‘city’) does not fit the universalized Roman Empire. In Lucian’s criticisms, the temple is not rejected in its entirety because Lucian does not oppose temples, per se. But he does not consider them an adequate symbolic system for the new order because gods are not confined to temples and thus temples are not the only place of the gods’ protection and presence.43 It should be noted that Lucian is not marginalized or ostracized from the temple-polis, thus, he does not stand against the temple system: the temple may continue to play some symbolic role. But since his view represents that of an outsider to the temple-polis system, he needs a different symbolic system from the temple centered one. Consequently, he can maintain ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’ to the old social symbolic system, the temple.
Likewise, Q’s view of the Temple in 4.9 reflects a situation in which the Temple centered symbolic system is no longer at the center, though the Temple still maintains some symbolic meaning. It expresses an even milder position than that of Lucian because there is no explicit criticism of the Temple. In spite of this positive tendency, Q 4:9–12 does not represent ‘critical allegiance’, which accepts the existing temple as the symbolic center and thus the critic is a member of that symbolic system. By contrast, the centrality of the Temple is ignored in Q 4:9–12.
The referent of to τὸ πτερύγιον
There are four different suggestions with reference to the location of τὸ πτερύγιον in the Temple structure. (1) The term could refer to a lintel (or a superstructure) of the Temple gateway. Jeremias thinks that τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ refers to a certain part of the temple structure (‘baulichen Terminus’) because he argues that the place of temptation corresponded to the Talmudic word, אגוף (lintel). But, according to him, the term cannot have meant the entire lintel (Turrahmen), but only refers to the uppermost part (Ttirsturz).45 The synoptic use of πτερύγιον is based on the Hebrew word אגו which corresponds to the Talmudic term אגוף (lintel), though אגף can also have a totally different sense, ‘wing’. He states:
The designation πτερύγιον is therefore derived from a popular etymology, or it is a mistranslation of a Semitic word. The definite article in Matthew and Luke: τὸ πτερύγιον is translation Greek, an Aramaism, which also appears elsewhere in the Gospels, hence the article designates nothing specific.
Thus, he concludes that the πτερύγιον of the synoptic (and Q) tradition indicates the same place as אגוף of the Talmud, namely, an uppermost lintel (Türturz or Toraufbau) of a Temple gateway.
(2) Some interpret τὸ πτερύγιον as the roof of the Temple or a projection thereof on the basis of rabbinic expectation that the Messiah would appear on the roof of the Temple. For instance, Pes. R. 36.2 (162a) reads, ‘When the king Messiah appears, he will come and stand on the roof of the Temple and will make a proclamation to Israel, saying: Meek ones, the day of your redemption is come.’
(3) τὸ πτερύγιον has been identified with the στοὰ βασιλική, which was located in the southeast comer of the Temple. Josephus mentions a balcony on the Temple Mount from which ‘one could barely see the bottom of the valley below, and to look made one giddy’ (Ant. 15.411–12). Some scholars identify this balcony with the Royal Portico, which loomed over a cliff and the Kidron Valley and created a drop of some 450 feet (y. Pes. 35b). For instance, Schlatter argues that πτερύγιον in the synoptic tradition is the translation of the Semitic designation אגוף which refers to a place of a wing of the outer Temple-wall in the Palestinian Talmud. This place may be identified with the balcony projecting over the street as Josephus mentions.
(4) τὸ πτερύγιον could be identified with the southwestern corner of the Temple Mount where the trumpet was sounded (War 4. 580–83). The excavation team led by Benjamin Mazar found an eight-foot-long stone with the inscription ‘the place for trumpeting …’ at the base of the southwestern corner. Features of the stone and the inscription enable a reconstruction of how the top of this corner of the Temple Mount looked. Josephus’s report on this corner as the place where the trumpet was blown provides strong evidence in support of this reconstruction. Aaron Demsky claims that the stone ‘once graced the topmost pinnacle of the Temple Mount’.52 If he is correct, it was the place where the priest stood and gave notice, ‘by sounding a trumpet, in the afternoon of the approach, and on the following evening of the close, of every seventh day, announcing to the people the respective hours for ceasing work and for resuming their labors’ (War 4.580–583).
In spite of the above suggestions, it is impossible to identify the referent of τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱερου with any certainty. For the assumption that τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱερου refers to the uppermost lintel of a Temple gateway, another Greek word, ὑπέρθυρον, would be expected. In addition, the reference to the appearance of Messiah on the roof of the Temple (Pes. R. 36.2) comes late. Although its semantic range covers ‘anything like a wing’,55 the term πτερύγον (or πτέρυξ) does not frequently appear to be used to refer to a specific part of a building or construction elsewhere. The related terms, πτέρον or πτέρωμα are used to refer to ‘peripheral colonnades’ or ‘temple roofs or pediments’, yet this usage is late and rare.
Q 4:9–12 and T. Levi 16–18
Criticisms found in T. Levi 16–18 may help us understand the nature of Q’s view of the Temple in 4:9–12. Although T. Levi 16–18 does not spell out its view of the Temple, its view of the priesthood draws some points of comparison with Q’s view of the Temple in 4:9–12 because the relationship between the new priesthood and the existing one in T. Levi 18 is ambivalent. In this chapter, there is a disjunction between the existing priesthood and the sudden rise of the new priesthood; nevertheless, the legitimate priesthood is the central theme of the book.
The literary-thematic structure of T. Levi 14–18 describes the progressive disintegration of the Jerusalem priesthood (chs. 14–17) and the appearance of the eschatological priest in the likeness of Levi (ch. 18). The coming priesthood (18.1–2) is hardly a continuation of the existing, corrupted one because it is a transcendent entity: the ‘new priesthood’ is not in the blood line of Levi (cf. Melchizedek in Heb. 5:10; 7:1–10). Thus, T. Levi does not fit smoothly into my category of ‘critical allegiance’. The criticisms in this document are much harsher than those of ‘critical allegiance’ found, for example, in the Pss. Sol. Nonetheless, the concern for the priesthood in T. Levi is still central to the entire document. Charles believed the priestly origin of T. Levi. For him, Levi is probably to be associated with the priest introduced in T. Levi 5.2, who has a direct heavenly commission. The document is most likely a priestly one, whose criticisms are perhaps raised from within the community. Thus, it hardly represents ‘lost allegiance’. The present rejection of the existing priesthood indicates the anticipation of a future restoration of the legitimate priesthood (i.e. ‘new priesthood’). Therefore, the replacement of the existing, malfunctioning priesthood with the ideal, transcendent one can represent ‘extreme’ critical allegiance, because the priesthood is the central theme of the document.
T. Levi 18.6 also includes the transcendent Temple: ‘The heaven will be opened and from the temple of glory sanctification will come upon him.’ The priestly origin of the documents coheres with a notion that the idealized Temple is the main agent for bringing sanctification in the future restoration (T. Levi 18.6). The significance of the Temple system is upheld. By contrast, in Q 4:9–12 the Temple is not the symbolic center of the community. Thus, Q expresses a different view from an extreme type of ‘critical allegiance’.
The woe to the Pharisees for paying tithes (Q 11:42) is important for determining Q’s allegiance to the Temple because the tithe is crucial to the Temple’s existence. The verse consists of three parts. The IQP’s reconstruction of the passage is as follows:
ἀλλὰ οὐαὶ ὑμῖν τοῖς Φαρισαίοις,
But woe to you Pharisees,
ὅτι ἀποδεκατοῦτε τὸ ἡδύοσμον
for you tithe mint and
τὸ [[ἄνηθ]]ον καὶ πᾶν
[[dill]] and [[cummin]]
και παρέρχεσθε τὴν κρίσιν
and neglect justice
καὶ τὴν ἀγάπην τοῦ θεοῦ·
and the love of God;
ταῦτα δὲ ʼὲδει ποιῆσαι κἀκεῖνα
but these things you ought to have
done, without neglecting the other.
The point of the saying is apparently that a tithe (42a) ought to be paid (42c), although that is not all that God requires (42b). If the Q community paid tithes to the Temple, then Q 11:42 is perhaps an example of its ‘critical allegiance’ to the Temple. In other words, regardless of how severely Q criticizes the tithing practices of the Pharisees in 42a, b, the community would fundamentally have been loyal to the existing Temple system. This line of interpretation views Q 11:42 as an intra muros debate in which the Q community was as concerned with tithing as the Pharisees. The bases of this view are: (1) v. 42c affirms the Pharisaic practice of tithing found in v. 42a; (2) the Q community was a Pharisaic party because it knew the Pharisaic practice of the law so accurately; (3) the items listed in v. 42a were liable for tithing.
There are grounds, however, to suspect that the Q community did not pay tithes to the Temple. To support this assertion I will deal with two questions. The first one centers on the relationship between Q 11:42a and 42b. While many scholars interpret the two as supplementary, namely that the Q community accepts the tithing practice in v. 42a and only criticizes Pharisaic ignorance of’ more important virtues’, other recent works have suggested that it reflects a ‘symbolic’ debate (or lampoon) with little historical reliability regarding the tithe. Instead, v. 42a, b may be an example of Q’s attempt to establish social boundaries vis-á-vis the Pharisees. The second question is whether v. 42c proves that the Q community paid tithes to the Temple. At first glance, v. 42c commands the observance of the practices described in both v. 42a and v. 42b. There are, however, other documents that encourage tithing for the financial support of an author’s own community, apart from the Temple. Thus, Q 11:42c may not encourage actual payment of tithes to the Jerusalem Temple by the Q community. The following investigation will begin with a survey of the scholarly views on how v. 42b is related to v. 42a.
1. The relationship between v. 42b and v. 42a
Q scholars often agree that the conflict behind Q 11:42 is related to Pharisaic attention to details at the neglect of ‘more important’ requirements like ἡ κρίσις καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ (‘judgment and the love of God’). They thus see the requirements of v. 42b as supplementary to v. 42a. Among these scholars, there are three slightly different opinions about the relationship between the two statements: (1) both the Q community and the Pharisees practiced tithing (v. 42a) and observed the ‘more important’ requirement (v. 42b), because the latter was an intrinsic part of the tithing law (Manson and Wild), (2) v. 42b is an extension of the tithing law and thus ignorance of it does not break the law (Schulz and Tuckett). (3) v. 42b is an intrinsic requirement of the law, and the Q community emphasized it more in order to shift the attention from legal details to the ethical dimension of the law (Schürmann and Catchpole). In all three explanations, the Q community is understood to have observed the tithing law as the Pharisees did and thus the nature of the conflict is intra muros.
Manson asserts that the conflict in Q 11:42 took place between the Q community and a small group of Pharisees who did not represent the views of Pharisees in general. The Q community would then have criticized the practice of this small group because it did not meet the fundamental demand of God (v. 42b). Manson believes that the majority of the Pharisees observed v. 42b as an intrinsic requirement of the law. In this they were not different from the Q community, which also emphasized the moral dimension of the law.
Wild presents a similar idea. Jesus (or the Q community) adopted a legal perspective on the tithe that was characteristic of Pharisaism, and ‘then went on in a prophetic fashion to condemn any sort of myopic understanding of what the Law truly required.’ For him, 42a, b represents both Jesus’ (or Q’s) and the Pharisaic practice of tithing. In fact, Wild thinks that Jesus (or the Q people) was Pharisaic. The bases of his argument are: (1) Jesus knew about the sectarian, Pharisaic tithing practices; and (2) 42c affirms a sectarian halakhic practice. He thinks that ‘a criticism as is found in Q 11:42a, b is not at all unlike the polemic advanced by Hillel and his disciples against the positions taken by Shammai’.
For Schulz, Q 11:42, as a whole, shows Q’s acceptance of the Pharisaic practice of the tithing law. The reason why the Q community stresses v. 42b was not because the Pharisaic practice was legally inappropriate, but because the Q community radicalized the observance of the law in order to keep a balance between legal and ethical actions. Thus, v. 42b represents an extended law based on Q’s ‘prophetic-apocalyptic expectation’. The intent of Q’s radicalization is to place both ritual and moral laws at the same level. Consequently, the Q community is not critical of the Pharisaic tithing practice as a ritual dimension of the law (42a), but it emphasizes the law’s ethical dimension (42b).
Tuckett also understands the command in v. 42b as the ‘more important’ requirement that does not oppose the meticulous observance of the tithe law (42a). He likewise thinks that v. 42b is an extended law: ‘the comment is not just about those who keep the law but about those who voluntarily do more than the law required’. As a result, he believes that the Q community must have continually practiced the tithe just as the Pharisees did. His argument is based on the significance of Q11.42c as an example of Q redaction that affirms the traditional tithing practice for the community, so called ‘re-judaization’.74 Thus, v. 42c supersedes the negative cast of v. 42a, showing that the Q community is gradually reaffirming the ceremonial law, rather than departing from it.
For Schürmann, Q 11:42 is transmitted by a group of ‘law-observant Jewish Christians’ who accentuated the ethical aspect of the Torah instead of strict observance of the details of the law. He states: ‘Lk 11:42b transformiert den legalistischen Radikalismus der Pharisäer ins Ethische’ (‘Lk. 11:42b transforms the legalistic radicalism of the Pharisees into an ethical radicalism’). The ‘more important’ commandment (42b) stresses the ethical dimension of the Torah, which is an integral part of the tithing law. Thus, 42b shifts the emphasis from legal strictness to moral ‘wholeness’ (Gänzlichkeit).
Catchpole also thinks that Q 11:42b shifts Q’s emphasis from the tithe to the ‘judgment’. For him, 42b does not criticize the ‘Pharisaic teaching or principles’ of the tithing law, but later ‘Pharisaic inaction’ (i.e. ignorance of ‘judgment’). He has found a chiastic structure.
a. Tithes (42a)
b. Judgment (42b)
b′. Judgment (ταῦτα; 42cα)
a′. Tithes (κάκεινα; 42cβ)
This chiastic structure is built upon the rhetorical contrast between ταῦτα (‘these things’) and κάκεινα (‘those things), and assumes that the Q community held to a ‘hierarchy of religious obligation’. He claims that the point of the debate is to show that ‘judgment’ ranks higher than ‘tithing’, though the community observed both. Thus, for him, v. 42b shows Q’s shift of emphasis from a lower ranking requirement to a higher ranking obligation. He defines the nature of the conflict between the Q community and the Pharisees as intra muros since ‘religious groups which show least sympathy for one another often have most in common in terms of heritage’.
The scholars listed above often assume that the conflict took place among law-observing groups and thus define the nature of conflict as intra muros (Manson, Schürmann, Schulz, Wild and Catchpole). In addition, they think that the Q community paid tithes as stated in Q 11:42c (Schulz, Tuckett and Catchpole). Wild points out the fact that Jesus (or the Q people) was well aware of the meticulous Pharisaic tithing practice, which was a sectarian position. But Jesus’ exact awareness of the Pharisaic tithing practices does not prove that he (or Q) was a part of the Pharisees, let alone that he practiced tithing in such a way. Likewise, Catchpole’s chiastic structure does not prove that the Q community accepted the tithing law, because this structure only proves that Q stressed ‘judgment’ in contrast to tithing. Also, it does not take into consideration the differences between v. 42a, b and v. 42c with respect to both form and content. Unlike the former, the addressees in v. 42c are no longer the Pharisees. In addition, the tone of the two parts is noticeably different: while v. 42c includes moral admonition, the earlier parts evince sarcasm.
If Q 11:42c is a later addition, the nature of the conflict of Q 11:42a, b can be determined by what the Q community intended in v. 42b: was it to correct or to reject the Pharisaic lifestyle represented by meticulous tithing? In this regard, it is necessary to reconsider the genre of Q 11:42a, b. This re-evaluation will also have to take into consideration the question of the items listed for tithing. If all the items prove to be subject to tithing, then 11:42a, b may, indeed, be a genuine debate about the relative importance of tithing vis-à-vis other objections. There is, however, little proof that this is the case. The historical unreliability of the rabbinic literature cannot prove or disprove the liability of the listed items. If not all the items in v. 42a prove to be tithable, then the conventional genre of 11:42a, b will need to be redefined.
2. The Nature of the Conflict Appearing in verse 42a, b
While the view that v. 42b supplements v. 42a has many supporters, some recent work has challenged the idea. Vaage was the first to argue that the conflict reflected in Q 11:42a, b is ‘lampoon’. He insists that the debate of Q 11:42 is a social critique, pointing out that all the woes criticize the Pharisaic ‘normative ethos’ and ‘religio-cultural system’.85 This view is advanced by Kloppenborg and followed by Jolliffe and Horsley. If this is the case, the Q community’s use of hyperbole and rhetorical lampoon indicates that the woe does not criticize a specific action or practice of the Pharisees,87 but the Pharisaic lifestyle which is represented by their meticulous tithing practice. Then, the historicity of the items listed in Q 11:42a cannot be an issue.
This line of argumentation views the conflict behind Q 11:42 to be about social ‘belonging’. Belonging to a certain social group can be characterized by distinctive social markers or patterns of the group’s lifestyle. Meticulous tithing is one of these markers. According to Neusner, the meticulous act of tithing becomes a distinctive social marker of the Pharisees during the Herodian reign when they become ‘a sectarian religious movement’. For him, the dietary regulations are established by combining agricultural laws (including tithing) with the purity laws, so that ‘those who observed these dietary regulations could have table-fellowship with any Pharisees (and so, in effect, assume membership in this group) while those who did not were excluded as legal sinners.’89
By contrast, the more important requirement (Q 11:42b) may reveal the social marker of the Q community, if the Lukan κρίσις and ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ represent the Q wording. With regard to the source of this phrase, Jolliffe suggests that Q’s usage of κρίσις here differs from the other three occurrences in Q (10:14; 11:31, 32). While κρίσις in other places is used as the ‘dative objects of the preposition “in” (ἐν) and refers to the time of judgment’, it refers here to justice, rather than judgment. He asserts that κρίσις in Q 11:42b probably refers to משפט in the Old Testament, which has to do with love of one’s neighbor. Using Deut. 14:28–29, which shows the association between tithing and the love of one’s neighbor, he claims that the Q wording κρίσις and ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ refer to ‘love of neighbor’ and ‘love of God’ respectively. In that case, Q 11:42b is the summary of the ultimate goal of the law. If he is correct, then the Q wording (κρίσις and ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ) refers to the purely ethical demand upon humankind, and the conflict represents a contrast between the tithing law and the ‘ultimate law’, namely, love.
It is hardly convincing, however, that the term משׁפט represents the ‘love of one’s neighbor’ and thus that the Q community consciously recognized κρίσις and ἀγάπν τοῦ θεοῦ as the summary of the entire law. Jolliffe suggests Deut. 14:28–29 as a proof text, but the passage does not deal with the purpose of the tithe, nor is the term משׁפט used. He also proposes two other references, Dial. Sav. 13–74 and Gos. Thom. 25. In these passages ‘love’ is paired with ‘goodness’ (ἀγαθός), but here in Q he must equate ‘goodness’ (ἀγαθός) with κρίσις. Jolliffe is correct that the meaning of κρίσις in Q 11:42b does not refer to Roman ‘justice’, and that it has an apparent Old Testament link. But the equation between κρίσις and the ‘favorable action toward neighbors’ is warranted by none of the passages he mentions. Additionally, an assertion that the combination of κρίσις and ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ represents the summary of the entire law, ‘love of neighbor’ and ‘love of God’, is highly questionable because the Sayings Gospel does not have a systematic view of the law.
Moreover, regarding the interpretation of κρίσις there is no particular reason why it connotes ‘justice’ in contrast to ‘judgment’ in the other three Q references. It is more likely that all four occurrences of κρίσις in Q have the same connotation, ‘judgment’, because all of them belong to the same stratum (which means that they shared the same Sitz im Leben), and two occurrences (in Q 11:31–32) share the same literary context with Q 11:42, that is, the warning against ‘this generation.’ In addition, Q has three more uses (Q 6:37 [×2]; 22:30) of κρίνω with the meaning, ‘to pass judgment on’.
Furthermore, κρίσις and ἀγάπη depict attributes of God, rather than the ethical demand upon humankind as Jolliffe believes. Kloppenborg pays attention to the qualifying expression, τοῦ θεοῦ, noting that the ‘perspective is theocentric rather than anthropocentric’. In my view, this qualification not only governs ἀγάπη but also κρίσις, because the primary Old Testament use of משׁפט refers to an attribute of God. Indeed, the predominant Septuagintal use of κρίσις is as a translation of משׁפט the principal meaning of which is ‘judgment’. Secondarily, and occasionally, the term can refer to justice or righteousness, yet ‘justice’ in these cases still refers to an attribute of God, rather than an ethical attribute of humanity.100 Out of some 420 occurrences of the term in the Old Testament, only a few cases refer to ‘justice’ as an ethical quality of humanity (Prov. 12:5; Job 29:14). Therefore, what the Pharisees (and/or ‘this generation’) neglected can be interpreted as the ‘judgment [of God]’ and the ‘love of God’. These were not ethical demands for humans derived from the Pharisaic law, but attributes of God.
In conclusion, one must note the unusual combination of κρίσις with ἀγάπη τοῦ θεοῦ. This juxtaposition was probably due to Q’s redaction in order to contrast the Q community with the Pharisees, rather than the allusion to the Old Testament to show the summary of the law (Deut. 14:28–29). Both the ‘judgment of God’ and the ‘love of God’ were distinctive themes of the Sayings Gospel. The announcement of the ‘judgment of God’ was the message that the Q community explicitly delivered against ‘this generation’, while the ‘love of God’ was the most important virtue that the inaugural sermon of the community (Q 6:27–28) stressed as the center of its theological and ethical hermeneutics. Therefore, it is not coincidental that in the inaugural sermon the teaching of ‘love’ (Q 6:27–28) is immediately followed by the announcement of ‘judgment’ (Q 6:37–6.38). In fact, the ‘judgment of God’ and the ‘love of God’ characterize the foundation for the Q people’s own behavior. By contrast, the meticulous observance of the tithe was a social marker of the Pharisees. Thus, Q 11:42a, b is an attack by the Q community on the Pharisees’ lifestyle.
A similar social critique is found in the attack of Diogenes of Sinope on the dominant lifestyle of his time. In the criticism of the temple raised by Diogenes, we have observed three distinctive indicators that characterize something more than ‘critical allegiance’. First, his criticism attacked the temple-centered social symbolism that governed the lifestyle of the people. In particular, he criticized purity conceptions (Diogenes Laertius 6.73; 6.64; 6.42; 6.63). The second indicator is Diogenes’ attempt to ‘alter the currency’ by modeling his own lifestyle on simplicity and freedom. Considering these two indicators together, his criticisms reflect a social situation in which there was a conflict between the two modes of living, that is, between competing norms of ethical hermeneutics.102 Third, the fact that Diogenes’ view represents a marginalized position can be coordinated with these two indicators of ‘lost allegiance’. ‘Critical allegiance’, on the contrary, is offered by authors who concur with the dominant social system. For instance, I have classified the criticisms made by Plutarch and Apollonius of Tyana as ‘critical allegiance’. Plutarch was a priest whose view was well accepted by the ruling party and who lived a successful life from his early years as an ambassador to the procurator in Achaea. Also, as Mead points out, ‘Apollonius spent the major part of his life trying to reform the institutions and cults of the Empire, and remained throughout a warm supporter of monarchical rule.’105 Thus, many scholars understand his criticism of the temple as aimed at the reformation of the cult.
As a lampoon, Q 11:42a, b defines social boundaries that differentiate the Q community from the Pharisees because it ridicules the meticulous Pharisaic observance of tithing. Thus, 11:42a, b articulates alternate norms for the Q community’s ethical life, namely, the ‘judgment [of God]’ and the ‘love of God’. As Diogenes competed against the dominant ‘currency’, the Q community competed against the Pharisees, challenging their socio-symbolic system. While Diogenes attacks the purity system, the Q community ridicules the tithing practice.
Q 11:42a, b, however, hardly proves that the Q community rejected tithing in its entirety and thus that it rejected the Temple. It merely shows that the Q community did not think of themselves as Pharisees. Yet, it does not show that the Q community accepted the Temple-centered socio-symbolism, either. The criticism of 11:42a, b attacks the socio-symbolic system of the Pharisees, suggesting an alternate norm of ethical life. It demarcates Q’s own social boundaries, distancing the community from the Pharisees.
3. The Role of Q 11:42c and the Type of Allegiance toward the Temple
The composition history of Q 11:42c has long been debated. In what follows, only the issue concerning the tithe will be addressed. On the surface, Q 11:42c seems to encourage the payment of the tithe. In fact, on this basis, Catchpole and Tuckett assume that Q paid tithe to the Temple and thus that the community’s commitment was one of ‘critical allegiance’. For two reasons, however, v. 42c does not prove that the Q community paid its tithe to the Jerusalem Temple in order to support its revenue: (1) 11.42c is not necessarily enforcing a literal reading of 11:42a since according to 11:42c, v. 42a can only be read as a general statement; (2) a mere encouragement of tithe does not necessarily express loyalty to the Jerusalem Temple.
Robert Banks insists that the weight of the ταῦτα—κἀκε͂ινα construction falls on the first part (ταῦτα δὲ ἒδει ποιῆσαι) which refers to moral admonition. In that case the statement on tithing (42c; κἀκεῖνα μὴ παρεῖναι) confirms Q’s own understanding of the purpose of the tithe based on v. 42b, rather than a reaffirmation of v. 42a. The previous investigation of the relationship between v. 42b and v. 42a as ‘contrast’ reveals that for Q the primary purpose of the tithe is to express one’s obedience to the ‘judging and loving God’ (v. 42b), rather than a confirmation of meticulous tithing practice. This understanding corresponds to the teaching of Mal. 3:6–12 on the tithe, which is located between two passages regarding the coming messiah (Mal. 3:1–2; 4:1–6). Interestingly, Malachi’s teaching on tithing in 3:6–12 is based on the love of God and the judgment of God. By placing the teaching of tithing between the eschatological instructions (i.e. judgment of God), the author suggests that the tithe, as a reminder of the eschatological judgment, is the way in which people can return to the love of God (Mal. 3:7–8). Thus, Ralph L. Smith recognizes that the teaching about tithes in Lk. 11:42 (//Mt. 23:23) reflects ideas found in Mal. 3:6–12.
In Malachi’s day the people had stopped tithing and giving their offerings because of their attitude of neglect of the things of God. Thus, Malachi said to them, ‘You are cursed with a curse‘ [3:9]. Failure to love God and serve him result in a curse.
Reflecting the teaching of Mal. 3:6–12, the Q community declares that God’s judgment requires a proper exercise of tithe, based not on legal obligation, but on the remembrance of the attributes of God (κρίσις καὶ ἀγάπη τοῦ θεουῦ). Therefore, Q 11:42c emphasizes v. 42b.
With regard to the second point, I have already observed a similar attitude to the Temple in the Qumran writings. Although sectarian halakah regarding the Temple tax (4Q159) and the tithe (11QTemple 60) encourage their payment by the covenant community, it is most unlikely that the sectarians sent money to the Temple since they had radically separated themselves from the Jerusalem community. Similarly, even though Q 11:42c encourages the payment of the tithe, it can hardly mean that the collected tithe would be given to the Temple. In the Qumran community, the Temple tax was collected for symbolic reasons—it showed that the community was observing the law (Exod. 30:13)—and thus, it took the form of a one-time payment (4Q159 1.6–7). Likewise, the tithe was probably paid, but the money was used to support the ‘true’ Temple system, that is, the Qumran community itself (4Q Flor 1.2–7; 1QS 8.4–10).
Similar encouragement of the payment of the tithe for purposes other than to support the Temple can be found in other documents written after the destruction of the Temple. The Didache commanded payment of tithes after the destruction of the Temple, but re-directed them for internal use. The purpose was to support the Church and its workers, such as prophets, bishops and the priests of the Gospel. Didache 13.3 reads, ‘Therefore you shall take the firstfruit of the produce of the winepress and of the threshing floor and of oxen and sheep, and shalt give them as the firstfruit to the prophets; for these are your high priest.’ A later document, the Didascalia, written during the first half of the third century, commands,
Therefore love your bishop as a father … Present to him your fruits and the works of your hand, that you may be blessed; give him your first-fruit and tithes and your vows and gifts; he will use them for his own needs and he will give also to those who are in need, to each as is just for him (Didascalia 2.34.5).
Likewise, Origen asserts, ‘It is just and useful to offer first-fruits to the priests of the Gospel. For “the Lord has established the rule that those who announce the Gospel live of the Gospel”, and “those who serve at the altar participate of the altar” ‘ (In Numeros Homilia 11.2, c.644)
The view that v. 42c does not prove Q’s actual payment of tithes to the Jerusalem Temple may cohere with the position appearing in some documents with reference to the laxity of the Galileans in payment of tithes and the half-shekel tax. Some rabbinic literature reports that the Galileans were hesitant in payment of the tithe and Temple tax. M. Ned 2.4 states that the Galileans knew nothing about the terumoth of the temple, that is the half-shekel offering for the temple. Also, a reconstructed life of Yohanan ben Zakkai by J. Neusner reveals that ‘the Galileans, relatively recently converted to Judaism, could not have been so deeply interested in strictly legal questions’. They were not prepared to keep the Torah. Neusner points out that although Yohannan lived for 18 years in the town of ‘Arav, only two cases involving legal questions were brought to him.113 Later, an Amora reported that at the end Yohanan said, ‘O Galilee, Galilee! You hate the Torah! Your end will be to be besieged!’ It may be inferred, then, that the Galileans paid only a small part of their religious dues at all. In addition, R. Simeon ben Gamaliel I reported the laxity of Galileans in payment of their tithes: ‘the tithing of fourth year olive heaps [was] a duty that the Galileans (as well as the men of the South) were apparently reluctant to discharge in Jerusalem.’115 The Midr. Tan. Deut. 26.13 preserves R. Simeon ben Gamaliel’s letter. It reads:
They said to him ‘Write a second letter: From Simeon ben Gamaliel and from Yohannan ben Zakki, to our brethren who are in the Upper and Lower Galilee and to Simonia and to ‘Oved Bet Hillel, Peace. Let it be known to you that the fourth year has come, and still the heavenly sanctities have not been burned. But hasten and bring olive heaps which are required for the Confession. And we have not begun to write to you, but our fathers used to write to your fathers.’
In summary, Q 11:42c does not necessarily show that the Q community supported the Temple system as a token of its allegiance. There are many historical examples in which tithing is encouraged for different purposes. The encouragement of tithes, on the one hand, could exist along with a rejection of the Temple system, if the income were used to support a ‘new’ religious system opposing the Temple (11QTemple 60; cf. Did. 13.3–7; Didascalia 2.34.5). On the other hand, the affirmation of tithing could be an attempt to refute an ‘anti-nomian’ charge (4Q159). This second understanding fits well the view that v. 42c is a later insertion. The command to tithe (Q 11:42c) represents a partial easing of tension after a sharp conflict, and it may reflect the Q editor’s desire to show that the community kept the law. While 11:42a, b represents a stage of the struggle in which the community was forming its identity and structure, 42c is indicative of the situation after the community had achieved these goals. Kloppenborg concludes that 11:42c is a ‘secondary addition’ which ‘is the work of glossator who was anxious about the apparent theological trajectory of the woes and in particular, their apparent disregard of the Torah.’119 The presence of such a gloss may be evidence that the community had completed the process of ‘sectarianization’. At that point, the ‘tithe’ became a payment of dues in order to support the new religious system.
Are the items of verse 42a tithable?
Matthew identifies the disputed items as ἡδύοσμον (mint), ἄνηθον (dill) and κύμινον (cumin), whereas Luke lists ἡδύοσμον (mint), πήγανον (rue) and λάχανον (a garden herb or vegetable). Mint is the only word found in minimal Q. The IQP prefers the Matthean list for the Q wording with a ‘C’ grade. From a redaction-critical point of view, Luke probably changed the Q word, ἄνηθον, because it was not produced in the world of Luke’s readers who were probably outside Palestine and somewhere in the Hellenistic world. Theophrastus (Historia plantarum 9.7:3) includes ἄνηθον in a list of aromatic herbs that are not native to Europe, whereas πήγανον seems to be well known to him. Likewise, it was probably Luke who also changed Q’s κύμινον to λάχανον, not only because in the redaction he prefers more general terms, but also because he was familiar with the term λάχανον (Lk. 21:29).
But were the Matthean items tithable? Although it has often been assumed that the Matthean ἄνηθον and κύμινον are subject to the tithe according to the Mishnah, the following will show that none of the three items are surely subjected to tithing according to the Mishnah. As to dill (ἄνηθον) the Mishnah seems to prescribe its liability. Indeed, m. Ma’as. 4.5 reads: ‘Dill is subjected to the law of tithe [in regard to its] seeds, leaves and pods.’ Also, m. Dem. 2.1 states, ‘These items are tithed as demai produce in every place [viz., both in and outside the Land of Israel]—(1) pressed fig, and (2) dates, and (3) carobs, and (4) rice, and (5) cumin.’
But the validity of m. Ma’as. 4.5 and m. Dem. 2.1 as proof-texts is questionable. Kloppenborg points out that m. Ma’as. 4.5–6 represents Eliezer’s own view which was based on the principle that ‘the act of cultivation is decisive, rather than any unstated intention regarding the use of the product or parts thereof. Similarly, the prescription in m. Dem 2.1 regarding cumin is ‘unattributed and therefore its date is uncertain’. Indeed, the tithing law of the Mishnah is so complicated that no one can be sure whether an item is tithable simply from its name: different rules are applied to the same product, depending upon when, where, and for what purpose it was harvested. Thus, we need to examine the meaning of m. Ma’as. 4.5 and m. Dem. 2.1 within the literary and historical contexts of the tractates.
The tractate Maaserot, which deals with the theology of tithing, can be divided into three parts: (1) ‘conditions under which produce becomes subject to the law’ (1.1–4); (2) ‘procedures by which harvested produce is rendered liable to the removal of tithes’ (1.5–4.5A), and (3) ‘ambiguities in application of the law’ (4.5B–5.8). The tractate ultimately deals with two issues: (1) when produce is to be tithed and (2) rules for untithed produce.126 Although it is hardly probable that the entire document is a unitary set of materials, Martin S. Jaffee convincingly shows that the tractate Maaserot is an ‘essay’ which systematically explores carefully defined problems. The tractate reveals two controlling principles, ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’. While the former deals with the general principle, the latter governs a specific case of ‘when produce is to be tithed’. The ‘objective principle’ prescribes that if a product is clearly edible, it is normally tithed. The ‘subjective principle’ states that when a product is actually used as a meal or claimed as property, it is liable to be tithed. The second principle includes a condition that if a product is taxonomically ambiguous, it is normally untithed until it is actually used as a meal or claimed as property.128
M. Ma ‘as 4.5 includes a lemma suggested by R. Eleazer that ‘From dill the seeds, plant, and pods must be tithed.’ The immediate context of R. Eleazer’s view is:
4.5E If coriander was sown for the sake of the seed, the plant is exempt.
F But if it was sown for the sake of the plant, both seed and plant must be tithed.
G R. Eleazer says: From dill the seeds, plant, and pods must be tithed.
H But Sages say: Both seed and plant are tithed only in the case of pepperwort and eruca.
I. Rabban Gamaliel says: The stalks of fenugreek, of mustard, and of white beans are liable to Tithes.
J R. Eliezer says: From the caper, Tithes are taken from stalks, caper berries, and caper-flowers.
K R. Akiba says: Only the caperberries are tithed, because they [alone] count as fruit.
For three reasons, we can conclude that m. Ma’as 4.5G (‘From dill the seeds, plant, and pods must be tithed’) expresses R. Eleazer’s personal view which was not commonly accepted or under debate (‘objective principle’). First, it appears in the section of ‘ambiguities in application of the law’ (4.5B–5.8). The next lemma shows that the Sages held a different view. Since this debate is placed here under the category of ‘ambiguities in application of the law’, there must have been a debate whether dill is liable or not. Hence, the second principle (subjective principle) is applied: a taxonomically ambiguous plant such as dill is untithed until it is used as meal or claimed as property.
Second, dill is not commonly thought to be an edible plant. Shewell-Cooper and Walker assert that the leaves of the dill plant are widely used for seasoning pickles, the seeds used medically as a carminative, and the oil extracted from the leaves used to soothe babies and children. Michael Zohary, however, points out that these uses were only popularized during the post-biblical period. In earlier times dill was a wild product, though it could be cultivated in the garden, and wild produce was normally untithed until one claimed to use it as meals or property, or unless it was sown for seed or leaves (cf. m. Ma ‘as 4.5E–F).
Third, we can find further evidence that m. Ma ‘as 4.5G (‘From dill the seeds, plant, and pods must be tithed’) is only R. Eleazer’s personal view through a composition-historical analysis of the structure. Jaffee suggests that lemma G was added between F and H in order to create a dispute with the Sages.134 Thus, the stress of the pericope lies in the view represented by H, rather than G, where the Sages claim that not all parts of dill are tithable unless they are all used for food. Without G, the argumentation better fits with the overarching principle addressed in m. Ma’as 1.1 D–F, that is, the subjective determination based on intention and the objective determination based on edibility. Thus, if m. Ma’as 4.5G is redactional in the Mishnah, it does not provide evidence that dill was commonly subjected to the tithe in the general stream of Mishnaic thought, still less in first century Palestine.
With regard to cumin, m. Dem. 2.1 includes it in the demai-produce as an item of the tithe. demai, however, means ‘doubtfully tithed produce’ and the tractate demai regulates the tithing of produce that one purchases in the market and for which it is not certain that tithe has been paid. The purpose of the tractate is to teach that the one who wishes to be deemed trustworthy must tithe all produce which he/she sells or gives to another. Thus, anyone eating that produce does not have to pay further tithes of the same. Each individual would know exactly what offerings had been separated from his/her own food and underwent a secondary tithing process in contrast to food about which there could be doubt whether or not it had been completely tithed.138
Hence, though m. Dem. 2.1 shows that cumin is one of the demai products that is in need of a secondary tithing process, this regulation probably does not represent a common practice of Jews before 70 ce. It would have been a later sectarian position. Sarason points out that the tractate demai is of particular interest to historians and sociologists of religion who are concerned with the phenomenon of sectarianism, since the tractate deals with relations between a particular religious fellowship and the rest of Jewish society. He states that ‘the fellows (haberim) distinguish themselves from common folk (‘amme ha’ares) by their meticulous observance of tithing and purity rules.’ The tractate deals with the effects of divergent tithing practices upon the everyday social and economic relations between those Jews who are deemed trustworthy in the matter of tithing and those other Jews who are not so deemed. The problem of doubtfully tithed produce arose only at the late stage in Jewish history, when a particular Jewish group required a stringent tithing practice in order to distinguish themselves from other Jews.140 Thus, Avery-Peck argues for a late development of the tractate. He states that the tractate as a conceptual whole comes into being only during the period Ushan when a notion that the pious should prevent others from transgressing the law was widely accepted. Therefore, it is precarious to maintain that m. Dem. 2.1 represents a common practice at the time of Q.
It is also unclear whether mint (ἡδύοσμον) was subject to tithing. The Mishnah tractate Shebiit (The Sabbatical Year), which concerns ‘the special agricultural and commercial restrictions which Israelites living in the Land of Israel must observe every seventh year’, includes regulations about mint (m. Sheb. 7.1). The tractate develops the teaching of Lev. 25:1–7: the first six chapters of the tractate provide detailed applications of Lev. 25:1–5; chs. 7–9 elaborate on Lev. 25:6–7. Chapter 7, consists of ‘general rules’ (7.1–2) and ‘examples’ (7.3–7). There are two general rules. The first, m. Sheb. 7.1 states, ‘that which is fit for human consumption, animal consumption, or a type of dyeing matter and which is an animal—is subject to the restrictions of the Sabbatical year and is subject to removal’. M. Sheb 7.1 includes a list of plants to be regulated; ‘the leaf of arum, the leaf of miltwaste, chicory, leeks, purslance, and asphodel’. It is noteworthy that the Hebrew word for ‘miltwaste’, רנרנה, can also be translated as ‘mint’. The second rule is found in m. Sheb. 7.2: ‘that which is fit for human consumption, etc., and which is a perennial—is subject to the restrictions of the Sabbatical year and is exempt from removal’.148 As examples of the perennials, the verse presents ‘the root of arum and the root of miltwaste, hart’s-tongue, Bethlehem-star and hazelwort’. In the former rule, the leaf of mint is subject to the law of removal, whereas the latter rule exempts the root of mint from the law of removal on the ground that it is not cultivated. A general principle is that the perennials that grow wild are not liable to tithe. M. Sheb. 9.1 says, ‘Rue, goosefoot, purslane, hill-coriander, water-parsley, and meadow-eruca are exempt from [the separation of] tithe.’ In fact, mint grows wild in ditches and watercourses, in swamps and on banks throughout the Holy Land where it covers the hills, and is a perennial herb.
Thus, none of the three herbs is evidently subject to the tithe. Even if a couple of the items were subject to the tithe by some rabbis, no single rabbi or school would believe they all were. This has important consequences for Q 11:42: it supports the notion that the verse reflects a ‘symbolic’ debate (or lampoon) rather than an accurate description of tithing practice. Contrary to commentators who assume that v. 42 addresses rigorous tithing, it is important to recognize that v. 42a corresponds to no known school, house, or rabbi. To argue that Q assumed a more rigorous tithing requirement than any known Pharisee is clearly absurd.
It is widely held that all or part of Q 11:49–11.51 comes from an existing source, such as a Sophia oracle, and thus it is not only different from the rest of the woes in form and content, but also has a distinctive tradition history.152 The IQP’s reconstruction of Q 11:49–51 is:
διὰ τοῦτο καὶ ἡ σοΦία … εἷπεν
Therefore also Wisdom … said,
ἀποστελῶ … αὐτοὺς προΦήτας
I will send them prophets
καὶ ἀποστόλους, καὶ ἐξ αὐτῶν
and apostles, and some of them
ἀποκτενοῦσιν καὶ διώξουσιν,
they will kill and persecute,
[[ινα]] ἐκ ητηθῇ
[[so that]] may be required
τὸ αἷμα πάντων τῶν προΦητῶν
the blood of all the prophets which has
τὸ ἐκκεχυμένον ἀπὸ κατα ολῆς
been shed from the foundation of the
ἀπὸ τῆς γενεᾶς ταύτης
from this generation.
ἀπὸ [[ ]] αἵματος Ἅβελ ἕως [[ ]]
from [[ ]] Abel’s blood to [[ ]]
τοῦ ἀπολομένου μεταξὺ τοῦ
who perished between the
θυσιαστηρίου καὶ τοῦ οἴκου
altar and the house.
ναί λέγω ὑμῖν, [[ἐκζητηθήσεται ἀπὸ]]
Yet I tell you, it will be required [[from]]
τῆ[[ς]] γενεᾶ[[ς]] ταύτη[[ς]]
According to Catchpole, Q 11:49–51 most explicitly reveals Q’s view of the Temple. By combining the theme of rejected Wisdom and the violent fate of the prophets, these verses express a harsh accusation against ‘this generation’. It is unclear, however, whether Q 11:49–51 criticizes only those who defiled the Temple, while maintaining a positive attitude toward the Temple itself, or whether it regards those who killed Zechariah as associated with the Temple where the prophet was killed.
Catchpole and Tuckett advocate the former view. Catchpole asserts that Q 11:51 expresses a positive attitude toward the Temple. For him, all the woes (Q 11:39–52) include ‘legal material with a conservative religious colouring’ and thus they ‘necessarily presuppose an appreciative attitude to the temple and its cult’. Tuckett attempts to disconnect the past murderers of the prophets from the present adversaries of the Q people.156 For him, Q 11:49–51 reflects Q’s own situation in which ‘there is not necessarily any physical violence, but rather a more general situation of at most hostility and animosity’. The woe shows ‘a refusal to respond positively, to repent and to acknowledge their common guilt with their ancestors’. His view is based on two assumptions. First, the opponents of Q are not necessarily murderers themselves. Tuckett states, ‘Q does seem to presuppose a difference at the level of activity between past and present.’159 Murders happened in the past, while tomb-building is taking place in the present. The second is the use of the Zechariah legend that intentionally confines the ‘blood to the era covered by the writings of the Old Testament’ and does not apparently reach up to the present. Consequently, there is disconnection between the past prophet murderers with those who reject the messengers of the Q people. He assumes that Q 11:51a belongs to Q’s redaction.
Many scholars, however, against Tuckett, suggest that the past prophet-murderers can be connected with ‘this generation’. Four reasons are offered. First, Jacobson argues that ‘the prophets’ in vv. 49–51 refers not only to the past but ‘mirrors the actual experience of the Q community’ which carries out its preaching in a situation of mutual hostility with ‘this generation’. Assuming that vv. 47–48 and vv. 49–50 belong together in Q, he concludes that ‘this generation’ really persecuted/killed the Q people because vv. 47–48 provide the basis for the prediction that ‘this generation’ acts the same way as their prophet-murdering ancestors.
Second, unlike Jacobson, Miller agrees that there may be a difficulty in making a thematic unity between vv. 47–48 and vv. 49–51 because ‘building tombs’ appears to be a way of honoring the dead. Instead, he argues that Q 11:47–51 only makes sense under the circumstance that the present adversaries are actively persecuting the Q community. He states:
The presence of tombs is concrete testimony to two realities that are in latent conflict: (1) the ancestors killed the prophets; and (2) the present generation wishes to honor them … So Q’s accusation needs an additional premise to make sense, since this premise is not in the text, we can better suppose that it was supplied by the lived context, that is, the actual experience of the Q community. The missing premise is that ‘this generation’ is persecuting the bearers of the Q tradition.
Third, the ‘disconnection theory’ of Tuckett is also challenged by those who hold the view that the λέγω ὑμῖν (‘I say to you’) formula ties Q 11:51b with the previous section by intensifying or summarizing the main idea. For instance, Neirynck states that 11:51b is ‘a repetition and confirmation’ of 11:50a as the conclusion of not only 11:49–51, but also the entire woes (Q 11:39–51). Kloppenborg also argues that the formula serves to resume Jesus’ speech,166 since in 11:49–51a Wisdom is speaking, and that Q 11:51b was redactionally attached to the tradition (Q 11:49–51a) in order to intensify the threat of judgment articulated earlier.
Finally, against Tuckett’s ‘disconnection view’, the association between the past murderers and present adversaries can be proven if the Matthean ὅν ἐΦονεύσατε (‘whom you murder’) represents the Q wording and belongs to the Q redaction. The second-person plural subject here shows an explicit connection between the situation of the Q community and that of Zechariah. In other words, ‘you’ who are now persecuting/killing the Q people are linked with those who killed Zechariah. Yet, the IQP has decided in favor of the Lukan ἀπόλλυμι (‘I kill’) in a participle form over the Matthean Φονεύε (‘I murder’) in a relative clause with a grade ‘B’. The bases are: (1) Φονεύειν is Matthean vocabulary because Matthew redactionally employs ἐφονεύσατε in Mt. 5:21; 19:18; 23:31 and (2) since Luke copies Mark’s Φονεύειν (Mk 10:39) at Lk. 18:20, Luke’s willingness to use the term is apparent.
The term Φονεύειν, however, does not represent a Mattheanism. Matthew uses it only four times: once from Mark (Mt. 19:18); twice from Q (Mt. 23:31, 35); once from his own source (Mt. 5:21). Matthew’s uses of Φονεύεις in 5:21 and 19:18 are due to the lxx rendering of the Eighth (Exod. 20:15) or Sixth (Deut. 5:17) Commandment. Also, the Φονεύειν of Mt. 23:31 cannot be an example of Mattheanism if 23:35 is copied from Q because Matthew might have used the term in 23:31 as an assimilation to that of 23:35. Likewise, Jolliffe’s claim based on Luke’s use of the Markan Φονεύω (Mk 10:39) at Lk. 18:20 is tenuous. The reason why Luke copies Mk 10:39 is because the Φονεύειν of Lk. 18:20 is taken from the Decalogue, rather than that he prefers the term.
Indeed, Matthew is extremely conservative in keeping the word ἀπόλ–λυμι when he finds it in his sources. Of Mark’s 10 uses of ἀπόλλυμι, Matthew retains seven, and all of them are quoted in their exact forms. By contrast, Luke not only retains ἀπόλλυμι from his sources, but also creatively uses it to replace other terms. For instance, Luke employs ἀπόλλυμι in Lk. 6:9 instead of Mark’s ἀποκτείνω (Mk 3:4) and instead of Q’s αἵρω in Lk. 17:27. In addition, because Luke frequently uses participles instead of the entire sentence or relative clause, the Matthean relative clause, ὅν ἐΦονεύσατε, probably represents the Q wording.
Nevertheless, it is not certain that the Matthean second person represents Q since Luke prefers the second person subject, and it is possible that Matthew employs the second person here due to Mt. 23:31 and to create a more accusatory tone, which is one of his redactional aims. But, since the Matthean Φονεύειν is probably the Q wording, there is a good possibility that Q also had the Matthean second person. Then, contrary to Tuckett, the Q redactor strongly ties the past prophet murderer with those who reject the Q people in the present, by identifying ‘you’, who killed the righteous prophet Zechariah in the past, with ‘this generation’ who are persecuting/killing the Q people.
So far I have investigated whether the Q community was actually being persecuted/killed by ‘this generation’ and if it held an affirmative view. This, however does do not necessarily prove that Q’s attitude toward the Temple was one of ‘lost allegiance’ because it is still possible that Q only identifies the past prophet murders with ‘this generation’ without any further connection of them with the Temple. In this regard, Q’s use of the Zechariah story is suggestive. It shows that the Q people tie the sin of ‘this generation’ with that of its ancestors, and that the Temple is associated with those who killed the prophet Zechariah and subsequently persecuted the Q people. I will begin this exploration with the question of which Zechariah the passage refers to. Four different Zechariahs have been suggested: Zechariah, the son of Berekiah, the son of Iddo (Zech. 1:1); Zechariah, the son of Bareis (War 4.334–44); Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist (Lk. 1:5–22, 38, 59; 3:2); Zechariah, the son of Jehoiada (2 Chron. 24:20–21).
The first possibility may be convincing if Matthew represents Q (Ζαχαρίου υἱοῦ Βαραχίου). This identification has the strength that Zechariah, the son of Berekiah, the son of Iddo (Zech. 1:1) was a prophet, whereas the other Zechariahs are not explicitly so designated. This view may be preferred on the basis of lectio difficilior that Matthew’s reading is original because it contains a mistaken reference which Luke later corrects by omission. But the book of Zechariah is completely silent about the prophet’s death. There are rabbinic and early Christian writings that identify Zechariah, the son of Iddo with a high priest who was killed in the Temple. Targ. Lam. 2:20 comments, ‘As you killed Zechariah the son of Iddo, the high Priest and faithful prophet in the sanctuary of the Lord on the Day of Atonement because he admonished them not to do what was displeasing to the Lord.’
Nevertheless, it is unlikely that Q refers to Zechariah, son of Berekiah. The Lukan wording probably represents Q as the IQP has decided, for Luke would not have omitted υἱοῦ Βαραχίου if it were original because he could have avoided a possible confusion with the Zechariah of Lk. 1:8 by keeping the reference to Zechariah’s father. Also, the historical reliability of the Zechariah legends is dubious because they often confuse the roles of the three different Zechariahs (Isa. 8:2; 2 Chron. 24:17–22; Zech. 1:1). Indeed, the prophet Zechariah (Zech. 1:1) could not have been a high priest as the legend claims (Targ. Lam. 2.20). According to Blank, this confusion reflects a later tradition based on the Matthean reading.180
(2) Julius Wellhausen suggests that Q’s Zechariah is the son of Bareis who was slain by Zealots in the Temple in 67 ce (War 4.334–44). In that case the whole gamut of Jewish prophets murdered right up to the outbreak of the Jewish war is covered in Q 11:51 in order to focus on the fall of Jerusalem as divine vengeance. This identification is also based on the assumption that Matthew retains the Q wording. But there are some difficulties in this association, apart from the improbability of Matthew preserving the Q wording. There is no suggestion that this man was a prophet: Josephus merely mentions that he was a respectable law-abiding citizen of Jerusalem who was the victim of the illegal violence of the Zealots (War 4.334–44). In addition, the Scribes and the Pharisees themselves, who Q sees as responsible for the murder, were among the 12,000 whom the Zealots murdered at about the same time as Zechariah’s death. Also, since this Zechariah was not a priest, it is unlikely that he died between the temple and the altar.
(3) There is an association of Q’s Zechariah with the father of John the Baptist. The story of his death in the Temple is preserved in early Christian apocryphal literature. Protevangelium 12.16 reads, ‘Zechariah was murdered in the entrance of the temple and altar’. M.R. James in his introduction to ‘The Birth of Mary’ mentions that this tradition goes back to Epiphanius, a bishop of Salamis, who cited a passage concerning the death of Zachariah, the father of John the Baptist. Epiphanius thought that Zachariah was murdered in the Temple. Another version of the death of Zachariah, the father of the Baptist, was known to Origen who identifies him with the Zachariah of Q 11:51. Origen reports:
But He means Zacharias the father of John, though we cannot show through the canonical Scriptures either that he was son of Barachias or that the Scribes and Pharisees slew him between the Temple and the Altar. But a certain tradition has come to us, that there was a certain place in the Temple, where the virgins were allowed to stand and worship God; but those who had once had intercourse with a man were not allowed there. But Mary, after having given birth to the Saviour, entered in to worship and stood in this place for virgins; but when those who knew that she had already borne a son sought to prove her, Zacharias stood up and said that she was worthy of the place of the virgins, being still a virgin. Therefore the men of that generation slew Zacharias between the Temple and the Altar, as most clearly acting contrary to law and allowing a married woman to stand in the place of the virgins.
But the legend of the death of Zechariah the father of John is not likely to have been in circulation at the time of Q. If the Q redactor needed a recent martyr, he would have chosen John the Baptist, rather than his father.
(4) More probable is the fourth view that Q’s Zechariah refers to the figure appearing in 2 Chron, 24:17–23. An apparent difficulty in linking Q’s Zechariah to the figure of 2 Chron. is that the former is identified as a prophet, whereas the latter as a priest. But, the Zechariah of 2 Chron. 24:20 in the lxx also functioned as a prophet. The lxx text reads as follows:
19Yet he sent prophets to them, to turn them to the Lord, but they hearkened not (ἀπέστειλεν πρὸς αὐτοὺς προΦήτας ἐπιστρέψαι πρὸς κύριον καὶ οὐκ ἢκουσαν). And he testified to them, but they obeyed not (διεμαρτύραντο αὐτοῖς καὶ οὐκ ἤκουσαν).20 And the Spirit of God came upon Azarias the son of Jodae the priest (πνεῦμα θεοῦ ἐνέδυσεν τὸν Αζαριαν τὸν τοῦ Ιωδαε τὸν ἱερέα), and he stood up above the people, and said, Thus saith the Lord, Why do you transgress the commandments of the Lord? So shall you not prosper. For you have forsaken the Lord, and he will forsake you. 21And they conspired against him, and stoned him by command of king Joas in the court of the Lord’s house (ἐν αὐλῇ οἴκου κυρίου). 22So Joas remembered not the kindness that his father Jodae had exercised toward him, but slew his son. And as he died, he said, The Lord look upon it, and judge (ἲδοι κύριος καὶ κρινάτω). 23And it came to pass after the end of the year, the host of Syria went up against him, and came against Juda and Jerusalem. And they slew all the chiefs of the people, and all their spoils they sent to the king of Damascus.
Indeed, ‘being sent’ is the most distinctive characteristic of a prophet and Zechariah of 2 Chron. 24:19 is being sent (ἀπέστειλεν πρὸς αὐτοὺς προΦήτας). As the Lord sent prophets to testify against apostasy (24:19), Zechariah was among those sent to preach to Joash and the rulers (ὁι ἄρχοντες Ἰούδα). But they would not hear them. Another evidence for his prophetic office is that the Spirit of the Lord seized him when he stood before the people and announced the divine command (24:20). At his death he prophesied, ἴδοι κύριος καὶ κρινάτω (24:22): the fulfillment is recorded in the next verse (24:23). Thus, the Zechariah of 2 Chron. 24 functioned as a prophet, as well as being a priest. Q’s Zechariah perhaps also played both roles because the prophet was killed between ‘the altar and the house’ where a priest alone normally had access.
Additionally, there are verbal and thematic connections between Q 11:51 and 2 Chron. 24:19–23. Both open the story with the sending of the prophets to be martyred. While the former begins with ‘Ἀποστελῶ εἰς αὐτοὺς προΦήτας’, the latter states that ‘ἀπέστειλεν πρὸς αὐτοὺς προΦήτας’. Nestle points out that the ἐκζητηθήσεται of Lk. 11:51 recalls 2 Chron. 24:22, where at the moment of death Zechariah cried, ὡς ἀπέθνῃσκεν ἐ͂ι πεν ἴδοι κύριος καὶ κρινάτω (את־בנת וכמותו אמר ירא יהות וידרש). Though the word ἐκζητεῖν is not found in this verse, it should be noted that κρινάτω translates ידרשׁ, a word the lxx translator translated elsewhere by ἐκ ζητεῖν over twenty times. Thus, Q’s repetition of ἐκζητεῖν echoes the death cry of Zechariah in 2 Chron. 24:22 (ידרשׁ).
Moreover, Q’s rendering of the place where Zechariah was murdered, ‘between the altar and the house’, and that of 2 Chron. 24:21, ‘in the court of the house of the Lord’ (ἐν αὐλῇ οἴκου κυρίου; בחצר בית יהוה) may not be a different place. Blank argues that Q’s οἶκος refers to the Temple proper, the Mishnaic היכל. The Temple had several courts, such as the court of the gentiles, the court of the women, the court of the ordinary Israelites and the court of the priests where sacrifices were performed. In order to approach the Temple proper, one would pass through all of these courts and then ascend to the steps leading to the Temple, that is the οἶκος. Q is interpreting the ‘court’ mentioned 2 Chron. 24:21 as the court of the priests. This same identification appears in the rabbinic writings, e.g., j. Ta ‘an. 4.9 (69a) which answers the question, ‘Where did they kill Zechariah? In the court of the women or in the court of the ordinary Israelites?’, with the answer, ‘In neither of these but in the court of the priests’.
Furthermore, the identification of the Zechariah of 11:51 with that of 2 Chron. 24:19–23 can be maintained by the affinity between the circumstances surrounding the death of Zechariah in 2 Chron. 24:19–23 and the Sitz im Leben of the Q people. 2 Chron. 24:19–23 pictures a struggle between two competing groups: one is the righteous Zechariah, the other the unrighteous ‘leaders of Judah’ who had lost power at the time of the high priest Jehoiada, but regained it during the time of Zechariah, the son of Jehoiada. The leaders who gained favor from the king became corrupted and fell into idolatry. For the author of 2 Chron., their corruption and idolatry brought judgment (cf. Mic. 3:9). A similar socio-political conflict was occurring at the time of the redactional stage of Q. Robinson suggests that since 2 Chron. 24:19–23 is ‘a classic text for the Deuteronomistic view of history’, this Deuteronomistic text would be central to the theological orientation of the Q redactor, particularly in the redaction of Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35. The adversary, ‘this generation’, and the Q people are in competition. The former persecutes the latter and even kills them, and the latter announces the judgment of the former. If the relative clause (ὅν ἐΦονεύσατε) is in Q, the Q community explicitly identified ‘this generation’, which was persecuting the righteous, prophetic Q community, with those who had killed the righteous prophet Zechariah in the past.
Q’s use of the death of Zechariah in 2 Chron. 24, therefore, is more than a ‘panorama of all the martyrdoms of scripture’ as Catchpole thinks, or the blood confined to the writings of the Old Testament as Tuckett suggests. Since the verbal and thematic connections of Q 11:49–51 and 2 Chron 24:19–23 are clear, Q 11:49–51 may reflect the actual social history of the Q people which is viewed as identical with that of 2 Chron. 24. The Temple reflected in 2 Chron. 24 is viewed as a place of righteous bloodshed and thus seriously defiled. Likewise, is Q’s view of the Temple. In fact, the place of Zechariah’s death in 2 Chron. involves a great irony. Zechariah, the son of the benefactor who had saved the throne for Joash, was murdered in the very place where Joash was protected during the coup, in the Temple that had served to protect against the shedding of innocent blood. At that time, Jehoiada commanded his followers not to kill Athaliah, the unrighteous queen, in the house of God (2 Chron. 23:14). But later a total corruption of authority resulted in the shedding of the innocent blood of a prophet in the Temple. The Temple no longer played the role of ‘protector’ as it had before. Its sanctity was defiled. The place (between the house and the altar) where Zechariah was murdered also represents the symbolic place that is under the control of Q’s opponents. Just as in the Zechariah episode the unrighteous leaders controlled the Temple and killed the righteous prophet Zechariah ‘between the house and the altar’, now ‘this generation’, which governs the Temple-centered social system, rejects the prophetic preaching of the Q people and persecutes them. Thus, Q’s use of the death of Zechariah associates this event with the Temple and thus connects ‘this generation’ and its opposition to Sophia with the Temple and its functionaries.
For the Q community, the story of 2 Chron, 24:17–23 is particularly suited to its situation because the incident illustrates that the ‘leaders’ could not escape from the judgment of God (2 Chron, 24:23–24). Indeed, the death of Zechariah in 2 Chron. 24, together with the death of Abel, meant several things for the Jewish people. The shedding of their innocent blood represented the defilement of the Temple, thus assuring God’s judgment. This idea corresponds to the later rabbinic belief that sins (especially those around the temple precinct) brought drought (punishment). The chief sins are fornication, idolatry, and bloodshed (b. Ta’an. 7b, 8b). They defile the earth and cause the Shekinah to withdraw, a reality first encountered when Cain murdered Abel and Yahweh rejected Cain at the altar (Gen. 4:10–12). Various rabbinic legends also show that the innocent blood of Zechariah has no rest and defiles the Temple: ‘blood was boiling upon the altar’.196 These legends are noteworthy because they apply the Deuteronomistic text of 2 Chron. 24:19–23 to their own situations for the call to repentance or the reminder of judgment. A similar application of the Zechariah story can be viewed in Q 11:49–51.
Therefore, Q 11:51 expresses ‘lost allegiance’ toward the Temple because Q’s use of the death of Zechariah of 2 Chron. 24 shows that the existing Temple is not only defiled just as at the time of the murdered Zechariah, but also represents the place of ‘this generation’. A similar social situation for opposition is suggested in Ass. Mos. 2.6–9 and 4.7–9 in which the ‘ten tribes’ oppress the ‘two tribes’. The powerful but sinful group (‘ten tribes’) persecutes the righteous (‘two tribes’). The criticisms of these passages underline a group conflict which is unusual among contemporary Jewish writings, a fact seen when the Ass. Mos. is compared with the Pss. Sol. and the ‘Dream Vision’ of 1 En. The role of the priests as political leaders reinforces the radical separation and opposition of the two groups (Ass. Mos. 2.6–9; 6.1). Scholars suggest that the Ass. Mos. was written by a marginalized group (the separatists). If they are correct, then the conflict found in Ass. Mos., which describes the persecution of one group by another, cannot indicate ‘critical allegiance’.
Q’s type of allegiance toward the Temple in 11:51 can be further defined by the fact that the accusation of Q against ‘this generation’ is based on the defilement of the Temple by the shedding of the innocent blood. The promise of divine protection is one of the essential means by which the temple holds the allegiance of believers. Whether a group accepted or rejected this function of the temple can help one decide whether to characterize its attitude as ‘critical allegiance’ or ‘lost allegiance’. In the examples from the Koryo temple state, it was found that Seung-ro Choi, who accepted the idea of the temple as the place of Buddha’s protection, adopted a stance of ‘critical allegiance’ toward the temple (that is moderate Bae-bul-ron). As an infant, his life had been saved through the protective power of Buddha. By contrast, Do-jon Chung who represents ‘lost allegiance’ ridiculed the power of the In-wang canon which popularized the protective power of Buddhist temples. Also, among the criticisms of Greek philosophers toward the temples, I have classified the criticisms of Apollonius of Tyana as ‘critical allegiance’ since he ultimately accepted the temple as the place of healing. He visited various temples and often exercised a healing ministry, though he criticized some of the magical aspects of the temples (Life 3.44; 4.11). By contrast, the criticisms raised by Lucian reflect ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’ since they reject the superstitious belief connected with the conception of protection stemming from the temples (De Sacrificiis 2; Demonax 11).
In short, applying the incident of 2 Chron. 24:19–23 to Q’s situation, the woe reflects a group conflict that includes serious physical violence. Q’s use of the death of Zechariah in 2 Chron. 24 not only identifies the past prophet murderers with the present adversaries of the Q people, but also reveals the Temple as the place of ‘this generation’ as it was of those who killed Zechariah. Q declares that the Temple has been defiled by shedding innocent blood, a fact demonstrating that it no longer has protective power. Q 11:49–51, therefore, announces the total rejection of the Temple, or, in other words, that the community has lost its allegiance to the Temple.
Although Q 13:34–35 does not explicitly refer to the Temple, either as ἱερός or νάος, this Jerusalem lament expresses a clear opinion about the Temple. The IQP reconstruction of the passage is as follows:
Ἰερουσαλὴμ Ἰερουσαλήμ, ἡ ἀποκ—τείνουσα τοὺς προφήτας καὶ λιθοβο—λοῦσα τοὺς ἀπεσταλμένους πρὸς αὐτήν,
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, who kills the prophets and stones those sent to you!
ποσάκις ἠθέλησα ἐπισυνάξαι τὰ τέκνα σου ὄν τρόπον ὄρνις [[ἐπι—συνάγει]] τ[[ὰ ]]νοσσιὰ[[ ]] αὐτῆς ὑπὸ τἀς πτέρυγας
How often did I want to gather your children together as a hen [[gathers]] her [[nestlings]] under her wings,
καὶ οὐκ ἠθελήσατε.
and you did not want to.
ἰδοὺ ἀφίεται ὑμῖν ὁ οἶκος ὑμῶν.
See, your house is forsaken.
λέγω ὑμῖν, οὐ μὴ ʼὶδητέ με ἕως [[ἥξει ὅτε]] εἴπητε εὐλογημένος ὁ ἐρχόμενος ἐν ὀνόματι κυρίου.
I tell you, you will not see me until [[it comes when]] you say, Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord
1. The Debate on the Nature of the Conflict in Q 13:34–35
Even a casual reading of Q 13:34–35a impresses one with a thoroughly negative attitude toward Jerusalem and the Temple: God’s abandonment of your house’ (ἰδοὺ ἀφίεται ὑμῖν ὁ οἶκος ὑμῶν) is announced. Nevertheless, Jacobson, Catchpole and Tuckett do not accept the view that the Q community rejected Jerusalem and the Temple. On the one hand, Jacobson and Catchpole maintain that Q 13:35b overrides the negative tone of the previous section. Tuckett, on the other hand, argues that the negative picture of 13:34–35a does not reflect Q’s own experience of physical violence.
According to Jacobson, Q 13:35b establishes a literary unity with vv. 34–35a and thus embraces the idea of ‘future hope’ that becomes clear through Q’s use of the Deuteronomistic tradition. Dividing each verse into two halves (a and b), he notes that 34a and 34b are two characterizations of the situation that are matched by two predictions of disaster (35a and 35b). A further literary device is found in the combination of a divine passive (13:34a and 35a) and the first person subject (13:34b and 35b). This literary unity, according to Jacobson, shows that 13:35b is an integral part of the Jerusalem lament. Furthermore, he claims that v. 35b overrides the negative tone of the preceding verses with ‘future hope.’ His positive evaluation of the lament is based on the role of the Deuteronomistic history that formed the framework of the lament during the compositional stage.
Catchpole’s positive assessment of the lament is also based on the role of v. 35b. He states, ‘The prospect of judgment forms an appropriate ending for 13:34–35a in form critical terms, and the hopeful note struck by 13:35b is louder than anything in 13:34–35a.’ He thinks that although judgment is announced in Q 13:35a, the lament ends with ‘a joyful welcome back to the city, the temple, and the community.’ Thus, he stresses the positive future of the Temple, stating that ‘the fate of the temple in the future was not taken to imply its religious irrelevance in the present’, but ‘the future was taken seriously and exclusively as future’.
Tuckett does not explicitly deal with the Q’s view of the Temple/house in relation to Q 13:34–35. But he argues that the lament (Q 13:34–35a) does not express a negative outlook of the Q people, nor is it a reason for assuming that ‘the killings and stoning reflect the present experience of Q Christians’, Q 13:34–35a is limited in that ‘any physical violence related to the past and the present is characterized by a situation of at most verbal animosity and insulting gestures.’ Underlying the lament is merely a criticism of those ‘who are doing nothing in response to the Christian preaching (failing to “repent”) or who are wavering in their commitment’.210 He presents two reasons for his argument. One is that except for Stephen, no Christians were actually stoned, hence a reference to killing by stoning does not reflect the present experience of Q. The other ground is that ‘there is no other reference to an extended Jerusalem ministry by Q Christians’.212 Thus, although he does not explicitly mention Q’s attitude toward the Temple, his assumption of disconnection between the past violence and that of the present shows that the announcement of ‘forsaking the house’ does not express Q’s rejection of the existing Temple.
The majority of scholars, however, believe that the lament expresses Q’s own experience of physical violence and thus it contains a thoroughly negative view of the Temple, though they differ with regard to the historical referent of the violence. Schulz thinks that the judgment pronounced against Jerusalem represents Q’s conflict with ‘this generation’, though it belongs to a later Hellenistic-Jewish Christian tradition.214 For him, Jerusalem has no soteriological significance in this lament. Unlike Tuckett, for Schulz, the accusation of Jerusalem surveys the whole history of Israel up to the first century ce, including ‘this generation’, as being apostrophized and a city of prophet-killing.
It is Hoffmann who explicitly interprets Q 13:34–35 as a saying that reflects the imminent expectation of the final judgment of Jerusalem. He thinks that this lament is a vaticinium ex eventu.
A striking difference appears in the logion between the Jerusalem address with its participles (34a) and the subject clause (34b): the present participles in the address characterize Jerusalem only generally; the change of tense (to aorist) in 34b indicates, however, that the speaker now shifts to his personal experience with Jerusalem. After the general statements that characterize the entire history of Jerusalem, the speaker comes to his own history with the city. Therefore it is not necessary for posakis [how often] to refer back to the entire history of Jerusalem, rather it designates the repeated attempts of the speaker in the present [to gather] the ‘children of Jerusalem’.
Hoffmann argues that v. 35b is a christological addition to the prophecy which does not change the tone of 13:34–35a.
Miller advances Hoffmann’s view of a ‘vaticinium ex eventu’. According to him, the saying does not merely call for Jerusalem’s repentance, but bluntly announces her condemnation. Although v. 35b expresses a Deuteronomistic milieu, it may be a Christian use of the Deuteronomistic story in which the future restoration of the Temple is not necessary. In fact, expectation of judgment (abandonment of the temple) is congruent with the Deuteronomistic tradition. The function of the lament is ‘to enhance the community’s understanding of its adversary relationship with Jerusalem vis-à-vis its failed or failing mission to Israel’.
Myllykoski posits that the Deuteronomistic tradition often reflects the kind of imminent expectation of judgment found in Q 13:34–35. For him, Q 13:34–35 (as well as 11:50–51) refers expressis verbis to the unconditional and final rejection of Jerusalem which has killed God’s messengers. Thus, he directly associates the suffering of the prophets and the Q people: prophets of Scripture suffered as the Q community is suffering now (Q 6:22–23; 11:47–51; 13:34–35). These Deuteronomistic passages reflect Q’s own experience and the events of the community’s time as the absolute climax of this development.224
The following investigation will proceed though a literary/form critical analysis of the lament, with special reference to the meaning of Q 13:35a, which explicitly states a negative view of the house/Temple. Then, I will determine whether Q 13:35b derives from the same source as the preceding 13:34–35a.
2. Literary/Form Critical Analysis of the Lament and the Meaning of 13:35a
Regardless of the origin of v. 35b and against Jacobson and Catchpole, the majority of scholars see the lament as a whole as an announcement of judgment or disaster. Bultmann classifies it as a minatory saying which is composed of (1) Introduction (13:34a), (2) Indication of situation (13.34b), (3) Prediction of disaster (13:35a) and (4) Conclusion (13:35b). For him, Q 13:34–35 establishes an original unity, and v. 35b as the ‘conclusion’ of the minatory saying hardly overrides the tone of the preceding material. Indeed, as Sato points out, Q 13:34–35 is structured in a highly rhetorical fashion that leads to an emotional climax at Q 13:35a (‘your house is forsaken’). The lament opens with the double invocation (v. 34a), ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem’, which stresses the sadness of the prophetic wrath. This sadness is intensified by reference to the history of violent rejection (v. 34a: ‘you kill the prophets and stone those who are sent to you’). Then, a contrast follows in v. 34b where the imagery of the mother hen and her loving protection, ποσάκις ἠθέλησα ἐπισυνάξαι, plays a pivotal role. It not only creates a contrast with v. 34c (rejection; ‘I wish to gather, but you do not want to’), but also with v. 34a (persecution). Thus, the meaning is: how often would I gather you? However, you not only rejected me (v. 34c), but also killed my envoys (v. 34a).
The intensification of guilt culminates with the announcement of judgment (v. 35a): ‘Behold, your house is forsaken.’ There is an usual combination of second person pronoun, ‘your’, before ‘house’. The referent of ‘house’ cannot be separated from the Temple, though it may not exclusively refer to it. Thus, Catchpole suggests that the house refers to the city, the Temple and the Jerusalem community as a whole.230 In the Old Testament and the writings of the second Temple period, the term ‘house’ includes the notion of both Temple building and the people of God (e.g. ‘household’ of God). Especially, the latter could refer to either the commonwealth or the Jerusalem community.232 In Jer. 12:7, when God announces the abandonment of his house as the judgment (vv. 12–14), the term house refers not only to the Temple building, but also to the community in general. 1 Kings 9:7–8, a prophetic warning, also states that ‘this house which I have consecrated to my name I will cast out of my sight’. The ‘house’ refers to more than the Temple building, but the community whose center is the Temple.
In the context of Q 13:35a, however, the ‘house’ probably refers to a more specific group of people than the general expression, ‘household of God’. The view of ‘commonwealth’ in this particular context appears to be too far extended. Also, the expression ‘your house’ is intriguing because in Jewish writings the Temple is invariably God’s house and no one else’s. Accordingly, it is likely that the phrase ‘your house’ is deliberately chosen in order to distance the Q community from the Temple and to express the struggle of the former over against the Temple. Such a struggle is further reflected in the phrases, ‘your children’ and ‘you did not want’. As a matter of fact, there are attempts to define the historical event behind Q 13:35a (esp. the meaning of ἀφίεται). While Steck, Hoffmann, Miller and Robinson insist that the historical referent of Q 13:35a is the siege of Jerusalem during the Jewish War, Myllykoski posits it as the destruction of the Temple.237 But any attempt to identify a specific historical event underlying Q 13:34–35 will be inconclusive because the lament is highly rhetorical and the term ἀφίεται does not provide a decisive clue in favor of any specific event.
By contrast, the nature of the conflict is clear at the literary level, if we can maintain that the lament suggests a competition between two communities to gain the people’s favor. The expression, ‘your children’, is noteworthy. It refers to the people to whom the Q people preached; but ‘you’ did not wish ‘them’ to accept the call of the speaker (Sophia?) to come under her wings. Thus, v. 34b identifies these people with ‘your children’. The phrases, ‘your children’ and ‘you who did not wish’ reveal a competition between the Q community and ‘your house’, in which the latter finally gains the favor of the people who are thus called ‘your children’. Hence, the expression, ‘your house’ includes both ‘you’ (leaders) and ‘your children’ (followers), that is the community and its center, the Temple. The wording, ‘your children’ and ‘your house’, draw a boundary between the Q community and the community whose center is the Temple. There is also distance between the two. The term ἀφίεται encapsulates such conflict between the two groups that stand in opposition to each other. After the experience of being rejected, a community in turn announces the ‘abandonment’ of the other community whose symbolic center is the Temple, ‘your house’.
Shekinah and Q 13:34–35
Manson and Hoffmann suggest ἀφίεται refers to the departure of the Shekinah. This understanding is based on the previous imagery of a ‘hen gathering of her nestlings under her wings’. Manson states that ‘the figure of the bird gathering her brood under her wings is found in the Old Testament: Deut. 32:11; Ps. 17:8, 36:7; and the Jew who converts a Gentile is said to bring him under the wings of the In-wang (presence of God).’ Indeed, in the literary structure ‘under the wings’ is opposed to the imagery of ‘your house’. The latter is the symbolic place of those who rejected the invitation to come ‘under the wings’ where God’s Shekinah resides. Thus, as the literary climax Q 11:35a denotes a departure of the Shekinah from the Temple, and expresses a thoroughly negative view of the Temple. The rejection of the invitation to come ‘under the wings’ reveals the tension that reflects Q’s own situation. The Q community was being rejected and persecuted because of its effort to bring ‘Israel’ into the place where God’s protection resided, metaphorically designated as ‘under the wings of the mother hen’.
3. The Role of 13:35b
I have concluded that Q 13:34–35a expresses a thoroughly negative view of the Temple, but I still have to examine the role of 13:35b: whether or not Q 13:35b overrides the negative attitude of 13:34–35a. Almost all scholars interpret Q 13:35b as a final consummation, but there are three different understandings. The first view understands 13:35b as Israel’s future acceptance of her Messiah and thus her miraculous last moment conversion. The proponents of this view often regard v. 35b as an integral part of the lament from a source critical standpoint. This reading is based on two considerations: one is the positive use of εὐλογεῖν/εύ: the other is the assumption that the Deuteronomistic tradition always includes a future restoration. For the following two reasons, however, this view is hardly convincing.
The use of the λέγω ὑμῖν formula supports the form critical disconnection between Q 13:34–35a and 35b. A majority of scholars think that v. 35b differs from the preceding passages in the form and the speaker. Charles F. Burney suggests a disjunction between 13:34–35a and 35b because the lament (13:34–35a) belongs to the poetic form known as Kina, that is the rhythm of the old Hebrew dirge or elegy, whereas v. 35b does not fall into this rhythmical scheme. Thus, he concludes that v. 35b would have been originally separate from Q 13:34–35a: the compiler attached Ps. 117:26a (lxx) to the existing oracle for poetic purposes. Kloppenborg also insists that v. 35b is an editorial product because the introductory formula λέγω ὑμῖν is used in order to make a change in speaker (i.e. back from Sophia to Jesus). The formula intensifies what precedes whether it be a warning, a statement245 or a moral requirement.
Although it is certain that Q 13:34–35 reflects a Deuteronomistic tradition, this tradition does not always include a future restoration. The major theological orientation of the Deuteronomistic history is the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple, which came about because of Israel’s long history of disobedience. In fact, while restoration and/or repentance are important themes,248 rejection, judgment and curse are also central ideas of the Deuteronomistic tradition. Martin Noth emphasizes that the Deuteronomistic tradition tries to find answers ‘in a comprehensive and self-contained historical account, using those traditions concerning the history of this people to which he had access’. It often looks at the future, but in some texts, the future hope is completely absent,250 for example, Jer. 22, Ps. 137, and 2 Chron. 35:25. A structural similarity between Jer. 22 and Q 13:34–35 is evident. The threat of judgment follows the lament in both texts: ‘Write this man down as childless, a man who shall not succeed in his days; for none of his offspring shall succeed in sitting on the throne of David, and ruling again in Judah’ (Jer. 22:30; cf. Q 13:35a).
The second interpretation of Q 13:34–35b is offered by Allison who suggests that it is a ‘conditional prophecy’. He interprets ἕως ἥξει ὅτε as a conditional sentence. Thus, v. 35b reads, ‘when his people bless him, the Messiah will come’. Supporting this view, he asserts that ‘belief in the contingency of the time of the final redemption is well-attested in Jewish sources of the second century and later’.254 Although he offers various Rabbinic Jewish sources (b. Sanh. 97b, 98ab; Sifre Deut. 41; T. Dan. 6.4; 4 Ezra); none of these examples express the idea that if the people bless him, the Messiah will surely come. Instead, most of the sources only show that because of the sins of the people the Messiah does not come.
The third understanding is that Q 13:35b pictures the disqualification at the judgment of those who rejected the messengers in 13.34. For the proponents of this view, the rejection of the Temple is permanent. This third interpretation matches my understanding of Q’s use of the ‘I tell you’ formula (that is, v. 35b summarizes 13:34–35a), and it coheres with the reason why Q omitted the second half of Ps. 117:26 (lxx): ‘We bless you from the house of the Lord (εὐλογήκαμεν ὑμᾶς ἐξ οἴκου κυρίου; ר־כנוכם מרית יהוה).’ The liturgical use of Ps. 117:26 (lxx) is widely attested. According to the Midr. Ps. 118.26, the verse expresses the greeting of the people of Jerusalem who receive the pilgrims. More likely, in the original context, ‘we’ refers to the body of Levites and priests who received the congregation that came up to the Temple Mount.258 Another interpretation is that the first part was addressed to the King, the second to the congregation. It is striking that Q does not quote the second half of the psalm that would establish a catch word connection with the preceding lament (Q 13:34–35a) through ‘house’: ‘We bless you from the house of the Lord.’ Furthermore, if the second half were quoted, it would clearly change the tone by anticipating a future restoration of the ‘house’. The Messianic use of Ps. 117:26a (separated from its second half) perhaps derived from Q’s own use of the psalm and Mt. 21:9 adopted it: no such messianic use of the Psalm is found in Jewish writings. In short, Q’s deliberate omission of Ps. 117:26b (lxx) supports the contention that Q 13:35b does not intend to change the preceding negative attitude toward ‘your house’ (v. 35a).
4. The Placement of the Pericope in Q and the Role of the Lament in its Literary Context
As for the original location of Q 13:34–35, Q scholarship has been split. Matthew places the Jerusalem lament at the end of the series of woes (Mt. 23:37–39) that follows immediately after the woe about ‘prophet-killing’ (Q 11:49–51), while Luke locates it at the announcement about Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem. A number of scholars maintain that Matthew preserves the original Q sequence. The material and formal similarities between Mt. 23:34–36 (Q 11:49–51) and Mt. 23:37–39 (Q 13:34–35) as grounds for preferring the Matthean order are repeatedly advocated by other proponents. The thematic affinity between Q 13:34–35 and Q 11:49–51 is sustained by the ‘Sophia oracle’ and the reference to death by stoning. The advocates of this argument pinpoint the formal and material similarity between Lk. 13:28–33 and 13:34–35 as the evidence of Luke’s relocation. In this link, the catchword, Jerusalem, plays a role.
Another basis for maintaining the originality of the Matthean location is the redactional tendency of Luke. Conzelmann points out the secondary nature of the Lukan position on the basis that 13:34–35 expresses a prediction by Jesus of the fate to befall Jerusalem as a result of her failure to recognize the ‘time of her [sophia’s] visitation’ (Lk. 19:39–44). For Luke, the cry of 13:35b looks ahead to Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem (Lk. 19:28–38). Hence, he relocated it in the middle of the journey to Jerusalem. Also, Steck stresses Luke’s Reisekonzeption. He explains the motif as follows:
As v. 32b, through the addition of v. 33a, has now brought to expression the travel narrative as a unity of miracles and journey, so v. 34f identifies Jerusalem as the culprit responsible for killing Jesus. Through the insertion of v. 33b Luke finally introduces, as elements of his conception, Jerusalem as the place of the killing of Jesus and the goal of the journey.
Recently, Robinson has insisted that ‘Q 11:49–51; 13:34–35 is in fact one of the better instances in Q of a continuous train of thought, rather than of disconnected sayings.’ He argues that ‘the premonition of doom in the first text, that it will be required of this generation, is echoed in the second, in that God has forsaken his house, which hence is ripe for destruction.’266 Since the preceding woe refers to the killing of the prophets (Q 11:47–48), it seems to be an appropriate place to plug in the first wisdom oracle about killing the prophets (Q 11:49–51). Because of this relocation, the second half of the oracle (Q 13:34–35) became separated from a major chunk of the wisdom collection (Q 11:4–51) by Q 11:52, and its location became awkward to Luke. Accordingly, he relocated Q 13:34–35 after Lk. 13:31–33 through two catchwords, ‘prophet’ and ‘Jerusalem’. Thus,
Luke’s placement of Q 13:34–35 reflects a similar instinct to that displayed in Luke’s shifting of the first half of the Wisdom collection to a position prior to Q 11:52, so as to follow the Woe about killing the prophets. Both halves of the Wisdom collection in their secondary Lucan positions follow directly the discussion of killing prophets.
Another basis for Robinson’s argument is that 2 Chron. 24:19–23 underlies both Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35. We have already observed the verbal and thematic associations between 2 Chron. 24:19–23 and Q 11:51. Robinson argues that the material and formal connections extend to the second half of the wisdom collection: both designate the Temple as ‘house’ and predict its abandonment.
Certainly, the thematic and verbal affinity of the texts in the Matthean context may be a valid argument in favor of the Matthean position as original. Yet, the thematic association does not demand that these two sayings were a unit in the source material. A detailed comparison between Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 indicates that the proposed verbal connections are only loosely drawn. Instead, the points of view (or the time references) are different. Haenchen insists that the two woes cannot establish an original unity because in Q 11:49–51 (Weisheits-Wort) the wisdom of God anticipates the Sendung der Propheten in the future, whereas Q 13:34–35 (‘Jerusalem-Wort’) looks back on the Sendung. David Garland adds two more factors which differentiate the two. One is the difference in emotional tone; anger in 11:40–51, but sorrow in 13:34–35. The other is the reaction to the rejection: Q 11:49–51 calls for ‘active revenge’, whereas Q 13:34–35 expresses ‘passive abandonment’. Jacobson notes that the addressees are not the same: ‘this generation’ in Q 11:49–51 and Jerusalem in Q 13:34–35.
In addition, the verbal similarity between Q 13:34–35 and 2 Chron. 24:19–23 is not as strong as that between Q 11:49–51 and 2 Chron. 24:19–23. Robinson proposes a threefold verbal similarity between Q 13:34–35 and 2 Chron. 24:19–23; killing the prophet, the mention of a house, and an allusion to stoning. However, since these ideas are typical of many Deuteronomistic texts, they cannot prove that Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 were originally a single unit. Indeed, Deuteronomistic texts such as Q 6:22–23, 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 provide the conceptual framework for the second stratum of Q. Thus, a certain degree of thematic affinity found in those texts is not surprising.
By contrast, various scholars and the IQP maintain that Luke preserves the Q order, which I also prefer. The most convincing reason for the Lukan preference is the literary thematic association between Q 13:34–35 and the immediately preceding Q 13:24–30. Vassiliadis thinks that any literary coherence found in the broader literary context of 13:34–35 can be traced back to Q. He states, ‘in the original document [Q] this whole block of parables and sayings was evidently placed in the eschatological setting which, despite some obvious Lukan redaction, is still discernible in the third gospel.’ Sato suggests that the tie between Q 13:24–30 and 13:34–35 can be ascertained by (1) the similar Gattung and (2) the literary development between the two sections. He defines the genre of Q 13:28–30 as ‘Unheilsankündigung’ and Q 13:34–35, similarly, as ‘Unheilswort’. Also he points out that Q 13:34–35 is the literary culmination of 13:28–30: ‘This series should plausibly culminate in the saying lamenting the disaster that will come upon Jerusalem (Lk 13:34f par.)’. Thus, the insertion of 13:31–33 is a Lukan addition into the Q context, rather than a Lukan relocation of 13:34–35 next to 13:31–33. Jacobson also argues for the Lukan position as Q on the basis of the catchword (‘prophets’ and ‘house’) found in both Q 13:28–30 and 13:34–35. In addition, many scholars insist that the common theme, ‘rejection’, plays a central role in both sections as an evidence for the original unity.282
Moreover, my preference for the Lukan placement as Q is enhanced if a literary-thematic unit can be established not only between the Jerusalem lament and the immediately preceding Q 13:24–30, but also between the lament and the following Great Banquet parable (Q 14:16–23) that is regarded as an important Deuteronomistic text, similar to Q 13:34–35. Although it is difficult to reconstruct the Q wording in the Parable of the Great Banquet, it is relatively easy to find its main idea, a ‘shocking replacement’. The eschatological replacement is here provocative because it is the result of rejection (Q 13:34–35. In addtion, the Lamant and the Parable are linked by the catchword ‘house’ (Q 13:35 14:23 the same house imagery, in fact, appears in Q 13:24–26. Including the term οἰκοδεσπότης (v. 25) and the ‘two doors’ metaphor, it emphasizes the house imaginary. Consequently, the three sections (Q 13:24–30, 13:34–35 and 14:15–24) are tied together by the catchword, ‘house’.
Furthermore, the literary link among the three sections is more than a catchword connection. It is established by the thematic structure. In the first section (Q 13:24–30), two main ideas, ‘rejection’ (13:27) and ‘replacement’ (13:28–30), are introduced, and then unfolded respectively in the second and third sections. The first section provides a summary statement of the whole unit. On the one hand, it pronounces the doom of those who reject entrance into the kingdom of God (Q 13:28, 30). On the other, there will be a surprising replacement by those who unexpectedly enter (Q 13:29). In the second section, the first main idea, ‘rejection’, is in the forefront. The imagery of the mother hen apparently depicts a place where God extends his divine protection. The theme of rejection becomes intensified by the contrasting invitation to come ‘under the wings’. At the climax, the doom upon ‘your house’ is explicitly declared (Q 13:35a). The third section (Q 14:15–24) focuses on the second theme expressed in the first section, namely, ‘replacement’, which is the ultimate result of ‘rejection’ expounded in the middle section. It highlights ironic replacement as a resolution of the conflict. In this way, the cluster (Q 13:24–30, 13:34–35 and 14:16–24) establish a deliberate literary pattern: the first section addresses two major themes in a summary form, and the following sections develop each theme in turn. This literary pattern supports the Lukan position of Q 13:34–35.
5. The Nature of the Conflict and Type of Allegiance
The above analysis of the literary-structure of the three sections reveals the literary context of Q 13:34–35 and helps us ascertain Q’s attitude toward the house/Temple. As the literary pattern shows, the middle section, the Jerusalem lament, expounds the theme of ‘rejection’ which results in the ‘replacement’ addressed in Q 14:15–24. In this pattern, it is hardly probable that at the end of the middle section (v. 35b) the tone becomes abruptly positive and then returns to the theme of replacement, another negative sentiment.
Q’s attitude toward the Temple in the Lament can be defined through the use of ‘house’ in the broader context because ‘house’ is a catchword throughout the three sections. In the first and the third sections, ‘house’ plays a positive role, whereas in the middle section it has a negative role. The comparison between ‘your house’ of the middle section (Q 13:35) and ‘my house’ of the last section (Q 14:23) highlights this contrast. While in the literary climax of the second section, the abandonment of ‘your house’ (Q 13:35a) is announced, at the climax of the Banquet Parable there is a ‘shocking’ command to fill ‘[my] house’ (γεμισθῇ [ ] οἶκος) (14:23). The IQP reconstruction prefers Luke’s reading for Q, dropping out the pronoun μοῦ. Sterling G. Bjorndahl, in a dissenting view, suggests that Q may have the possessive pronoun because in all the Synoptic Gospels the possessive pronouns μοῦ and ἐμοῦ are almost never introduced or omitted redactionally in isolation. If ‘my’ is in Q, it draws an even more vivid contrast to ‘your house’. The entire unit, in fact, stresses the shocking replacement due to the rejection of the call, and the middle section elaborates the theme of rejection. Thus, Q 13:34–35 describes the Q community in opposition to the Temple centered community identified with ‘your house’.
Indeed, Jerusalem and the Temple do not occupy a central place in Q’s symbolic and narrative world. Schulz and Reed support this conclusion. Schulz thinks that Jerusalem is strikingly abandoned in the lament. Reed contrasts the Q community and Jerusalem in his ‘social map’ that consists of both imaginative and real places. In this map, the primary adversary is more broadly drawn against ‘this generation’ that can be found in any city.291 Nevertheless, the distance between Jerusalem and the Q community is perceived by the tone of the lament (Q 13:34) and Jerusalem is described as a ‘spiritually barren city’.
Thus, Q’s attitude toward the Temple in Q 13:34–35 differs from most criticisms of the Temple found in the Second Temple Jewish writings, which are examples of ‘critical allegiance’. These writings either show that the Temple is still a center in spite of the disobedient history of Israel, or that the future restoration of the existing Temple is implicitly or explicitly promised. For instance, the Dream Vision of 1 En. presents an announcement of ‘destruction’ and ‘judgment’ (1 En. 89.73–74). Despite the negative tone, however, the Temple remains as the center of the symbolic system, and, ultimately the future Temple will succeed the First Temple. Likewise, various criticisms of the Temple and the priests found in the Sibylline Oracle and the Psalms of Solomon expect restoration of the existing Temple system. But, the doom pronounced on Jerusalem and the Temple (‘your house’) in Q 13:34–35 leaves no room for such restoration. Jerusalem and the Temple stand over against the Q community (Q 13:34–35a), and v. 35b cannot be understood as a miraculous last minute conversion. The contrast between ‘your house’ and ‘my house’ clearly defines group boundaries that ‘enhance internal cohesion and reinforce group identity’.
In addition, Q’s stress on the kingdom of God in contrast to ‘your house’ in the cluster helps us ascertain Q’s type of allegiance to the Temple. The first section begins with an exhortation to enter the narrow door (Q 13:24). Yet, oddly, there is silence regarding which place one enters through the door. Q 13:28 takes up the idea of v. 24 and introduces the destination, the kingdom of God. The kingdom of God is also the focus of the parable of the Great Banquet (Q 14:16–23). The IQP reconstruction of Q 14:16 is:
[[καὶ]] ὁ [[ ]] εἷπεν [[αὐτοῖς· … μοι … ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ]] ἀνθρωπ[[ῳ,ό ]]τις ἐποίει δεῖπνον μέγα.
[[And he]] said [[to them, The kingdom of God]] «is like» a man [[who]] made a great banquet;
The parable recapitulates the theme of the first two sections; the blessing of entry into the kingdom and the miserable fate of the opponents. Thus, the kingdom of God establishes a catchword between the first and the third sections (Q 13:29; 14:16). The ‘house’ (or house imagery) in these two sections represents the kingdom of God into which people are to enter. The ‘door’ metaphor (Q 13:26), as well as the reference to eating, drinking, and teaching/learning activities correspond to the ‘house’ where the heavenly Banquet is celebrated (Q 14:23), that is, the kingdom of God. By contrast, the ‘house’ is used in an opposing way: doom is announced on those who reject the invitation, namely, ‘your house’. Thus, the kingdom of God is a new symbol over against ‘your house’.
A similar calling of people to enter an author’s own community is found in the QL. In 4QFlor 1.2–7 and 1QS 8.4–10 the Qumran community claims that it is the Temple. The passages assume that the Qumran community establishes a new community over against the Jerusalem Temple community. But this new community does not present a new socio-symbolic center, apart from the Temple. The Temple and the purity concerns derived from it are still the dominant symbolism of the Qumran community. 1QH 14.24–29 which includes imagery of the community as the Temple makes clear that entry into the Qumran community means ‘protection’ from any attack and ‘salvation’. It reads, ‘I am like someone entering a fortified city, and looking for shelter in the rampart until salvation … All those who are there will not stagger, for a foreigner will not penetrate it; its gates are armored gates which do not permit entry; the locks are massive, and cannot be broken.’301
Q 13:34–35 also has such a calling into a new community. This, however, expresses a harsher view of the Temple than that of the QL because the Temple does not plays a role in Q’s view of restoration. It offers a new symbolic center that stands in opposition to the Temple, that is, the kingdom of God. Meyer states that the Q community thinks of itself as the manifestation of God’s kingly rule that has been inaugurated by the ministry of Jesus. The kingdom of God is a new social symbol that represents the purpose of the Q community in contrast to ‘your house’. Through this symbol, the Q community is obedient to and trusting God and differentiates the community from those who remain in the Temple centered purity system. All allegiance to the Temple has been lost.
A Reflection on the Historical Background of the Shift in the Attitude toward the Temple
The analysis of the four passages has shown that they do not represent the same degree of allegiance toward the Temple. In Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35, allegiance to the Temple has been lost. The Q community stands in opposition to the Temple and the Temple-centered symbolism has been rejected. Similarly, Q 11:42a, b ridicules tithing as a distinctive Pharisaic life-style: it can hardly be understood as an inner community conflict. In contrast, in Q 4:9–12 and 11:42c, the Temple and tithing are not completely rejected. It is likely that Q 4:9–12 and 11:42c represent a later view according to which the Q community holds a more positive attitude toward Jewish tradition, including the Law and the Temple.
Why did this shift in the passages often assigned to the later stratum take place? As we saw, the shift in emphasis between Q 11:42a b and 42c was a shift from a divine ethical norm to a human ethical demand. This may suggest that the acute struggle between Q and the Pharisees had ended and there was an attempt to reduce friction between the groups. A thorough study of the socio-historical situation of the later redaction is beyond the limit of this investigation. But it may be helpful to outline some of the possible socio-historical reasons for the shift in attitude toward the Temple.
Q 4:1–13 and 11:42c may have been added after the fall of Jerusalem. Although most Q scholars think that Q was written in the early 60s, some date the latest redaction of Q or even the entire document to the early 70s. Wellhausen argued that Q must have been composed after the fall of the Temple because Mark was written after the destruction and Q is more recent than Mark. He offers Q 11:50 as evidence: Zechariah is the figure who also appears in War 4.334–44.
Recently Matti Myllykoski has also put forward a theory of the late redaction of Q. He claims that Q was written around 75 ce during the relatively peaceful period in the aftermath of the Jewish War:
The author of Q largely used sayings material that was produced during the critical years of the Jewish War. However, the situation of his community was already different. The situation described in Q 17 presupposes peaceful conditions, in which the Q people were able to draw conclusions from the years of rejection, persecution and horror.
Paul Hoffmann likewise claims a late redaction for Q, namely around 70 ce. He proposes that the Jewish War is the socio-historical matrix of the Q redaction and Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 reflect this particular crisis. Because the concept of the Son of Man in Q is similar to the use of the term in other late Jewish writings (e.g. ‘Similitude’ of 1 En. and 4 Ezra 13), the Q redaction must have taken place later than the majority of Q scholars think:
In the history of Palestine Jewish Christianity, then, QR marks the decisive turning point in the separation of those Jewish-Christian groups of followers of Jesus out of the hitherto clearly evident national-religious association with the Jewish national community and it marks the constitution of a separate religious grouping …
Thus, Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 can only indicate, according to Hoffmann, that Q has separated itself from Judaism. He does not believe, accordingly, that Q 4:1–13 was added after the ‘main’ redaction of Q and represents a more positive viewpoint.
Burton Mack dates Q3 to around 75 ce, arguing that it is a window, though a little one, through which we can see some changes in the perspective of the Q community. The temptation story in particular represents a shift in Q’s view of the Temple. ‘Now it [the Temple] looms large, but only as a sad symbol of misplaced loyalties or as a lesson in the misuse of power, not as an institution whose demise created an ideological crisis for the Q community.’ The Temple merely serves as the background for a debate against the tempter. It shows that Jesus (or the Q community) is not interested in the Temple. This apathy, for Mack, is the way in which the Q community responded to the destruction of the Temple, since the Kingdom was not affected by its destruction.311
If the later redaction took place after the fall of the Temple, Q 4:9 and 11:42c may well represent a more positive assessment since the Temple had ceased to be a real economic threat to Galilee. Under such conditions, it is possible the Temple had became a nostalgic entity that could be used positively and the redactor may well have introduced the Temple explicitly, but in a neutral way that is consistent with the general Jewish Christian apathy toward the Temple after its destruction.
The shift in Q’s view of the Temple would also be understandable if new scribes had joined the community. One of the distinctive characteristics of Q 4:1–13 is an explicit acknowledgement of the authority of the scripture that shows the possible influence of highly trained scribes. This factor coincides with the more positive view of the law in Q 11:42c and the term κεραία appearing in Q 16:17 which are also assigned to the later redaction, according to Kloppenborg, as well as Q 4:1–13. All these verses assume scribal involvement: the Greek term κεραία connotes a horn-like projection or a horn itself, which was often a scribal ornament.313
Along this line, Mt. 13:52 indicates that there were Christian scribes. In the Gospel of Matthew the term designates a person who is learned in Scripture and tradition. His role is to give new applications to old traditions about Jesus (‘things new and old’ [Mt. 13:52]). The Christian scribe thus plays a role as a transmitter of traditions by interpreting them to the Christian community. Since some scholars think that Q developed into the Gospel of Matthew, it would not be surprising if already at the stage of the latest redaction of Q a Christian scribe had joined the community. We can surmise that the role of the Christian scribes in Mt. 13:52 coincides with the function of the latest redaction of Q, which provides a ‘new’ perspective/interpretation on the ‘old’ tradition: Q 4:1–13 addresses the temple, while Q 11:42c is a ‘new’ interpretation of the tithing law and ethics.
(3) The third conjecture regarding the historical situation for the changing view of the Temple is based on the similar shift found in the view of the law between the Gospels of Mark and Matthew. The latter is much more concerned to depict Jesus as positively disposed to the law, as law observant, and as one who can argue from the law. Though in this case it is a matter of two different communities, it is also probably true that the social circumstances that caused Matthew’s group to be more aware of the need to address the law might be similar to the circumstances that caused Q to have a more positive view of the Temple. In fact, some examples of the positive view of the law in the Gospel of Matthew come from the later redaction of Q (e.g. Q 11:42c; 16:17). Some scholars argue that Matthew’s group was in contact with a Pharisaic synagogue, and needed to defend its own practices. Saldarini argues that although Matthew’s Gospel identifies the synagogue as the center of opposition, it is not true that the community had separated from the Jewish community, nor rejected the synagogue entirely. In two passages, Jesus gets into controversies in ‘their synagogue’ and is rejected (Mt. 12:4; 13:54), but in two other stories the expression ‘their synagogue’ refers to people’s synagogues (Mt. 4:23; 9:35). This, according to Saldarini, reveals a social situation in which Matthew’s community was trying to repair the breach with the synagogue, rather than abandon it. Indeed, compared with Mark’s view of the law, Matthew clearly affirms tithing, purity and dietary laws (though they are subordinated to justice, mercy, faithfulness and love). Thus, one may infer that the Q community was in a similar situation. This is even more plausible if the struggle against the Pharisaic synagogue had ceased and the Q community had already achieved a secure identity.
We cannot be certain about the historical situation that caused the shift in the attitude toward the Temple in the latest stage of Q. An attempt to link the shift with a specific crisis (e.g. the Jewish War) remains unproved. In any case, by the time of the latest redaction, Q seemed to have achieved a group identity that had little to do with the Temple. The universalistic vision of the Kingdom had replaced the symbolic centrality of the Temple in Q 4:1–13.
Lucian’s view of the Greek temple is suggestive for the understanding this change in Q’s view of the Temple. He did not entirely abandon the temple-polis system, but he realized that it did not serve the new social world. He retained some allegiance to the temple system, but he himself was no longer an insider of the system. The two different positions toward the Temple found in the four texts may indicate that the Q community had once encountered some serious opposition. While Q 11:42a, b, 11:49–51 and Q 13:34–35 depict the Q community struggling against the Temple-centered system, Q 4:9 and 11:42c suggest that the struggle is over. In the earlier stage, the author felt marginalized, while the later author stood outside the Temple-system, though he felt a certain allegiance to it. By this time, the Q community had developed a new identity that made opposition to the Temple less acute. If the Temple was already destroyed, it was much easier for the community to introduce it as a nostalgic symbol because the Temple system no longer posed a threat. If more educated scribes had joined the community, they may have helped it to a more certain self-understanding as ‘Israel’ without being dependant upon Temple symbolism, though this symbolism was not completely rejected either. If the Q community wanted to reconnect with the synagogue, it was because it had ended its struggle with the synagogue leaders. Moreover, if the later redaction of Q took place after the fall of the Temple, the more positive view of the Temple is consistent with this historical situation.
Summary and Conclusions
The recent concerns for the social location and nature of the Q community motivate the present study of Q’s attitude toward the Temple. Indeed, a community’s attitude toward the temple and/or the law can be coordinated with its social stance and situation. Throughout the investigation, I have compared and contrasted the views of Catchpole and Kloppenborg. In order to clarify the differences in their arguments, I have surveyed other scholars’ views that are aligned with these two positions. Catchpole and those who assess Q’s attitude toward the temple positively offer two main grounds: (1) criticisms of the Temple or tithe reflect inner community conflict; (2) the Q people look for the hopeful end after temporal abandonment of the Temple. As to the first argument, Q 11:42 is important. Based on 11:42c, the proponents argue that the Q people practiced the tithing law just like the Pharisees. In addition, the fact that Q knew the Pharisaic practice of tithing (11:42a), which was a sectarian view, shows that the Q people were Pharisees or a religious group close to the Pharisees. The second argument is based on the interpretation of Q 13:34–35. This interpretation is aligned with the view that since the covenant does not allow any Jewish group to radically break from the Temple system, none of the Jewish documents contemporary to Q entirely reject the significance of the Temple. On the contrary, Kloppenborg and those who regard Q’s attitude negatively consider the entire literary context of Q in their investigation, suggesting that (1) the law is not the authoritative standard for the settlement of arguments and (2) a ‘social map’ of the Q community places it away from Jerusalem. Moreover, they interpret the nature of the conflict found in Q 11:42a, b as ‘rhetorical’, rather than ‘historical’.
There are two methodological concerns. One is that more comprehensive types of allegiance need to be defined. Since the temple in ancient civilization was more than a religious institution, people’s allegiance to it was expressed through various types of loyalty. The other methodological concern is that the criticisms appearing in the Second Temple period do not provide a very complete ‘lexicon’ of the possible degrees of criticism and their motivations. In particular, examples of the thorough rejection of the existing Temple system are rare.
Therefore, in order to differentiate various criticisms, accordance to the degrees of rejection, this study has suggested four possible types of allegiance that theoretically span all the degrees of loyalty: ‘devoted allegiance’, ‘critical allegiance’, ‘imperiled allegiance’ and ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’. While Catchpole’s understanding of Q’s criticisms belongs to ‘critical allegiance’, Kloppenborg sees them as expressing ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’. In addition, in order to determine the intention of a criticism beyond the shallow observation of a harsh or ignorant statement, I have developed ‘indicators’ through which ‘critical allegiance’ can be differentiated from ‘lost allegiance’. A cross-cultural analysis is helpful because the Jewish documents do not provide examples of all of the grades of allegiance due to their overwhelmingly religious tone. My exploration of three exemplary temple states (the Koryo temple, the Greek temple and the Jerusalem temple) has provided three clear points of comparison that allow one to distinguish between critical allegiance and lost allegiance: (1) financial support of the temple; (2) the idea of the temple’s protection as domus dei; (3) the rejection of the temple as the center of the symbolic world. These indicators can also be coordinated with the social location and situation of the authors.
Certainly, the financial support of the Temple is an important indicator of ‘critical allegiance’. But a mere encouragement of tithing (or temple tax) could also express the ultimate rejection of the Temple if the payment was not sent to the Temple (4Q159; 11QTemple 60), or if it aimed at supporting a ‘new’ religious system while the Temple no long existed (Did. 13.3–7; Didascalia 2.34.5). This indicator is helpful for the analysis of Q 11:42. In addition, the idea of the temple’s protection as domus dei was not challenged in ‘critical allegiance’. But the rejection of this function of the temple can be an indicator of ‘lost allegiance’. For instance, the rejection of the In-wang canon, which symbolized Buddha’s protection of the nation, was made by extreme Bae-bul-ron and can be equated with ‘lost allegiance’. This indicator illuminates the type of allegiance found in Q 11:49–51. Moreover, the proposal of a new symbolic system other than the temple is a vivid indicator of ‘lost allegiance’. It can be applied to Q 13:34–35 in which, as I have suggested, the kingdom of God is probably a new social symbol. Furthermore, the social location and situation of the authors can be coordinated with my exploration of types of allegiance. The criticisms raised by marginalized or ostracized groups always reflected something harsher than ‘critical allegiance’. Yet, neither did the criticisms from insiders always represent ‘critical allegiance’. They could be classified as ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’, when a temple system did not aptly serve the new social situation (e.g. Lucian’s view of the polis-temple system). This indicator helps us analyze the ambivalent view of the Temple in Q 4:9–12.
Applying these distinctive indicators to the relevant Q passages (Q 4:9; 11:42; 11:49–51; 13:34–35), I have concluded that Q generally represents ‘lost or ambivalent allegiance’, though not all the. passages express the exactly same grade of allegiance. Q 11:42 is the most frequently used verse as the proof text for the view that Q held a positive view toward the Temple. There is a twofold argument. First, the Q community assumes an acceptance of the Pharisaic practice of meticulous tithing (or at least the community knew of it), and thus the Q community was itself Pharisaic (Manson, Wild, Tuckett and Catchpole). Second, Q 11:42c assumes that the community paid tithes to the Temple and thus it reflects ‘critical allegiance’ or even a more positive attitude, regardless of how severe the criticisms of the tithing practices of the Pharisees in 42a, b are.
I have argued, however, against this assumption because the nature of the conflict reflected in 11:42a, b is ‘rhetorical’, rather the ‘historical’ that reflects conflict with reference to lifestyle and thus a boundary drawing. In addition, v. 42c does not prove that the Q community paid tithes to the Jerusalem Temple. I proposed that the emphasis of the ταῦτα—κἀκεῖνα construction fell on the first part (ταῦτα δὲ ʼέδει ποιῆσαι) which referred to moral admonition. Accordingly, Q’s statement on tithing (κἀκεῖνα μὴ παρεῖναι) confirms Q’s own understanding of the purpose of the tithe based on v. 42b, rather than a reaffirmation of v. 42a which reflected Pharisaic practice. Indeed, a mere encouragement of tithe does not necessarily express loyalty to the Jerusalem Temple. A similar phenomenon is found in the Qumran writings (4Q159 and 11 QTemple 60) that encourage the payment of tithe, when it is most unlikely that the sectarians sent money to the Jerusalem Temple. Rather, the tithe was used to support the ‘true’ Temple system, that is, the Qumran community itself (4QFlor1.2–7;1QS 8.4–10). Another encouragement to the payment of the tithe, yet not to support the Temple, can be found in Did. 13.3. This money was to support the church and its workers: the Temple no longer existed at the time of the Didache was written. Thus, Q 11:42c does not express Q’s allegiance to the Temple through the faithful practice of tithing as the Pharisees did. Instead, it assumes a fundamental rejection of the Temple because it was intended to support the Q community itself. Thus, Q 11:42 cannot express ‘critical allegiance’.
Q 4:9–12 is thought to be another basis for Q’s positive view of the Temple. The difficulty of these verses is that they do not explicitly deal with Q’s view of the Temple. A casual reading can either bring a positive or a negative understanding. I concluded that the passage offers an ambivalent view of the Temple. On the one hand, Q tacitly rejects the assumption that the Temple is the place of God’s protection. Jesus’ non-performance of miracles presupposes that God’s revelation and presence are not confined in the Temple alone. On the other hand, Q accepts some symbolic value of the Temple because the Temple is explicitly mentioned. Certainly, the Temple is not placed over against Jesus (or the Q community) as was seen in Q 13:34–35.
The ambivalent position is based on the two premises. One concerns the aim of the devil’s choice of the Temple as the place of the temptation. The devil puts Jesus at the ‘traditional’ center of God’s protection and presence, thus making it hard for Jesus to deny his demand of performing a miracle. If Jesus refuses the offer, he implicitly denies the centrality of the existing Temple symbolism. The other is the imagery of τὸ πτερύγιον τοῦ ἱεροῦ that draws an ironic contrast in which the Temple is seen as the old symbolic center of God’s protection while Jesus, the new symbol, is standing ‘upon’ (‘ʼεπι) the ‘wings’ of the Temple, rather than ‘under’ them. The imagery pictures that the Temple is not the symbolic center for the Q community. Consequently, Q 4:9–12 expresses a much less critical attitude toward the Temple than Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35. It does not ignore the Temple system entirely, but it refuses its centrality in the symbolic system. Therefore, Q 4:9–12 cannot represent ‘critical allegiance’.
The investigation of Q 11:49–51 focused on the question of whether the passage criticizes only those who defiled the Temple, while maintaining a positive attitude toward the Temple itself, or whether it regards those who killed Zechariah as associated with the Temple where the prophet was killed. I concluded that Q’s use of the death of Zechariah legend not only identifies the past prophet murderers with the present adversaries of the Q people, but also reveals that the Temple is associated with ‘this generation’. This conclusion is based on the identification of Zechariah in Q 11:51 with the figure found in 2 Chron. 24:19–23. The connection between the two is strong. These are not only the verbal affinities and agreement on the place of the death, but the two stories also share the same social situation in which the unrighteous leaders who occupy the Temple oppress the righteous prophet(s). Consequently, Q 11:51 expresses ‘lost allegiance’. A conflict in which one group, which occupies the temple, persecuted another (e.g. Ass. Mos.) and the rejection of the notion of the Temple as the place of God’s protection (e.g. rejection of In-wang canon in the extreme Bae-bul-ron) are both indicators of lost allegiance.
The argument for those who think that Q 13:34–35 reflects a positive view of the Temple and Jerusalem is twofold. On the one hand, it seems that 13:35b transforms the preceding, negative view into a strong future hope (Jacobson and Catchpole). On the other hand, Q 13:34–35 is not seen to reflect Q’s own experience of physical violence (Tuckett). My rejection of such a positive interpretation is mainly based on the literary-thematic unit established with the preceding Q 13:24–30 and the following Great Banquet parable (Q 14:15–24). In the first section (Q 13:24–30), two main ideas, ‘rejection’ (13:27) and ‘replacement’ (13:28–30), are introduced, and then unfolded respectively in the second and third sections. This analysis of the literary structure shows that the middle section, the Jerusalem lament, expounds the theme of ‘rejection’. A clear contrast is made through the juxtaposition of ‘your house’ (13:35) and ‘my house’ (14:23). Q identifies the Temple as ‘your house’, a designation that is unusual in the writings of second temple Judaism. The doom pronounced on Jerusalem and the Temple (‘your house’) in Q 13:34–35 leaves no room for restoration. Jerusalem and the Temple stand over against the Q community (Schulz and Reed). Moreover, Q 13:34–35 reflects that Q adapted a new social symbol, that is, the kingdom of God. Thus, Q 13:34–35 represents lost allegiance.
Taken as a whole, the Sayings Gospel Q ignores the centrality of the Temple in its symbolic world. This is striking because most of the writings of Second Temple Judaism respond much more actively to the Temple-centered symbolism (e.g. Sib. Or., Pss. Sol., 1 En., Ass. Mos., 2 Bar., 4 Ezra, Tobit, QL, etc.). These writings, except for Ass. Mos., either show that the Temple is still central despite Israel’s disobedient history, or that it is the key institute for the future restoration. Hence, they are examples of ‘critical allegiance’. By contrast, Q’s attitude toward the Temple differs from most criticisms of the Temple found in the Second Temple Jewish writings.
Although there is a difference in the degree of rejection of the Temple among the four Q passages, none of these can be categorized as ‘critical allegiance’. Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 clearly express the rejection of the Temple as the center of the symbolic universe: the Q community is in opposition to the Temple leadership. The views of the Temple in Q 11:42 and 4:9–12 are not as harsh as those of Q 11:49–51 and 13:34–35. Encouragement of tithing in 11:42c, however, does not mean that the payment was sent to Jerusalem. It is more plausible that the tithe was used for the expense of Q’s own religious system. Meanwhile, in Q 4:9–12 the Temple is not viewed as the center of the symbolic system.
This less critical attitude probably reflects the later situation of the Q community. Schelkle, in passing, states that Q’s view of the Temple may reveal the history of the separation of Christianity from Judaism. It has been suggested that there are various layers in Q, possibly successive stages of redactions.3 Though this study does not presuppose the validity of the strata, the mixture of the opposition to the Temple (Q 11:49–51; 13:34–35) and ignorance of it (Q 11:42c; 4:9–12) points to the existence of different strata. The result of the present study coheres with Kloppenborg’ s stratigraphic suggestion that Q 11:42c and 4:1–13 belong to the last stratum. Also, a shift in Q’s view of the Temple may show the direction of the development of the community. While the early stratum represented by Q 11:42a, b, 11:49–51 and 13:34–35 reflects the struggle of the community against the Temple (or Temple centered symbolism), the later stratum (Q 11:42c and 4:9–12) shows that the enmity was resolved as the Q community achieved a new social identity zapart from the Temple symbolism. This trajectory may be connected to the Matthean community’s view of the Temple in which the Temple is viewed in an even more positive way.
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———’Urban-Rural Relations in First-Century Galilee: Some Suggestions from the Literary Sources’, in Levine (ed.), The Galilee in Late Antiquity, pp. 75–91.
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———’The Parable of the Sower and its Interpretation’, NTS 14 (1968), pp. 165–93.
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Williamson, H.G.M., ‘The Temple in the Books of Chronicles’, in Horbury (ed.), templum Amicitiae: Essays on the Second Temple presented to Ernst Bammel, pp. 15–31.
Winninge, Mikael, Sinners and the Righteous: A Comparative Study of the Psalms of Solomon and Paul’s Letters (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1995).
Wright, G. Ernset, ‘The Temple in Palestine-Syria’, in Freedman and Wright (eds.), The Biblical Archaeologist Reader, pp. 169–84.
Wright, Robert, ‘The Psalms of Solomon, the Pharisees, and the Essenes’, in Kraft (ed.), Proceedings: International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies and the Society of Biblical Literature Pseudepigrapha Seminar, pp. 136–54.
Wrightmann, G.J., ‘Temple Fortress in Jerusalem. Part II: The Hasmonean Baris and Herodian Antonia’, Bulletin of the Anglo-Israel Archaeological Society 10 (1990–91), pp. 7–35.
Wolff, Hans Walter, ‘The Kerygma of the Deuteronomic Historical Work’, in Brueggemann and Wolff (eds.), The Vitality of Old Testament Traditions, pp. 83–100.
Yoo, Dong-shick, The History and Structure of Korean Shamanism [Korean] (Seoul: Il-jo-gak, 1964).
Zeller, Dieter, Kommentar zur Logienquelle (Stuttgart kleiner Kommentar, Neues Testament, 21; Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1984).
———’Redactionsprozesse und wechselnder “Sitz im Leben” beim Q-Material’, in Joël Delobel (ed.), Logia: Les Paroles de Jésus—The Sayings of Jesus: Mémorial Joseph Coppens, pp. 395–409.
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Index of References
3:3 37, 142
3:8 142, 191
4:1–13 133, 136, 203, 205–207, 213
4:9–12 8, 132–34, 143, 146, 147, 203, 210, 211, 213
4:9 18, 132–34, 143, 205, 207, 210
4:12 134, 139
6:22–23 187, 196
10:12 38, 39, 172, 191
10:13–15 172, 185
10:25–28 29, 151
11:32 39, 154
11:39–52 22, 170
11:39–42 25, 26
11:39–41 25, 26, 151, 153
11:39–40 26, 40
11:42 17–19, 25–27, 29, 40, 43, 132, 147–53, 156, 169, 208–11, 213
11:42a 16, 22, 23, 26, 34, 39, 40, 43, 148–53, 157–59, 162, 169, 203, 207, 208, 210, 213
11:42b 16, 22, 23, 26, 34, 39, 40, 43, 148–55, 157–60, 162, 203, 207, 208, 210, 213
11:42c 8, 23, 29, 34, 37, 39, 148–52, 158–62, 203, 205–208, 210, 211, 213
11:43 22, 23, 40
11:47–51 27, 171, 172, 187
11:47–48 40, 171, 172, 195
11.49–51a 172, 173
11:49–51 8, 9, 18, 28, 38, 43, 132, 169–72, 180, 181, 183, 194–96, 203–205, 207, 210, 211, 213
11:49–50 171, 172
11:50–51 172, 187
11:50a 169, 172
11:50b 170, 172
11:51 16, 132, 170, 172, 176–78, 181, 182, 191, 195, 212
11:51b 170, 172, 173, 191
11:52 40, 172, 195
13:24–30 197–99, 212
13:27 198, 212
13:28–30 197, 198, 212
13:28 198, 201
13:29 198, 201, 202
13:33 133, 194
13:34–35a 21, 22, 184–87, 190, 191, 193, 201
13:34–35 8, 16–18, 21, 24, 27, 28, 38, 43, 132, 180, 183–90, 192, 194–205, 207, 208, 210–13
13:34 39, 133, 192, 193, 200
13:34a 183, 184, 186–88
13:34b 183, 184, 186–89
13:34c 183, 188
13.34f 194, 195
13:35 191, 196, 198, 199, 212
13:35a 183, 186–89, 192, 198, 199
13:35b 21, 22, 172, 184, 186, 187, 190–93, 195, 199, 201, 212
14:5 29, 151, 198
14:15–24 198, 199, 212
14:16–24 27, 38, 199
14:16–23 198, 201
14:23 38, 198, 199, 202, 212
16:16–18 29, 37, 151
16:17 8, 21, 29, 37, 162, 205, 206
15.3–4 15, 102
83–90 98, 101
89–90 15, 22, 98–100, 102, 105, 107, 113, 126, 127
89.73–74 15, 99, 102, 112, 200
89.73 99, 100, 112
90.29 99, 100
Psalms of Solomon
2:2–3 15, 97
2:34–35 96, 129
8:12–13 15, 97, 98
15:4–13 96, 129
3.196–294 93, 95
3.555–567 95, 129
3.557–568 94, 129
3.616–623 94, 129
3.702–704 94, 129
3.772–775 94, 129
Testament of Benjamin
Testament of Isaac
Testament of Dan
Testament of Judah
Testament of Levi
5.2 105, 147
14–18 15, 103, 126, 127, 146
14–17 103, 104, 106, 146
14.5–8 15, 103
16.1 15, 104
18 103, 110, 113, 146
18.1–2 103, 105, 147
18.6 107, 147
Assumption of Moses
2.6–9 108, 113, 130, 181
4.7–9 108, 109, 112, 113, 130, 181
4.8 15, 109, 110, 112, 114, 182
5.3–6 108, 110–12, 114, 182
5.4 15, 111
6.1 15, 108, 110–13, 130, 181
7.6–8 108, 110–12
9.1–2 113, 114
14.24–29 125, 126, 129, 202
14.25 125, 202
14.27–28 125, 202
8.1–10 117, 125
8.4–10 115, 124, 129, 160, 202, 211
1.2–7 115, 116, 124, 129, 160, 202, 210
1.6–7 119, 160
60 123, 124, 128, 160, 162, 209, 210
4.12–5.9 15, 114
2.1 163, 164, 166, 167
4.5B–5.8 164, 165
97b 192, 193
98a 192, 193
4.9.69a 179, 181
2.20 175, 176
36.2 144, 146
Omn. Prob. Lib.
13.408–10 30, 121
4.334–44 175, 176, 204
13.3–7 162, 209
13.3 160, 211
2 Apoc. Jas.
2.34.5 160, 162, 209
Narrative of Joseph of Arimathea
In Numeros Homilia
6.20 83, 85
6.42 84, 85, 157
6.63 84, 157
6.64 84, 130, 157
6.73 84, 130, 157
De Dea Syria
2 87, 183
11 88, 129
13 88, 129
11 88, 89, 183
27 88, 129
Life of Apollonius of Tyana
5.20 79, 80
A Pleasant Life Impossible
Obsolescence of Oracles
Index of Authors
Ahn, Gyae-hyun 61, 62, 69
Albright, W.F. 46, 95
Allison, D.C. 22, 140, 191, 192
Anderson, A.A. 193
Asgeirsson, J.M. 147, 201
Attridge, H.W. 77, 80, 88
Aune, D. 191
Avery-Peck, A. 167
Banks, R. 159
Barclay, W. 145
Barrera, J.T. 124, 125
Baum, G. 187
Baumgarten, J.M. 121, 122
Becker, J. 106, 107
Berdan, F. 49
Betz, H.D. 143
Betz, O. 122
Bickerman, E. 121
Bjorndahl, S.G. 199
Blackburn, S. 83
Blank, S.H. 175, 176, 179, 181
Block, R. 44
Bock, D. 139, 140, 145
Bonsirven, J. 94
Bousset, W. 194
Branham, R. Bracht 88
Braude, W.G. 144
Brenton, L. 156
Bright, J. 95
Brock, S.P. 95, 96
Brooke, G. 115, 116, 121, 122
Brown, J.P. 197
Brueggemann, W. 28, 192
Bultmann, R. 23, 188, 194, 196
Burkert, W. 72–74, 84, 85
Burney, C.F. 191
Cadbury, H.J. 163, 174
Calvin, J. 193
Carlston, C.E. 197
Carmignac, J. 122
Carruth, S. 133, 134
Cartledge, P. 74
Catchpole, D.R. 7, 16–18, 21, 22, 41, 42, 148, 149, 151, 152, 155, 158, 170, 172, 184, 185, 188, 208–10
Chamberlain, J.V. 117
Chance, J.B. 200
Charles, R.H. 99–101, 103–106, 108–10, 112, 147
Charlesworth, J.H. 96, 97
Chester, A. 94
Christenson, D.L. 140
Chung, Do-jon 68–71, 128–30, 157, 182
Chung, Soon-tae 68
Coleman, S. 46, 49
Collins, J.J. 93–95, 102, 105–109, 129, 130, 201
Conzelmann, H. 195
Cross, F.M. 121
Crossan, J.D. 28
Cullmann, O. 122
Danby, H. 165, 168
Dautzenberg, G. 8
Davies, W. 49, 50, 140
De Jonge, M. 103, 104, 106, 112
De Lacy, P.H. 78, 157
Delitzsch, F. 193
Demsky, A. 145
Derrett, J.D.M. 120
Deuchler, M. 70
Dillard, R. 178, 179
Dimant, D. 121
Dinsmoor, W. Bell 146
Do, Hyun-chul 65
Downing, F.G. 84–86
Dudley, D.R. 83–86, 88, 89
Dunn, J. 16, 208
Dupont-Somner, A. 96, 106, 116
Dzielska, M. 79, 81, 82
Eissfeldt, O. 95
Eitrem, S. 135
Eliade, M. 44, 48
Elliott, J.K. 141, 200
Ellis, E. 188
Eisner, J. 46, 49
Evans, C.A. 92, 108, 111, 114, 138
Feinman, G.M. 50
Fiensy, D. 34
Finkelstein, L. 120
Fitzmyer, J. 136–38, 178, 187, 188
Francis, J.A. 75, 82, 86, 89, 90, 157
Freudenburg, J. 132
Freyne, S. 22, 30–34, 43, 53, 161
Gale, J. Scarth 60
Garland, D. 196, 197
Gärtner, B. 115, 116, 125
Gaston, L. 108, 115–17, 125, 202
Gebhard, E. 48, 73
Gerhardsson, B. 137, 140, 141
Godet, F. 145
Goodman, M. 33
Goodwin, W.W. 192
Göttsching, J. 82, 158
Gould, J. 72
Goulder, M. 137
Goulet-Caz, M.O. 85
Gray, G.B. 52, 95–98
Grayson, J. Huntley 58, 59, 69, 71
Greenberg, M. 141
Grundmann, W. 188, 194
Gundry, R.H. 132, 154, 174
Ha, Hyun-gang 64
Haenchen, E. 154, 188, 196
Hahn, F. 199
Hamilton, D. 50
Han, Young-woo 64, 69, 130
Hann, R.H. 95
Hanson, P.D. 101
Haran, M. 91
Hare, D. 141, 187, 197
Harnack, A. von 194
Harris, B. 82, 158
Hatada, T. 58
Hendrickson, W. 145
Hengel, M. 100, 101, 111
Henthorn, W. 63
Hicks, R.D. 85
Hill, D. 133, 137
Hirsch, E. 154
Hoffmann, D. 161
Hoffmann, P. 135, 172, 185, 186, 188–90, 197, 204–206
Hollander, H.W. 103, 104, 112
Hong, Yi-sup 70
Horbury, W. 120, 121
Horsley, R. 39–43, 153
How, W.W. 74
Hyldahl, N. 146
Jacobson, A. 22, 27, 28, 43, 135–37, 171, 172, 184, 196–98
Jaffee, M.S. 164–66
James, M.R. 96, 97, 176, 177
Jastrow, M. 168
Jeremias, J. 144, 146, 188, 199
Jervell, J. 106
Jolliffe, R. 39, 40, 43, 149, 153–56, 164, 173–75
Jones, C.P. 87, 89, 143
Jossa, G. 32
Jung, Y.L. 60
Kautzsch, E. 106
Kee, H.C. 104, 106
Kim, Chol-choon 70
Kim, Chong-so 62, 65
Kim, Jong-kuk 63
Kirk, A.J. 144
Klinzing, G. 109
Kloppenborg, J.S. 8, 16–18, 29, 34, 35, 37–39, 42, 43, 133, 135–37, 140, 149, 153, 155, 156, 162, 163, 169, 172, 177, 191, 197, 198, 201–203, 205, 208, 209, 213
Klostermann, E. 145
Kosch, D. 7, 16, 35–37, 43, 162
Lee, Bum-wha 61
Lee, Byung-do 61, 64, 66, 67
Lee, Jae-chang 65
Lee, Ki-baek 59, 61, 65, 67
Lee, T. 50
Leupold, H.C. 193
Levine, L. 92
Long, H.S. 83
Lührmann, D. 169, 186, 194, 197
Luz, U. 139
Macan, R.W. 74
Mack, B. 205
Mahnke, H. 137
Maier, J. 123, 124
Malina, B. 91
Manson, T.W. 22, 23, 43, 136, 137, 145, 148–50, 152, 177, 187, 189, 190, 193, 210
Marinatos, N. 46, 48, 50, 72, 73
Marshall, I.H. 154
Martínez, F. García 115, 119, 123–25, 202
McKane, W. 188
McKelvey, R.J. 53
Mead, G.R.S. 79, 82, 130, 158
Meir, B.-D. 145
Merklein, H. 29
Meyer, P.D. 29, 148, 173, 202
Migne, J. 175
Milik, J.T. 102
Miller, R.J. 171, 172, 185–86, 189, 191
Min, Hyung-gu 65, 67
Moles, J.L. 86, 157
Moreland, M.C. 169, 183
Mounce, R. 178
Müller, W. 47, 48
Myllykoski, M. 185, 187, 189, 193, 204
Nahm, A. 59, 61, 62
Neirynck, F. 172, 191
Nelson, H.H. 45, 47, 49
Nestle, E. 179
Neusner, J. 16, 17, 25–27, 29, 150, 154, 161, 167
Newman, L.E. 167, 168
Nickelsburg, G.E. 93, 100, 102, 105, 107, 108, 111, 113, 114, 182
Nikiprowetzky, V. 116
Noth, M. 28, 192
O’Dell, J. 96, 97
Oakman, D. 53, 54
Oesterley, W.O.E. 100–102, 105, 147
Oppenheim, L. 49–51
Pan, P.P. 50
Patai, R. 46, 52, 181
Penella, R.J. 79–81
Percy, E. 135
Piper, R.A. 194
Plummer, A. 145
Polag, A. 148
Priest, J. 108, 109, 111–13
Radcliffe-Brown, A.R. 47
Redfield, R. 41
Reed, J. 38, 39, 43, 200, 212
Reese, G. 109
Ro, Young-chan 70
Robertson, D.S. 146
Robinson, C. 89, 90, 131, 143
Robinson, J.M. 133, 134, 147, 169, 177, 180, 183, 189, 195, 196, 201
Rohrbaugh, R. 91
Russell, D.A. 76
Russell, D.S. 100
Ryle, E.H.S. 96, 97
Sabourin, L 72
Saldarini, A. 206
Sanders, E.P. 51, 53, 92, 179
Sarason, R.S. 166, 167
Sato, M. 29, 187, 188, 197, 198
Schelkle, K.H. 16, 35, 36, 43, 213
Schenk, W. 37, 169
Schiffman, L.H. 120, 123, 126
Schlatter, A. 145
Schmid, W. 82, 158
Schmidt, A. 175
Schmidt, F. 115, 118, 119, 121, 122
Schmithals, W. 154, 194
Schottroff, L. 136
Schrenk, G. 145
Schulz, S. 7, 22–25, 27, 29, 43, 132, 135, 148–50, 152, 153, 185–88, 194, 200, 212
Schumacker, R.W.M. 72
Schürer, E. 96, 97
Schürmann, H. 135, 138, 148, 149, 151–53
Schwartz, D.R. 109
Schwartz, S. 33, 34
Schweizer, E. 138, 154, 155, 178
Senior, D. 133
Shewell-Cooper, W.E. 165
Shirock, R. 194
Sinn, U. 46, 72
Slingerland, H. Dixon 105, 106
Smith, H. 177
Smith, J.Z. 45, 47, 48, 50, 51
Smith, M. 15, 76, 78, 114, 182
Smith, R.L. 159
Snodgrass, A. 48
Sohn, Pow-key 70
Sokolowski, F. 75
Stadter, P.A. 76, 78
Steck, O.H. 27, 28, 132, 169, 170, 189, 191, 195, 197, 198
Steckoll, S.H. 121
Stegemann, W. 136
Stein, R. 188
Stone, M. 101
Talmon, S. 118
Tannehill, R. 136
Trilling, W. 187, 188, 193
Tromp, J. 109–12
Tuckett, C.M. 8, 22, 26, 28–30, 43, 135, 136, 148–52, 158, 170–74, 177, 180, 184, 185, 203, 210, 212
Turner, E. 46
Turner, H. 44, 45, 48, 49, 55
Turner, V. 46
Usener, H. 47
Vaage, L. 39, 40, 43, 149, 153, 157
Vander Kwaak, H. 191
Vassiliadis, P. 197
Vermes, G. 121
Von Harnack, A. 154
Walker, W. 165, 169
Weiser, A. 193
Wellhausen, J. 96, 176, 204
Wells, J. 74
Wernle, P. 174
Westerholm, S. 154
Westermann, C. 187
Wicker, K.O. 77
Wiefel, W. 144
Wild, R.A. 17, 22, 25–27, 29, 30, 43, 148–50, 152, 210
Wilkinson, J. 145
Winninge, M. 96–98
Wolff, H.W. 192
Wright, G.E. 52
Wright, R. 96, 97
Yadin, Y. 123
Yoo, D. 59, 60
Zohary, M. 166, 169