Read Professor James L. Crenshaw's Retirement Lecture
November 15, 2007
"The Reciprocating Touch: Revelation in Wisdom Literature"
Retirement lecture presented by James Crenshaw, Robert L. Flowers Professor of Old Testament, November 8, 2007
The small panel in the Sistine Chapel depicting Michelangelo’s view of the creation of Adam is a lesson in contrasts despite the similarity in bodily form between God and Adam. A clothed Ancient of Days extends the right hand toward Adam, the index finger poised for the anticipated moment of touch. God’s left arm rests on the shoulders of a nubile figure, somewhat older than the other ten cherubs in the scene. Of these, she alone is attentive to the unprecedented moment of touch.
Who is this fascinating girl? Lilith of later Jewish imagination? Eve? Personified Wisdom? Mary of Catholic veneration? Although evidence of female deities alongside Yahweh comes from Elephantine in Egypt and two other border sites, Khirbet ‘el Qom and Kuntillet Ajrud, it is unlikely that the young girl represents Lilith. Nor is she Eve, who is a mature woman in the next panel. The girl either represents Wisdom as described in Prov 8:22-31 or Mary, much beloved in Michelangelo’s day.
Attention is focused on God and Adam, not on the beautiful female. Astonishingly, God’s physique is less muscular than Adam’s, whose pose is almost casual. His left leg is bent at the knee, his left foot resting under his right thigh. Clean shaven and naked, Adam’s left arm is relaxed, resting on his knee. The index finger droops rather than eagerly straining to touch God’s extended finger. Adam’s eyes match the passive stance of his posture, suggesting rousing from slumber if not outright reluctance. In short, the initiative originates with the creator. That is exactly how revelation is perceived in most of the Bible. The exception is wisdom literature.
Because of its minority position, this important literary corpus was ignored by biblical theologians content on stressing “the mighty acts of God” to combat the history of religions approach to interpretation. With the failure of arguments for God’s existence from being, the cosmos, or purpose, and the impact of the Enlightenment on belief in God, biblical theology entered a crisis, heralded by renewed cries that God was dead. The shifts earthward to moral consciousness with Kant, to the human mind with Freud and Feuerbach, to society with Durkheim, to the collective psyche with Jung, or to nature with Huxley had left most believers cold. In his poem “To Spite Nature,” the Nobel Laureate Czeslaw Milosz captures the resulting pathos in these words: “For me, skeptical philosophy. That doesn’t ascribe to men any higher qualities, nor to the God man created. Then I could be in harmony with my nature. Yet I repeat, ‘I believe in God,’ and I know that my belief has no justification.” In “Second Space,” he adds: “If there is no God, not everything is permitted to man. He is still his brother’s keeper and he is not permitted to sadden his brother by saying that there is no God.”
Such was the situation in the early ‘60’s when I asked the following question: “Can wisdom literature address the impasse facing theologians?” It seemed to me that in Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes, Adam’s progeny takes the initiative and reaches out for a passive or indifferent God who has been content to conceal truth in nature that, by analogy, can be applied to human experience. Four decades later, I am convinced that insights from this minority view have greatly enriched theological discourse. That positive assessment puts me at odds with Horst Dietrich Preuss and others who view wisdom literature as pagan because it lacks the concept of saving history.
Let us look at revelation in Proverbs, Job, Ecclesiastes, as well as the deutero-canonical Sirach, and Wisdom of Solomon. In the first place, revelation takes the form of an innate gift. According to Eccl 3:11, the deity has made everything appropriate for its time (or beautiful in its time) and has placed something in human minds, yet has made it impossible to discover that gift from beginning to end. That unknown gift is either a sense of eternity or mystery (ha‘olam or ha‘elem); in both instances, it does no good. In Eccl 5:17-19 Qoheleth adds that God keeps humans occupied with joy, responds to them by joy, or afflicts them with thoughts of joy. The participle ma‘aneh has all three meanings, and the context is not entirely clear. Its purpose, however, is certain: to make them forget.
The Book of Proverbs even uses the image of divine puppeteer, for strings are being pulled that control actions, a determinism that is central to Ecclesiastes but resisted by Ben Sira, who opts for free will. He, too, believed that God endowed humans with a mind as well as eyes, tongue, and ears. This reference to three senses (sight, touch, and sound) focuses on the intellect--eyes for observing how things function, ears for taking in knowledge as it comes from others, and the tongue for transmitting to others insights gleaned from sight and sound. Ben Sira also thinks God bestowed the law of life on human beings, but what he means is not known.
In the second place, wisdom literature implies that God has endowed the universe with an order that approximates natural law. This stamp of the creator was believed to be discernible, assisting astute observers in negotiating difficult terrain. For this reason, sages paid much attention to nature, hoping that by analogy they could glean valuable lessons from the study of natural phenomena. No creature was too small to teach humans a valuable lesson, even the ant, to Ed Wilson’s delight, nor was any heavenly body devoid of useful truth.
Contact between sages in Israel and Stoic philosophers further strengthened this concept of natural law. Both Ben Sira and the author of Wisdom of Solomon emphasize opposites in nature that balance principles such as good and evil. This type of reasoning functioned to defend divine justice. A negative side of natural law did not escape these authors, who recognized the ease with which nature became an object of adoration, whether through politics, grief at the loss of a loved one, or artistic skill.. The evils of idolatry thus loom large in the thinking of Wisdom of Solomon, an insight that did not escape the Apostle Paul who applied the practice to people standing outside the Christian umbrella.
Both types of revelation, the “mysterious gift” and natural law, took place at creation when DNA was fixed for individuals rather than in the course of particular human events. The sages also believed in mediated revelation through personified wisdom. This divine disclosure initially occurred at the moment of creation, according to Prov 8:22-31 and Sir 24, but later functioned almost like the divine spirit in guiding Israel toward a disciplined life in accord with the law. Its obscure origins reside in the attribution of human qualities to virtues such as justice and truth locked in passionate embrace or want entering a house like a thief, but similarities to the Egyptian goddess Ma‘at and to speeches by Isis point to international influence.
In this mediated revelation, mythic features abound. Like a little child or a master architect, Wisdom is present at creation and brings joy to God. Alternatively, the disputed word ’amon describes the creator as the architect of the universe. In any event, the language is highly charged eroticism. Ben Sira develops the myth further, bringing the scene of Eden into play and speculating that Wisdom searched the whole world for a suitable dwelling place, eventually choosing Jerusalem and assisting in the liturgy of the temple. As a vivifying presence, she takes the form of fruit-bearing vines and trees as well as pleasant spices. Most astonishing, however, is her identification with the law of Moses, which makes wisdom accessible to everyone and assures divine presence. In Wisdom of Solomon, Wisdom becomes a pure emanation of God, possessing all the divine attributes. Some apocalyptic sources objected to the sages’ claim that Wisdom dwelt in Jerusalem; 1 En 42 insists that her search for a dwelling place was in vain, so that she returned to heaven. Hidden wisdom is first mentioned in Job 28, Prov 30, and Bar 3; Deut 4:5-8 and 30:11-14 counters this view by insisting that wisdom is readily accessible. Obviously, sages and others disagreed about the availability of true understanding, the result of a move from knowledge (da‘at) to binâ.
What lies behind this difference of opinion about wisdom? In my view, mediated divine presence through personified Wisdom was a response to at least five things: (1) the perception of the loss of God’s presence with the destruction of the temple in 586; (2) the effect of Persian satraps on the family; (3) the rise of priestly power; (4) the intellectual attraction of Hellenism to Jewish youth; and (5) an emerging monetary system that reinforced an earlier religion of success. With mediated Wisdom, divine presence was assured, the role of women in families was elevated, the Mosaic law became a visible manifestation of intelligent action, sages’ prestige rose because of their rational interpretation of reality, and a means of measuring virtue came into being.
To sun up thus far, sages believed that access to truth was provided in three ways: by a mysterious gift, natural law, and mediated divine Wisdom. In all three of these, the deity is thought to have been remote at best. There is, however, direct revelation in the book of Job, although interpreters rarely acknowledge its extraordinary nature. I refer to the divine speeches in chapters 38-41:6 and to Eliphaz’s frightening experience in 4:12-21. In the first of these, God describes meteorological phenomena and catalogues wild animals, culminating in praise of two creatures representing chaos. The chilling mood behind this account would delight Darwin, for red tooth and claw characterizes the predatory animal kingdom of God’s creation. Rather than standing in the center of things, humans are thrust to the outer edges of divine thought almost as objects of derision. Their inability to master Behemoth and Leviathan or to conquer pride signals human frailty.
The second instance of direct revelation in the book of Job involves a sleeping Eliphaz, to whom a ghostlike figure comes and terrifies the startled sage who is said to have been in a deep sleep (tardemâ) like the one imposed on Adam during a surgical procedure, Abraham during the cutting of a covenant, and Jonah during a storm at sea. The language used by Eliphaz in reporting the scene magnifies the eerie nature of the experience, one shimmering with mystery. The spirit glides by, pauses but remains incognito, and leaves behind a brief oracle: “Can a human be more righteous than Eloah, or can a man be purer than his maker?” (4:17). I concur with the translators of the King James Version, repeated in the New International Version, that the most natural way of reading the preposition min in this verse is as a comparative. The stillness that follows is that experienced by Elijah when God appeared to him in a “hushed quietness” (demâmâ) after a display of earthquake, fire, and storm-wind. This description has such impact on the Joban author that he alludes to it three times in succeeding speeches (9:2; 15:14-16; 25:4).
The intrusive Elihu comes close to claiming direct revelation, for he insists that El speaks in one way or another “In a dream, a vision of the night, when heavy sleep falls on people, while they slumber in bed. Then he opens their ears and frightens them with warnings” (33:14-15). The sole purpose of revelation, as Elihu perceives it, is to fill one with dread. In neither case is the revelation understood as the result of oneiromancy, incubation, or divination, for God initiates the revelation.
The evidence is incontrovertible. The author of Job thinks that the deity communicates directly with humans. We must concede, however, that the content of that revelation is terrifying. That is why Job’s response to the divine speeches, filled with syntactic difficulty, has caused such consternation among critics. Does he repent, melt, or comfort himself, and if he repents, what of? Wanting to take God to court for injustice? Being human? Be that as it may, the initiative comes from Job, who forces Yahweh’s hand by taking an oath of innocence. In the case of Eliphaz’s dream, the initiative is taken by the spirit, and the message is sobering. Like the central theme of the divine speeches, it reminds him of the chasm separating the creator from humans. Even Job’s stellar virtue, attested by God and the narrator, does not change that fact.
To recapitulate, wisdom literature has a rich concept of revelation, ranging all the way from something we shall call conscience, for lack of a better word, and natural law to direct revelation, with mediated revelation by means of personified Wisdom in between. Just as Michelangelo paints a scene depicting a reciprocating touch, sages use words to paint a very different picture. Let us imagine their artistry in the following way.
First, the dominant view: a hastily drawn cerebreal cortex in the foreground and kidneys, the source of emotion, in the background. Somewhere in these organs of cognition lies a divine gift that serves no useful purpose, for God has stacked the deck against the recipient of divine largesse. Next, a fruit tree at harvest time. Beneath its branches lie several apples that have fallen to the ground, while another is in mid-air on its way to earth below, predictably drawn by gravitational pull. The sun rises in the east, and another day dawns as it has for eons as promised in Gen 8:22 (“As long as earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will not cease”).
Second, mediated revelation. The first scene is a diptych, its two panels depicting the first act of creation and its sequel. One panel shows only Yahweh and Hokmâ; everything else is an empty void. The portrait of Wisdom has the innocence of Boticelli’s “Birth of Spring” and the coquettishness of Leonardo de Vinci’s “Mona Lisa.” The emphasis falls on origin and primacy, both in time and value. While Yahweh creates, Hokmâ observes like a darling child or lover overcome by awe. This panel portrays the origin of heavens and earth, sky and ocean, with intervening mountains. The other scene from a later time is a montage borrowed from alien portraits. The several images emphasize the sensual, Hokmâ actualizing the creator’s speech, taking visible form while a mist engulfs the earth. Alternatively, she assumes the shape of a pillar of cloud and comes to rest in the temple. Other scenes depict her as one of several majestic trees, a fruitful vine, or aromatic spices. Every one of these unrelated scenes opens into a scroll. An even later portrait of the sun and its rays contends with one of a bride adorned for King Solomon.
Third, direct revelation. In the first of two portraits, a host of created bodies, none born of woman, surrounds two prominent figures. Some have no breath at all, although they have an existence of their own. In this group are the foundations of the earth, the celestial wonders--stars, sun, moon, planets--, thunder and lightning, snow and ice, morning and night, clouds, rain, and the rolling sea. Other figures comprise members of the predatory animal kingdom: lions, mountain goats, wild asses and oxen, ostrich, and wild horses as well as winged creatures--eagles, ravens, and hawks. Towering over all these are two monsters with mysterious names and resembling mythical gods in Egypt depicted as hippopotamus and crocodile. Like the Canaanite Baal, Yahweh rides on the wings of a tempest, its mighty winds roaring like the angry sea and reflecting the mood of its rider. The scene is dark, except for a dazzling streak of light within the storm cloud. An open mouth suggests a booming voice, full of authority and intent on deflating a wounded Job who points a defiant finger in the direction of the whirlwind. His anguished face is flushed from rage and mortification.
The second portrait involves a ghostly figure and a sleeping human. The spirit enters like a thief and hides its identity. Throughout the scene, only one figure is active; the other is scared out of his wits. Wave-like lines suggest movement, broken momentarily, but obscuring facial demeanor. If we take seriously the Greek translation, “It rendered him immobile,” the sleeping figure was momentarily paralyzed by the strange combination of furtiveness and silence despite the spirit’s stopping before Eliphaz’s very eyes. In this scene the apparition initiates the encounter, as in similar dream messages from ancient Mari or those experienced by the hero Gilgamesh.
We may stand in awe before Michelangelo’s depiction of the reciprocating touch, but it is unfinished without the further pictures provided by Israel’s sages. They recognized the important role of human initiative in discovering the nature of God and the human response to transcendence. In light of their understanding of things, the real question becomes this: “Why did they permit direct revelation to find a toe-hold in a world view that was seemingly adequate to meet every need”?
Karel van der Toorn has put forth an answer to a similar move in Mesopotamian wisdom literature, which he thinks also explains the biblical move to include revelation as a source of knowledge. He takes his point of departure from the profound differences between the Old Babylonian Edition of the Gilgamesh Epic and the Standard Babylonian Edition, to which a scribe has added a Prologue of twenty-eight lines. This new material identifies Gilgamesh as one who has obtained secret wisdom of the gods from Utnapishtim, the hero of the flood story that parallels the biblical account in many essentials. Whereas old wisdom consisted of “human knowledge painstakingly acquired by a lifetime of experience,” new wisdom is revelation. Such rarified knowledge is then associated with exorcism, astrology, and divination; all of these domains are then reserved for the intelligentsia.
Why did this shift in understanding occur? Van der Toorn suggests that the move from oral tradition to a written text was a power play by intellectuals. It brought about an encrypting in a predominantly oral culture, for only scholars had access to this material. In reality, he writes, this claim amounted to no more than rhetoric, for the stories of the flood and Gilgamesh were familiar to all through oral tradition. Nevertheless, wisdom was now thought to consist of divine secrets, hence a mystery known only by the gods and the scribes to whom the knowledge had been disclosed.
Whatever one thinks of van der Toorn’s hypothesis, we must acknowledge the difficulty of explaining the presence of direct revelation in wisdom literature. After all, reason seems capable of managing quite well without resorting to faith. The total experience of the community, past and present, was a formidable depository on which to draw. Perhaps that is why modern interpreters have so much trouble integrating faith and reason in these ancient texts.
Once direct revelation entered wisdom literature, a sharp reaction against it surfaced, particularly in the book of Ecclesiastes. Here the mystery surrounding all knowledge becomes paramount, as do the expressions “utter futility,” “shepherding the wind,” “cannot find out,” and “cannot know.” The distance separating humans from God results in ignorance, or better, mystery. The Hellenistic era ushered in an esotericism that intensified in Roman times, both in apocalyptic and in wisdom literature at Qumran. The latter introduced the idea of a mystery that is to be revealed (raz nihyeh). Once wisdom was identified with the Mosaic Law, it no longer referred to the accumulated experience of a lifetime. Instead, wisdom consisted of revelation to a select group, and this knowledge resided in written texts that few could read. In this environment, the emergence of esoteric lore and its defense was natural. Hence we read in 2 Esd 14:46-47 “…But keep the seventy that were written last, in order to give them to the wise among your people. For in them is the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom, and the river of knowledge.” Remarkably, here the biblical canon is compared unfavorably with apocryphal texts.
How far we have come from the wisdom saying in Prov 25:2 that God’s glory is to conceal a matter while a king’s glory is to search it out? Once that human task was democratized, like the move to make room in heaven for the Pharaoh’s subjects too, the touch became truly reciprocal. For nearly forty-three years, I have explored the implications of the human initiative in a silent universe. Like Karl Rahner, I have found divine silence to be a compelling reason for a determined search to discover God’s presence through insights provided by biblical sages. I, for one, am eternally grateful that these wise men and women did not abandon reason for faith, as important as faith is to knowledge, but tried to the best of their ability to actualize a reciprocating touch that even Michelangelo did not envision when depicting the origin of humankind.