Abracadabra: When is magic not that magical?

 

In researching the attitude of any ancient people to “magic” it is hard to escape the preconception caused by the modern usage of the term.  “Magical thinking” – as opposed to scientific thinking – is one that does not pay sufficiently close attention to the links between cause and effect; and posits that certain words, emotions or rituals (contrary to the evidence) have an impact that clear-minded thing would not impute to them, on the basis of ‘supernatural’ causes.  In other words, our sense of ‘magic’ is bound up with concepts of rationality; and the clear demarcation of different contemporary practices between the rational and irrational. In times past, there was less differentiation in the sense that even those most normalised ritual practice, is bound up with spiritual teleology; and where even the most esoteric practice would be conceptually anchored in the beliefs of the community. 

Does the fact that the Ziz (featuring G-d’s name and worn by the High Priest) was considered to have ‘powers’ make it ‘magic’?  Whilst the attribution of powers to headwear may be considered without rational basis today, it is institutional behaviour carried out regardless of its underlying motivation. If the link between magic and ritual is unclear, it may seem less clear between magic and science and technology.  Practices designed to engineer an outcome (e.g. curing malaria, ‘fevers and chills’) through the use of ‘tools’, especially when weakly connected to specific theological elements, skirt the boundary.    For example, the child’s linen T-Shirt discovered by Yigal Yadin in the Cave of Letters – which had pouches for shells, salt crystals and seed - may seem more magical as it has no “Jewish connection” as such, and is designed only to alter nature to bring about an effect.  However, the ‘magical’ (in the pejorative sense) nature of this can only be judged by the ‘known’ properties of the age, and not current standards.

It is no surprise then that Philo can claim both that Mosaic legislation is designed to remove the reciters of incantations from the polity; and yet be admiring of the Magi who have the ‘oriental wisdom’ to manipulate nature.  Or equally, how Josephus can forbid the Israelites from owning pharmakons (including poisons) and rail against the goetes (sorcerers/charlatans); and nonetheless support exorcisms.  One may be tempted to ask “What is their view on magic?” and expect a consistent answer on epistemological grounds.  However, magic may not necessarily be the optimal lens to ask these questions

One alternative lens could be to look at certain activities through the prism of ‘folk’ versus ‘elite’ practices; and the layers of influence between them.  The lack of extant writings on so-called magic practices (e.g. magical recipe books for the creation of incantations) may indicate that these matters were not of scholarly interest and not the subject for professional vocation.  This is not then to deny the presence of such conceptions amongst the populace; or its disapproval (within bounds) of the elite.  Certain practices (the cutting of roots and use of plants) may be considered to have its origin (as in Jubilees) in demonic forces, but the mere use of plants by the common man is not enough to qualify in this manner.

This dovetails into another approach to viewing these practices, which is through the prism of “deviance”.  In 4QSongs of the Sages the maskil recites sectarian hymns to ‘frighten’ the demons and spirits, and to protect the Sons of Light from deviancy from the rules of the community.  If, the signs of malignancy are breaking the rules; and its cure is engagement is participation (including in the rituals the maskil performs ex officio) then the ‘magic’ of the hymns is secondary to the deviance it prevents.  Similarly, any ‘magic’ that encourages healing without adverse theological harm, but doesn’t touch upon the norms of the community, would be free from censure.  The danger point is where ritual and beliefs co-incide in a way that is (at least) tangential or independent of the main communal  priorities; and that if (mis)used could cause deviance from those communal boundaries.

The presence of magic could then be explored through the sociological functions of the actions, rather than theoretical basis that underlie them     

Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: What difference does mysticism make anyway?

The Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifices has been cited as a key document situating mysticism (or quasi-mystical practice) within the communities associated with the Qumran literature; and in doing so, attempting to establish an earlier date for this tradition compared to prior views, such as those espoused by Scholem.  There are thirteen liturgical compositions to be recited on successive sabbaths, whose communal chanting is considered by some to have a “numinous” quality that allow a communal alignment with the angelic realm.  It contains a continuous meditation on “seven” (e.g. seven blessings, seven rejoicing, seven places, seven wonderous words) as a key for using the propitious quality of the sabbath to seek union (yachad) with the angels.  This union, along with a vision of the “upper most heaven, all its beams and walls, all its form, the work of its structure” allows us to join with their knowledge, and praise of G-d.  Just as “the chariots of His inner shrine give praise together, and their cherubim and their ophanim bless wondrously” – so may the community achieve a liturgical communion with G-d. 

In many respects this work and the traditions surrounding it are – to quote Newsom “belong to the same complex stream of religious tradition” as the Mystic traditions that were to come later, albeit with discontinuities also.  For example, the common praise with the angels is reminiscent with the Kedusha where the angelic praise from Isaiah and Ezekiel are recited in communal prayer; albeit that the text describes the praise of the angels rather than quotes their words.  The descriptions of the celestial tablet and the chariots are themes further explored in the Merkava and Heikhalot mysticism, but where the latter support a rabbinic viewpoint whereas the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice are priestly in nature.  The recitation of the hymns may create a religious experience, but not one deliberately described as being an incubatory practice for an ecstatic or disassociative experience.

The continuities and discontinuities between the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice and later mystical practice are subject to a large degree of consensus, yet with very divergent conclusions regarding its place in the history of mysticism.  For Alexander, “the evidence that has accumulated for the existence of mysticism in the Qumran community is now substantial and compelling”.  Whereas, for Newsom “In the narrow sense there is no evidence of mystical praxis in the communities represented by the literature of the dead sea scrolls”.  There is less a disagreement around evidence, than in definition or threshold for counting something as mystic. 

What then is the dividing line between having common themes or precursors to mysticism and being itself being a mystical practice?  After all, common liturgy alone does not a mystic make:  mystic and non-mystic alike will recite the Kedusha in synagogue if they are a practicing Jew.  Nor do the specifics of any common theory do so, such as the desirability of union with angels to understand their knowledge (the purposes of G-d and ones part in them).  After all, Maimonides – the arch rationalist – argues that one should have union with the Active Intellect (the highest of all angels) to understand the actions of G-d and how the world is governed. 

Both Alexander and Newsom would agree (albeit expressed slightly differently) that mysticism require religious experience, a desire for union or communion with a transcendent presence and a Via Mystica  - a method or set of practices for achieving that state.  Both would agree that the practice of reciting these Sabbath songs creates a religious experience and aesthetic that helps the worshipper appreciate the heavenly cult.  Yet the lack of deliberate aforethought that the practice should induce an ecstatic state is the sticking point that means it doesn’t count as mysticism.  But as one may say in rabbinic parlance “mai nafka mina?” – does anything hinge on this?

Often ‘mysticism’ would be used to express an opposition or contrast to something else.  As Alexander points out “mysticism, for Scholem, emerged as a kind of protest against the rigidities imposed by halakhic Judaism”.  Or alternatively:

•  Mysticism is opposed to rationalism with regard to a source of knowledge
• The esoteric mysteries of a mystic; as opposed to the exoteric meaning accessible to all
• Individual disciplines and techniques; as opposed to communal ritual ones
• A movement from the physical to a spiritual realm; as opposed to a descent (or integration) of the spiritual to the physical world  

·        Etc

In the case of these texts, it is unclear what substantively is at stake, or what would be different (or falsifiable) were they to be mystic or not.  There is agreement that the texts are modelled on the priestly and temple tradition.  Knowledge is mediated via the “knowledge among the priests of the inner sanctum.  And from their mouths come teachings concerning all matters of holiness together with precepts”.  It is the case that the temple (with an architecture mirroring the celestial one) that is the locus of G-d within the physical realm; and that transformed man remains embodied.  It is clear that this practice is (regardless of its presumed aesthetic) is communal, exoteric and ritualised. 

Thus while the lack of it being an “ecstatic” practice seems a slender basis for Newsom to deny the term, it doesn’t seem much is gained by it either.  It doesn’t seem to provide a relevant contrast to other practices of the time that would move it from being in the same chain of traditions as later mysticism, to being one that independently deserves the title itself.

The War Scroll: Violent Text, Violent Actions?

 

The War Scroll (1QM) is an example of what Collins terms “Violent rhetoric, projected into the eschatological future”.  It sees the Sons of Light (the authentic remnant of the people of G-d) pitted against the Sons of Darkness (the enemies of the Jewish people “being helped by those who violate the covenant”); and does so in the supernatural realm represented by the angels Michael and Belial respectively.  The conflict between these “sons” – one described to be a form of dualism representing two conflicting powers in nature – is an evenly matched and well-choreographed affair whereby “the Sons of Light shall strengthen (for) three lots and smite wickedness but (for =) three (lots) the army of Belial shall gird itself for the return of the lot”.  However, in the seventh lot: “the great hand of G-d shall subdue the angels of his dominion and all the men”. 

Where the first six lots, could be considered to be the theological background of the War Scroll, it is the actions of the seventh lot that is centred as the foreground, detailing in depth items such as:

• The priority of the leadership (e.g. the Chief Priest and deputy followed by 12 chiefs, 26 chiefs of divisions, 12 chiefs of Levites, Chief of Tribes etc)
• The formations of the inventory and cavalry (e.g. 7 frontal formations of 1000 men, 7000 infantry), and what happens when formations need to be changed
• What is written on the banners and standards (e.g. “Truth of G-d”) when they march out, draw near or withdraw
• Their inventory (e.g. javelins, swords and spears)
• How the priests direct battle with their trumpets, their speeches and their prayers

Listing items such as above, should draw attention to the fact that to the extent that there is dualism here (Collins would limit “monotheism” to where there is philosophical reflection, and it is not clear why “dualism” should not be treated likewise) – this is something assumed rather than the main point. Dualism joins other things I would argue our necessary parts of the text, but not what the work is for; such as the theology of “fixed times”, the psychological import of religious ritual a la Weitzmann,  fantasies of religious violence “letting off steam” (see below) or dissent from oppressive cultures.   An explanation of the text would have to account for the importance of preparations for the war.

To further the above, I would agree with Collins that “the belief that the Lord will exact vengeance with ultimate ferocity that enables such groups to refrain from violent action in the present” without seeing the purpose of the work being to imagine the destruction of Babylon and Rome through this dualistic hue, such that “the fantasy afforded some satisfaction” to avoid cognitive dissonance.  To do this, I’d like to contrast two virtually identical linguistic formulations of Collins but with different emphases:

Antagonism toward other people is all the greater when these people too have a representative in the supernatural realm [in discussing how dualism could lead to violence]

The need for divine intervention, and even for divine violence, is all the greater when the forces of darkness are thought to be supported by supernatural forces of their own

Do violent fantasies, supported by dualism, stir up hatred in actual people (at a particular historical juncture) that may lead to actual violence?  Or do violent fantasies, supported by dualism, lead to a historical quietism and the need to cry out for divine intervention?  To the wider point of linking religious ideology and violence, beliefs could lead to violence or its avoidance, but this depends on how it is used in the discourse of religious believers who take their inspiration from it, and not from the beliefs themselves.

In the above case, I’m not sure the discourse supports either horn of the dilemma.  Antagonism towards the nations is of course accepted and the usual role-call of enemies are mentioned (e.g. Edomite, Moabites, Amalekites, Ishmaelites).  However, it does not seem to show originality in this regard, either exhibiting despair or polemicising against specific misdeeds of the nations.  Rather, the violence against them just is what will happen as told “through your anointed ones, seers of fixed times”.  If the text wanted to express its despair at the dissonance between the world as it is and how it should be, it could have contained quotes such as Collins cites from Ezra 4 (“If the world has indeed been created for us why do we not possess our world as an inheritance?  How long will this be so?”)  If the text wanted to specifically fantasise religious violence it could have chosen a poetic medium such as that quoted from Isaiah.  Neither it would seem is advanced through detailed preparations.

Rather, the discourse seems to suggest (or on its outer surface, project) the opposite: the confirmatory nature of the current situation to its beliefs; and the partnership between G-d and his agents (the remnant of Israel) through which the final battle occurs.   On the first point, the War Scroll says:

·        In all your glorious fixed times there was a memorial: your [wonderful acts?] in our midst for the help of the remnant and the preservation of your covenant” (emphasis added). 

The present times are no less glorious, even (or especially during the domination of Belial):

·        You have displayed through wonderous deeds your mercy for the remnant of your inheritances during the dominion of Belial.  With all the mysteries of his hated, he has not drawn us away from your covenant; you have driven his spirits of destruction far from us

These times are precisely a testament to the remnant of Israel, as his true partners and recipients of his good deeds.  The preparations then are not a fantasy, nor a (completely) quietist or despairing position.  It does not elicit or encourage imminent violence, but it is precisely during this sixth lot, one needs to make active preparations to be worthy for the final battle, as G-d’s emissaries for the final redemption.

Damascus Document: When is a Cigar just a Cigar?

 The Damascus Document (as Fraade points out) is unusual in that it combines both law and narrative together, where the laws go hand-in-hand with its narrative and eschatological framework.  Moreover, it explicitly cites scripture as an independent source; and provides interpretations of it to support a legal and moral worldview.  Prefiguring rabbinic midrash, it seems to derive lessons from the text as such that allows for “new modalities of continuing revelation”.  The word “derive”, of course, is a loaded term alluding to metaphors that see interpretation as a key to unlock secrets both hidden and revealed in the text; a type of mechanistic action that leads to a determinative answer.  The exact nature of the relationship between text, narrative, law and philosophy – and the extent interpretation that mediates between them – is precisely at stake and it is high stakes. 

For in the view of the Qumran sect the “seekers after smooth things” (dorshei) is a derogatory term for the Pharisees that lead to falsehoods: “For they sought easy interpretations, chose illusions, scrutinised loopholes, chose the handsome neck, acquitted the guilty and sentenced the just, violated the covenant”.  This stands in contrast to the more authoritative interpretation taught by the “Teacher of Righteousness” who “taught the community the proper observance of the Law and the true eschatological meaning of the words of the prophets” (Angel).  Interpretation in this view is necessarily but strictly limited to “the men of renown, who stand (to serve) at the end of days.”  It may be inferred there is a “right answer” to legal question, to whom the Sons of Zadok are custodians.

One can see there are opposing legal outputs (e.g. on the laws of polygamy, incest and witnesses) and to which one side believes the other has erred.  However, the gap that opens between text and interpretation, and the combining of law and narrative into a single text, naturally opens up questions about the nature and philosophy of the law.  What were they up to when they came to these different determinations of the law?  Does it underlie a different thought process or worldview?  Are they different opinions within one ‘language game’, ‘form of life’ or exegetical activity; or are they playing different games?

Daniel Schwartz would like to take the latter view – the enterprises are different with the Qumran view of law being “Realist” and the Rabbinic being “Nominalist”.  Loosely, the former have laws based on reality (as understood through the text) based on objective principles, while the latter are more based on the determination of the law as a speech (or procedural) act (i.e. what the text, judge or court says).   If there are not two witnesses to a single crime, does the ‘guilty’ man walk free, even if there were three independent witnesses to the man committing the crime on separate occasions?  Must one act according to the judicial procedure and let them off (Rabbinic); or ensure that the judicial process gets the right result and convicts them (Qumranic)?

Jeffrey Rubinstein, on the other hand, takes the former view described above where they are both engaged in the same exercise; albeit his article fluctuates between two forms of this.  On the one hand: “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”.  Arguments such as the one above are purely a matter of exegesis from an interpretive point of view.  On the other hand: he seems to conclude that there is a common Realist philosophy underlying both; where there is a debate on the nature of things, such as the nature of impurity.  The Rabbis equally base their notions on ‘reality’ such as in considering the spatial properties of liquid in determining impurity; whilst the Qumran give weight to legal process (e.g. in not accepting testimony of a nineteen year old).  In the latter variant of Rubinstein’s interpretation, the Rabbinic positions are “more nominalist” purely as a result of an historical process where the law remains static but ideas about reality change.  Thus, the laws become more ‘taboo’ or nominalist, because of this severed connection.

Without being able to go into too much detail here, the above analyses seem to conflate three separate issues: i) the authority of the law (or its interpretation); ii) the determination of the content of the law; and iii) the telos or purpose of the law.  Questions of realism and nominalism can be applied to each and in different combinations.  Questions about the authority of the law in relation to reality are a variant of the Euthyphro dilemma (do the gods love good action because it is good, or is good action good because it is loved by the gods?), albeit as applied to a legal system and its interpreters.  Whether the determination of the law is realistic relates to the extent one can “derive an ought from an is”.   The Telos of the law could be exhausted by ‘revealing reality’ or the ‘exercise of authority’; but equally could be something else entirely outside of that dichotomy.

One can say that the Damascus document reflects on the authoritative nature of law as being based in the principles of creation, whilst doing further research on how the Qumranic community determined the law from that reality.  Equally, one could say that for the rabbis the determination of the law is more nominalist than that espoused in the Damascus document, whilst leaving the question of how much the final determination reflects reality open.  Furthermore, the articles only briefly touch on the telos of the law.  One can agree with Rubinstein that certain laws and interpretations were based on an understanding of reality, without thinking that its severance from the reality leaves it relying on nominalist authority alone.  As argued by Rabbi Soloveitchik in Halakhic Mind, this can reflect a “genetic fallacy”; and that the purpose of the law is quite other than the expression of reality or authority.

One can avoid over-interpreting or straightjacketing a view into one interpretation (nominalist vs. realist) but still see relevant philosophical differences between. Them. Sometimes a “cigar is just a cigar” but where one can ask what one smokes.

 

The Halakhic Document: An Amicable Divorce?

 4QMMT is a short work of around 150 lines, that presents the halachic opinions of its author on roughly twenty matters such as ritual purity, the beginning of the Omer, the holiness of fruit in its fourth year and the suitability of various people to engage in temple ritual.  The selection is relevant as they are all matters that the later Rabbis would label as “Sadducean” without heed to any particular sociological or historical nuance between various groups.  The community in question that adhered rigorously to these precepts, accepted views that were more stringent than those evidently in practice in the time, and which limit participation the temple rite.  For example, they require sunset (and not merely ritual immersion) in order to participate in ritual of the Red Heifer; and which limit the participation of the blind and deaf in terms of coming into contact with ritual purity.  Where the pharisees trust the masses with regards to sacred food and offerings (and are considered haverim), the opinions presented here would restrict participation.

Whilst the selection is clearly demarcating boundaries, the style of presentation in this section of the laws themselves is not self-consciously polemical.   These are listed in a summary fashion (and in a style reminiscent of later halachic compendia); detailing their decisions and opinion on these Torah precepts succinctly and without the need for further argumentation.  This may indicate that the opinions are not novel in and of themselves, would be recognised by the addressee and thus, not in need of learned support.  Such statements are not concocted in order to oppose a particular group on theological, identity or other grounds, nor addressed to any ‘sons of darkness’.  Rather they are statements of long held views from tradition, and which may have been implemented in times past, and (moderately uncontroversially at this point?) acknowledged as one such strand of thought.

The polemics come in the following exhortatory section, where the contention is not necessarily in arguments on the content of the halacha per se but on the social effects of their ‘correct’ view, not being the one currently practiced in contemporary Jerusalem.  The polemics themselves – putting halachic misadventure in the context of Jewish history and G-d’s blessing and curses, and the worry that misstep would cause abominable practices – does not seem overly unusual or stronger than others who care about correct practices.  However, the authors of 4QMMT see this as a reason that “we have separated ourselves from the multitude of the people [and from all their impurity] and from being involved with these matters and from participating with [them] in these things”.  Unlike Bet Shammai who despite taking stringent opinions managed to coexist with the more liberal positions of Bet Hillel (marrying each other, and relying on each other’s ritual food preparation); the authors of 4QMMT cannot abide the contradictory practices. 

Styled as a letter, ink has been spilled on who the relevant addressee may be.  One opinion would be that it is a pharisaic high priest in the Maccabean period – a “you” separated from the “us” of the author.  Possibly it is a sympathetic ear (a “you, unlike them”) that has remained part of the establishment.  In Fraade’s reading, it is possibly a neophyte or initiate into the community itself, where the text is intramural and educational on the key halachic pointers of the community.  Given the popularity within the community, and the vernacular language used, its intramural use is well taken.  Nevertheless, it is a stretch without further support to suggest as Fraade does, that it is not at least in the style of an address to an external party in a leadership position given that it is for the “welfare of your people”.

I’m not sure that there is any evidence that can decide on the addressee based on the slender evidence from the text, at least not without bringing to the text historical views (e.g. on identification of Essenes) as a given, that are themselves in dispute.  Nevertheless, given that the addressee is considered as having “wisdom and knowledge of the Torah”, it doesn’t seem a strong offensive polemic against the addressee (regardless of group they belong to).  Rather, it is a defensive polemic that, as above, is used to justify not their opinions themselves, but their separation from the community on account of those.

Ben Sira: Where wisdom and law are uncomfortable bedfellows

In the introduction to the book of Ben Sirah, his grandson introduces the work with the purpose that “those who read the scriptures must not only themselves understand them, but also as lovers of learning be able through the spoken and written word to help the outsiders” but also that they themselves “might make even greater progress in living according to the law”.  Equally, in chapter 2, the reverse is also the case whereby “If you desire wisdom, keep the commandments”.  In this view, instruction in wisdom and the living according to the law are complementary rather than contradictory activities, and can in fact create a virtuous circle.  To the extent that wisdom and Torah are separate activities and discourses, they are not necessarily entirely independent ones. 

That one cannot entirely articulate wisdom from the law (or vice versa), a wisdom discourse that can be articulated independently to “help the outsiders” does indicate an accommodation of sorts – a notion we will come back to.  However, it does not the direction of that accommodation, nor that the accommodated discourse is really superfluous other than for rhetorical reasons.  Jack Sanders though would like to argue that the accommodation is one way – that the ancient sapiential traditions needs to accommodate to elements of the Mosaic Torah as a survival strategy, during a period in which the importance of the Pentateuch is growing for the ‘man on the street’.  The appeals to the law are not to be taken at face value and the integration occurs “only in ways that allow the integrity of the sapiential approach to life to continue”.  Where wisdom dictates that one should honour ones parents, this does need the Decalogue to justify it. 

In this sense, would the placing of its wisdom in the context of the ancestors, including Moses to whom G- d gave the commandments, and Aharon from who headed the priesthood be considered just special pleading?  Is its only point acceptance of the “sacred canopy” of ancient wisdom without genuinely placing itself in that tradition?  Wright argues, in contrast, that is precisely the rhetorical point to defend the institution of priesthood against its detractors; albeit that certain groups of priests who may sacrifice without wisdom or are corrupt in other ways.  Though not a work of law, it does take positions on legal matters, such as the use of lunar calendar for setting festivals. The wisdom noted in Ben Sirah is an important correlate to the law, rather than an opponent.  This is not to say there aren’t elements of accommodation, with Wright saying that Hellenistic philosophy is used (in a way the law itself doesn’t internally require) but where it is pressed into service of the issues of the day.  To help the ‘outsiders’ or reinforce the insiders, one may need to steps outside a particular discourse to then reinhabit it.

The law without wisdom may lead to a corrupt priesthood, but wisdom contains its own epistemological limits.  No different that Ecclesiastes and Job, and continuing through to later philosophers in the Jewish tradition like Maimonides; an important part of wisdom is knowing where it ends.  Ben Sirah states that “What is too marvellous for you, do not investigate, and what is too difficult for you, do not research… you have no business with secret things”.  Whether a caution against the wholesale adoption of philosophy, or a broadside against the Enochic tradition that make predictions based on dreams and visions that “have led many astray”, the epistemological point is the same: wisdom does not provide its own foundations.  Whatever the relative importance of law and wisdom – and there will be genuine differences in this regard – they jointly ground one in received (and down to earth) traditions.

It would seem possible to acknowledge different genres of literature, with differing priorities, and different lenses for viewing reality; without setting up ‘opposition’ between them at a global level (albeit there will be differences in particular points).  Historic, legal, narrative and mystic works can operate on different levels of meaning without negating the other.  There can be accommodation between them, where accommodation is not a survival strategy, but an interplay or dialectic of ideas.    

Chronicles: Reading Scripture as History

 Chronicles presents as a historical text that replays many of the events covered in Samuels and Kings. Written at a later period it is more of a 'retelling' that to varying degrees changes both the content of the events described (their 'historicity') and the message it is trying to convey. Variations can be minor such is the switch out of outdated language, such as replacing 'baddim’ for 'matot' to describe the poles to carry the tabernacle. Others can seem to be more of a falsification of the historical record, such as the notion that the succession from David to Solomon was smooth and not beset by battles for succession. In either case, however, the thought is that the reader would have been familiar with the earlier accounts, which would have been required for understanding the latter (eg. the case of Saul dying for consulting a median without the story giving rise to this event).

The 'point' or 'design' of the retelling, if not a direct replacement, is to showcase a different theology, a different set of principles or a change post-exilic reality. Different priorities include embedding the authority of the Torah into earlier accounts and bringing earlier events in line with them; prioritising the lineage of Judah; and describing a more direct cause and effect ('measure for measure') between one’s actions and the reward or punishment due for it. The question arises is to how deliberate these variations are, as opposed to being a result of subconscious influence. Are these the 'point' of the retelling or just emergent after the fact?

Marc Brettler asks rhetorically whether certain values such as the stability of the temple make it worth falsifying the sources, or whether the lessons that the Chronicler conveys do not rely on the historicity of the text. Both sides of that dichotomy appeal to a deliberate (and not literally truthful) change of the story. Ultimately, he comes down against this saying there are no internal clues that the text does not depict a real past. The many changes, and impositions, are a result of the natural influence of his language, time and thought.

This approach seems to work fine with modernising language, filling in details influenced by their knowledge of scripture (eg that Uzza did not carry the tabernacle on his shoulders, but in a cart) or natural increments of phraseology (such as the use of phrase "strong and mighty" in relation of succession from David to Solomon to mimic the succession of Moses to Joshua). It may seem less defensible where there is a wholesale restructuring of the text such as moving material from Hezekiah to Solomon, to prefigure Hezekiah. It is hard to imagine this is not deliberate; and if deliberate, how would the author be able to consider it history in our modern sense of the term? Equally, though an act of omission, how would the Author expect people not to believe there was 'really' a battle of succession between the reigns of David and Solomon when it has already been established that the reader must be familiar with the earlier accounts?

It also appears that Marc Brettler (perhaps knowingly) reads a text in much the same way that the chronicler (as a historian) does. That is, he reads additional detail into the historical record based on his assessment of logical plausibility and internal connections between different texts; and does so based on what he believes "must be true" given his modern understanding and critical analysis of the text. In so doing he alters (albeit, no doubt, with a lot of academic support) a traditional reading and ordering of events. This is evident, in a number of the 'impositions' being considered as such due to the belief that the relevant parts of the Torah (eg the "P' texts) were written, and created (or at least canonised) half a millennia later than the Solomonic period. This leads, for example, to the view that the attribution of the (latterly created) tabernacle rites to the Temple as anachronistic. If one has independent reasons (textual or extra-textual) for agreeing with the dating - it is still by no means the only response to deny the modelling of the temple on the Tabernacle. One could, for example, agree with Halivni that these are maculate texts, that record an earlier oral tradition. However, he takes the historians viewpoint that he attributes himself to the Chronicler.