I’ve been seeing “we’re so fucked” and “I’m shaking and cowering” posts from liberals for nearly 2 months how. What are you planning to say or do if and when this stuff you’re so scared to even think about actually happens, when it’s not just stories your friends retweeted? What do you think people do who already live in places where there’s a real chance of friends and family being shot or arrested every day?
These are questions worth spending some time with.
The most practical point I’ve seen from a political theorist lately is about what happens when your main way of thinking about the future is to talk about how afraid you are.
[T]his is why resisting the politics of fear is so important. Power like [Breitbart’s, as described here], resting in tweets, relies a lot on atmospherics. The purpose of that atmospherics is to magnify power: so that its wielder can hold that power in reserve, and thereby deploy it more efficiently, or because its wielder doesn’t have that much power in the first place, and needs to generate fear in order to make that power seem more potent than it is. Hobbes understood this all too well. So did the forces around Joe McCarthy. We need to understand it, too, and oppose it: not to cooperate with it, not to contribute to it, not to participate in it.
There are different ways you could look at the Jewish people–who share an official but not an actual language, a vast history spanning from the Levant to Morocco, Spain, India, China, and New Jersey, and a cuisine defined only by dietary laws most of us do not follow. I am curious about our shared memories, and I am reading cookbooks.
I am reading the intro to the cookbook from the best restaurant in Philadelphia, Zahav, which the author Michael Solomonov was spurred to write partly to commemorate the awful loss of his little brother at the very end of his army service, in Metula. He wanted to give everyone the chance to taste a welcoming, joyful, hybrid Israel, a “barely melted” melting pot, “that had nothing to do with politics or what you see on the evening news.” Despite the fact that I was warmly welcomed there and had far and away the best eggplant of my life there, this Israel does not exist for me. Although I lived there for four years on and off I could not possibly have such a memory of it although I agree that the cooking that people like Solomonov, Tamimi and Ottolenghi are bringing the world is one of the best things going. This is in key ways because unlike Solomonov I never ate with my brother there and my brother did not die there.
Other cookbooks, like the often surprising vegetarian Jerusalem by the Palestinian-Israeli team of Sami Tamimi and Yotam Ottolenghi, or the global ethnographic reminiscience The Book of Jewish Food by Claudia Roden, would lead other directions.
The notion of “memory” was helpful in attuning us to the creativity with which people relate to or create their past. But in my own field of Biblical Studies it was hard to separate from goalpost-moving, vagueness, or just plain cheating: precisely how do people “remember” things they never saw or participated in? Is “memory” (like the faves it displaced, “orality” and “tradition” (h/t Jacqueline Vayntrub for this crucial point) just any story we can’t verify?
Max Weber offers a discussion that raises the bar for memory: “The community of political destiny, i.e. above all of common political struggle of life and death, has given rise to groups with joint memories which have often had a deeper impact than the ties of merely cultural, linguistic, or ethnic community. It is this ‘community of memories’ which constitutes the ultimately decisive element of national consciousness”*
The implication: that to be a memory, not just a story, requires some in-person teeth, some rubble or scars. Something one person can point out to another. ‘Im ‘eshakhekh, Yerushalayim, tishkakh yamini “If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right arm forget (how to move: to write, to play music, to fight)” (Psalm 137) Then again why should they all be scars? As with ritual sacrifice, which is often a lot less bloody than we imagine it, political memories may have more under the hood.
Maybe memory by itself is nothing. But the “community of memories” might be something else: Culture mediated–concretely and materially brought from the past into the present–along kinship lines. Weber and Benedict Anderson may limit it too narrowly when they see the state’s as being the only life or death struggles forming peoplehood. My one-line theoretical definition of the modern nation was: kinship instrumentalized in the shape of a state. But even now there are peoples formed or forming–black, native and perhaps others within the territory of the US–with a community of memories that do not dovetail with and want to take further forms than just state lines. For most of the history of the Jewish people, it was a community like these, and very different forms of memory make it remain vitally so today alongside its nation-state form.
*I stumbled across this in Gopal Balakrishnan’s great essay on the reissue of Anderson’s Imagined Communities, where many more fertile suggestions lie.
Graduate school plays a huge role in the outcome of many students’ lives. They spend their 20s and sometimes their 30s preparing to dedicate themselves to lifetime careers of discovery and scholarship. Yet I sometimes see advisors carelessly phoning it in, and students taking their every word seriously because they don’t know any better. They wishfully assume that their advisors are their friends, constantly thinking of their best interests, rather than self-absorbed and self-interested bureaucrats of thought.
So here are three questions that may help inoculate against Stockholm Syndrome:
1. What’s their response to the current job market? It could come in various forms, from tailoring training and thesis topics to the jobs that are out there to encouraging students to explore promising “real world” careers to curating the cohorts they graduate so they are only producing limited groups of well-supported candidates with good shots at success. If your advisor has no well-thought-out and compelling response to the job market you will be entering, they are not your friend.
2. How do they make you feel about your work? A good advisor can come off as a tough coach, a cool aunt, or visionary sage, and good advisors always push you to do distinctive work of high standards. But they need to understand what you’re reaching for and help you reach it. If your advisor doesn’t see the point of your interests and project you shouldn’t be working with them.
3. Does your advisor stand up for people? On a small scale, do they return emails and do the important things for people on time? On a large scale, do they assert themselves to help people? In cases of glaring unfairness, sexual harassment, or discrimination, does your advisor use their tenure as it was intended–to do the right thing even if it’s challenging or unpopular? If your advisor does not go to bat for others they will probably not go to bat for you.
First part: Front of the inscription*
Since the text of this incredibly interesting but horribly worn stela is not currently available in any digital form, including books or online journal articles, here is the text and translation, based on Steven Kaufman and Bruce Zuckerman’s careful work (S.A. Kaufman 2007. The Phoenician Inscription of the Incirli Trilingual: A Tentative Reconstruction and Translation, Maarav 14.2, 7–26). This is a very simplified version of Kaufmann’s edition, which should be consulted because it indicates many places where the characters are incompletely preserved.
I present here the front, from which the most text is preserved, along with a translation after his. I present the more obscure and uncertain passages in italics. Later I will add the other three sides and a more original translation.
- hgbl z mtn/t tkltʾplsr pʾl mlk ʾšr
This frontier is a gift of Tiglath-Pileser—Puʾul, king of Assyria,
- lmlk wlšpḥ mlk dnnym | hgbl gbl
to the king and the descendants of the king of the Danunians. This frontier has been the border
- pḥt (/ʾrṣ) ʿbr nhr wgbl kmḥ lmym swsdd šr
of the province (or land) of Across-the-River and Kummuh from the reign of Shamshi-Adad, ruler
- ʾšr wʿd kl ym tkltʾplsr pʾl ml[k]
of Assur, through the reign of Tiglath-Pileser—Puʾul,
- ʾšr rb | hgbl [z] gbl hr [g]rgm wpḥty
Great Kin[g] of Assyria. [This] frontier is the border between the mountains of [Gu]rgum and my province,
6. zʾ(/hʾ) ḥdšt ʿd bʾ pḥt ʾšr lhgbl z
this new one up to where the Assyrian province reaches it, through this region
- lmʿbr lbt trtn kbʾ nhr sns ʿd
from across the Turtanu’s dynastic region along the River Sinis, up to
- [h]r [ʾ]rrṭ ʾnk wryks mlk z bt mp[š]
the [moun]tains of [U]rarṭu. I am Warikis, king of the House of Mopsos
- ʿbd m[l]k [tk]ltʾplsr mlk ʾšr mlk qw
servant of king T[ig]lathpileser, king of Assyria, king of Que
- mlk bt mpš wkl [ ]t ḥt wʿd lbnn
king of the house of Mopsos and all [ ] Hittite country up to the Lebanon
- w kn mrd bkl mt ḥ[t] wzbḥ mlk ʾrpd
There was a rebellion throughout the Hittitle country and the king of Arpad
- lyʿn hdd mlk wgzr mkpr k ʾrpd
sacrificed for the benefit of Hadad-Melek (or: as a mulk-offering for Hadad) and redeemed (the human sacrifice) with butchered animal parts because Arpad
- pḥd mlk ʾm/šr [xx] wʿṣ ḥkm l/wʾmr
feared (a living molkomor/the king of Assyria. He arose, a wise man, and said)
- km ḥq mlk ʾrpd wḥlb ʾl tgzr/l ʾd[m]
“According to the law of the King of Arpad and Aleppo, do not sacrifice a human being
- […]ʾl tpḥd kʾm kpr ʾš pḥtk ʾl yḥr[b/m]
[…] fear not, rather offer a substitute sacrifice so he will not destroy your province..”
*Huge thanks to Chip Hardy, Philip Schmitz, and Sanna Aro-Valjus for helping me understand the text; errors are mine.
I’ll be organizing what looks to be a wonderful workshop at the 62nd Rencontre Assyriologique in Philadelphia this summer, July 12-15, on
Culture contact and the history of ideas: Comparing scribal ideologies in the Persian and Hellenistic periods
Did ancient Israelites or Babylonians ever actually have a set list of “inspired” authoritative sacred writings? This colloquium brings linguistics, anthropology, and new evidence from ancient inscriptions to bear on a key question of religion and literature.
Tuesday, April 5th, noon-2pm at the University of Michigan
202 S. Thayer room 2000
Seth L. Sanders, University of California Davis
When Was Ancient Israel an Oral Society? Semiotic Ideologies in Hebrew
We used to imagine that the Bible arose the way ancient Israel did, as a simple oral society grew into a complex literate one. Archaeological discovery disrupted this simple story when it turned out that people in the Levant had writing long before they had Hebrew: there was no history of evolution. Scholarship since abandoned the idea of a transformative social-literary shift from oral to written but continues to struggle with these somewhat outdated cookie-cutter concepts. But an alternative history of ancient ideals of textuality can be written based on excavated and datable sources. It suggests that ancient writers used Hebrew not to make speech permanent but to manage relationships between what is local and imperial, intelligible and unintelligible, remote and present.
Jay Crisostomo, University of Michigan
The Making of Many Books: Some Reflections from Babylonia
How do we get from texts copied by scribes to standardized (series of) authoritative compositions? What grants these compositions authority? Are canons and/or standardized works merely figments of our presentist imaginations or perhaps creations of historiographic development? The earliest discoveries and decipherments of cuneiform texts have shaped our perceptions of how these compositions were used and constructed for scribal knowledge and authority. Nevertheless, it is certain that some compositions were imbued with ancient communal authority and simultaneously open to alteration and variation. This paper surveys the histories of some well-known compositions as products of ancient scribal practice, authoritative knowledge, and constructs of modern discourses.
Abstract for Manuscripts, Scribal Cultures, Scribal Change, a special joint session of the Hebrew Bible and Cognate Literatures and Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Units at SBL 2016
Many early Jewish and late Babylonian writers learned the same script and similar ideas; did they also learn the same worldview? During the Persian and Hellenistic periods higher-level Aramaic scribes in Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Levant shared key elements in their education: For these scholars, Ahiqar and Sennacherib were international figures of legend and otherworldly sages like Adapa and Enoch were ideal figures of emulation. Despite their different backgrounds, their minds were shaped by such rigors as sexagesimal mathematics and the astronomy of Enūma Anu Enlil. In my recent From Adapa to Enoch: Scribal Culture and Religious Vision in Judea and Babylonia (Tübingen 2016), I argued that early Jewish texts like Aramaic Enoch and the Qumran Hodayot also share a metaphysics with Babylonian scholarship. Both lacked a concept of nature as a physical realm separate from the cultural or supernatural, and instead had a semiotic ontology in which the universe itself was linguistically patterned. Yet while the two cultures were converging in some ways, they also had deep historical differences in media, ideology, and politics. In this talk I will press the contemporary data deeper into the history of ideas, asking whether this led by the Hellenistic period to an ancient science–or theology–shared between Jewish and Mesopotamian cultures.
I therefore assume that most visionaries are either psychotic or shamming, or that they are imitating other visionaries who are psychotic, shamming, or imitating. If this assumption holds, it may be that much recent visionary poetry is written by imitators imitating imitators imitating imitators imitating imitators worshipfully imitating a few originals. – Joshua Mehigan
At a glance, here are the main points of my new book, From Adapa to Enoch: Scribal Culture and Religious Vision in Judea and Babylon, in press for Spring publication in Siebeck’s Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism series, which will be the topic of a discussion at the November Society of Biblical Literature meeting.
This book asks what drove the religious visions—and literary production–of ancient scribes. During the first millennium bce both Babylonian and Judean scribes wrote about and emulated their heroes Adapa and Enoch, who went to heaven to meet god. These sages brought back esoteric secrets uniting knowledge of the divine and physical world—what we would call both mysticism and science—secrets the scribes copied and shared with each other. These ideals of knowledge represented the soul of their literature and training.
Heavenly journeys and the visions described in ancient religious literature have often been understood ahistorically, as symbols or primordial forces. But to us the visions of first-millennium Near Eastern scribal culture are historical objects before anything else: we know them exclusively through tablets, figurines, and seals dug up out of the ground, scrolls discovered, copied and translated. This book takes three avenues to make them available as historical, material things made by people.
1) it treats Mesopotamian and Judean scribal cultures as individual, pragmatic institutions, presenting the textual evidence for how the best-documented visionary figures were used over centuries or millennia. Adapa’s journey is documented over a thousand years before Enoch’s, yet their revelations share important elements. The book therefore examines the clearest cases of contact between scribal cultures, precisely when and how they came to share key features.
2) it examines the persona of the scribal hero, not as an original visionary lost to history but as a durable ritual role. Rather than an irrecoverable religious experience, it argues that we can recover how the ideal scribal “self” was available to certain people in certain ways: through rituals documented in texts, through ideals depicted in literature, and through institutions that made these roles durable.
3) it examines what was behind the creation of ancient religious literature by analyzing specific cases where these texts and selves worked together, as part of a history of how the world was thought about and how it could be known: what the philosopher Ian Hacking would call a historical ontology and epistemology of first-millennium scribal cultures. The surprising result is at least as much a history of science as a history of mysticism: insight into the changing ancient visions of the fundamental nature of existence and how it can be known.
I wrote this book to address a big question for which philology has often had more data than answers. In “The Assyrian Tree of Life: Tracing the Origins of Jewish Monotheism and Greek Philosophy” (1993) the great Assyriologist Simo Parpola threw down the gauntlet for understanding the religious visions of ancient scribes historically. I found the work both dangerously anachronistic and spellbinding when I first encountered it. Comparing the cosmic trees on Neo-Assyrian palace walls with the cosmic trees representing the Godhead in medieval Kabbalah, Parpola argued that Jewish and Mesopotamian thought shared a worldview symbolized in the tree, often skipping 1-2,000-year gaps in evidence to find a system of thought nowhere clearly documented in the ancient Near Eastern sources. My own Akkadian teacher, the Sumerologist Jerrold Cooper, pinpointed the problematic logic in a review: if a Mesopotamian phenomenon could be interpreted kabbalistically, then that interpretation must be originally Mesopotamian. Yet Cooper agreed that given their sustained contacts, elements of Mesopotamian religion must live on via Jewish thought. How can we develop a precise and rigorous understanding of the interplay between influence and parallel development in two intertwined ancient religious cultures? How can we talk about what it meant to them?
Chapter 1, “Heavenly Sages and a Mesopotamian Scribal Culture of Continuity,” draws on 2,000 years of cuneiform data to set up the book’s arguments by presenting and analyzing every Sumerian and Akkadian text about the heavenly journey. The earliest Mesopotamian journeys to heaven are the ascents of kings, but in the Old Babylonian period the most enduring Mesopotamian myth of ascent emerges: the journey of the sage Adapa. At this early stage Mesopotamian exorcists already identified directly themselves with this mythic sage in ritual. With the loss of native kingship in the Persian period, scribal ancestors and heroes became the protagonists of history in a new way.
Chapter 2, “‘I Am Adapa!’ The Divine Personae of Mesopotamian Scribes,” examines Babylonian scribal mechanisms of identification with the heavenly sage Adapa, focusing on what they tell us about how scribes identified themselves and related to the knowledge in their texts during the Persian and Hellenistic periods. Tracking shifts in this culture, it paints a historical portrait of late Babylonian scholarly culture from within and identify key aspects of its relationship to the past, the production of knowledge, and textual change. A key feature of these scribes’ self-understanding came from their theory of the universe, which did not separate human culture from physical nature or the supernatural. They saw their cuneiform culture as fundamentally connected to the divine knowledge and power that structured the universe by means of language. As a result, scribal learning naturally provided access to both cosmic secrets and divine presence.
The book then moves to track changes in the Judean scribal persona, along with shifts in their ontology and epistemology. It argues that scribal culture was more than just the production and interpretation of texts. Writing was intertwined with the scribes’ sense of who they could be and what they could know.
Chapter 3, “Ezekiel’s Hand of the Lord: Judahite Scribal Reinventions of Heavenly Vision,” examines a set of important and plausibly datable visions of God in heaven. Rather than a long tradition of direct identification, as in Mesopotamia, we see a powerful but volatile discourse of religious experience emerge in response to problems of religious communication in exilic Judah. The scribes who produced the book of Ezekiel invented a new and more immediate way of presenting older mythic visions of God’s throne, through Ezekiel’s being touched by the “hand of the Lord.” But their inheritors discarded this discourse in favor of a new way of presenting revelation in terms of exact knowledge of the physical world. A developing interest in the heavenly journey began to present revelation as a kind of science of the cosmos.
Chapter 4, “Enoch’s Knowledge and the Rise of Apocalyptic Science,” shows how Hellenistic Judean scribes came to share key features with late Babylonian scribes and in contrast with the earlier Judahite scholarly culture represented in the Hebrew Bible. These include an interest in identification with heavenly sages such as Enoch and systematic exact knowledge of the physical world. The core of the chapter is a case study of this new knowledge, examining how Babylonian astronomy was presented in the language of the Tabernacle revelation from Exodus. The chapter elucidates the two ways this new approach to knowledge and identity came into being. The first is parallel transformations in culture: with the death of native kingship scribes increasingly reflected on themselves, inserting themselves into history as heroes. The second is the way Judean scribes came to share a cosmopolitan Babylonian-Aramaic culture with larger communities of knowledge, but was marked by a distinctive concern to correlate human practice with the revealed nature of the cosmos.
Chapter 5, “Aramaic Scholarship and Cultural Transmission: From Public Power to Secret Knowledge” investigates the transmission of Babylonian texts and scholarship into West Semitic languages. Important sets of evidence for ancient scribal cultures have been walled off from each other by modern disciplinary boundaries: while Aramaic-writing scribes had decisive roles in both Judean and late Babylonian culture, research has been divided between Assyriology, North-West Semitic epigraphy, and Second Temple Jewish studies. This chapter unites these areas to survey the strongest evidence for Babylonian-to-West Semitic textual transmission. It shows that since the ninth century, Aramaic scribalism was thoroughly intertwined with Babylonian, but that it enters dramatically new realms of Babylonian culture in the Persian and Hellenistic periods. The connections were more intimate than borrowing: Jewish and Mesopotamian scholars were becoming part of the same community, in which Aramaic had moved from being a cosmopolitan language to a cosmic one.
Chapter 6, “‘Who is Like Me Among the Angels?’ Judean Reinventions of the Scribal Persona” asks how scribes could plausibly claim to know newly revealed things. It argues that the most important process was through identification with ideal figures such as Enoch. While the mechanics of this identification have been seen as obscure, mystical or literary, this chapter argues that instead there are concrete, historically developing mechanisms by which the speaker of a prayer could identify with a mythic figure enthroned in heaven. As in Mesopotamia, the horizons of scribal personhood and knowledge were set by the scribes’ ontologies and epistemologies, their assumptions about how things exist and are known. By the Hellenistic period, a theory had arisen in which God had established fundamental secrets of cosmic order through language—language that humans had the capacity to know. These divine secrets and reckonings were praised in such texts as the Qumran Hodayot and revealed, for example, in early Enochic literature. The result was a scholarly culture that viewed both Babylonian astronomy and Hebrew scriptures as its own ancient Israelite heritage by means of an Aramaic medium, and through its linguistic tools could learn and produce revelation as scientific knowledge as much as religious experience.
S22-122 Hebrew Scriptures and Cognate Literature
9:00 AM to 11:30 AM
Room: Downtown Atlanta Marriott M109 (Marquis Level)
Jonathan Ben-Dov, University of Haifa, Presiding, introduction and comments from Benjamin Sommer (JTSA) in absentia (15 min)
Naomi Janowitz, University of California-Davis (25 min)
Martti Nissinen, University of Helsinki (25 min)
Francesca Rochberg, University of California, Berkeley (25 min)
Seth Sanders,University of California-Davis (25 min)
Discussion (25 min)
Table of Contents for From Adapa to Enoch: Scribal Culture and Religious Vision in Judea and Babylon
Chapter 1 Heavenly Sages and the Mesopotamian Scribal Ideology of Continuity
Chapter 2 “I Am Adapa!” The Divine Personae of Mesopotamian Scribes
Chapter 3 Ezekiel’s Hand of the Lord: Judahite Scribal Reinventions of Heavenly Vision
Chapter 4 Enoch’s Knowledge and the Rise of Apocalyptic Science
Chapter 5 Aramaic Scholarship and Cultural Transmission: From Public Power to Secret Knowledge
Chapter 6 “Who is Like Me Among the Angels?” Judean Reinventions of the Scribal Persona
For the second Republican debate,
Ronald Reagan set the agenda, framed the issues and animated the candidates. …And as always he owned the visuals. It was his venue—the Reagan Library—and his backdrop, Air Force One.
Did Reagan “animate” the candidates like some possessing spirit? Saying you have something of Reagan’s spirit in you lets the aspiring candidate try to inhabit his persona. It surely involves admiration, but it most decisively involves the chance to step into a public role. Almost four thousand years before Reagan became president, the most famous kings of Mesopotamia, Sargon and Naram-Sin were sacrificed to as dead ancestors by Amorite kings of Mari who bore no relation to them. And for similar reasons: Amorite kings Zimri-Lim wanted to be a new Sargon, or at least win his support.
A couple of centuries later a later Amorite ritual, the sacrificial liturgy known as the “Genealogy of the Hammurapi Dynasty” builds a coalition of political forces–some dead, some living–with the current king at the center:
(sacrifice to honor:)
the reign of the Amorites, the reign of the nomads..
the reign of (all those) not recorded on this tablet and the soldier who fell while on perilous campaigns for their lord,
princes, princesses, all persons from east to West who have neither caretaker nor anyone to invoke your memory:
Come! Eat this! Drink this! And bless Ammisaduqa, son of Ammiditana, king of Babylon!
Religious display is equally great among political candidates, yet the soul of Reagan is never summoned to eat or drink. In fact Reagan’s soul is rarely invoked. It is optional at best, more usually invisible. In politics you no longer have to sacrifice to someone, offer food for their soul to eat, to step into their role or take on their mantle as leader. Reagan’s memory may be sacred, but neither his appetites nor his rituals are. His cult, like that of Justin Bieber’s “beliebers” or the Rock Horror Picture Show, is a figure of speech. Religion and politics connect differently now because their relationship has been drastically reshaped.
The tools of philology let us read this ritual again after 3,600 years and after its publication, let us correlate it with other forms of Amorite ancestor worship where there were literal cults for dead kings. They show that claims to ancestry through offerings to the dead were key tools of rule. Political philosophy and the history of religions hold an enduring interest in the relationship between sovereignty and sacrifice, as writers from Kantorowicz to Agamben make clear.
While this seems like a vital question for archaeology, anthropology, and political thought, it no longer seems like a question for religious studies. This is because the theory of religious studies seems peculiarly uninteresting for this question, to the point where it’s not clear it makes sense to even ask for its perspectives. Why? Because its energy today is focused so intensely on staging the asking of questions about itself: it has come to specialize more and more in intellectual self-dramatization, “a poetic wrestling with the nature of its naming”
Iconic of the trend toward self-study in religious studies is the way that a book series named after a classification, claiming to “the most innovative works in the study of religion today” could be subject to attack for being inattentive to classification before publishing a single word. The study of modern classification itself is a brand attacked for being unreflective classification. Constructionism is still too essentialist. To be sure, classifying something–say, as being something as politically correct as essentialism–is always political. But politics includes the most piddling and miniscule acts, and the critique of classifiers is an act of office politics.
JZ Smith talks about a great experiment of allowing religion into the academy, but maybe he performed a second one in his own time: after discovering there was no “there” there in Frazer’s Golden Bough, its central myth nothing but a jest and riddle, he wanted to see if he could nonetheless offer that fact as a methodology–a jest and riddle of his own?
to be continued in part II