In spite of the fact that Singer, Epstein, and, somewhat later, Charles, and Schechter have dealt with the Book of Jubilees, no apology is required for attempting to study it from a somewhat new angle. It is well known that much light can be thrown on the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha by a comparison with rabbinic sources. It may be true that the Jewish traditions were not compiled till a comparatively late date, and that they were probably put in writing still later, yet much that is contained in them is of very ancient origin, and the authorities in whose names statements are quoted are a help, if not an infallible index, to fixing their date. Especially the Book of Jubilees must be viewed in the light thrown upon it by the Talmud and kindred sources, since it was doubtless written in Hebrew, contains numerous laws and allusions to Agadic statements, and presents generally the appearance of a targum or a midrash.

The long-accepted theory that Hebrew literature is largely the product of Babylonian influences is now discredited, both because of the unquestionable originality of Hebrew thought, in general, and in particular because the use of cuneiform models and materials is recognized to have been greatly overrated. Eventually Amurru or Khatti or Caphtor may be found to have made important contributions in the intellectual realm, as they have in the material, but at present the most powerful antidote for Pan-babylonianism is to be found in Egypt. Not that the view is returning which once prevailed among the Greeks, that all culture and wisdom came from the valley of the Nile, but the extent and importance of its influence, especially in Palestine, is becoming more and more evident.

In two earlier articles published in Harvard Theological Review,“Richard Hooker's Via Media Doctrine of Justification,” HTR 74 (1981) 211–20, and “Richard Hooker's Via Media Doctrine of Repentance,” HTR 84 (1991) 59–74. I argued the thesis that the thought of Richard Hooker (1544–1600) represents a distinctive via media way of doing theology that immeasurably influenced what would later become known as “Anglicanism.” This thesis has recently been vigorously challenged by a certain group of scholars who constitute what may now well be regarded as a “new school” of Hooker interpretation.The leader of this new school is W. J. Torrance Kirby, whose revisionist interpretation is clearly set forth in Richard Hooker's Doctrine of the Royal Supremacy (Leiden and New York: Brill, 1990) 33–37, 126–27; “Richard Hooker as an Apologist of the Magisterial Reformation in England,” in Richard Hooker and the Construction of Christian Community (ed. Arthur Stephen McGrade; Tempe, Ariz.: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1997) 220–23; and “Richard Hooker's Theory of Natural Law in the Context of Reformation Theology,” Sixteenth Century Journal 30 (1999) 681–703. See also Nigel Atkinson, Richard Hooker and the Authority of Scripture, Tradition and Reason: Reformed Theologian of the Church of England (Carlisle, Cumbria: Paternoster, 1997); and “Hooker's Theological Method and Modern Anglicanism,” Churchman 114 (2000) 40–70. These scholars argue that the via media understanding of Hooker's thought, along with his anachronistic association with what only much later became known as “Anglicanism,” were largely creations of “Catholicizing” leaders of the nineteenth-century High Church Oxford Movement—including Hooker's editor, John Keble, and most notably John Henry Newman in his pre-conversion Anglo-Catholic guise. These scholars then set forth their counterthesis that Hooker is to all intents and purposes a faithful English exponent of all the basic “orthodox” doctrines of the Magisterial Reformers, namely, Luther and especially Calvin.

My point of departure in this essay is Davíd Carrasco's Convocation Address at the Harvard Divinity School in September 2006. Speaking of the borderlands between Mexico and the United States, Carrasco projects an image of a vexed and ambiguous zone that is not merely geographic or political; it defines an existential situation of being betwixt and between, of struggle and suffering, that Karl Jaspers sums up in the term Grenzsituationen (borders/limit situations). The frontier throws up images of borderline experiences, of a destabilized and transgressive consciousness in which “dreams, repressed memories, psychological transferences and associations” possess greater presence than they do in ordinary waking life, and religious experiences emerge from the unconscious like apparitions. This interplay between borderlands and borderline phenomena—between “the differences we have with others and the conflicts within ourselves” also finds expression in the work of Gloria Anzaldúa. “Mestiza consciousness,” she observes, may be identified with a “juncture … where phenomena collide.” This implies “a shock culture, a border culture, a third country” where migrants find themselves at the limits of what they can endure, border patrol agents are stretched beyond the limits of what they can control, and intellectuals find that orthodox ways of describing and analyzing the world do not do justice to the experiences involved.

In two interconnected theoretical works published in 1962, Lévi-Strauss argued that the tendency among primitive societies to formulate animal classification systems and to express these systems ritually cannot be explained as a side-effect of social classification, as Durkheim and Mauss had argued, nor can it be explained on the narrow materialistic grounds posited by Radcliffe-Brown and Malinowski. The negative evidence adduced by Lévi-Strauss is empirical: animal classification systems are neither limited to societies in which there exists a fixed correlation between social groups and animal species, nor do they pertain to species that are of significant material or symbolic value to the classifying culture. According to Lévi-Strauss, the ritual expression of the mental act of classification functions like a language, containing “stressed” and “unstressed” elements and aiming to convey theoretical messages.

The book of Proverbs concludes with an alphabetic acrostic that describes and praises its feminine subject (Prov 31:10–31). The poem’s praise closes with a generalized critique of beauty, its deceptiveness and short-lived nature (v. 30). What function does this critique of beauty serve in light of the praise of the woman and her deeds? How do the poem and, specifically, this critique of beauty function in the broader organization of the book of Proverbs? This study argues that the poem rejects innate beauty in favor of acquired wisdom, a message that can be found elsewhere in Proverbs. The poem rejects beauty through an appeal to a rhetorical device—the “totalizing description”—which is used elsewhere to argue for a subject’s beauty or perfection. Through the structure of the alphabetic acrostic, the poem carefully embeds its message of willed action and acquired wisdom; using a description of the woman’s successive deeds, the poem shows how each deed leads to the enduring success of the woman’s family, her community, and the subsequent generation.

The slapdash, seamy character of the second half of Josephus's Antiquities frequently obscures the author's purpose; the recovery of this information is therefore often neglected, though scholars are becoming increasingly aware of the task's importance. A good example of this scholarly neglect concerns the little narrative complex of Ant. 13.1-79, covering the period from Judas's death in battle against Bacchides in 160 BCE to the appointment of Jonathan as high priest (152 BCE) and the death of Demetrius I in 150 BCE; the complex concludes with two stories about Jewish affairs in Egypt (13.62-79). These stories have been clumsily introduced into a narrative which is otherwise a close paraphrase of 1 Maccabees, and are not commonly understood to have any relation to their context other than a vague chronological aptness: both stories are said to have occurred, like most of the high priesthood of Jonathan, in the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor (13.79). I shall argue that the stories have not only a chronological but also a close thematic connection to their context, and that the narrative, properly understood, expresses a propagandists motif not hitherto noticed in Antiquities. Furthermore, this motif may have important implications for our understanding of Antiquities as a whole, and perhaps important historical implications, as well.

Issues of identity and difference in the Letter of Paul to the Ephesians have provoked a long history of scholarly debate, particularly around the narrative of Jews and Gentiles becoming “one new humanity out of two” in 2:15, . Should one read this passage, 2:11–22, as “an attempt throughout to articulate [the identity of the] in relation to Jews and Gentiles in the Roman world,” that reflects “significant engagement with the life and fate of the Jewish people”? Or does the text “look back on an achieved unity between Jew and Gentile in the Church as the one body” that has left behind “heated struggles with rival groups”? Furthermore, how do these identity categories of “Jew” and “Gentile” relate to the theological distinctives of the epistle? While the deutero-Pauline status of the text remains widely accepted, this does not put to rest the question of the text's overall relationship to Pauline theology. Does the account of a single new humanity in Ephesians represent the apex of development in the ideas of the Pauline school, or does it stand in disjunction to Paul's original vision?

Does biblical criticism have anything to contribute to a theologically engaged study of Scripture? The answer implicitly provided by many scholars, both within the guild of modern biblical scholarship and outside it, is clear: The biblical critic's findings are irrelevant to constructive projects. These findings may be the product of intensive philological, comparative, and historical work, but they are no more connected to the tasks of the modern thinker than artifacts dug up by an archaeologist. Indeed (some theologically and literarily minded readers assume), biblical critics often produce work that impedes an interpreter who is oriented towards larger ideas. Those ideas, after all, emerge from textual wholes that are subtle, creative, and innovative, while biblical critics (these readers believe) have a penchant for dismembering texts or reducing them to hackneyed representatives of types of thinking or textual genres found elsewhere in the ancient Near East. As a result, not a few theologians and philosophers who attend to the Bible shun the work of biblical critics.

E. H. Carr's injunction that “when we take up a work of history, our first concern should be not with the facts which it contains but with the historian who wrote it” is well justified by the current state of research in the field of Iberian cryptojudaism and its subsequent development outside the peninsula. As in the study of Iberian history itself, vested interests, strong personal biases, and allegiances to national or partisan schools of historiography have frequently stood in the way of dispassionate inquiry into the subject and led to polarizaton and obfuscation. Over and above this, fruitful study has been impeded by the “blind-men-and-the-elephant” fallacy.

From the fourth century on, whenever Church Fathers stressingly point to the distinction between the Word and the world as a distinction between that which was generated from God and that which was created from nothing, they aim, we may assume, not only at the Arian contention that the Word was created from nothing but also at the Plotinian view that the world was generated, that is, emanated, from God. It is this double target that is aimed at by Athanasius in a passage where he contrasts the Word with the world. The Word, he says, is a “generated being” (γέννημα) or a “son” and, as such, he is “the proper offspring (γέννημα) of the essence,” “not subject to will,” and hence is one who “must always be.”

Krister Stendahl represents, to my mind, the very best of Scandinavian-style “realistic interpretation” of the Bible, resolutely faithful in his exegesis to the historical situation of the text and its author but then marvelously insightful in eliciting from the text a fresh and sometimes surprising address to contemporary issues in church and society. As is well known, it is precisely Stendahl's interest in relations between Jews and Christians (Jewish and Gentile) that has made so much of his New Testament work so stimulating and innovative. As it happens, though, his research has tended to concentrate geographically on that large sweep of territory “from Jerusalem and as far round as Illyricum.” What I want to do in this article in his honor is to explore an area relatively untouched by my teacher—Alexandria—in an effort to see if anything can be said of Jewish-Christian relations there in the first century. In doing this I must perforce extend our investigation mainly to noncanonical sources. Even so the task is formidable, for the first-century Alexandrian church is, as Stendahl says, something “about which we know nothing.” What follows is, therefore, largely a matter of inference, at least insofar as it bears upon first-century Christianity in Alexandria. Insofar as it bears upon first-century Judaism, that giant among Jewish exegetes and philosophers, Philo Judaeus, will play a substantial role.

The Manuscript. This extraordinary tale survives in a single Coptic manuscript from the Gnostic Library of Nag‘Ḥammadi. Acquired by the Coptic Museum of Old Cairo in 1956, the manuscript bears the inventory number 10544 and in current nomenclature is designated codex Cairensis gnosticus II (CG II). In earlier scholarship it was codex I (J. Doresse, Vig. Christ. 3 [1949] 133–134), codex III (H.-Ch. Puech, Coptic Studies…Crum [1950]), and codex X (Doresse, Les livres secrets des gnostique d'Egypte, vol. I [1958].

The “judicious” Richard Hooker (1554–1600) gave classic expression to the via media position of Elizabethan Anglicanism. He attempted to steer a middle course, appropriating what he considered to be the truths and avoiding what he considered to be the errors and excesses, between Roman Catholicism and the Magisterial Reformation (Lutheranism and especially Calvinism). It has often been pointed out by scholars that Hooker sometimes inclines more in one direction than the other on certain key doctrines. For example, it has been said many times that his view of the relation of God and the world, of grace and nature, of faith and reason, is characterized by continuity rather than discontinuity, and that in this he was true to the medieval Catholic thought of Thomas Aquinas. But his view of justification has been said to be nearer to that of the Magisterial Reformation than to that of Rome.

Some time in the late-fifth or early-sixth century CE, a ritual practitioner—operating in the environs of Oxyrhynchus, Egypt—created a protective amulet that reads, “Hôr, Hôr, Phôr, Elôei, Adônai, Iaô, Sabaôth, Michaêl, Jesus Christ. Help us and this house. Amen” (Ὡρ, Ὡρ, Φωρ, Ἐλωεί, Ἀδωναί, Ἰάω, Σαβαώθ, Μιχαήλ, Ἰεσοῦ Χριστέ· Βοήθι ἡμῖν καὶ τούτῳ οἴκῳ. ἀμήν). Each of the names used in the first part of this amulet, known as P.Oxy. VIII 1152 (=PGM P6a), is familiar from other ritual objects from late antiquity (approx. fourth to seventh centuries CE). But the juxtaposition of these divine names on a single amulet presents us with a puzzle: did the ritual expert who created this artifact or his client perceive there to be a difference, tension, or even contradiction between Jesus Christ and the other names listed? Or, alternatively, would they have conceptualized all of these names as belonging equally within what they would have thought of as the “Christian tradition” or some other tradition?

Fortunately, the two travelers arrived before sunset. Earlier in the day, on 5 May 1674, John Eliot and Daniel Gookin had set out from Boston for Wamesit, the northernmost of the fourteen Indian “praying towns” within the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and the one most subjected to retaliatory attacks from raiding bands of Mohawks in the previous few years. Upon safe arrival, the Englishmen greeted their Pennacook friends and gathered as many as they could at the wigwam of Wannalancet, the head sachem of Wamesit, where Eliot, the aging missionary to the Indians, proceeded to talk about the meaning of the parable of the marriage of the king's son in Matthew 22:1—4. Wannalancet, according to Gookin, was a “sober and grave person, and of years, between fifty and sixty”; he had from the beginning been “loving and friendly to the English,” and in return they had tried to encourage him to embrace Christianity. Although the English missionaries would have desired him to readily accept the gospel message they preached, Wannalancet voluntarily incorporated Christian practices slowly, over time, without necessarily repudiating his native culture and traditional religious practices.1 For four years Wannalancet “had been willing to hear the word of God preached”; when Eliot or other missionaries made their periodic visits to Wamesit, Wannalancet made sure he was there. Over time, Wannalancet adopted the English practices of keeping the Sabbath, learning to go to any available meeting or instruction, fellowshipping, and refraining from various activities proscribed by the town's praying leaders. Despite all that, however, the English missionaries still complained that he “hath stood off” since he had “not yielded up himself personally.”2

According to Isaiah 45:1, Cyrus is YHWH's anointed, his Messiah: Thus says YHWH to his anointed, to Cyrus whom I took by his right hand. Scholars have long disputed this passage. Many agree with Charles Torrey and argue that all references to Cyrus should be removed as later additions; the prophet himself did not write them.Charles C. Torrey, The Second Isaiah (New York: Scribner's, 1928) 3–52; idem, “Isaiah 41,” HTR 44 (1951) 121–36; James D. Smart, History and Theology in Second Isaiah: A Commentary on Isaiah 35, 40–66 (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964) 115–34; Jurgen van Oorschot, Von Babel zum Zion (New York: de Gruyter, 1993) 88. Other scholars assert that the name Cyrus is original, but admonish their readers not to interpret the title “anointed” as more than was intended. The act of anointing simply indicates a commission: Cyrus is to perform the office of king.Christopher R. North, The Second Isaiah (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964) 150; Roger N. Whybray, Isaiah 40–66 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1975) 104; Karl Elliger, Jesaja 40,1–45,7 (BKAT XI/1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1978) 492; John D. W. Watts, Isaiah 34–66 (WBC 25; Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1987) 156; Antti Laato, The Servant of YHWH and Cyrus: A Reinterpretation of the Exilic Messianic Programme in Isaiah 40–55 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1992); idem, A Star is Rising: The Historical Development of the Old Testament Royal Theology and the Rise of the Jewish Messianic Expectations (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997) 173–85; Hugh G. M. Williamson, “The Messianic Texts in Isaiah 1-39,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. J. Day; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998) 238–70; Brevard S. Childs, Isaiah (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000) 353–54. Still others take a third position and assert that references to Cyrus are central to the theory of history presented in the Book of Isaiah.Claus Westermann, Isaiah 40–66 (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1969) 10, 159; Gerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology (trans. D. M. G. Stalker; 2 vols.; United Kingdom: Oliver and Boyd, 1965) 2:238–62; John L. McKenzie, Second Isaiah (AB; Garden City: Doubleday, 1968) lxvi; Antoon Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour: A Form-Critical Study of the Main Genres in Is. XL–LV (VTSup 24; Leiden: Brill, 1973) 270; Rheinhard G. Kratz, Kyros im Deuterojesaja-Buch (Tübingen: Mohr, 1991) 15–17; Peter D. Miscall, Isaiah (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993) 110; Rainer Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period (trans. J. Bowden; 2 vols.; OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994) 2:414; John N. Oswalt, The Book of Isaiah 40–66 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998) 197. Cyrus is the promised redeemer of the Jews. Yet, even these scholars argue that Cyrus's anointing confers a temporary office, and does not evoke a permanent relationship; Cyrus has not converted to YHWHism, and the title should not be translated “Messiah.”Westermann, Deutero-Isaiah, 160–61; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 40–55 (AB; New York: Doubleday, 2002) 248–49. Some do admit that the anointing does mean the end of the Davidic monarchy, however. What God once did through David, he now does through Cyrus.E.g., Westermann, Deutero-Isaiah, 160–61; Watts, Isaiah 34–66, 156.

Following the publication of S. Schechter's Fragments of a Zadokite Work in 1910, some scholars examined the possibility of an Essene origin. This idea was suggested by such points of contact as the stricter observance of the Sabbath, the emphasis on ritual purity, and the avoidance of oaths. One of the main objections to this identification was the recurrence in CDC of laws relating to animal sacrifice and the Temple at Jerusalem. For R. H. Charles this fact alone was decisive: “The Zadokites were not Essenes, since they inculcated the duty of animal sacrifice.” This judgment was based on the widespread belief that the Essenes were unalterably opposed to the sacrificial cult and the priestly tradition.

In 1900 W. Kroll came to the conclusion that Vettius Valens lived under the Antonines. Indeed one finds, scattered over the whole work, some forty references to specific dates as examples for the astrological methods under discussion, these dates ranging from Nero 1 (A.D. 54) to Antoninus 21 (A.D. 157).