Copyright
By
Ryan Conrad Davis
2016
The Dissertation Committee for Ryan Conrad Davis certifies that this is the approved version of the following dissertation:
Relating with Gods: Investigating Human-Divine Relationships in the Prayers of
Israel and Mesopotamia Using a Performance Approach to Ritual
Committee:
______John Huehnergard, Supervisor
______Jo Ann Hackett
______Jonathan Kaplan
______Christopher Frechette
______Alan Lenzi
Relating with Gods: Investigating Human-Divine Relationships in the Prayers of
Israel and Mesopotamia Using a Performance Approach to Ritual
by
Ryan Conrad Davis, B.A., M.A.
Dissertation
Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School
of the University of Texas at Austin
in Partial Fulfillment
of the Requirements
for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
The University of Texas at Austin
May 2016
To Mary, Maggie, and Camille
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This dissertation is a culminating effort to my formal education that has extended far longer and been far more enriching than I had anticipated. I wish to acknowledge the influence of each of the faculty members of the Hebrew Bible / Ancient Near East program at The University of Texas at Austin. Jo Ann, John, Na'ama, and Jonathan have all spent enormous amounts of time and energy to help me put my research endeavors on firmer footing. I am very grateful to John for taking time to meet with me over Skype while I worked on my dissertation hundreds of miles away. His patience on a subject that was not his specialty was greatly appreciated. I also owe much to my outside reviewers,
Alan Lenzi and Christopher Frechette; both of these scholars were asked to sign a awkward document explaining to them that they would not be reimbursed for their efforts. Despite Texas’s stingy way of doing business, they have been very generous with their time and suggestions, and without them this dissertation would never have gotten off the ground.
No dissertation is written in a vacuum, and I grateful to my family and friends who gave me the opportunity to hide away in my office and do my research. Most importantly, my greatest thanks goes to Mary who has had to endure more repeated and sustained musings about my dissertation, life, and the universe than anyone. We graduated with our bachelor’s degrees together, entered graduate school together, and worked on doctorates together. Mary is my best friend and greatest ally and has been with me every step of the way.
v ABSTRACT
Relating with Gods: Investigating Human-Divine Relationships in the Prayers of
Israel and Mesopotamia Using a Performance Approach to Ritual
by
Ryan Conrad Davis, Ph.D.
The University of Texas at Austin, 2016
SUPERVISOR: John Huehnergard
The prayers of ancient Israel and Mesopotamia are rare windows into how ancient peoples interacted with their gods. Much work has already been done to describe how social conventions are important driving factors behind these interactions with deities. In order to utilize these observations and further understand the relationships between humans and gods, it is important to understand the ritual environment in which these relationships are created. A performance approach to ritual allows us to properly contextualize the human-divine relationships that are attested in prayers within their ritual environments. In both Israel and Mesopotamia, actions within rituals take place in framed domains; because all social action occurs in framed domains as well, rituals can be profitably compared to other domains, such as theatre or sports.
This dissertation uses a performance approach to analyze four different groups of prayers from the first-millennium BCE. Two groups of prayers are from Mesopotamia and are clustered around two rituals: the Akkadian šuilla and the dingiršadabba. The other two groups of prayers come from the Book of Psalms: the individual and communal
vi laments. A performance approach allows us to talk about the rituals that utilize these prayers in two complimentary ways that are similar to how we talk about theatre in
Western cultures. We can talk about a theatrical production without discussing what happens on-stage, and we can talk about what happens on-stage while ignoring off-stage elements. Because these ancient Near Eastern rituals are framed domains of action, we can talk about the domains themselves without entering inside of them, and likewise, we can talk about the world inside these domains while ignoring the world outside. This approach helps us better understand the bounded nature of the relationships that take place within ritual domains, and it helps us better understand how the domains themselves influence the relationships within them. This dissertation offers not only new ways to explore human-divine relationships but also new ways for understanding ritual efficacy in the both Israel and Mesopotamia.
vii TABLE OF CONTENTS
LIST OF TABLES ...... xii
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS ...... xiii
INTRODUCTION ...... 1
CHAPTER 1: A PERFORMANCE APPROACH TO RITUAL ...... 9
1.1 Introduction ...... 9
1.2 Preliminary Questions ...... 10
1.3 Ritual as Performance ...... 11
1.4 Interaction as Ritual ...... 15
1.5 Ritual as Performative...... 16
1.6 Ritual as a Social Domain ...... 17
1.6.1 Ritual Commitment and Agency ...... 17
1.6.2 Ritual as Framed Performance ...... 20
1.7 Summary and Conclusion ...... 21
CHAPTER 2: HUMAN-DIVINE RELATIONSHIPS IN AKKADIAN ŠUILLA PRAYERS...... 23
2.1 Introduction ...... 23
2.2 Classifying šuilla Rituals ...... 24
2.2.1 Meaning of the šuilla Rubric ...... 24
2.2.2 Three Types of šuillas ...... 26
2.2.3 Akkadian šuillas and Incantation-prayers ...... 27
2.2.4 Šuilla: A Category of Rituals ...... 33
2.2.5 Šuilla Dataset ...... 38
2.3 Description of Textual Evidence ...... 39
viii 2.4 Topical Description of šuilla Ritual ...... 43
2.4.1 Ritual Space ...... 45
2.4.2 Ritual Time ...... 48
2.4.3 Ritual Objects / Ritual Action ...... 48
2.4.4 Ritual Sound / Language ...... 51
2.4.5 Ritual Identity / Agency ...... 55
2.5. Description of Ritual World within šuilla Rituals ...... 62
2.5.1. Audience Scene ...... 62
2.5.2 Steps 1–2 - Announcement / Stepping Forward of Petitioner ...... 66
2.5.3 Steps 3–5 - Greeting Gift/Gestures/Words of Petitioner ...... 66
2.5.4 Step 7 - Speech of Petitioner ...... 79
2.5.5 Step 9 – Thanks of Petitioner ...... 89
2.6 Conclusion ...... 95
CHAPTER 3: THE HUMAN-DIVINE RELATIONSHIP IN DINGIRŠADABBA PRAYERS TO PERSONAL GODS ...... 100
3.1 Introduction ...... 100
3.2 The Category of dingiršadabba ...... 101
3.3 The Audience Scene in dingiršadabba Rituals ...... 105
3.3.1 Ritual Action / Objects in dingiršadabba ...... 106
3.3.2 Ritual Speech in dingiršadabba ...... 108
3.3.3 Examples of Dangerous Audience Scenes ...... 121
3.3.4 Comparisons to the use of the dingiršadabba as used in larger rituals ...... 132
3.3.5 Renewed Assessment of Gift Giving in dingiršadabba ...... 146
3.4 Performance Aspects of dingiršadabba Rituals ...... 147 ix 3.4.1 Circumstances of the dingiršadabba ...... 147
3.4.2 Circumstances Inside and Outside the dingiršadabba Performance ...... 152
3.5 Summary and Conclusion ...... 156
CHAPTER 4: HUMAN-DIVINE RELATIONSHIPS IN THE INDIVIDUAL AND COMMUNAL LAMENTS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE ...... 158
4.1 Introduction ...... 158
4.2 Classifying Individual and Communal Laments...... 160
4.2.1 The Lament Genre: Generic Realism? ...... 160
4.2.2 Individual and Communal Laments as Analytical Genres ...... 163
4.2.3 Laments as Rhetorically Persuasive Pleas for Help Directed at a Divine Superior ...... 166
4.3 A Ritual Setting for the Individual and Communal Laments ...... 173
4.3.1 Evidence from Psalm Headings ...... 176
4.3.2 Evidence of Psalms Employed in Temple Rituals ...... 179
4.3.3 Levitical Participation in Petition ...... 183
4.3.4 Laments and the Burnt Offering ...... 185
4.3.5 Levitical Participation in Praise and Thanksgiving ...... 187
4.4 A Scripted Audience with a Positive Reply ...... 191
4.4.1 Psalms: Internal Evidence for Scripted Performativity ...... 192
4.4.2 The Order of Sacrificial Activity ...... 195
4.4.3 The Audience Scene in Narrative ...... 199
4.4.4 Individual or Communal Laments? ...... 204
4.4.5 Circumstances for the Performance of Individual and Communal Laments ...... 208
4.4.6 Summary ...... 215 x 4.5. Where is Prescribed Prayer in the Hebrew Bible?: The Diachronic Issue ...... 216
4.6. The Human-Divine Relationships in Individual Laments and Communal Laments ...... 221
4.6.1 Previous Relationship with Supplicant(s) ...... 223
4.6.2 Epithets of Yahweh ...... 227
4.6.3 Yahweh as Creator ...... 237
4.6.4 The Crisis in the Laments ...... 238
4.6.5 Close vs. Distant Relationship? ...... 243
4.6.6 Summary: The ʾĕlōhîm of the Individual and the ʾĕlōhîm of the Community...... 246
4.7. Summary and Conclusion ...... 247
CONCLUSION ...... 251
BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 257
xi LIST OF TABLES
Table 1: Frechette’s Synthesis of Kunstmann and Mayer ...... 29 Table 2: Zgoll’s Steps of an Audience Scene ...... 63 Table 3: Characteristics of Invocations of Prayers Used in šuilla Rituals ...... 97 Table 4: Structures of Prayers Used in dingiršadabba Rituals ...... 110
xii LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
AASOR Annual of the American Schools of Oriental Research ABL Assyrian and Babylonian Letters Belonging to the Kouyunjik Collections of the British Museum. Edited by Robert F. Harper. 14 vols. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1892–1914. AfO Archiv für Orientforschung AGH Die akkadische Gebetsserie “Handerhebung” von neuem gesammelt und hrsg. Erich Ebeling. Berlin: Akademie, 1953. AMT Assyrian Medical Texts from the Originals in the British Museum. Edited by R. C. Thompson. London: Oxford University Press, 1923 ANEM Ancient Near East Monographs/Monografías sobre el Antiguo Cercano Oriente AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament AUSS Andrews University Seminary Studies BaghM Baghdader Mitteilungen BAM Die babylonisch-assyrische Medizin in Texten und Untersuchungen. Edited by F. Köcher. 4 vols. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1963–1980 BBR Beiträge zur Kenntnis der babylonischen Religion. Edited by H. Zimmern. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1901 BM British Museum BMS Babylonian Magic and Sorcery: Being “The Prayers of the Lifting of the Hand”. Edited by L. W. King. London: Luzac, 1896 CAD The Assyrian Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1956–2006 CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly CBS Catalogue of the Babylonian Section CDL Cuneiform Digital Library CDLI Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative CEB Common English Bible COS The Context of Scripture. Edited by William W. Hallo. 3 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1997–2002 CTN Cuneiform Texts from Nimrud CurBR Currents in Biblical Research DN Divine Name DPS Diagnostic and Prognostic Series EA El-Amarna HALOT The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament. Ludwig Koehler, Walter Baumgartner, and Johann J. Stamm. Translated and edited under the supervision of Mervyn E. J. Richardson. 4 vols. Leiden: Brill, 1994–1999 JANER Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions JAOS Journal of the American Orient Society
xiii JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JCS Journal of Cuneiform Studies JNES Journal of Near Eastern Studies JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament JSOTSup Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series JSS Journal of Semitic Studies KAR Keilschrifttexte aus Assur religiösen Inhalts. Edited by Erich Ebeling. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1919–1923 KJV King James Version LKA Literarische Keilschrifttexte aus Assur. Edited by Erich Ebeling. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1953 LL Lipšur Litanites LXX Septuagint MB Middle Babylonian MRS Mission de Ras Shamra NETS New English Translation of the Septuagint OBO Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis Or Orientalia ORACC Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus PBS University of Pennsylvania, Publications of the Babylonian Section RIM The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Project. Toronto RINAP Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period RlA Reallexikon der Assyriologie. Edited by Erich Ebeling et al. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1928– RS Ras Shamra RT Recueil de travaux relatifs à; la philologie et à; l'archéologie égyptiennes et assyriennes SAA State Archives of Assyria SAAo State Archives of Assyria Online SAAS State Archives of Assyria Studies SBL Society of Biblical Literature SpTU Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk SpTU II Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk II. Edited by E. von Weiher. Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1983. SpTU III Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk III. Edited by E. von Weiher. Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1988 STT The Sultantepe Tablets, Vol. I. Edited by O. Gurney and J. Finkelstein. London: British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1957. TGUOS Transactions of the Glasgow University Society UFBG Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen Gebetsbeschwörungen. Werner Mayer. Studia Phol Series Maior 5. Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1976. VTSup Supplements to Vetus Testamentum ZA Zeitschrift für Assyriologie
xiv ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft
xv INTRODUCTION
Relationships with gods were significant elements of religious and social life in ancient Israel. The Israelites used various relational terms in order to indicate their relationships with the divine sphere, such as “my god” (Ps 3:8) or “your god” (Ps 76:11); there could also be a “strange god” (Ps 44:20) or “other gods you do not know” (Deut
13:3).1 Additionally, the Hebrew Bible is filled with references to promises, covenants, and other relational ways of interacting with the divine sphere.2 Among all the ways of interacting with deities, prayers in the Hebrew Bible are wonderfully rich sources.
1 This type of relational language is used for other gods besides Yahweh. Other gods can also be described as “my god” (Isa 44:17; Dan 4:8), “our god” (1 Sam 5:7), “your god” (Judg 11:24; 1 Kgs 18:24), “his god” (1 Kgs 19:27), and “their god” (Judg 8:33; 9:27).
2 Vows have been explored as relational ways of acting in Tony W. Cartledge, Vows in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, JSOTSup 147 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992); Jacques Berlinerblau, The Vow and the “Popular Religious Groups” of Ancient Israel: A Philological and Sociological Inquiry (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996); Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, Before the God in This Place for Good Remembrance: A Comparative Analysis of the Aramaic Votive Inscriptions from Mount Gerizim (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013). Gods were considered capable of making covenants with individuals and communities (Gen 9:9; Gen 15:18; Exod 23:32). Scholars have argued that the covenant language of the Hebrew Bible has its roots in suzerain-vassal relationships and royal land grants; see William L. Moran, “Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963): 77–87; M. Weinfeld, “The Covenant of Grant in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East,” JAOS 90 (1970): 184–203. For a recent monograph that touches on Deuteronomy’s relationship to Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty; see C. L. Crouch, Israel and the Assyrians: Deuteronomy, the Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon, and the Nature of Subversion, ANEM 8 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014).
1 Investigating how prayers mirror social conventions in ancient Israel has yielded particularly illuminating results about human-divine relationships. Moshe Greenberg, in his study of prose prayer in the Hebrew Bible, has shown that prayers to Yahweh are analogous to pleas and blessings to other social superiors.3 This observation is reinforced by the work of Roger Tomes, who has shown that the rhetorical strategies used in the
Psalms are reflective of the same rhetorical strategies used in letters to social superiors throughout the ancient Near East.4 Friedhelm Hartenstein has also shown that the phrase,
“the face of Yahweh,” implicitly assumes an audience with Yahweh in the prayers found in the Book of Psalms.5 Beyond this general superior/inferior way of relating, Rainer
Albertz argued that distinctive ways of relating with Yahweh are restricted to specific types of prayers in the Psalms.6 Albertz argued that these different relationships represented religious beliefs and practices of different social strata. Alan Lenzi has advocated for the application of anthropological approaches in order to better understand
3 Moshe Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer: As a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983).
4 Roger Tomes, “I Have Written to the King, My Lord”: Secular Analogies for the Psalms (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006).
5 Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs: Studien zu seinem höfischen und kultischen Bedeutungshintergrund in den Psalmen und in Exodus 32-34 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008).
6 Rainer Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit und offizielle Religion: religionsinterner Pluralismus in Israel und Babylon (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005).
2 the human-divine relationships in the prayers of the Psalms.7 Lenzi has demonstrated how a concept like formality can help us understand the elements or structure of a given prayer, and he argued that different levels of formality are attested between the individual and communal laments of the Book of Psalms. Anna Zernecke has also argued that the presence of intimate relational terms, such as “my god,” and the lack of hymnic language in the individual laments are indicative of an intimate relationship with Yahweh.8
The insightful studies of Lenzi and Zernecke were both attempting to explain differences in the structure of individual laments when compared to a specific group of prayers used in the šuilla rituals of Mesopotamia. Their work demonstrates that research on human-divine relationships in the prayers of the Hebrew Bible has not occurred in isolation; Mesopotamia provides us with a wealth of comparative data with which we can understand the prayers of ancient Israel. Both Lenzi and Zernecke have shown that distinctive structural differences in Mesopotamian prayers depend on the relationship that the praying individual has with the addressed deity. Because Mesopotamia assumes a networked pantheon of gods, the fact that one could interact with deities in various ways
7 Alan Lenzi, “Invoking the God: Interpreting Invocations in Mesopotamian Prayers and Biblical Laments of the Individual,” JBL 129 (2010): 303–15.
8 Anna E. Zernecke, “Vain Flattery versus Trusting Confidence?: Akkadian Prayers of the Lifting of the Hand and Biblical Psalms of Individual Lament,” in “My Spirit at Rest in the North Country” (Zechariah 6.8): Collected Communications to the XXth Congress of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, Helsinki 2010, ed. Hermann Michael Niemann and Matthias Augustin (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2011), 183–92.
3 is quite plausible; scholars have already identified “personal gods” and “city gods” as distinctive types of relationships within Mesopotamia cultures.9 Research has also demonstrated that social conventions are important driving forces for Mesopotamian prayer, similar to what has been observed in biblical studies. Annette Zgoll has demonstrated that Akkadian šuilla prayers progress very similarly to audiences before human rulers, and she argued that reciprocity is an important principle in the relationship between the praying individual and the addressed deity.10 Christopher Frechette, in his
9 The deity that is referred to as a “personal god” or a “family god” by modern scholars is often referred to as “my god” or “my goddess” in the first-millennium; for an excellent discussion on the veneration of personal gods in Mesopotamia during the Old Babylonian period, see Karel van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria, and Israel: Continuity and Changes in the Forms of Religious Life, Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 7 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 66–87. In addition to one’s own personal gods, there were also city gods, as well as other members of the divine pantheon that sometimes required attention; for a discussion about city gods, see Brigitte Groneberg, “Bemerkungen zum Stadtgott in Mesopotamien,” in Prophetie in Israel: Beiträge des Symposiums “Das Alte Testament und die Kultur der Moderne” anlässlich des 100. Geburtstags Gerhard von Rads (1901–1971), ed. Irmtraud Fischer, Konrad Schmid, and Hugh G. M. Williamson, Altes Testament und Moderne 11 (Münster: Lit, 2003), 149–56. Although there is evidence of a city god being referred to as “my god” (Dominique Charpin, “Les divinités familiales des Babyloniens d’après les légendes de leurs sceaux-cylindres,” in De la Babylonie à la Syrie, en passant par Mari : mélanges offerts à Monsieur J.-R. Kupper à l’occasion de son 70e anniversaire, ed. Ö. Tunca [Liège: Université de Liège, 1990], 76), this is generally a term used specifically to refer to the personal god within first-millennium Mesopotamian ritual texts. For an example of the juxtaposition of a city god and a personal god in medical texts, see JoAnn Scurlock, Sourcebook for Ancient Mesopotamian Medicine (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), 157 lines 23–24.
10 Annette Zgoll, “Audienz — Ein Modell zum Verständnis mesopotamischer Handerhebungsrituale: Mit einer Deutung der Novelle vom Armen Mann von Nippur,” BaghM 34 (2003): 181–99.
4 important monograph on the Akkadian šuilla ritual, has shown that the hand-gesture included in the ritual was an important social gesture that helped to establish or reestablish a relationship based on reciprocity with the addressed deity.11
Previous research suggests that if we more fully understand the human-divine relationships in prayers, we can better illuminate the structure and elements of the prayers themselves, which will, in turn, aid us in understanding the human-divine relationships that were important to the cultures of Israel and Mesopotamia. This in turn will help us better understand the religious beliefs and practices of these cultures. These lofty goals require continued effort and are still a long way off. If we are to continue to move forward in better understanding the human-divine relationships in prayers, we need to bring the ritual environment of these prayers into clearer focus. Previous studies have certainly taken note of ritual action, but more needs to be done to understand not only how verbal prayers are connected with physical actions but also what it means for a relationship to take place within a ritual setting. This requires a better understanding of the ritual moment. Better understanding the environment in which human-divine relationships take place will help us make more informed approaches to the subject and make better sense of the data. If we look at the voluminous bibliography of ritual in biblical studies in the past few decades, we come to find that there is very little or no
11 Christopher Frechette, Mesopotamian Ritual-Prayers Of “hand-lifting” (Akkadian Šuillas): An Investigation of Function in Light of the Idiomatic Meaning of the Rubric (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2012).
5 treatment of what it means to have a relationship or relate with gods within a ritual environment.12
Therefore, in this dissertation, I will do two things; I will provide some methodological footing for exploring human-divine relationships within a ritual setting, and I will apply this theoretical approach in order to contribute to our understanding of the human-divine relationship in specific types of rituals and prayers in both Israel and
Mesopotamia. Although previous research on the prayers of Israel and Mesopotamia has not explored the effect of the ritual environment on human-divine relationships, interdisciplinary approaches to ritual have already developed tools for approaching this issue. Approaches that will best help us understand relationships in the context of rituals are often considered performance approaches to ritual. These approaches recognize the distinctiveness of ritual action while also acknowledging the similarities that ritual has to other social domains, like theater, sports, and games. These approaches will help us understand the constraints that are distinctive to a particular ritual’s environment, and
12 For a few recent examples of theoretically informed approaches to ritual in biblical studies, see Gerald A. Klingbeil, Bridging the Gap: Ritual and Ritual Texts in the Bible (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007); Bryan C. Babcock, Sacred Ritual: A Study of the West Semitic Ritual Calendars in Leviticus 23 and the Akkadian Text Emar 446 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014); Ithamar Gruenwald, Rituals and Ritual Theory in Ancient Israel (Leiden: Brill, 2003). Klingbeil does have a section on “Ritual Participants and Ritual Roles,” but this section is focused on analyzing how they “tell the modern reader something about the hierarchy and societal structure of a particular culture” (Klingbeil, Bridging the Gap, 189). Babcock’s study also discusses “Ritual participants,” but is mostly interested in applying a schematic for understanding how rituals work in general (Babcock, Sacred Ritual, 17). He uses Frank Gorman’s approach that assigns “three primary roles for ritual participants: specialist, sponsor, and recipient” (ibid.; see Frank H. Gorman, The Ideology of Ritual Space, Time, and Status in the Priestly Theology [Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990]).
6 they will demonstrate how all social interaction take place in distinctive environments as well.
Rituals, like other social domains, create framed and bounded areas where participants agree to abide by special rules and take on special identities when they enter.
If we understand these rituals as framed social domains, similar to theatre, then we can better analyze the human-divine relationships within rituals. From the perspective outside of the ritual domain, we see that identities and relationships are a part of the domain itself; the participants in a ritual take on these identities when they enter the ritual.
However, from the perspective within the ritual frame, a new world is created, similar to how a world is created on-stage during a theatrical performance. My methodological approach is laid out in chapter 1, where I review how a performance approach to ritual can help us see the importance of the ritual setting for human-divine relationships.
After having outlined my method in chapter 1, I will apply this approach to four different datasets from the ancient Near East in order to better understand human-divine relationships within rituals; I will analyze two types of rituals that include prayers from ancient Mesopotamia and two types of ritually-embedded prayers in ancient Israel.
Chapter 2 will explore prayers used in Akkadian šuilla rituals, and chapter 3 will explore prayers in dingiršadabba rituals to personal gods. In chapter 4, I will explore the human- divine relationships in two prayer types in the Book of Psalms, the individual and communal lament, and will reconstruct at least one of the ritual contexts in which these two kinds of prayer were used. Our performance approach to the human-divine relationships in these prayers will help us develop further insights into how relationships
7 can be created within rituals, and how these relationships corresponds to the world inside and outside of the ritual frame.
8 CHAPTER 1: A PERFORMANCE APPROACH TO RITUAL
1.1 Introduction When we attempt to analyze anything in humanity’s physical or intellectual universe, we can hardly expect to understand it from all its possible angles. Such is the case with ritual. As I approach ritual in this dissertation, I find myself in agreement with
Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek, and Michael Stausberg who explain that “the age of ‘grand theories’—thus, theories that seek to explain everything—is over…any one theory will hardly suffice to account for the complexity of the phenomena.”1 They further point out that “today theoreticians of ritual(s) instead generate—to put it more modestly— theoretical approaches, which only try to explain a certain aspect of the material concerned.”2 This discussion of an approach to ritual theory is centered on understanding relationships and identities within a ritual frame, and I am using performance approaches because these best capture what is missing in previous studies. Even as I tout this approach as essential to understanding human-divine relationships in the ancient Near
East, I do not expect it to explain ritual in its totality. I like Thomas Tweed’s assertion that theories are similar to travel. Tweed contends that “theories, then, are sightings from
1 Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek, and Michael Stausberg, “Ritual Studies, Ritual Theory, Theorizing Rituals—An Introductory Essay,” in Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, and Concepts, ed. Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek, and Michael Stausberg, Studies in the History of Religions 114–1 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), xxi.
2 Ibid., xxi–xxii.
9 sites.”3 These situated sightings give us a perspective but always have their limitations, such that “[s]ome paths are not taken…[Theorists] wander only to this place, or that; they see only what that vantage allows.”4 With this in mind, I believe the vantage point that allows us to see ritual as performance will be particularly illuminating to our understanding of the identities and human-divine relationships that take place in the rituals covered in this dissertation.
1.2 Preliminary Questions In order to understand the ritual setting in which human-divine relationships take place, I will draw from theorists that often identify themselves as doing “performance studies” or “performance approaches to ritual.”5 The following description of the theoretical tools that I am using in this dissertation is not intended to be an introduction or a full description of this emerging field. Rather, this chapter will orient the reader to what follows by describing my methodical tools, or the theoretical approaches that allow me to better conceptualize the ritual frame in which human-divine relationships take place.
The purpose of this project is to better understand the relationships that exist between humans and gods by keeping in view the environment in which these
3 Thomas A. Tweed, Crossing and Dwelling: A Theory of Religion (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2008), 13.
4 Ibid., 15.
5 Good introductions to this field include Richard Schechner, Performance Studies : An Introduction, 3rd ed. (London: Routledge, 2013); Barry Stephenson, Ritual: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); Ronald Grimes, “Performance Theory and the Studies of Ritual,” in New Approaches to the Study of Religion, ed. Peter Antes, Armin W. Geertz, and Randi R. Warne, vol. 2 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 109–38.
10 relationships take place. Because these relationships are created within a ritual environment, one of the basic questions that we have is, how does a relationship that is constructed in a ritual environment compare with a relationship created elsewhere?
Another way to phrase this question is to ask, how do the interactions that take place in ritual compare with “everyday” interactions?
1.3 Ritual as Performance One way that ritual theorists have approached this question is by seeing what happens in both rituals and “everyday life” as aspects of “performance.” Richard
Schechner argues that performance is carrying out “twice-behaved” or “restored behavior” or, in other words, “physical, verbal, or virtual actions that are not-for-the-first time; that are prepared or rehearsed.”6 He makes the point that all of what we do is cultural or biologically received in some way, and these processes inform our behavior.
When we act, we perform actions and roles that we are taught to perform and that are available to us. In this way, people are performing whether they are acting inside a ritual or in “everyday” life.
Not only can we see ritual and “everyday” life as aspects of performance, but we can nuance the dichotomy between ritual and the “everyday” by understanding both to be a series of social domains in which action takes place. A ritual it not a specific type of action, but a domain that is created by its contrast with the other domains that make up
6 Schechner, Performance Studies, 28–29.
11 “everyday” life.7 Rituals themselves only exist as distinct social domains because of their relation to other social domains. All social action takes place within culturally specific domains, like theatre or sports, which provide constraining rules and identities to their participants.8 The process by which all social domains are differentiated from each other is called framing, and will be explored in more detail in §1.6.2.
Scholars often use the term “ritualization” to describe the specific way that ritual domains are demarcated from other social domains.9 Barry Stephenson makes this
7 Catherine Bell has been influential in pointing out that ritual actions are not intrinsically different; she notes that “the significance of ritual behavior lies not in being an entirely separate way of acting, but in how such activities constitute themselves as different and in contrast to other activities”; see (Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice [Oxford University Press, 1992], 90). Bell herself is not a performance theorist, but Ronald Grimes regards Bell’s observation as “virtually a consensus position among students of ritual” and further notes that “[t]he fact that ritual actions are privileged by virtue of their differences from other ways of acting implies that ritualization is a domain of some sort, whether permeable or firmly demarcated” (Grimes, “Performance Theory and the Studies of Ritual,” 2:133).
8 These aspects of social domains are elaborated in §1.6.
9 Catherine Bell uses the term “ritualized” synonymously with “ritual-like,” and describes six different attributes (Catherine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 138. Grimes uses the term to describe a “mode of ritual sensibility” and mostly restricts this term to behavior that is often biologically or innately motivated, similar to the use of communicative gestures in animals. Grimes observes that “[w]hen meaning, communication, or performance becomes more important than function and pragmatic end, ritualization has begun to occur” (Ronald L. Grimes, Beginnings in Ritual Studies [Waterloo, ON: Ritual Studies International, 2010], loc. 1173). Grimes, however, does use the term “ritualizing” to describe “nascent rituals” or rituals that are not culturally recognized but are on their way to becoming so. He describes “ritualizing” as “transpiring as animated persons enact formative gestures in the face of receptivity during crucial times in founded places” (ibid., loc. 1858).
12 analogy, ““[j]ust as theater takes drama of everyday life, condenses it, formalizes it, and puts it on stage for view, ritual is cobbled together out of ordinary acts and gestures made extraordinary; this cobbling together is the process of ritualization.”10 Catherine Bell described the process of ritualization, or the process by which action becomes more ritual-like, as the result of a number of strategies, such as formalism, traditionalism, disciplined invariance, rule-governance, and sacral symbolism. Similarly, Stephenson notes that “[a]n action is more like ritual the more it is formalized, stylized, and aesthetically elevated…the more it receives spatial and temporal framing; the more it is associated with sacred powers, founding figures, or historical or mythical events.”11
All social domains, similar to ritual, are differentiated from each other through a variety of strategies that overlap with this idea of “ritualization.” Because all social domains provide various levels of ritualization to the actions within them, all social actions contain more or less aspects of ritualization and fall somewhere along a spectrum.
From this perspective, we can talk about “a ritual” as a culturally recognized domain of ritualization.12 In this way, ritualization can describe a continuum of actions that share a
10 Stephenson, Ritual, 76.
11 Ibid., 77.
12 Some theorists use the term “rite” to refer to a specific ritual ceremony and reserve the word “ritual” for the larger concept. For a nice discussion on choosing terminology and definitions, see Jan Snoek, “Defining ‘Rituals,’” in Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, and Concepts, ed. Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek, and Michael Stausberg, Studies in the History of Religions 114–1 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 3–14.
13 ritual nature that may not be considered to be distinct domains of behavior in a given culture, yet still share aspects of culturally recognized rituals. When we talk about
“ritual” as a larger concept, we are talking about what culturally recognized rituals and ritualized action share in general.
The rituals that I am exploring in this dissertation are culturally recognized rituals in both Israel and Mesopotamia because they are demarcated within each culture as distinctive domains of action.13 The fact that these rituals represent distinctive domains of action will be further elucidated in the dissertation, but these actions are clearly demarcated from others within the linguistic realm.14
13 A study that was overseen by Michael Stausberg explored a number of emic terms for rituals across many of the world’s ancient cultures. He points out that “[s]ince it is generally considered legitimate to speak, by way of example, of the ‘economy’ of societies that may not have a word that closely matches the English term ‘economy’ in their language(s), the generally shared assumption of the universality of ‘ritual’ does not depend on the occurrence of emic terms for ‘ritual’. However, the documented occurrence of emic terms for ‘ritual’ that demarcate ‘ritual’ as a separate domain in several linguistic areas could to some extent weaken the obvious suspicion that ‘ritual’ is merely a modern, Western history and preoccupations” (Michael Stausberg, ed., “‘Ritual’: A Lexicographic Survey of Some Related Terms from an Emic Perspective,” in Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, and Concepts, Studies in the History of Religions 114–1 [Leiden: Brill, 2006], 53–54). This study demonstrated that many languages, including Akkadian and Hebrew, have words that tend to demarcate certain actions that we call ritual. For the specific rituals in this dissertation, see the next note.
14 The very fact that šuilla and dingiršadabba rituals are named and demarcated from other rituals demonstrates that Mesopotamian cultures were self-aware of these being distinct entities. Rituals, similar to how we understand the term, are demarcated through a number of terms, such as nēpešu, epištu, kikkiṭṭû, and dullu (see Nils P. Heeßel, “‘Ritual’: A Lexicographic Survey of Some Related Terms from an Emic Perspective: Akkadian,” in Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, and Concepts, ed. Michael Stausberg, Studies in the History of Religions 114–1 [Leiden: Brill, 2006], 55–57). In Biblical Hebrew, both
14 1.4 Interaction as Ritual This approach to ritual highlights two important points that ritual interaction has in common with everyday interaction. First, these are both manifestations of performance; they use restored behaviors that, to some degree, constrain and channel behavior. Second, the actions in both specific rituals and everyday life also share ritual qualities. In fact, Erving Goffman saw all social interaction as both performance and ritual. For Goffman, face-to-face interaction was a ritual in which we created sacred identities for ourselves and for others.15 A person does not completely control their own identity, but must allow others to have a role in constructing this, and the person, in turn, participates in creating others’ identities. The various kinds of ‘faces’ available and the ways that one goes about shaping and handling them is subject to culturally specific rules and parameters. In face-to-face encounters, one’s own role and identity are not localized
individual and communal laments are demarcated from other types of speech by terms the fact that these prayers are collected into a book of such ;מַשְ כִ יל ,מִ זְמֹור such as compositions demonstrates that this was recognized as a distinctive type of speech. The ritual environment that I will reconstruct for these prayers in chapter 4 is more generally of Yahweh’s/God’s house (see 1 Chr 23:24; Neh 10:33). For a עֲבֹודָ ה referred to as the -and Western concepts of ritual; see Hans עֲבֹודָה brief note on the connection between Michael Haußig, “‘Ritual’: A Lexicographic Survey of Some Related Terms from an Emic Perspective: Biblical Hebrew,” in Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, and Concepts, ed. Michael Stausberg, Studies in the History of Religions 114–1 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 71–72.
15 Erving Goffman, “On Face-Work: An Analysis of Ritual Elements in Social Interaction,” in Interaction Ritual: Essays in Face to Face Behavior (Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1967), 5–45.
15 somewhere but are created through the flow of events.16 When a “face” is taken, we often assume that an individual possesses all of the attributes of this “face,” and if proven otherwise, we assume that they have made a false impression.17 Goffman’s intriguing analysis of modern social practice demonstrates how relationships and identities are restricted, even in what we might consider “everyday” social interactions.
A basic assumption of my approach is that “everyday” relationships are created and changed in much the same way as relationships that take place within a ritual environment. Behavior that takes place in rituals and behavior that takes place in other social domains are all subject to rules specific rules that serve to constrain and channel behavior.
1.5 Ritual as Performative Goffman also touched on the important idea that social relationships are constructed through the interaction itself, rather than merely being expressed by them.
This corresponds with the concept of “performative utterance” that was articulated by
John L. Austin in his lecture series titled How to Do Things with Words.18 Austin showed us how words not only communicate things, but also do things. The classic example of this phenomenon is the famous phrase, “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Rather than merely communicating something, the statement itself is the action that marries the
16 Ibid., 6–7.
17 Ibid., 7.
18 J. L Austin, How to Do Things with Words (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975).
16 individuals. Although ritual can communicate things to its participants, when we see that words and actions are not completely different, we see that it also does things to these participants. For some scholars, this aspect of ritual is one of its defining qualities, such that Podemann Sørensen argues that “[a] ritual is designed and performed on the assumption that once it is accomplished, the world is not quite what it would have been without the ritual.”19 Therefore, although the words and actions of the rituals we encounter can communicate and tell us important things about relationships, from the perspective of this study, their more important purpose is creating relationships between participants.
1.6 Ritual as a Social Domain
1.6.1 Ritual Commitment and Agency Since ritual interaction and everyday interaction are both performance, they share similarities with theater, games, and others domains of social action. Agency and framing are two important concepts that help in understanding ritual within the context of social domains. Something that both theater and ritual have in common is that individual agency, one’s power over one’s own actions, is surrendered to some degree in order to participant in these domains. As Humphrey and Ladlaw have argued, when participating in ritual or ritualization, as when participating in games or theater, one accepts
19 Jørgen Podemann Sørensen, “Ritualistics: A New Discipline in the History of Religions,” in The Problem of Ritual : Based on Papers Read at the Symposium on Religious Rites Held at Åbo, Finland, on the 13th-16th of August, 1991, ed. Tore Ahlbäck (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1993), 18.
17 constitutive rules about what actions count, and “adopting the ritual stance one accepts…one will not be the author of one’s acts.”20 For example, when one steps onto a football field, one agrees to abide by a set of rules that will govern one’s behavior.
Similarly, when one walks onto a stage in a theatrical production, one agrees to abide by specific rules. These rules not only allow one to engage in these particular social domains, but they also allow these social domains to exist. Rules that create a domain of action have been called “constitutive rules.”21 The same holds true for engaging in rituals as well. When one enters a ritual, one commits to follow certain rules, rules that essentially allow the ritual to proceed. Humphrey and Laidlaw call the acceptance of these constitutive rules the “ritual commitment.”22
To relinquish power over one’s own action indicates that one surrenders one’s own individual agency. This is not to say that the individual no longer has power to do something when within ritual, but that the agency of the individual is subsumed within ritual agency, and it is the ritual itself that now has the power to change rather than the actions of an individual. As William Sax has argued, the power to effect change lies not
20 Caroline Humphrey and James Laidlaw, The Archetypal Actions of Ritual: An Essay on Ritual as Action Illustrated by the Jain Rite of Worship, Oxford Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 98. Humphrey and Laidlaw’s use of the idea of constitutive rules follows John R. Searle, Speech Acts: An Essay in the Philosophy of Language (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), 33–36.
21 See preceding note.
22 Humphrey and Laidlaw, The Archetypal Actions of Ritual, 88.
18 in an individual but is distributed through a network of ritual agents, both human and non-human.23 Ritual participants can always decide to assert their agency in opposition to the rules of a particular social domain, but at some point they will find that they are no longer participating in that domain. For example, if one neglects the rules of soccer and decides to hold the ball and run with it, one ceases to play soccer. In the same way, when one violates the rules that are endemic to a ritual domain, one ceases to participate in it.
The adoption of the “ritual commitment” and the partial surrender of individual agency also creates a situation where one’s identity, role, and relationships with others are now subject to change while participating in a given ritual. As Grimes notes, “[in r]itualizing, one is not a self but a persona, a mask. Ritual actors are personae, so we begin to suspect ritualizing is occurring whenever a layering or stripping of identities intensifies.”24 Thus, relationships and identities that correspond to an individual ritual actor may be dictated by the personas that are implicit in the ritual, leading to a single individual having a variety of layered or nested identities and relationships. Some of these relationships and identities may remain latent or active in a given context depending on their framing. For example, if an actor participates in a play, he or she is given a role that will change his or her identity while on stage. Less drastically, in the game of chess, one becomes either “white” or “black,” identities that come with a
23 William S. Sax, “Agency,” in Theorizing Rituals: Issues, Topics, and Concepts, ed. Jens Kreinath, Jan Snoek, and Michael Stausberg, Studies in the History of Religions 114–1 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 473–81.
24 Grimes, Beginnings in Ritual Studies, loc. 1668.
19 relationship that is built into the domain itself. In the same way, rituals have identities and relationships that are built-in, and these may overlay, supersede, or supplant the other identities of the participants.
1.6.2 Ritual as Framed Performance The “ritual commitment” with its subsequent limiting of agency is made clear to the observers and participants by framing. Framing is essential for an action to be properly understood in a given setting. As Steward and Strathern point out in regards to a picture frame, “[t]he frame does not define the subject of a picture in terms of its context, but it does place a boundary around it.”25 This kind of framing involves location, time, and other factors that are part of how we have described ritualization. In this way, “the frame itself blends with the picture,” but it also “suggests that a ritualized embodied process is entered into and exited from.”26 In the case of ritual, as well as theater, games, and sports, the framing itself is constitutive; it is the rules and ways of framing these domains that creates them. The rules of football and chess establish these two entities; one cannot play either of them without the necessary rules and equipment.27
As discussed above, the identities, roles, and relationships are activated or latent based on framing. For example, the stage provides a spatial indicator of the theatrical frame. When actors walk on the stage, they enter a new frame and take on identities that
25 Pamela Stewart and Andrew Strathern, Ritual: Key Concepts in Religion (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 123.
26 Ibid., 123, 125.
27 Searle specifically talks about the constitutive rules of football and chess in Speech Acts, 33–36.
20 are restricted to the play on stage. When football players enter the field, they become quarterbacks, fullbacks, and linebackers. Even interactions with others, in what we might describe as “everyday” circumstances, are heavily influenced by the frames in which they take place. We will interact with people differently—taking on different personas, identities, and relationships—based on where and when we interact. For example, we will interact with our own family members quite differently as an on-duty police officer than we will after work at home. We will treat our mother differently if we are the bank teller when she comes to withdrawal money than we will during Thanksgiving dinner. We all can have multiple relationships with the same people; the relationship that is most relevant in a given circumstance is dictated by the framing of the domain in which it occurs. Therefore, one can be a spouse, friend, fellow citizen, and police officer when interacting with the same person, all depending on the frame in which the interaction takes place. All of these relationships are “real” to the participants, but certainly become more relevant in specific social domains. Framing is will help us better understand the culturally recognized rituals of the ancient Near East. As this dissertation shows, the effect of ritual framing on relationships and identities is enormous.
1.7 Summary and Conclusion In summary, I understand ritual to be both a domain of performance, as well as a quality of all performance. This way, interactions that take place in recognized rituals are not entirely different than interactions that take place outside of recognized rituals. In either case, both are “twice behaved” performances, and we spend as much time practicing “everyday” social interactions as a ritual specialist might practice his or her
21 craft; each performance restrains the agency of individuals and takes place within bounded and restricted frames. The framed domains in which all types of performance occur carry with them identities and relationships that overlay relationships that exist outside of them; because these identities are situated within cultural domains, they have varying degrees of relevance inside of other cultural domains. As we explore the four ancient Near Eastern rituals treated in this dissertation, we will better appreciate the influence that ritual framing has on identities and relationships. Understanding rituals as framed performances will allow us to explain many instances when the world within the ritual frame does not coincide with the world outside of the ritual frame.
22 CHAPTER 2: HUMAN-DIVINE RELATIONSHIPS IN AKKADIAN ŠUILLA
PRAYERS
2.1 Introduction This chapter will analyze Akkadian šuilla rituals from a performance perspective in order to better understand the relationship between the deity and the supplicant as it takes place within a ritual frame.
In §2.2, we explore the various texts that both ancient scribes and modern authors have grouped with Akkadian šuillas. The various ancient and scholarly taxonomies of prayer and ritual have proven difficult hurdles in the analysis of Mesopotamian prayer, and the nature of the Akkadian šuilla has been one of the most difficult problems.
Agreeing with Christopher Frechette, we are best served by understanding the ancient category of Akkadian šuilla on its own terms. This ancient label of šuilla is used to describe a category of ritual activity of which the ritual wording, or prayer, is only one part. Because these ritual wordings are sometimes used in different rituals for different purposes, we need to be aware that “šuilla prayer” really stands for “prayers used in
šuilla rituals.” In §2.3, we will then review the prayers in our dataset and the nature of the textual evidence that we have for Akkadian šuilla rituals.
In applying a performance approach to šuilla rituals, this chapter will analyze
Akkadian šuillas in two different ways. First, in §2.4, I will analyze šuilla rituals based on a number of topical questions relating to ritual space, ritual time, and other aspects of ritual. This approach is similar to how a critic may describe the venue, the staging, and the actors cast for each role. These descriptions are still about the production, because
23 they do not delve into the movie or play itself, or the world created on-stage or on-screen.
In this section, we may look at matters that appear on the ritual stage, but always with an eye to off-stage elements. In this way, I will describe how aspects such as relationships and identity might be viewed differently when inside and outside the ritual frame. In
§2.5, I will explore the world created within the ritual environment and how the relationship between the supplicant and deity progresses throughout the ritual encounter.
This description mirrors how a critic might turn to what happens on-stage or on-screen and describe the plot, character development, themes, and motifs. In doing so, I hope to follow the actual progression of the ritual and how the relationship between supplicant and deity is dynamic and changing within the ritual environment.
2.2 Classifying šuilla Rituals
2.2.1 Meaning of the šuilla Rubric Using the term šuilla to describe the dataset that I am using requires that I specify the definition of this category as well as its scope.1 Christopher Frechette has argued that the ancient label šuilla describes an emic category of procedures that served a unified
2 purpose. The label itself is a Sumerian rubric (ŠU.IL2.LA(2)), which is not attested before
1 Some clarification in terminology is in order. I use šuilla and šuilla ritual interchangeably to refer to an entire ritual procedure that includes speech, gestures, and the manipulation of objects. When I discuss the verbal component of this ritual, I use the conventional term šuilla prayer. My use of the term šuilla prayer is not to imply that the ancient label, šuilla, is labeling the prayer. I take the label, šuilla, as a label that describes the ritual situation. For further discussion, see below.
2 Christopher Frechette, “Reconsidering ŠU.IL2.LA(2) as a Classifier of the Āšipu in Light of the Iconography of Reciprocal Hand-Lifting Gestures,” in Proceedings of the 51st
24 the 1st millennium, and means “hand-lifting.”3 Frechette has shown that this refers to a gesture of greeting made by subordinates to their superiors within an audience.4 This gesture of greeting is the corollary of a differently formed gesture made by the superior; both gestures acknowledge the relative statuses of the subordinate and superior as well as the mutual obligations that exist between both parties.5 Following Benno Landsberger,
Frechette argues that the acknowledgement of reciprocal obligations between both parties is essential to “greeting,” which is an action attributed to both subordinates and superiors.6 Frechette argues that choosing this greeting gesture as the classifying rubric for šuillas was based on the purpose of the procedure to greet the deity, and thereby
(re)establish an asymmetrical relationship based on reciprocity.7
Recontre Assyriologique Internationale, ed. Robert D. Biggs, Jennie Myers, and Martha T. Roth, Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 62 (Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2008), 41–47; Frechette, Ritual-Prayers.
3 Anna Zernecke points out that the prayer known as Ištar 2 is attested from the 13th century BCE, but that its rubric is lost (“How to Approach a Deity: Growth of a Prayer Addressed to Ištar,” in Mediating between Heaven and Earth: Communication with the Divine in the Ancient Near East, ed. Carly L. Crouch, Jonathan Stö kl, and Anna Elise Zernecke [London; New York, NY: T & T Clark, 2012], 126).
4 Frechette argues that this gesture could be referred to in a number of ways, but that it generally motions upward and indicates the superior status of the recipient of the gesture; see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 50.
5 Ibid., 104.
6 Ibid., 33–34.
7 Ibid., 120.
25 2.2.2 Three Types of šuillas The šuilla category, however, extends further than most modern scholars find useful and it is usually divided into smaller “types” or “families” based on the similarities and differences of their verbal content, ritual context, and the practicing ritual specialist.8
The prayers that are followed by a šuilla rubric were mostly performed by one of two cultic officials, the āšipu or the kalû, and the form and content of these prayers varied widely, largely depending on the ritual context in which they were used.9 For example,
Daisuke Shibata has convincingly argued that the šuillas performed and carried out by the kalû are used to greet and send off deities when they travel in ritual processions.10
These šuilla prayers are usually written in the Emesal dialect of Sumerian, and the text of these prayers bears little resemblance to the other prayers that precede this rubric and are performed by the āšipu.
The āšipu officiates in what modern scholars divide into two types of šuilla prayers. One type includes the šuillas used in the mīs pî ritual, which are written in
8 My description of šuilla prayers is indebted to ibid., 2–5; Christopher Frechette, “Shuillas,” in Reading Akkadian Hymns and Prayers: An Introduction, ed. Alan Lenzi (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 24–35.
9 There are a few other prayers classified as šuillas that are performed by other ritual experts, but very little is known about the prayers. For a brief overview and some bibliography, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 4–5.
10 Daisuke Shibata, “Ritual Contexts and Mythological Explanations of the Emesal Šuilla- Prayers in Ancient Mesopotamia,” Orient 45 (2010): 67–86. There is one exception, where a bilingual Emesal-Akkadian šuilla is used in a ritual that slaughters a bull to supply the hide for a bronze kettle drum; see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 123; Werner R. Mayer, “Seleukidische Rituale aus Warka mit Emesal-Gebeten,” Or 47 (1978): 431–58.
26 Sumerian and meant to greet the deity once its statue is ritually animated.11 The other type is called Akkadian šuilla prayers by modern scholars because they are usually written in Akkadian.12 Akkadian šuilla prayers are employed in a much wider variety of ritual procedures than mīs pî or Emesal šuillas. Although these ritual procedures are wide and varied, Akkadian šuillas are all geared toward helping individuals overcome a variety of physical, social, or emotional problems.13 Because Emesal and mīs pî šuillas are not personalized for the benefit of a single individual, the ritual context of Akkadian šuilla prayers easily distinguishes them from other šuilla prayers. However, this point of observation does not distinguish them from a large number of other prayers, the so-called incantation-prayers, also performed by the āšipu.
2.2.3 Akkadian šuillas and Incantation-prayers Many of the common features in structure and content within Akkadian šuillas are reflective of their association with others prayers that bear the Sumerian superscription
14 EN2 (šiptu), which is often translated ‘incantation.’ These other prayers that are marked
11 Christopher Walker and Michael Dick, The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian Mīs Pî Ritual (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, Institute for Asian and African Studies, University of Helsinki, 2001), esp. 184– 185.
12 Two prayers within the Akkadian šuilla corpus have exemplars that include bilingual or Sumerian versions; see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 12 n.14.
13 I am not able to explore all the purposes and opportunities that might warrant an Akkadian šuilla ritual, but it is noteworthy that although other šuilla families may include petitions, these other šuillas are not performed for the benefit of a specific individual.
14 Not all incantations, or compositions that include the EN2 superscription, would be considered a prayer by modern scholars. Alan Lenzi explores this point in his discussion
27 as “incantations” are followed by many other rubrics, besides šuilla, that often indicate the purpose of the ritual, such as curing sexual impotence (ŠA3.ZI.GA), turning away
15 divine wrath (DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB(5).BA), or the releasing of portended evil (NAM.BUR2.BI).
Some of these prayers are similar in structure to Akkadian šuilla prayers and it was reasonable for scholars to create a category called “incantation-prayers” that pulled these prayers together.16
of the category of “prayer” and argues that EN2 is a marker of ritual speech, of which prayer should be considered a subset. Although prayers are not demarcated from other types of ritual speech in the Mesopotamian classification system, Lenzi does find evidence for distinctions within the texts themselves; see Reading Akkadian Hymns and Prayers: An Introduction, ANEM 3 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 13– 21.
15 For introductions and copious bibliography to the prayers used within these various ritual procedures, see ibid., 14, 36–43. Some prayers are not followed by an explicit rubric, but can still be grouped by purposes apparent in the text. For a description of the other types of prayers, see Werner Mayer, Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen Gebetsbeschwörungen, Studia Pohl Series Maior 5 (Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1976), 13–18.
16 The history of the categories “incantation-prayer” and “šuilla” has complicated the discussion. The term, “incantation-prayer,” apparently comes from Landsberger (so W. von Soden, “Gebet II (babylonisch und assyrisch),” RlA, 1971, 168), but it gained more currency when Kunstmann called the overarching category of his analysis “incantation- prayers” in the title of his dissertation (Die babylonische Gebetsbeschwörung [Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche, 1932]). However, he only used “incantation-prayer” one other time in his book (ibid., 48, for this observation, see Anna Elise Zernecke, Gott und Mensch in Klagegebeten aus Israel und Mesopotamien: die Handerhebungsgebete Ištar 10 und Ištar 2 und die Klagepsalmen Ps 38 und Ps 22 im Vergleich [Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2011], 308), and instead used šuilla to act as the name for the overarching category as well as sub-categories throughout his study. He talked about general šuillas and special šuillas; see Kunstmann, Die babylonische Gebetsbeschwörung, 1. Mayer, who followed Kunstmann’s study, instead used “incantation-prayer” for the over-arching category and restricted šuilla to only discuss the general prayers distinguished by Kunstmann; see
28 Kunstmann and Mayer, because of their form-critical approach to incantation- prayers, focused on literary genre as the key to unlocking Mesopotamian rubrics as well as the purposes of prayer. Below is a table composed by Frechette that synthesizes
Kunstmann’s and Mayer’s understanding of the incantation-prayer genre:17
Table 5: Frechette’s Synthesis of Kunstmann and Mayer
Mayer, UFBG, 7–8. Mayer does not include all prayers with the superscription EN2, such as dingiršadabbas, but only those which had a similar structure; see ibid., 16–17.
17 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 130.
29 A good example of the layout of an incantation-prayer can be seen in Ea 1a, below.18
1. O wise king, perceptive creator, 2. Lofty prince, ornament of the Eabsu, 3. Enlilbanda, artful, venerated one, 4. Hero of Eridu, sage of the Igigi, 5. Lord of the E[engur]ra, protection of the Eunir, 6. Bringer of the high waters (that cause) abundance, who makes the rivers joyful, 7. In oceans and in reed thickets you make plenteous prosperity, 8. In the meadows you create the livelihood of the peoples. 9. Anu and Enlil rejoice because of you, 10. The Anunna-gods bless you in their holy places, 11. The peoples of the land extol your weighty command, 12. You give counsel to the great gods. 13. O Ea, the moribund need not die, thanks to your life-giving spell. 14. Raise up my head, call (my) name! 15. At your command, may my words be heard, 16. At your utterance, may I achieve good fortune. 17. Grant me life, let me live a long time. 18. May what I say be pleasing to god and goddess 19. May god and king do what I order. 20. May mouth and tongue say good words for me, 20a. May [ ] not [ ], 21. May nothing evil, nothing harmful reach me, 22. Nor any actions of sorcerer or sorceress.
18 Because specific texts are attested on multiple tablets, a common way to refer to the text that each of these tablets witnesses is essential. Kunstmann created a naming system for incantation-prayers, which was updated by Mayer, that names a given prayer after the god to which it is directed and counts up from one for each attested prayer to that god or group of gods. Closely related variants are often distinguished by a letter following the number, such as 1a or 1b. Thus Ea 1a refers to a prayer that is attested by tablets KAR 59, BMS 10, AOAT 34 34, AOAT 34 33, STT 67, SpTU III 78, and CTN 4 167 (ibid., 253). The standard naming for incantation-prayers in general is given in Mayer, UFBG, 378– 427. The most current list of prayers used in šuilla rituals with current bibliography is found in Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 249–75.
30 23. O Ea, thanks to your life-giving spell, may everything evil, everything harmful retreat, 24. May the spell of Eridu undo the preparations of sorcerer and sorceress, 25. May Marduk, prince of the gods, undo their evil preparations. 26. May my limbs be pure, my members healthy for me. 27. May the heavens rejoice because of you, 28. May the depths rejoice because of you, 29. May the great gods nobly(?) acclaim you, 30. May the Igigi-gods speak favorably of you!19
Lines 1–13 constitute the invocation, lines 14–26 are the petition, and lines 27–29 are the blessing formula, according to Kunstmann, or the “wish of praise,” according to
Mayer. Many prayers can be easily divided into these sections.
In light of the many similarities that all incantation-prayers share, it has been difficult for scholars to articulate what might have made šuilla prayers a distinctive category. Mayer argued that šuilla prayers could be distinguished from other types of incantation-prayers by the general nature of their petitions.20 Annette Zgoll, who doubts the šuilla rubric corresponds to genre, argues that specific features can distinguish these prayers, such as the types of gods addressed and the fact that they never begin a prayer with a lament.21
19 Benjamin R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature, 3rd ed. (Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2005), 643–44.
20 This point is discussed by Frechette; see Ritual-Prayers, 139–40.
21 Annette Zgoll, Die Kunst des Betens: Form und Funktion, Theologie und Psychagogik in babylonisch-assyrischen Handerhebungsgebeten zu Ištar (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2003), 21–22.
31 Frechette shares Zgoll’s assumption that šuilla prayers should share textual features. He argues that šuilla prayers could be distinguished from other incantation- prayers based on seven shared features that include the following: addressing a single deity; generally longer invocation; elevated speech; de-emphasis of an intermediary; inclusion of specific concerns; focus on reconciliation with another deity, the addressed deity, or personal gods; and petitions for general well-being of the supplicant.22 The features identified by Frechette do not occur in all Akkadian šuillas and some occur in prayers not marked as šuillas, but his analysis showed that there was tendency for these features to cluster, especially in contrast to other incantation-prayers.
For example, in Ea 1a, which is given above, Frechette identifies all seven features.23 It is addressed to a single deity (Ea); its invocation is almost half the prayer
(43%); it contains elevated speech that enhanced the grandeur of the deity (lines 27–
29);24 it mentions no intermediary; it specifically mentions witchcraft (lines 21–26); asks for god and goddess to find his words pleasing (line 18); and asks for general well-being
(lines 15–17, 19).
22 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 133–40.
23 Frechette argues that “elevated speech” is indicated by two factors. First, the presence of a “strophic schema found in Sumerian hymns” and second, when a prayer ends with calling the cosmos or other gods to praise the deity; see ibid., 278. Ea 1a ends with the latter, which corresponds with Kunstmann’s Type B ending; see Kunstmann, Die babylonische Gebetsbeschwörung, 42.
24 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 135–36.
32 In addition to identifying similarities that generally apply to šuilla prayers and generally do not apply to other incantation-prayers, Frechette also demonstrated that the ritual contexts in which šuilla prayers are used can be interpreted as serving a unified purpose. Frechette showed that šuillas used by themselves as well as within larger rituals
(such as within bīt rimki, bīt salāʾ mê, namburbîs, and anti-witchcraft ceremonies) can be seen as restoring relationships with the divine sphere by means of offering a greeting gesture meant to reaffirm the status of the petitioner.25
2.2.4 Šuilla: A Category of Rituals Having outlined Frechette’s argument that Akkadian šuillas represent an emic category, we may now discuss the association between the ancient label šuilla and the prayers themselves. Rather than labeling the prayers themselves, the šuilla rubric probably labels the ritual in which a prayer could be used. This understanding of the rubric matches a suggestion by Margaret Jaques that “the subscription [or rubric] is the subscription to rituals in which a text is used and not the subscription to these texts as a category.”26 Therefore, the label šuilla is not meant to point toward the texts as a category but rather it points to the rituals themselves as a category. Naturally, prayers deemed suited for a particular ritual situation would generally share features, but the
25 For his concluding and summarizing remarks, see ibid., 222–24.
26 Margaret Jaques, “‘To Talk to One’s God’: Penitential Prayers in Mesopotamia,” in Mediating between Heaven and Earth: Communication with the Divine in the Ancient Near East, ed. Carly L Crouch, Jonathan Stö kl, and Anna Elise Zernecke (London: T & T Clark, 2012), 120.
33 šuilla label is not meant to point toward these features. Therefore the prayers are only indirectly related to one another.27 Two main pieces of evidence argue for this understanding of the šuilla rubric and Mesopotamian rubrics in general.
First, I find the seven features that many of these prayers have in common to be convincing that these prayers are related in some way, but the uneven distribution of these features seriously undermines the assumption that the šuilla rubric labels the literary features of ritual speech. Frechette offers some reasons for the uneven distribution of these literary features, such as possibilities that some prayers are only secondarily used in šuilla rituals or that some may be subcategories of šuillas.28
However, if the šuilla label is meant to describe the purpose of the ritual, as Jaques suggest as a possibility, then the wording of a ritual procedure may not hold the clues to distinguishing between ritual categories.
Second, the appearance of prayers with multiple rubrics also strengthens the idea that rubrics do not refer to categories of prayers but rather categories of rituals in which a prayer might be appropriately used.29 The clearest case of this can be seen in Sîn 6a-b, a prayer that exists in two, closely related variants, and is attested with at least three
27 In other words, these prayers are related because they are used in šuilla rituals, not because they are a category of prayers themselves.
28 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 141–42.
29 Jaques suggests that rubrics are applied to rituals based on this observation (“To Talk to One’s God,” 120).
34 d different rubrics, such as šuilla, dingiršadabba, and IGI.DU8.A 30 ḪUL SIG5.GA (‘for making good the evil appearance of Sîn).30 Other wordings of šuilla rituals that also have other rubrics include Ištar 13, Erreqqu 2, Nisaba 1, Kaksisa 2, Marduk 15, Sîn 7, and
Šamaš 34.31 This evidence indicates that a prayer could be properly employed in more than one ritual procedure, and the literary features of a given text were secondary to the ritual and its purpose.32
30 For bibliography on this important example, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 270. An edition of the text, but not the ritual instructions, can be found in W. G. Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba Incantations,” JNES 33 (1974): 276–77, 294–95. For transliterations of Sin 6a and 6b on K.6018+, see Mayer, UFBG, 529–31.
31 For information on the rubrics, tablet numbers, and bibliographies of these prayers, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, Appendix 3.
32 See Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba,” 295; “To Talk to One’s God,” 120. Frechette interprets the evidence for compound rubrics quite differently. He sees the use of multiple rubrics as a way of indicating specific purposes to šuilla rituals (Frechette, Ritual- Prayers, 227). His approach to whether a rubric is appropriate or not seems to be grounded in the assumption that the rubric should be descriptive of the text as well as the ritual procedures. However, if we take the approach that the rubric is descriptive of the ritual situation and not a text’s literary features, there is little problem with the same ritual wording functioning in multiple kinds of ritual procedures. Frechette bases much of his approach to compound rubrics on Nisaba 1. Frechette, like many scholars, assumes that a dingiršadabba rituals must be directed toward personal gods (ibid., 148). In chapter 3, we will see that not all dingiršadabba prayers are directed toward a god as a personal god; therefore, we cannot reject Nisaba 1’s use as a dingiršadabba on this criterion. Additionally, at least one dingiršadabba prayer is elsewhere known as an eršaḫunga; see Jaques, “To Talk to One’s God,” 120. Frechette mostly focuses on examples that employ multiple rubrics on a single exemplar, but the fact that we have some prayers with attestations of individual but diverging rubrics on multiple exemplars argues against understanding additional rubrics as adding specificity. The fact that Sîn 6a-b has multiple, different rubrics that are all attested by themselves indicates that the prayer could be used in multiple ritual contexts.
35 If the šuilla rubric applies to the purpose of the ritual, then our use of the phrase
“šuilla prayers” may be hampering our understanding of the nature of these prayers.33
The rubric or term ŠU.IL2.LA(2).KAM /šuʾillakku probably refers to the entire ritual that may only secondarily label the verbal component.34 Frechette has shown that šuilla can refer, in rare instances, to the wording of the prayers, but he conjectures that this may simply be a use of synecdoche, where a part of the entire ritual is used to stand for the whole.35
Therefore, we do not have šuilla prayers but rather prayers that are used in šuilla rituals.
We also notice that the text of the prayer is preceded by EN2, marking it as an incantation, and followed by KA.INIM.MA ŠU.IL2.LA(2).KAM which might be rendered, “wording of a
šuilla.” It is better understood as the wording of a šuilla ritual, and not the wording of a
šuilla prayer. In tablets that contain collections of these prayers, the colophon marks
36 them as “EN2 ŠU.IL2.LA2.KAM” or “incantations of šuilla rituals.” If the label is meant to mark the purpose of the ritual encounter, similar to bīt rimki or bīt salāʾ mê, then we need to be careful when we assume that this marks the prayers as a category rather than the
33 As noted in footnote 1, I use this term to describe the verbal component used in šuilla rituals, and not to imply that the label is applied to this verbal component.
34 Frechette notes that “[w]hen employed as the rubric identifying Akkadian šuillas, šu’illakku refers not only to the prayer but to the composite ritual activity” (Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 22).
35 Ibid.
36 For a discussion of these tablets, see ibid., 126–28.
36 ritual itself.37 We do not have bīt rimki prayers, unless we understand them as prayers employed within bīt rimki. Similarly, we do not have šuilla prayers unless we understand the phrase to mean prayers employed in šuilla rituals.
The “Exorcist Manual” (KAR 44) is also better understood as a collection of categorical ritual knowledge and not a taxonomy of genres.38 This text provides a comprehensive listing of the rituals and texts that were expected to be a part of the
āšipu’s repertoire. This text includes a collection of rubrics, including šuilla, with the preface that it is, “the headings of the series of the exorcist which are established for teaching and reference purposes (SAG.MEŠ EŠ2.GAR3 MAŠ.MAŠ-ti ša ana iḫzi u tāmarti kunnu).”39 The proper teaching of these “headings of series” would have included proper ritual procedures as well as the wording of prayers.40 The labels were designed for
37 Ibid., 226.
38 For publication and discussion of this text, see Cynthia Jean, La magie néo-assyrienne en contexte: recherches sur le métier d’exorciste et le concept d’āšipūtu, SAAS 15 (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2006), 62–82; M. J. Geller, “Incipits and Rubrics,” in Wisdom, Gods and Literature: Studies in Assyriology in Honour of W.G. Lambert, ed. A. R George and Irving L Finkel (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 225–58; Jean Bottéro, “Antiquités assyro-babyloniennes,” École pratique des hautes études. 4e section, Sciences historiques et philologiques (1974): 95–144; H. Zimmern, “Zu den „Keilschrifttexten aus Assur religiösen Inhalts“,” ZA 30 (1915): 184–229.
39 CAD I/J, iḫzu A, p. 47
40 Geller, who published some duplicates of KAR 44, assumes that these are rubrics for incantations (something he calls “ka-inim-ma rubrics”), rather than rituals (Geller, “Incipits and Rubrics,” 225). His approach forces him to assume that the “ka-inim-ma formula has been omitted in each instance” (ibid., 226). However, if our proposal is correct, that KA.INIM.MA ŠU.IL2.LA(2).KAM refers to the “wording of the šuilla ritual,” then the omission of KA.INIM.MA would indicate that these are labels for rituals and not the
37 helping the exorcist teach and carry out his craft successfully, indicating that KAR 44 is a collection of ritual opportunities rather than a taxonomy of genres or categories of prayer.
2.2.5 Šuilla Dataset Having discussed the purpose and the content of the category of Akkadian šuillas, the exact substance of this project’s dataset remains to be clarified. The evidence that is included in our dataset takes in more than just the verbal utterances within šuilla rituals and includes all of the components that take place within the ritual. The ritual and its components, however, are usually only identified as šuilla rituals when the wording is included. My dataset will include the 46 best-attested prayers that have the šuilla rubric on at least one of their exemplars that have been previously identified by Frechette.41
incantations. Additionally, many of the rubrics listed are not incantations at all, but refer to larger ritual complexes, such as bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê, and some are collections of ritual knowledge not meant for recitation (such as “tablets of stones” or alamdimmû; see ibid., 256–57).
41 Frechette’s preliminary dataset of šuillas was based on Mayer’s criteria for identifying šuilla prayers (Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 124). Frechette includes the wording of a prayer into his dataset if at least one exemplar includes the šuilla rubric. If the rubric is missing, Frechette preliminarily identifies the prayer as a šuilla prayer if one of the following three criteria is met: it is included or cited on a tablet that contains other šuilla prayers, it is used in a larger ritual that includes šuillas, and finally, if it is aligned through literary features (ibid., 4, 124). Using these criteria, Frechette notes that Akkadian šuillas are represented by about 80 prayers that have the ancient classification of šuilla, with about 30 additional prayers that may be included in this category based on the other factors. The 46 best-attested šuillas on which Frechette conducted his analysis, however, all have the šuilla rubric present on at least one exemplar, with one exception. Although Šamaš 34 does not include the šuilla rubric after the text of the prayer, the performance instructions do refer to the ritual as a šuilla (KAR 252; AOAT 258; ibid., 197–99, 272–73].
38 2.3 Description of Textual Evidence As noted in the previous section, Akkadian šuillas represent a fairly diverse category. Our dataset from which we will conduct our analysis will come from the 46 best-attested šuillas previously identified by Frechette.42 First, before describing the wording and actions of the rituals themselves, I will first discuss the tablets that represent the physical evidence that provide us with most of our information about šuillas. Then, after discussing the tablets themselves, I will proceed to describe the šuillas by answering some questions formulated by Ronald Grimes that will assist us in providing “as full a description as possible” of these rituals.43
In this section, I use our evidence for the prayer Nabû 2 as introduction into the textual sources. Nabû 2 is known from 6 different exemplars (KAR 23, KAR 25, BMS
58, LKA 40, LKA 57, LKA 40a), and is cited in the ritual bīt rimki (BBR 26: iii 57).44
42 The dataset includes: Adad 1, Adad 2, Anu 1, Ea 1a, Enlil 1a, Enlil 1b, Ereqqu 2, Gula 1a=Bēlet ilī, Gula 1b, Ištar 1, Ištar 2, Ištar 3, Ištar 10, Ištar 23, Ištar 31, Kakkabū 1, Kaksisa 1, Kaksisa 2 = 3 = Ninurta 4, Madānu 1=Nusku 1, Marduk 2, Marduk 4, Marduk 5, Marduk 16(?), Marduk 18, Marduk 19, Nabû 1, Nabû 2, Nabû 3, Nabû 6, Nergal 1, Nergal 2, Ninurta 1, Nisaba 1, Nusku 5, Nusku 13, Sîn 1, Sîn 3, Sîn 6a-b, Sipazianna 1, Sipazianna 2, Šamaš 1, Šamaš 2, Šamaš 5, Šamaš 34, Tašmētu 1, Tašmētu 2=4=5=?6. For bibliographic data including exemplars, studies, and editions see Frechette, Ritual- Prayers, Appendices 3, 4. Many of the prayers to Marduk were also recently reedited in Takayoshi Oshima, Babylonian Prayers to Marduk, Orientalische Religionen in der Antike 7 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011).
43 See Grimes, Beginnings in Ritual Studies, chap. 2.
44 The most recent edition of this prayer can be found in Erich Ebeling, Die akkadische Gebetsserie “Handerhebung” von neuem gesammelt und hrsg. (Berlin: Akademie, 1953), 14–19. For more up-to-date tablet numbers, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 263.
39 Many prayers used in šuilla rituals, like the wording of Nabû 2, appear on more than one exemplar, and these tablets share a number of common characteristics with slight variation.45 For example, KAR 23 and 25 are multi-column tablets containing other šuilla prayers in addition to Nabû 2 (KAR 23 i 1–18 = Marduk 2, KAR 23 i 19–31=Marduk 18;
KAR 23 ii 1–26 = Nabû 2; KAR 25 i 1–29 = Nabû 1; KAR 25 i 29–38 = Marduk 2; KAR
25 ii 1–2 = Marduk 18; KAR 25 ii 3–26 = Marduk 19; KAR 25 ii 27–34 = Nabû 2; KAR
25 iii 1′–20′ = Sîn 9; KAR 25 iii 21–33 = Enlil 1b), whereas LKA 40a is a small one column tablet with only the text of Nabû 2. Although there are šuilla prayers that were assembled as part of a series, a sequence of šuillas never did achieve canonical status, and these lists probably represent individual collections or specific ritual procedures.46
Some šuillas were copied for general use, and the scribe would leave the Sumerian NENNI for ‘so-and-so’ where specific information about the supplicant would be supplied when needed (such as KAR 23). Other šuillas were copied for specific occasions and include the name of the supplicant and other personal data (such as LKA 40a).47 A single line, or ruling, separates prayers from each other, and additional lines may mark off the rubric
45 See Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, Appendix 3.
46 Ibid., 126.
47 SAA 10, 240 provides an example of an āšipu who informs the king that he will spend time to “look up, collect and copy” (lines 26–27) šuilla prayers for a particular enactment of bīt rimki for the king (translation from Simo Parpola, “SAA 10 240. Report on Eclipse Rituals, and a Suggestion (ABL 0023) [from Exorcists],” ORACC, 1993, 240, http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/saao/saa10/P333975/html.
40 and procedural instructions from each other. The rubric marks the preceding prayer as
“the wording of a šuilla ritual to DN” and the procedural instructions are prefaced with
48 DU3.DU3.BI or KID3.KID3.BI “its performance.” Not all of these items (rubric and procedural instructions) will occur on a given exemplar. In fact, no exemplar of Nabû 2 contains procedural instructions, even on LKA 40a and LKA 57 where the rubric is included and the portion of the tablet after the prayer is clearly preserved. The end of a tablet might also include the first line of an incantation, or incipit, to indicate the next incantation for that particular ritual; this is called a catchline. For example, LKA 40a, which is a single prayer, includes the catchline for an incantation to Tašmētu.49
Although it is possible that the wording of a šuilla may not be accompanied by procedural instructions on any of its exemplars, this does not indicate that it lacked ritual procedures. Some šuillas were included in larger rituals, like bīt rimki, where the procedural instructions were given in the text of the larger ritual. In the directions for bīt rimki, the prayer is cited by its first line, or incipit, and a specific ritual arrangement or
48 Since performance instructions never actually follow an attestation of Nabû 2, for an example of DU3.DU3.BI, see Adad 2 (BMS 21, Daniel Schwemer, Die Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens im Zeitalter der Keilschriftkulturen: Materialien und Studien nach den schriftlichen Quellen (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001), 675–76]. For an example of KID3.KID3.BI, see Marduk 4 (BMS 11+ in Werner R. Mayer, “Das Bußgebet an Marduk von BMS 11,” Or 73 [2004]: 205; Oshima, Babylonian Prayers to Marduk, 350).
49 The edition of LKA 40a is found in Ebeling, AGH, 15–19. Ebeling reads the catchline d d as “EN2 Tašmētu šar-rat lamassa-at damiqtu(?)” (obv. 40), which Frechette, building on Mayer’s observations, correlates with a number of previously numbered Tašmētu prayers (Tašmētu 2=4=5=?6).
41 procedure is dictated. For example, although there are no extant ritual instructions included on exemplars of Nabû 2, bīt rimki calls for Nabû 2 to be recited within a cycle of at least 24 šuilla prayers and instructs the ritual specialist to “set before Nabû an incense burner of juniper, libate fine beer, and recite ‘Mighty, Exalted [Lord]’ 3 times.”50
Additionally, the insertion of specific complaints within šuilla prayers regarding unfavorable omens is probably reflective of their use within Namburbî rituals or bīt rimki.51 Both BMS 58 and LKA 40a contain insertions into the text of the prayer against specific ill-portending omens; BMS 58 is against a lunar eclipse and LKA 40a is against a lightning strike. Similar complaints are found in šuilla prayers cited in Namburbî rituals as well as šuillas specifically copied for bīt rimki.52 It is possible that LKA 40a was copied for use within a Namburbî ritual or bīt rimki.53
50 There is no current edition of bīt rimki, but for helpful summaries, see Ivan Hrůša, Ancient Mesopotamian Religion: A Descriptive Introduction (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2015), 140–52; Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 176–80; Claus Ambos, “Purifying the King by Means of Prisoners, Fish, a Goose, and a Duck: Some Remarks on the Mesopotamian Notions of Purity,” in How Purity Is Made, ed. Petra Rö sch and Udo Simon (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2012), 89–103; for a dated study on bīt rimki, see Jørgen Læssøe, Studies on the Assyrian Ritual and Series Bît Rimki (København: Munksgaard, 1955). For the citation and ritual instructions of Nabû 2, see BBR 26 iii 56–57. “Mighty, Exalted Lord” is the incipit, or first line, of Nabû 2.
51 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 193–94.
52 Ibid., 193.
53 According to BBR 26, bīt rimki was carried out specifically for the king. If bīt rimki was only carried out for kings, this would make LKA 40a’s inclusion in bīt rimki less likely, since it was not personalized for a known king. However, as Claus Ambos points out, there are examples where bīt rimki was carried out for a high-ranking official, and one manuscript calls the participant in the ritual a “man,” not a king (Ambos, “Purifying
42 Although some larger rituals may cite the entire wording of a prayer embedded within ritual instructions, others keep the ritual instructions separate from the wordings of the incantations. For example, the šurpu ritual has a ritual tablet that explains the procedure of the ritual, and then subsequent incantation tablets where the words of the incantations are copied out in full.54
Outside of the documents that were created to aid and assist the āšipu in carrying out his duties, we also have references to šuillas in the scholarly correspondence of the
Neo-Assyrian period.55 They provide glimpses into how the ritual specialists themselves used and talked about šuillas, and will be referred to as needed.
2.4 Topical Description of šuilla Ritual Having provided a brief introduction into the issues surrounding prayers used in
šuilla rituals and the principle sources we have for them, we can now explore the ritual by using the approaches outlined in chapter 1. This section will focus on the framing of
the King by Means of Prisoners, Fish, a Goose, and a Duck: Some Remarks on the Mesopotamian Notions of Purity,” 91, n.6). Thus, there is not enough data to know the precise context. The catchline at the end of LKA 40a calls for a prayer to Tašmētu that diverges from the prayer to Tašmētu called for in BBR 26. Although this may give more weight toward associating the prayer with a Namburbî ritual, there may have been a different grouping of šuillas in a different version of bīt rimki (such as the lost šuilla cycle in SpTU II 12). Frechette even conjectures that the incipit included in bīt salāʾ mê may be an abbreviated reference to this incantation to Tašmētu; see Frechette, Ritual- Prayers, 274.
54 See Erica Reiner, Šurpu: A Collection of Sumerian and Akkadian Incantations. (Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag, 1958).
55 This wealth of data is scattered among the State Archives of Assyria (SAA) volumes, but particularly SAA 10. The texts are available at State Archives of Assyria online (SAAo) at http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/saao/.
43 the ritual itself, or how the frame provides a domain for special actions to occur. As noted in chapter 1, this framing is integrated with what goes on inside of it, so that it is impossible to describe the framing of the domain without describing specific features of the ritual. In this section, we will explore the difference between the worlds inside and outside of the ritual domain. Because the frame around this ritual does indeed blend with
“the picture,” we will need to talk about the ritual to some degree in order to appreciate the frame. As noted previously, our discussion of ritual framing will make heavy comparison to the framing elements found in other social domains, such as theater or sports. One can talk about a specific theatrical production without actually delving into the plot and character development of what happens on-stage. Similarly, this section will spend time talking about the ritual, but it will not linger for very long on the world created on the ritual stage.
The ritual itself is laid out and organized as an audience before a powerful deity.
The full layout of this audience, its progression, and the roles of the participants are explored more fully in §2.5, but aspects of it will be touched on in this section. Each of the elements of the ritual work together to create an audience with the addressed deity, and allow the interaction between supplicant and god to proceed. This section will merely describe common framing elements such as (space, time, objects, and actions) in the first three sections (§2.4.1, 2.4.2, 2.4.3), but will pause for more reflection on the nature of the ritual frame itself when we explore “Ritual Sound/Language” (§2.4.4) and “Ritual
Identity/Agency” (§2.4.5). In these last two sections, we see more fully how the language and identities of the participants have different meanings when analyzed within
44 and without the ritual frame. This approach will allow us to proceed into the world created within the ritual in §2.5.
2.4.1 Ritual Space Similar to other social domains like theater and sports, šuilla rituals happen in special places. The ritual space that is created and demarcated not only provides a spatial frame in which the performance can be separated from the world outside but it also contributes to the framing of the ritual domain itself. This is similar to how a football field not only demarcates a distinctive domain but also creates the area on which the sport will take place. The stage does the same for theater.
Šuillas are typically conducted outdoors or in a temporarily constructed reed structure. Šuillas were carried out in secluded places, such as on the steppe, on the banks of rivers, or on roof tops.56 If conducted within reed enclosures or a reed hut, this was usually as part of a larger ritual ceremony.57 In either case, the ritual spaces were
56 Ištar 2 (BM 26187) “where foot is cut off (i.e. inaccessible), you sweep the roof, sprinkle pure water (KI GIRI3 KU5-at UR3 SAR A KU3 SU3)”; Sîn 6a-b (LKA 25, AOAT 59, K.6018+) occurs “at the river meadows (ina U2.SAL-li ID2)”; In bīt rimki, bīt rimki ‘house of the ritual bath’ is constructed “in the steppe (ina ṣēr)” (BBR 26 iii 22). In bīt salāʾ mê, the āšipu is told to make a “prison of reeds (ṣi-bi-it-ti ša2 qanê(GI.MEŠ))” or a “reed hut (ki-ik-ki-ši) in the steppe (ṣēri(EDEN))” (A223′ and B17–8 in Claus Ambos, Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst: Mechanismen der Legitimation des babylonischen Herrschers im 1. Jahrtausend v. Chr. und ihre Geschichte (Dresden: ISLET, 2013), 159, 161].
57 Both bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê carry out šuilla prayers within reed structures. For a discussion of such temporary ritual structures, see Claus Ambos, “Temporary Ritual Structures and Their Cosmological Symbolism in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in Heaven on Earth: Temples, Ritual, and Cosmic Symbolism in the Ancient World, ed. Deena Ragavan (Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2013), 245–58.
45 demarcated by the construction of such reed structures, by sweeping and sprinkling with ritually pure water, or by flour lines.58 These spaces were only temporarily considered suitable for ritual activity, but may have been used over a period of days.59 Although not always explicit, the patient may have undergone purification and may have been conducted into the ritual space by the āšipu.60 After the patient leaves the ritual space, he/she may be told to not look back. 61
58 Nabû 1 (KAR 25) – “sweep the floor, sprinkle clean water;” Ištar 2 A; Tašmētu 1; Ištar 31. Examples of lines of flour occur in two prayers outside of our dataset (Ištar 4; Nusku 7); see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 151. In other rituals that include incantation-prayers, flour circles are used similarly to demarcate the ritual arrangement as well as to further isolate the patient in a “prison of flour;” see §3.3.4.1.1. Not all of these framing elements would happen at the same time; Maul notes that the drawing of lines usually happened after the offering had been set up (see Stefan M. Maul, Zukunftsbewältigung : eine Untersuchung altorientalischen Denkens anhand der babylonisch-assyrischen Löserituale (Namburbi), Baghdader Forschungen 18 [Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1994], 55).
59 Ištar 3 (SpTU III 77) is to be repeated after 3 days (line 28); it is not clear if it will happen in the same spot, or if the spot is considered special during the intervening time.
60 Marduk 5 instructs the āšipu to “grasp the hand of the sick person and recite the incantation ‘Marduk, lord of lands,’ three times” (line 16); Although it is not clear in Marduk 5, other ritual occasions such as the ilī ul īde make it clear that the āšipu grasps the hand of the patient when he makes his initial prayers and when leaving a flour circle that serves as a ritual boundary. For description of ilī ul īde, see §3.3.4.1.1.
61 Ištar 2 (BM 26187) ends with “you prostrate yourself and do not look behind you” (KI.ZA.ZA-ma ana EGIR-ka NU IGI.BAR) (line 110).
46 Within the ritual space, an incense altar or table, or both, is set up for a specific deity.62 The arrangements may face a particular direction.63 Often a particular kind of incense is prescribed for the incense burner, such as juniper. The various foodstuffs, such as fruits, dates, breads, and animal parts could be placed on the table or portable altar.64
Often, an option is given for a particular enactment in which either a riksu ‘ritual arrangement’ or an incense burner can be used. It is not always apparent what is included in a riksu, but the term may include the incense burner, table, as well as the incense and foodstuffs.65 The instructions sometimes call for the riksu, as well as the food, to be put away, but it is not clear what happens to the food offered to the deity in the rite.66
62 For a nice, annotated example of these two elements in Neo-Assyrian iconography, see Maul, Zukunftsbewältigung : eine Untersuchung altorientalischen Denkens anhand der babylonisch-assyrischen Löserituale (Namburbi), 58 Abb. 2–3.
63 Nabû 1 (KAR 25, STT 55) arranges 2 incense burners, one facing east and another facing west.
64 Marduk 4 (BMS 11+) “Se[t up a table,] place (on it) mersu-cakes, honey, and butter / [libate fine bee]r, and you sprinkle the seed of a maštakal-plant in oil, set it before Marduk”; Nabû 1 (KAR 25) – “you set up a table, then place 2 incense burners, the first toward the east, the second toward the west”
65 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 152–53.
66 Nusku 13 specifically calls for the two types of bread and mersu-cakes, ashes from the incense burner, flour, and beer to be poured out into the river (110–112). Aside from the ashes from the incense burner, it is not clear if these items come from previous offerings. JoAnn Scurlock conjectures that both the āšipu and the patient would have eaten portions The Techniques of the Sacrifice of“) שְ לָמִ ים of the offerings, not dissimilar to the Israelite Animals in Ancient Israel and Ancient Mesopotamia: New Insights through Comparison, Part 2,” AUSS 44 [2006]: 250, 253).
47 2.4.2 Ritual Time Similar to a play or a sports game, šuillas occur at specific times. The ritual typically occurs at night or the early morning, presumably because they are directed at the astral manifestations of the gods.67 A šuilla could be performed when the need arose, as long it was an auspicious day, but it could also be conducted according to a set calendar. Hemerologies provided lists of days which were good or bad for specific ritual activity, and at least one scholarly letter mentions similar parameters for conducting a
šuilla ritual.68 Rather than enacting them on the occasion of a particular need, they could be enacted as part of events linked to the cultic calendar, such as bīt salāʾ mê, a ritual that included a number of šuillas and was part of an annual fall festival.69
2.4.3 Ritual Objects / Ritual Action Similar to sports or theater, there are specific rules that govern the objects that are acceptable and the actions that are allowed within each particular šuilla ritual. This not only serves to make this distinct from the activities around it, but it also allows the ritual to “work.” This is similar to the idea of “constitutive rules” discussed in chapter 1. The
67 Marduk 2 (STT 55) – “sunrise or sunset” (obv. 27); Sîn 6a-b (BAM 316) “when Sîn is visible”; (LKA 25) “at night before Sîn”
68 Frechette includes attestations of the phrase niš qātīšu, “his hand-raising,” in hemerologies; see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 238–40. One Assyrian scholar tells the Assyrian king, “The king, my lord, knows, an exorcist cannot perform a šuilla ritual (ŠU.IL2.LA2.KAM2) on an evil day that is not good” (LUGAL be-li2 u2-da / LU2.MAŠ.MAŠ UD.ḪUL.GAL2.E la DUG3.GAB/ ŠU.IL2.LA2.KAM2 la i-na-aš2-ši (obv. 20–22, SAA 10 240)).
69 For a description and analysis of bīt salāʾ mê, see Ambos, Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst. For a more in-depth discussion of the šuillas used in bīt salāʾ mê, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 167–76.
48 rules of football not only make it distinct from everyday actions, such as taking a walk in the park, but the rules themselves allow football to exist as an entity. The various prescriptions that accompany šuilla rituals do the same in this particular domain.
At each phase of the ritual, various objects as well as the offering arrangements themselves could be manipulated and used during the ritual. The setup of the ritual space itself involves prescribed actions in which food, plants, or ritual objects were arranged or manipulated in a certain way.70 Ritual objects may have been previously set apart or activated by incantations directed at them, something that scholars have called
Kultmittelbeschwörungen.71 Ritual objects might be manipulated or worn during the procedure. An amulet might be worn.72 Clay figures could be thrown into a river.73 Oils
70 Ištar 31 includes an elaborately described setup within the procedural instructions. For example, it says to “squeeze out fruit from the orchard around the ritual assemblage (riksu)” and “you repeatedly throw small heaps of flour to the right and to the left of the ritual assemblage. You step back 2 cubits and squeeze out fruit from the orchard on the ground. You put down 7 and 7 for the gods of the rites on the right and on the left on top of the plants from the orchard” (obv. ii 21, CTN 4, 168; translation from Greta Van Buylaere, “CTN 4, 168 [Šu’ilas to Goddesses],” 2010, http://oracc.org/cams/gkab/ctn_4,_168).
71 Frechette demonstrates how Nisaba 1, which is both a šuilla prayer as well as something that activates flour for later use, “blends the functionality of two genres;” Christopher Frechette, “The Ritual-Prayer Nisaba 1 and Its Function,” JANER 11 (2011): 1. Frechette, citing Maul, notes that Kultmittelbeschwörungen probably happened more frequently than noted in the ritual record; see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 146–47.
72 See Marduk 5, “May the amulet set around my neck keep evil away from me, may it drive away curse against me or utterance portending evil,” (Foster, Before the Muses, 645; Werner R. Mayer, “Das Ritual BMS 12 mit dem Gebet ‘Marduk 5,’” Or 62 [1993]: 319 lines 67–68).
73 Sîn 6b (BAM 316), “you throw the male doll behind you into the river” (vi 28′).
49 might be applied to the patient.74 These could include throwing sticks, tree branches, or plants.75 These objects aided the efficacy of the ritual, such that a tamarisk might “purify”
(line 84), a palm bough might “dispel sin” (line 84) or plants and salves might “drive out
[a patient’s] faults” (line 76).76 A torch and censer were common to “cleanse” or purify
(line 86).77 Some objects were meant to absorb the evil from the individual and were discarded into a river or other place that could carry off the contagion.
The actions in a ritual were important and essential to the performance of šuillas as audiences before a deity. Many of these actions and gestures mirror those that happen in an audience with a social superior, such as a king. The ritual instructions typically include prostrating, standing, and the hand-lifting gesture that has been discussed previously (§2.2). Prostration may be repeated after the prayer,78 but the hand-lifting gesture is undoubtedly considered the central gesture of the rite. It is unclear how
74 After the offering and recitation of the prayer, the āšipu is instructed to “anoint the oil” on the patient; see Marduk 4 (AOAT 34, 37; BMS 11+). In Ištar 10, after the offering and recitation, then “you anoint” and then prostrate yourself (sources A and D).
75 A throwing-stick (gamlu) is used in Ištar 31 (CTN 4, 168 ii 3,30). For plants and tree branches see below.
76 Foster, Before the Muses, 645; Mayer, “Das Ritual BMS 12 mit dem Gebet ‘Marduk 5,’” 320.
77 Mayer, “Das Ritual BMS 12 mit dem Gebet ‘Marduk 5,’” 321.
78 In Ištar 2 A, prostration is prescribed before and after the recitation of the prayer (107– 110). Some instructions only specify prostration after the recitation of the prayer, such as Nabû 1 (KAR 25), Tašmētu 1 (CTN 4, 168/BMS 33); Ištar 3 (BM 26187); Sîn 6a (LKA 25)
50 optional some forms of ritual action were since it is not clear how much of a particular ritual was assumed to take place and how much needed to be written on a tablet.79
2.4.4 Ritual Sound / Language This section will explore the use of language in Akkadian šuilla rituals with particular emphasis on how this corresponds to the use of language within theatre.
The audible portion of šuillas has been its most intensely studied aspect. Outside of the sounds of setting up the ritual arrangement and the sounds that would accompany the butchering of an animal, the most prominent sounds, of which we are aware, are the recitation of the prayers. These prayers were prescribed, but there is evidence that there was sometimes a place for unscripted words spoken by the patient.80 It is clear that, at least in some instances, the prayer would be read to the patient by the āšipu, and then repeated by the patient.81 The prayers are couched in petitionary language that follows a standard outline and typically share a number of features discussed in §2.2.3. However, the length of each prayer and the extent that they conform to these general outlines and features are highly variable. For example, one of the longest šuilla prayers is 105 lines
(Ištar 2), whereas shorter prayers might be only 10 lines long (Ištar 23). The generally
79 For a discussion of this, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 190–91.
80 Frechette notes that Ištar 13 invites the patient to “speak whatever is in his heart,” and conjectures that this may have occurred more often than it was specified in ritual instructions (ibid., 154–55).
81 See ibid., 137; Mayer, UFBG, 63–64.
51 longer invocation might be two-thirds of the prayer (Adad 1), or it might be a mere tenth
(Marduk 4). We will explore the wordings of the prayer in more detail in §2.5.
Typically, the prayer is addressed to a single deity and involves the speech of the supplicant. However, there are examples of the exorcist speaking as himself at the end of a prayer.82 Additionally, a blessing formula at the end of many šuilla prayers may invite other gods to rejoice in or bless the addressed deity.83
The layout of the prayer follows the order of an audience scene, and the rhetorical strategies used are typical of inferiors to superiors in letters in the ancient Near East.84 It is clear that these prayers were considered to be persuasive pieces of rhetoric that could be enhanced with ritually efficacious objects.85 The prayer is usually repeated three times.86 This audience scene is described in more detail in §2.5 when we enter the ritual world of the šuilla.
The verbal component of this ritual gives us an opportunity to pause and assess the dual nature of šuilla rituals. If we compare the prayers used in šuilla rituals to persuasive speeches in a play, then we begin to see how they mean different things inside and outside of the ritual frame. For example, in Shakespeare’s play Henry V, the king
82 See Marduk 5 and Nusku 13.
83 For a discussion of this ending of a prayer, see §2.5.5.
84 Zgoll, “Audienz — Ein Modell”; Tomes, “I Have Written to the King, My Lord.”
85 One wonders if props used during public speeches in order to enhance its efficacy are not much different than the manipulation of ritual objects during šuillas.
86 For a collection of such examples, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 229–31.
52 rallies his troops before the famous battle of Agincourt. In his speech, he persuades the men to fight for honor and promises that all the men, the king included, would be a “band of brothers” (IV.iii. 18–67).87 Within the play, the speech encourages the men against the overwhelming odds at Agincourt. However, from the perspective outside of the theatrical frame, the actor who portrays Henry V does not persuade the other actors at all; they are merely following the script and the staging directions.
Similarly, if we entered the world of the šuilla, the prayer offered by the supplicant persuades the deity to help the cause of the supplicant. However, from the perspective outside of the ritual frame, these are prescribed lines recited by the supplicant and the reaction of the ruler is also part of the prescribed interaction. Similar to a play, no real persuasion is happening; the script and procedural directions are merely being followed.
Because the entire interaction, including the prayer, was a prescribed encounter between human and divine participants, the results of the ritual could be assured in the same way that the end of a play could be guaranteed. This surety is expressed in the procedural instructions at the end of many rituals in statements such as “his prayer will be heard” (Gula 1a), “(his) god and his goddess will reconcile with him” (Tašmētu 1) and
“as long as he lives, nothing evil will approach him” (Ištar 31).88 The end of the ritual
87 Henry V, Act IV Scene iii 18–67
88 For collection of such statements, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, Appendix 2.
53 was always the same, and this is similar to how the end of a play never changes regardless of when it is performed.
The dual nature of šuilla rituals as persuasive rhetoric on the one hand and a prescribed performance on the other is highlighted within Mesopotamian texts themselves. Ludlul bēl nēmeqi takes the perspective from outside of the ritual frame when referring to the āšipu’s rituals. When a ritual fails, the poem tells us that “the āšipu with his ritual could not dispel the wrath” (Ludlul II 9).89 The poem refers to the ritual as the
āšipu’s ritual (‘his ritual), rather than the supplicant’s own plea.
Outside of the framed ritual environment, however, real life failure taught ritual participants that the ritual did not always have its desired effect. Claus Ambos has investigated the native explanations for ritual failure in Mesopotamian literature and scholarly correspondence and concluded that three reasons are usually cited for the failure of a ritual.90 These explanations include (1) gods refusing to accept a ritual, (2) gods interrupting a ritual, and (3) mistakes made by human participants.91 Each of these problems with the ritual procedure seems to fit quite nicely when we understand these
89 This is my translation of the composite text prepared by Amar Annus and Alan Lenzi, Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi: The Standard Babylonian Poem of the Righteous Sufferer (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2010) and accessed from “Ludlul 2” ORACC, http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/cams/ludlul/corpus.
90 Claus Ambos, “Types of Ritual Failure and Mistakes in Ritual in Cuneiform Sources,” in When Rituals Go Wrong: Mistakes, Failure, and the Dynamic of Ritual, ed. Ute Hüsken (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 25–47.
91 Ibid.
54 rituals as performances similar to theater. Each of these explanations for failure involves one of the participants in the ritual performance. From our performance perspective, the addressed god is considered to be just as real an actor in these performances as the human participants. In order for the result to be guaranteed, both human and divine beings must acquiesce to participate, and when either party fails to properly complete the ritual, it fails.92
2.4.5 Ritual Identity / Agency This section on ritual identity explores the roles or identities that human and divine participants take on when they enter the šuilla ritual and how this differs from their identities or roles outside of this framed environment. Agency is a much broader topic and could have been discussed in both the sections of ritual action (§2.4.3) and ritual language (§2.4.4). However, because there can be a stark contrast in identity between inside and outside of the ritual frame, this contrast allows us to pause and assess
92 This dissertation does not attempt to assess the internal states of those who participate within ritual domains. According the cultural expectations of the Mesopotamians themselves, however, ritual as a social domain guaranteed success as long as its participants correctly took part. Whether a given performance of a ritual “worked,” or rather, whether all of the participants actually took party correctly, is never known in the moment of performance. But once it was discovered that a given performance did not work, Mesopotamian culture used explanations that correspond to Ambos’s three reasons to explain the failure. This is similar to how we would describe a failed football game; if teams do not have enough players, if they do not finish the game, or if they do not abide by the rules, then we would also consider the football game a failure. However, the game will “work” every time as long as the necessary number of players follow the right rules to the end.
55 how individuals that participate in this ritual domain give up agency, or power over their own actions.
Within the ritual itself, supplicants retain their own name, but their relationships and stances towards others may be fundamentally altered within the ritual. For example, supplicants often present themselves to the addressed deity by stating their name, patronymic, and the names of their personal god and goddess.93 However, despite the stated identity of the supplicant, the prayer will proceed regardless of this information. In this way, the prescribed nature of the prayers is analogous to theater or drama in our culture. Regardless of the identity of the individuals who appear on stage, they enter a new world in which their identity and the relationships that they have with others on- stage will be completely different. Their role and identity are dictated by the script and stage directions in the same way that the role and identity of the participants in šuilla rituals are dictated by the wording and procedural instructions of a given ritual.
This is brought into stark relief in one example where a šuilla ritual is directed at a patient’s personal god and goddess.94 Directing a šuilla ritual at a personal god produces an interesting conflict between relationships inside and relationships outside a
93 Tablets that included generic formula that were meant to be filled in by the āšipu could read, “I, so-and-so son of so-and-so whose (personal) god is so-and-so, whose (personal) goddess is so-and-so” (see Tašmētu 1 [CTN 4, 168 iii 26]). For a more in-depth discussion of the self-presentation statements common in šuilla prayers, see §2.5.4.
94 The tablet LKA 40a is an exemplar of the prayer Nabû 2 that is personalized for Balasi, whose personal gods are Nabû and Tašmētu; Ebeling included readings from this text in his edition of Nabû 2 in AGH, 14–19.
56 specific ritual frame. Šuilla rituals are directed to deities who are often important members of the Mesopotamian pantheon. The prayers used in these rituals are reflective of the great distance between the supplicant and the addressed deity.95 This great distance is evidenced by such features as the length of the invocation, the switch from third to second person speech, and the complete omission of any mention of the supplicant in these lengthy invocations. These features will be discussed in §2.5.3.2; in the present discussion, the important point is that they stand in stark contrast to incantation-prayers that are directed at closely connected personal gods. In dingiršadabba prayers to personal gods, the entire invocation is often omitted or it is shortened to a single word: ilī ‘my god.’ To direct a šuilla ritual at an individual’s personal god seems like a very odd scenario. The distant relationships that is prescribed in šuilla rituals seems incompatible with the close and personal relationship that is found in dingiršadabba prayers to personal gods. Yet, we have such a case clearly attested.
LKA 40a is the tablet that includes a prayer for a šuilla ritual to the god Nabû
(Nabû 2) that is personalized for an individual named Balasi. The self-presentation statement, however, identifies Balasi’s own personal gods as Nabû and Tašmētu. It reads,
“Balasi, son of his (personal) god, whose (personal) god is Nabû, whose (personal) goddess is Tašmētu (14).” This creates a situation where Balasi performs as if Nabû is not his personal god. As already noted above, if we understand this to be similar to theatrical performance, then we understand that the identity within the ritual domain is bounded
95 This will be explored in more detail in §2.5.3.2, but has already been discussed in Lenzi, “Invoking God”; Zernecke, “Vain Flattery.”
57 and restricted. In the same way that Harrison Ford is only Han Solo while on stage or screen, Balasi only takes this stance toward Nabû within a šuilla ritual.
Although our analogy to theatre is helpful for understanding the framed nature of
šuilla rituals, we are not suggesting that what takes place within the ritual frame is any less “real” than what goes on outside of it.96 We have already noted that all social domains have a specific frame in which they take place. Each frame around social action imposes its own constraints upon its participants to various degrees, and these constraints are sometimes more or less relevant in other social domains. For example, college football players become quarterbacks, linemen, and runningbacks when playing football; these identities restrict what they are allowed to do on the field, but they are less relevant and less limiting of their behavior in other social domains, such as the classroom.
Additionally, the degree to which a specific a ritual domain informs the actions of its participants varies between domains. Even though the actions of football players are restricted while playing football, they are still given quite a bit of leverage to determine
96 Stephen Barry notes that “we typically carry with us an ambivalent attitude toward performance. The verbs “to perform” or “to act’ mean “to do” but also “to pretend,” and so performing and acting are often thought of as being filled with pretense, particularly when associated with ritual. Ritual is serious business; it is not a mere performance, not mere play. But “to pretend” has other meanings: to intend; to design; to plot; to attempt; to hold before one; to extend. We need not divorce the serious or the even sacred, from performance. To speak of human action in terms of performance is not to imply either fakery or lack of authenticity” (Ritual, 88). At this point, we do not know how the Mesopotamians themselves would have regarded the differences between the šuilla domain and outside of it. All social action takes place in various domains that we enter and exit, and how we view our actions within each of these domains is subject to cultural expectations and individual idiosyncrasies. I do not attempt to understand how this was regarded by the Mesopotamians themselves, and our comparison to theatre should only help us see the contrasts between domains without coloring our interpretation of whether it is “real” or not. 58 the outcome of the contest if they remain within the constraints of the game. In theatre, however, not only are the roles given to the individuals but also the way that they interact as well as the outcome are imposed on the participants as long as they participate in the frame. We see this same gradient of agency within a frame even within less well-defined social domains. For example, as mentioned in chapter 1, we might interact with our own family members at home differently than we might interact with them as on-duty police officers responding to a call. This does not make one way of interacting less real than the other.
The šuilla ritual provides such a frame to human-divine relationships even within larger ritual frames. For example, in larger rituals where both šuilla rituals as well as dingiršadabba rituals are used together, there is the real possibility that more than one relationship with the same deity can be activated in the same ritual environment. For example, the prayer utilized by Balasi, Nabû 2, is also a part of bīt rimki, where Nabû 2 is found in a cycle of 24 other šuilla rituals that are followed by prayers to the patient’s personal god and goddess (BBR 26 v 80–81). If the personal god of the āšipu’s patient is
Nabû, then Nabû will be addressed in two different ways within bīt rimki. Such is the case for bīt salāʾ mê as well, where prayers to the personal god and goddess follow both of its cycles of šuilla rituals.97 This situation would have occurred if the exemplar of
97 Ambos, Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst, 166, 168; for a summary and discussion of bīt salāʾ mê, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 166–76.
59 Nisaba 1 which was personalized for Šamaš-šum-ukīn, the regent of Babylon whose personal god was Marduk (BM 78219), was used for bīt salāʾ mê or bīt rimki.98
The degree to which identity, relationship, and action can be prescribed within a ritual frame is the degree to which it restricts the agency of its participants and the degree to which the end result can be assured. Because the agency of individual participants in theatre is heavily restricted, the ending of the play will be the same every time it is performed according to the same script and stage directions. However, a football game restricts the identity and actions of its participants much less, and thus, the outcome of the game is much more variable. The šuilla ritual is closer to theatre in the way that it restricts both its human and divine participants. Because of this, the outcome of the ritual can be guaranteed with greater certainty. The gods to whom šuilla rituals are addressed are expected to participate in a šuilla just as much as the humans involved in the ritual.
The deity is expected to take on the role of the distant and all-powerful deity who grants the petition of the supplicant. When both gods and humans voluntarily restrict their own agency in order to participate in this ritual domain, then the ritual can guarantee “his prayer will be heard.” Despite the fact that the ritual could be guaranteed if all human and divine participants take part correctly, there was no way to force either of them to take part in these rituals; participation was voluntary.
98 For a discussion of Nisaba 1 and its inclusion in larger rituals, see Frechette, “The Ritual-Prayer Nisaba 1 and Its Function.”
60 The general stance and relationship between the supplicant and the addressed deity is hinted at within the text of the prayer itself. The petitioner typically refers to the god as bēlu ‘lord’ or bēltu ‘lady’ and to himself as ardu ‘servant.’ The petitioner is also one who “fears” (pāliḫu; Adad 1a) and “turns toward” (saḫāru) the deity.99 Grasping the hem is also a phrase that denotes a status of seeking refuge from a superior.100 The relationship between the addressed deity and the patient is juxtaposed with the relationship between the personal god and the patient. A patient is the “son of his god” and the personal god and goddess are the patient’s “creators.” This difference in referring to the addressed deity and the personal gods is discussed in more detail in §2.5.3.2.
Although the āšipu takes on a number of roles in other rituals, such as the role of
Marduk himself in bīt mēseri, in šuilla rituals the āšipu has a more behind-the-scenes role.101 As Frechette has already noted, one of the characteristics of šuilla prayers is their
99 Turning toward a deity acknowledged him or her as sovereign and was an act of fealty. When the gods began to choose sides in the conflict in Enūma Eliš, Anšar warned Laḫmu and Laḫamu by saying, “Tiāmat our mother has conceived a hatred for us, she has established a host in her savage fury. All the gods have turned to her (isḫurūšim-ma), even those you begat also take her side (Tablet III 15–18||73–76; W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, Mesopotamian Civilizations 16 [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013], 76–77, 80–81).
100 Gula 1b, “I seek you, I turn towards you, I grasp you hem like the hem of my (personal) god and my (personal) goddess” (line 73).
101 In bīt mēseri, the ritual asserts that “the incantation is the incantation of Marduk; the āšipu is the image of Marduk” (bīt mēseri II 226 in Gerhard Meier, “Die zweite Tafel der Serie bi̅ t me̅ seri,” AfO 14 [1941]: 150).
61 general lack of speech explicitly delivered by the āšipu, and his presence is generally
“de-emphasize[d].”102
2.5. Description of Ritual World within šuilla Rituals The last section explored the šuilla ritual according to topical considerations, while this next section will do more to enter the world created within the ritual and follow its progression. This way of looking at the ritual will point out how the relationship between supplicant and deity is created within the ritual and how it progresses from beginning to end.
2.5.1. Audience Scene The šuilla ritual uses the audience scene as the primary vehicle through which the relationship between the patient and the ruler is constructed and negotiated. Zgoll has convincingly shown that the audience scene described in the Akkadian folktale called
“The Poor Man of Nippur” provides an illuminating template for the various elements of the šuilla ritual and provides an emic rationale for the layout of the ritual.103 Zgoll,
102 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 136–37.
103 For bibliography on “The Poor Man of Nippur” and its status as a folktale, see O. R. Gurney, “The Sultantepe Tablets (Continued). V. The Tale of the Poor Man of Nippur,” Anatolian Studies 6 (1956): 145–64; O. R. Gurney, “The Tale of the Poor Man of Nippur and Its Folktale Parallels,” Anatolian Studies 22 (1972): 149–58; Heda Jason, “The Poor Man of Nippur: An Ethnopoetic Analysis,” JCS 31 (1979): 189–215; J. S. Cooper, “Structure, Humor, and Satire in the Poor Man of Nippur,” JCS 27 (1975): 163–74; Scott B. Noegel, “Word Play in the Tale of the Poor Man of Nippur,” Acta Sumerologica 19 (1996): 169–86. Zgoll also made reference to additional audience scenes in Akkadian tales such as “Nergal and Ereshkigal” and “Adapa;” for translations of these, see Foster, Before the Muses, 506–24, 525–32.
62 basing her argument on the Akkadian story, finds ten important steps that correspond to the ritual execution found in šuilla rituals. These steps are given in Table 2.104
Table 6: Zgoll’s Steps of an Audience Scene
AUDIENCES IN NARRATIVE ŠUILLA RITUAL 1. ANNOUNCEMENT Doorkeeper Ritual expert [āšipu] 2. STEPPING FORWARD OF Ruler and courtiers in Star deity and stars PETITIONER audience hall in the sky 3. GREETING GIFT OF “Goat,” luxury goods, etc. Offerings PETITIONER 4. GREETING GESTURES OF Prostration – kneeling – Prostration – PETITIONER standing – raising of the kneeling – standing hands – raising of the hands 5. GREETING WORDS OF Blessings/praises of the Invocation: praise PETITIONER Ruler 6. QUESTION OF THE Question about the request Assumed RULER 7. SPEECH OF PETITIONER Request Petition 8. REACTION OF RULER Granting (anticipated) Assumed 9. THANKS OF PETITIONER Blessings/praises of the Promise of Praise ruler 10. GREETING GESTURES OF Inferred Prostration PETITIONER
The texts of the prayers used in šuilla rituals include steps 5–9, whereas the other steps are often included in the procedural instructions that go along with the prayers. It is difficult to know exactly how each ritual in our dataset conforms to this outline, and it is important to remember that despite using a similar framework, each prayer exhibits meaningful variation that can serve to change the tone or emphasis. Indeed, not all of these steps are included in the description of each ritual, but as mentioned previously, it is
104 This table is adapted from Zgoll, “Audienz — Ein Modell,” 196, Tab. 1.
63 possible the procedural directions were meant merely as memory aids for the āšipu and other actions were assumed to take place.
From our previous theoretical discussion, audiences before human rulers take place in a framed domain that is very similar to šuilla rituals. Aside from Zgoll’s steps, we also note that both procedures include temporal and spatial framing, such that they occur in specific times and places.105 A performance approach to this ritual encounter sees this use of the audience scene less as communicating something than as doing something. The audience scene is a powerful cultural process employed not only in royal and divine settings, but also, to some extent, in all interactions between those of uneven social rank. Therefore, the šuilla is not so much using the audience as an analogy, but using the audience scene for the same purpose that it is used when kings and subjects interact.
The most important difference between the audience before a deity in šuilla rituals and the audience before a human ruler is the level that the interaction is prescribed.106 Although the responses made by the divine ruler are not included in the
105 We could do a similar analysis as we did in §2.4 for a human audience, and we would see how it provides framing for the encounter between a social inferior and superior. A human audience is more akin to a domain like football; even though the actions are restricted by the social conventions of the audience, the actual ending is negotiated by the participants in the same way that the end of the football game is negotiated as the players play within the rules.
106 One could make the case, however, that the audience scene used in šuilla rituals diverges from a human audience by the use and manipulation of ritually efficacious objects. However, it is not clear if the use of objects within šuilla rituals would be altogether different than the use of props or objects to increase the rhetorical power of one’s plea before a human ruler.
64 ritual, the ritual assumes, or rather prescribes, that the deity responds positively to the supplicant’s gifts and entreaties. As mentioned above, both the human supplicant and divine ruler are participants in the ritual exchange, and when both parties make the “ritual commitment” and agree to be no longer authors of their own action, then the ritual can provide assurance of a positive outcome. Although in everyday circumstances a superior has the power of agency to act as they see fit, as a participant in a šuilla ritual, this agency is given up to some degree. Thus, ritual failure was seen as the failure of human or divine participants either to properly participate in a ritual or to see it to completion.
As we examine how each step within the audience scene framework creates and builds the human-divine relationship, we notice some important generalities that apply to most of the šuilla rituals in our dataset. Goffmann has already alerted us to the fact that the relationships are created and changed through a collaborate process during interaction. Indeed, we see that the relationship between the supplicant and the addressed deity is created and changed through the exchange of performative acts involving objects, bodily movements, and verbal utterances. Each of these acts is part of a cycle of reciprocity that strengthens the relationship between the supplicant and the divine ruler.
Each step in the process shows a movement from more distant to closer social interaction between the human supplicant and the divine ruler. The supplicant moves from mediated contact with the ruler to direct contact, from third person language to second person, from reference to the deity to reference to the supplicant. The gap between the supplicant and the divine ruler shrinks through each successful interaction between the two parties.
65 The following section will analyze in more detail how each of the steps within a
šuilla ritual constructs a relationship between the patient and the addressed deity, and what, we, as observers, can glean about the constructed relationship between these two ritual actors.
2.5.2 Steps 1–2 - Announcement / Stepping Forward of Petitioner The first exchange between both the human supplicant and divine ruler is facilitated by an intermediary, and ends allowing the supplicant to directly address the deity. In the šuilla prayers, even though this particular exchange is not explicit, the āšipu is the one who sets up the ritual space, arranges the food and ritual objects in order to facilitate the communication. The supplicant requests an audience and the ruler accepts.
The relationship moves from mediated to direct address. Many prayers to gods probably did not require the assistance of a ritual specialist like the āšipu, and the presence of even a non-intrusive intermediary creates and assumes a relationship that is considered to be distant or dangerous enough to warrant a third party’s help.
2.5.3 Steps 3–5 - Greeting Gift/Gestures/Words of Petitioner The next three actions of presenting a greeting gift, presenting greeting gestures, and invoking the name of the ruler (steps 3–5) performed by the petitioner are essentially functional equivalents of each other.107 They are all actions that expect or presuppose reciprocation from the ruler, and the actions themselves performatively create a superior/inferior relationship. It is not possible to determine who was expected to initiate each step, but in any case, the gift would have to be accepted, gestures would be returned,
107 This is also noticed by Zgoll, “Audienz — Ein Modell,” 197. Although these may not occur in this order, they always precede the petition.
66 and greetings would be responded to. The ruler or supplicant reciprocates each gesture in a way that acknowledges the superior/inferior relationship. Thus, the ritual exchange creates the relationship as well as the roles that both human and divine participants are to enact.
Each of the offerings of food, body, and words creates, when accepted, a social relationship that is not easily broken by either party. Zgoll points out that the bringing of a greeting gift (kadrû) obligates the ruler to help, and that this obligation is expressed by the frequent translation of kadrû as ‘bribe.’108 The text “Advice to a Prince” as well as an inscription of Nebuchadnezzar both point out the great social wrong that ensues if a judge takes a gift, but does not render judgment.109 The mayor in “The Poor Man of Nippur” breaks this social rule when he accepts the protagonist’s goat without responding appropriately.110 Even in a Nuzi text, where there are multiple references to a gift (ṭāṭu) given to a judge, the problem is not that he took a gift, but that he then refused to hear the case.111 Taking the gift was thought to attract the attention of the ruler or judge so that he would take the case.
108 Ibid.
109 See CAD K, kadrû, p. 32–33 and W. G. Lambert, “Nebuchadnezzar King of Justice,” Iraq 27 (1965): 1–11. This understanding of “Advice to a Prince” follows Foster, Before the Muses, 867–69.
110 This point is made by Zgoll, “Audienz — Ein Modell,” 197–99.
111 See AASOR 16, 8 in Robert H. Pfeiffer and E. A. Speiser, “One Hundred New Selected Nuzi Texts,” AASOR 16 (1935): 18, 72–74. For a brief discussion of this text in
67 The connection between the offering of a gift and hearing a request is explicitly made within šuilla prayers themselves. In Sîn 1, after the invocation of the god but prior to making the lament and request, the supplicant verbally presents the offering, “I make for you a pure night offering, I libate for you the finest sweet beer. I take my place on my knees, as I seek you(r attention), Grant me a favorable and just oracle.”112 This acknowledges that the offering is meant to attract the deity’s attention and put him in a favorable mood to hear the supplicant’s case.113
2.5.3.1 Step 5 - Greeting Words of Petitioner The greeting words of the participant function as equivalents to the gestures and gifts already discussed. Not only does the invocation prompt a response, it creates a relationship when the ruler accepts the supplicant’s praise and allows a request to be
a study of the term ṭāṭu, see K. R. Veenhof, Aspects of Old Assyrian Trade and Its Terminology (Leiden: Brill, 1972), 222.
112 Foster, Before the Muses, 760.
113 A prayer, given while incense is offered to Šamaš and Adad by the diviner (bārû), invites the gods to use its smell as opportunity to come together and render a verdict, “May the cedar linger, may it invite the great gods to render a verdict for me. Take your places and render a verdict! O Shamash and Adad, stand by me!” (BBR 75–78 rev. 59– 60, translation by Foster, op. cit., 754). Although this gift seems to be similar to a fee for a ruler taking a case, the fact that food was often used to make someone more inclined towards one’s case is undoubtedly in the background. A subsequent prayer by the diviner also offers flour and asks the gods to accept their naptanu or ‘meal’ (BBR 75–78 rev. 70– 71). The strategy of ensuring that the granting party is in good spirits when judgment must be made is common in the Hebrew Bible, even though the giving of gifts to judges is generally frowned upon. This is seen in the book of Ruth, when Naomi tells Ruth to approach Boaz after he has eaten and drunk (Ruth 3:3,7). Esther would only tell the king of her petition after the king had feasted (Esther 5:3–5). In Genesis, Isaac wished to be a good mood before giving his blessing and requests wild game (Gen 27:4).
68 made. Different from the other actions, however, this action also provides verbal content that allows for fine tuning of the metaphors and cultural symbols that are used to create and reflect relationships.
2.5.3.2 Distant Relationship The greeting words of the petitioner are the first section in every šuilla prayer and consist of praise that focuses on the deity’s credentials, power, and abilities in both the heavenly and earthly spheres. The praise gives us many clues that the relationship between the supplicant and deity is one of great distance. Alan Lenzi has shown, using anthropological approaches to formality, that the length of the invocation demonstrates social distance.114 He juxtaposes the length of šuilla prayers with dingiršadabba prayers to personal gods to demonstrate that more intimate relationships tend to have shorter invocations. Both Lenzi and Zernecke in separate studies also point to the way that the deity is referenced in the invocation as indicative of the relationship between the two parties.115 In contrast to dingiršadabba prayers that constantly connect the personal god to the supplicant with epithets such as “my god,” šuilla prayers do not tie the supplicant to the addressed deity in the invocation. The following section will build on the work of
Lenzi and Zernecke by confirming the insights that they have already made and outlining other criteria that indicate the distant relationships between the supplicant and addressed
114 Lenzi, “Invoking God,” esp. 312–313.
115 Ibid., 312; Zernecke, “Vain Flattery,” 176.
69 deity. The following observations about the invocations of prayers used in šuilla rituals are summarized in Table 3 at the end of this chapter.
As mentioned above, in the invocation, supplicants typically do not mention themselves nor explicitly connect themselves to deity. Of the 46 prayers in our dataset, in only two prayers (Ištar 1, Šamaš 5) does the supplicant make reverence to himself or herself in the invocation.116 This also dovetails with the observation that the deity is not explicitly connected to the praying individual in the invocation.117 Thus, the god is not called “my lord” or “my lady” during the invocation, even though they may use this term in the petition. The fact that one does not quickly turn to a previous personal connection—something that might be expressed in epithets like “my god”—in order to impel the deity to act, indicates that such a personal connection does not exist.
Additionally, address typically moves from third person language, using either epithets or sentence descriptions, to second person. Of the 46 prayers, 28 use the 2nd person pronoun or verbal forms in the invocation. Of those 28 prayers, all but four (Ištar
2, Sîn 6a-b, Šamaš 5, Kakkābu 1) show a distinct shift from use of third person pronouns
116 See Table 3 for a table that summarizes the observations made in this paragraph. Ištar 1, lines 15a–15b, “I searched among the gods, prayers are dedicated to you, I turned among the goddesses, any supplication is directed to you.” Šamaš 5, line 11′, “He changes evil portents that are in my backcountry”
117 Zernecke noticed in Ištar 2 that “my lady” is only used in the petition and lament, and the change in address shows a change in the relationship (Gott und Mensch in Klagegebeten aus Israel und Mesopotamien, 171). I can now extend this to every prayer in this dataset.
70 or epithets to the use of the 2nd person pronouns and verbal forms. That the supplicant
talks about the deity before directly addressing the deity, suggests that the supplicant
must move toward addressing the deity so directly.
There is also a tendency to end the invocation with attributes that emphasize the
deity’s power to help individuals in need.118 Of the 46 prayers, 24 end the invocation with
an emphasis on the deity’s power to aid individuals. All of these elements that can occur
in greetings of šuilla prayers move from a more distant way of relating and bring it closer
and more within the realm of the supplicant. The supplicant moves the relationship from
a more distant to a more intimate address by not referring to himself in the invocation, by
focusing on the deity’s credentials alone, moving from third to second person, and
finishing the prayer with an emphasis on the deity’s power to aid individuals. This
provides a segue into the next section of prayer where self-presentation statements,
lament, and petition bring the petitioner to the foreground.
The invocation of Nabû 2 provides a nice example of many of these observations
occurring in a single prayer.
1. EN2 EN ga-aš2-ru tiz-qa-ru ZU-u2 DU3.A.BI Incantation: O mighty, exalted lord who knows everything;
2. šar-ḫu ed-de-šu-u2 git2-ma-lu bu-kur Majestic, ever-renewing, perfect one, firstborn dTU.TU of Tutu; d d 3. i-lid ERU4 šar-ra-ti ri-ḫu-ut ša3-⸢zu⸣ Offspring of Erua the queen, creation of Šazu;
4. ma-lik DINGIR.MEŠ ša NU u2-ʾ-di mu-kin- Counselor of the gods who cannot be taught, nu ma-⸢ḫa-zi⸣ founder of cultic centers;
118 Joel Hunt also notices that “the final hymnic statement(s) [describe] the deity in terms appropriate to introduce the petitions” in Mesopotamian Šuilla Prayers to Ea, Marduk, and Nabû Exegetical Studies (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2010), 191, 192, nn. 534. 71 5. ḫa-mi-im kul-lat parṣī(GARZA) muš-te- The one who gathers all ritual offices, the one še-ru dšu-luḫ-⸢ḫi⸣ who performs correctly ritual handwashings; 6. li-ʾ-u rap-ša uz[-nu ] DINGIR.MEŠ mu-tal- lu Powerful, wise one of the gods, noble one,
7. mu-bi-ib kit-te u me-ša2-ri mu-na-mir The one who keeps truth and justice pure, the uk-li one who illuminates the darkness; d 8. na-ram LUGAL.ZU.AB be-el ni-me-qi2 mu- Beloved of Lugal-Abzu, lord of wisdom, who reš E2.ENGUR.RA causes E-engura to rejoice; 9. DUMU dMarduk EN nag-bi [...] Son of Marduk, lord of the deep, […] of the DINGIR.MEŠ mu-šim šīmāti(NAM.MEŠ) gods, who establishes fates, 10. dAG EN mi-riš-ti mu-deš-šu-u nu-uḫ-ši Nabû, lord of planting, who constantly renews abundance, 11. dEN.ZAG ma-am-lu kul-lat nišê(UN.MEŠ) Strong Enzag, you provide for all of the ta-pa-qid people, 12. ta-ma-ḫar tas-li-si-na You receive their prayers, 13. ta-ša-rak-ši-na-ti šulma(SILIM) You give them health, 14. ik-tar-ra-ba-ka gi-mir-ši-na te-ni-še-[ti] All of the people will bless you.119
The invocation praises the deity for his accomplishments, first among the gods
and then transitions to his care over humankind.
The praise in Nabû 2, begins by establishing the title of the god as bēlu, a master
or lord, and Nabû’s attributes are put in the context of his divine pedigree and
connections in the heavens. Nabû is called the firstborn, heir, and creation of Marduk
(Tutu, Šazu), one of the most important deities in first-millennium Mesopotamia. Nabû’s
royal background is also highlighted by the mention that he is “offspring of Erua,” also
known as Zarpanītum wife of Marduk, who is “queen” (3). In lines 4–5, we return to his
119 The translation is my own and the transliteration is adapted from Ebeling, AGH, 14– 19. 72 unsurpassed knowledge even among gods, particularly his knowledge of rituals and sacred rites.
The invocation makes a shift from the divine sphere to the mortal realm when we are told that he causes rejoicing at a specific ritual establishment, and his ability to cause planting and abundance are heralded, along with his ability to answer prayers (8–14). The last four lines (11–14) provide an obvious segue into the petition of the supplicant and ease into more personal matters. The invocation goes from third person descriptions of his divine pedigree and attributes within the heavenly realm to second person address about his intimate care to individual requests, particularly requests about one’s health. It appears that as the invocation progresses the boldness of the petitioner grows, moving the concerns of this omnipotent god closer and closer to his or her own, and shifting to direct
2nd person address. The petitioner only refers to himself in the prayer after the ruler presumably accepts all of these offerings in the form of words, gestures, and gifts.
Most šuilla invocations conform to this general outline, although not all of these features may be present. Ea 1a, given earlier (§2.2.3), includes a number of these features.
1 O wise king, perceptive creator, 2 Lofty prince, ornament of the Eabsu, 3 Enlilbanda, artful, venerated one, 4 Hero of Eridu, sage of the Igigi, 5 Lord of the E[engur]ra, protection of the Eunir, 6 Bringer of the high waters (that cause) abundance, who makes the rivers joyful, 7 In oceans and in reed thickets you make plenteous prosperity, 8 In the meadows you create the livelihood of the peoples. 9 Anu and Enlil rejoice because of you, 73 10 The Anunna-gods bless you in their holy places, 11 The peoples of the land extol your weighty command, 12 You give counsel to the great gods. 13 O Ea, the moribund need not die, thanks to your life-giving spell. 120
It switches from epithets and third person description (1–6), to second person address (7–13). The prayer finishes the invocation with an affirmation of Ea’s power to save the dying (13) before the petition begins with “Raise up my head, call (my) name!”
(14). Another typical example is Marduk 5:
1. Incantation: Marduk, lord of lands, ra[ging], terrifying 2. Stately, ever-renewing, perfe[ct one, ca]pable one 3. Lofty, magnificent whose [com]mand cannot be altered 4. Capable one, wise one, [no]ble one(?), sa[ge ...]! 5. O Marduk, lord, eminent, surpassing whose position is on hi[gh] 6. Mighty, powerful, eminent van[guard], 7. "Deluge weapon," [hopeless] to combat, [whose onslaught] is furious! 8. O Dumuduku, most perfect [of..., or]dainer of [des]tinies, 9. Son of Lugal-du[ku ] of the great gods! 10. O planet Marduk, lord [ ] prosperity! 11. O Marduk, lord of abundance and propser[ity, w]ho rains down luxuriance, 12. Lord of underground springs, mountains, and seas, who overlooks the mountains, 13. Who opens wells and waterholes, who guides watercourses, 14. Overseer of grain-god and sheep-god, creator of ear and fiber, who makes abundant green plants, 15. You create food for god and goddess, you are creator of the cropland for them. 16. O dragon of the Anunna-gods, monitor of the Igigi-gods, 17. Wise son of Enanki, creator of all humankind, 18. You are the lord, you are like "father" and "mother" in people's speech, 19. You are the one who, like the sun, illumines their darkness. 20. Each day you give justice to the oppressed and abused, 21. You administer the destitute, the widow, the wretched and anxious. 22. [You] are what they listen for, [the shepherd who leads them],
120 Foster, Before the Muses, 643.
74 23. [At] your weighty [command], the numerous lands and peoples prosper. 24. You are merciful, lord, you rescue the weak from danger and hardship, 25. [You look upon the] exhausted and the des[perate], the one whom his god punished, 26. You are comrade of [ ]..., you release the captive, 27. [You t]ake the hand and raise the injured from his bed, 28. You make [cap]tive in darkness and prison, the [hos]tage, see light.121
The invocation for this prayer is quite a bit longer than the others, but it includes many of same features. Lines 1–14 include epithets and third person statements, while
15–28 move to second person statements. The end of the invocation also segues into
Marduk’s deeds toward humanity and individuals (18–28). We notice no reference to the praying individual nor an explicit connection to Marduk. Marduk is not addressed as “my lord” in the invocation, but during the petition the supplicant pleas “O my lord, stand by me this day, hear what I say, judge my case, render my verdict!” (line 42).122
As noted above, the invocations of šuilla prayers show great variation in length and these features may not all be present. For example, Gula 1b is a mere 3 lines, but still maintains some features.
1. O Gula, exalted lady, who dwells in the heaven of Anu, 2. Merciful god, who bestows life, 3. Whose glance is hearing, whose word is healing,123
Gula is first praised for her status in heaven. Then she is praised for bestowal of life and healing on humankind, which provides a segue into the concerns of the
121 Ibid., 682–83.
122 Ibid., 684.
123 Translation based on Mayer’s composite text; see Mayer, UFBG, 455–57.
75 individual. There is no mention of the supplicant. This prayer does not demonstrate a shift to second person in the invocation, but it does shift to second person in the petition, which begins, “I turn to you, O Lady, I stand, so decree my word!” (line 4). There are additional anomalous examples such as Gula 1a, Marduk 4, Marduk 18, Šamaš 34, which are extremely short.
The invocation of most šuilla prayers provides ample indication that the social distance between the supplicant and the addressed god is a wide chasm. The features discussed in this section show a movement toward a more personal and direct connection to the deity, but such a connection must be gradually approached.
2.5.3.3 Omnipotent Power In addition to indicating a distant relationship between the supplicant and the deity, the invocation also provides clues to the persona that is created for the deity within the ritual frame. We have already noticed that the roles that each party takes on within the ritual frame may be different or even contradictory to those that exist outside the ritual frame. This seems to be the case in šuilla rituals when many of the addressed deities are touted as omnipotent and without rival among the gods. We might dismiss this as merely hyperbole by a supplicant, but in terms of the ritual frame, these statements create a ritual world in which the supplicant has come before an all-powerful deity who cannot be impeded in carrying out his or her favorable designs for the supplicant. We notice this in two ways; first, we have very similar statements for different deities, and second, they mirror to a significant degree an endowment of power given to Marduk, the newly christened king of the gods in Enūma Eliš.
76 One statement that is very common in šuilla prayers is that one’s command or word cannot be changed or altered. This statement is made of Enlil, Ereqqu, Gula, Bēlet- ilī, Marduk, Nabû , Šamaš, and Tašmētu.124 Other more simple epithets, such as
“foremost of the gods” or a related epithet, are applied to a number of deities, such as
Šamaš, Kaksisa, Nabû, Ninurta, Sîn.125 Additionally, and most clearly, we see entire prayers swapped between deities, so that the same prayer can be used for a different deity as long as the name is changed out. This does not happen indiscriminately, but Gula and
Belēt-ilī, Kaksisa and Ninurta, Madānu and Nusku, Nanaya and Tašmētu are known to have their name swapped into the same prayer.126 The point is that the ritual frame creates an identity for the god or goddess in which they are equal to the task set before them.127
Similar to the social domain of theatre, when you enter the ritual frame or step on-stage, who you are off-stage matters very little.
124 See Enlil 1a (lines 5,10); Ereqqu 2 (lines 24–25); Gula 1a/Bēlet-ilī (lines 16); Gula 1b (line 21); Marduk 5 (line 3); Nabû 2 (line 35); Šamaš 5 (line 6); Tašmētu 2 (line 2)
125 See Šamaš 1 (line 33); Kaksisa 2 (line 1); Nabû 6 (line 8); Ninurta 1 (line 15); Sîn 1 (line 1)
126 See Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, Appendix 3.
127 These statements have been interpreted differently in the past. For example, Joel Hunt notes that the “introductory formula seek to secure the deity’s attention and favor, and lift the worshiper into the presence of one perceived capable of lending aid” (Mesopotamian Šuilla Prayers, 1–2). Aspects of the hymnic introductions are considered to assist the supplicant in having “the confidence that wise and powerful Ea will speak” or that they give “the supplicant the confidence needed to offer the complaint and requests that follow with the expectation that life may become bright” (ibid., 51,192). Hunt’s observations are correct from a certain perspective, but we do not have any window into the emotional or psychological state of ritual participants. From a performance perspective, when the ritual actors address the deity in this way, it helps create the persona in which the deity will step into when he or she enters the ritual frame. 77 Similar powers of omnipotence are bestowed upon Marduk in Enūma Eliš tablet
IV, providing further evidence that the āšipu’s ritual created a new and bounded reality within the ritual frame. In tablet IV, the great gods are invited to a feast in order to convene and invest Marduk with the authority and power he needs to defeat Tiamat and her forces. After feasting and being put in a good mood upon seeing their comrades, they set Marduk on a throne and offer praise, very similar to praise that we find in šuilla prayers. However, this praise is not calculated to be a description of his attributes, but the actual decree of destinies and the empowerment of Marduk.
They set a lordly dais for him And he took his seat before his fathers to receive kingship. (They said,) “You are the most honored among the great gods, Your destiny is unequalled, your command is like Anu’s. Marduk, you are the most honored among the great gods, Your destiny is unequalled, your command is like Anu’s. Henceforth your order will not be annulled, It is in your power to exalt and abase. Your utterance is sure, your command cannot be rebelled against, None of the gods will transgress the line you draw.128
The statements made by the great gods attribute to Marduk very similar attributes as those found in the invocations of šuilla prayers, and they use language characteristic of
šuilla prayers and Sumerian hymns.129 Yet these statements are not just a description of
Marduk’s attributes, but they actually endow Marduk with these powers in the moment they are spoken. The further similarities between this audience and šuillas are explored in
§2.5.5. The use of similar epithets in šuilla invocations and the similarities that these
128 Enūma Eliš IV 1–10 in Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths, 86–87.
129 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 135.
78 powers hold to the omnipotent power of the king of the gods, help us to understand that both the role and identity of the addressed god within šuilla rituals may be part of the persona of the ritual frame and not always applicable everywhere.
2.5.4 Step 7 - Speech of Petitioner Step 7 in the šuilla ritual moves from greeting the deity to petitioning the deity, and it is in this section that the supplicant becomes a part of the prayer. Because the supplicant must present his or her plea, this section, by necessity, places the petitioner much more prominently in the prayer, but it also reflects a development within the relationship between the deity and the petitioner. Although the god or goddess was praised for having great power and compassion in most of the prayers, this was not stated with any direct reference to the supplicant. Now, after the assumed acknowledgment by the deity, the petitioner, who has verified that the god or goddess has acknowledged and accepted his or her lordly responsibilities, now moves to what the deity’s power means for the individual.
One of the places in which the relationship between the supplicant and the deity is made explicit is in the self-presentation statement. A self-presentation statement includes such information as the supplicant’s name, sometimes with the patronymic, the name of their personal god and goddess, as well as an acknowledgement of their relationship to the addressed god. Although the self-presentation statement can include both the patronymic and the names of the personal god and goddess, if the patronymic is omitted,
79 the phrase “son of his god” is usually included.130 For example, “I am Sargon, son of his god, a servant who fears your divinity” (LKA 50 rev. 3; Adad 1a).131 A blank self- presentation statement, which is filled in when the prayer is used for a specific client, can read, “I am so-and-so son of so-and-so whose god is so-and-so, whose goddess is so-and- so” (Si 59; Ištar 10).132 Other variants occur, such as “I am so-and-so, son of so-and-so, your sick, very sick servant” (line 11, Nabû 3).133 A more explicit self-presentation statement is found in BMS 50, an exemplar of Sipazianna 1; it reads, “I am your servant
Assurbanipal, the son of his (personal) god, whose (personal) god is Aššur, whose
(personal) goddess is Aššurītu.”134 Presentation statements, taken as a whole, introduce two overlapping sets of human-divine relationships. In Sipazianna 1, Assurbanipal is the servant (ardu) of Sipazianna, but the son (māru) of Aššur and Aššurītu. In this and other prayers that include this formula, it is clear that the parent/child relationship is reserved
130 There is no reference in šuillas to “daughter of his god” possibly indicating that these rituals were not carried out for women. However, the phrase “son of his god” is used at least once in medical texts to refer to a woman, so this may merely be a gender neutral term; see Scurlock, Sourcebook, 257.
131 For an edition of Adad 1a that includes LKA 50, see Schwemer, Die Wettergottgestalten Mesopotamiens und Nordsyriens im Zeitalter der Keilschriftkulturen, 671–74.
132 For an edition of Ištar 10, see Zgoll, Die Kunst des Betens, 110.
133 Mayer, UFBG, 474.
134 Ebeling, AGH, 146.
80 for personal gods and the servant/master relationship describes the relationship to the
“high god” that is being addressed.
Before looking at what these relationship descriptors can tell us things about human-divine relationships, I will address a comment by Werner Mayer on the identification of the personal god in these self-presentation statements. Mayer has proposed that rather than naming the personal gods of the supplicant, the two named gods in the self-presentation statement might refer to the city gods of the individual.135 He conjectures that “son of his god” refers to the personal god, whereas the following couplet, “whose god is so-and-so, whose goddess is so-and-so” is a reference to the city god and goddess. His assertion is supported by his reading of Marduk 25 in which the phrase “so-and-so whose city god (il ālīšu) is Marduk (and) city goddess (ištar ālīšu) is
Zarpanitum” (line 17).136 Mayer’s suggestion is weakened by the fact that the self- presentation formula first occurs four lines earlier, “…so-and-so son of so-and-so, your servant” (line 13). There is a possibility that the atypical statement in line 17 is a longer form of what is normally indicated, but the consistent distinction between one’s city god
(il ālīšu) and one’s personal god (ilīšu) in other works used by the āšipu makes this unlikely. We see the consistent distinction between these two terms in the āšipu’s ancient
135 Mayer, UFBG, 52 n.22.
136 François Martin, “Mélanges assyriologiques,” RT 24 (1902): 104–5. Slightly more is on the tablet than Martin’s publication indicates, and a photography of the tablet is available on CDLI http://cdli.ucla.edu/dl/photo/P394467.jpg.
81 medical handbook known ancient as SA.GIG, where “his god” and “god of his city” occur in contrasting ways multiple times.137 Since these two corpora of writings were utilized by the same specialists around the same time period, it seems best to assume that “his god” and “his goddess” applies to the personal god. Additionally, the use of “son of his god” rather than standing alone as merely a reference to the personal god, appears in self- presentation statements when the patronymic is omitted. This possibly indicates that, despite the omission of one’s paternal lineage, the presented individual is still a member of a family that shares a common connection with this god. In SA.GIG, one cause of a patient’s symptoms is that the “son of her god,” presumably a family member, has had sexual intercourse with her.138 This indicates that the term can be used to indicate relationships within one’s own family and not just a relationship to a deity.
In ancient Mesopotamian cultures, referring to one’s personal god and goddess as divine parents represents a shift away from second-millennium ways of referring to personal gods. In the OB period, one’s personal god was indicated on seals by the phrase
“servant of DN.”139 This practice of using the master/servant relationship specifically to
137 For example, see Scurlock, Sourcebook, 36 line 58, 157 lines 22–23, 100 lines 86"– 87". There are examples of “his god” appearing as “god of his city” as a variant, but this probably represents differing views on the cause of an illness rather than an equation of these terms.
138 Ibid., 257.
139 Karel van der Toorn, “Family Religion in Second Millennium West Asia (Mesopotamia, Emar, Nuzi),” in Household and Family Religion in Antiquity, ed. John
82 indicate a personal god relationship did not carry into the first millennium.140 By the first millennium, although the master/servant relationship could still describe the personal god relationship, the parent/child metaphor became a relationship that specifically referred to the personal god relationship in šuilla prayers. Since the self-presentation statement juxtaposes the master/servant and parent/child relationship to describe relationships with two different sets of deities, it is to our advantage to understand what is meant in the distinction. The fact that these two ways of describing relationships are used to create a distinction in meaning makes them important for understanding how they construct and reflect human-divine relationships.
First, it is important to keep in mind that the term bēlu is a rank that can be employed on every level of the social spectrum, and that both father (abu) and son (māru) can also be used to describe more than a biological relationship throughout the ancient
Near East.141 Additionally, the titles of bēlu and abu are not mutually exclusive. For
Bodel and Saul M. Olyan (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 20–36; Charpin, “Les divinités familiales des Babyloniens d’après les légendes de leurs sceaux-cylindres.”
140 Margaret Jaques, “»Mein Gott, was habe ich nur getan?«: Die Formen der privaten Frömmigkeit in den altorientalischen Gebeten und Ritualen,” Hephaistos 28 (2011): 75– 84. Some scholars have argued that the symbol of the fish and the rhombus were used for the personal god in seals; see Ursula Seidl, “The Roles Played by Fish on Neo-Assyrian Cylinder Seals,” in The Iconography of Cylinder Seals, ed. Paul Taylor, Warburg Institute Colloquia 9 (London: Warburg Institute, 2006), 134–65, 238–40.
141 Note that abu can also stand for “principle (of a business),” a “master,” “expert,” or “foreman” (see CAD A/1, abu 5, p. 67). In the Hebrew Bible, for example, Naaman’s servant calls Naaman “my father” in 2 Kgs 5:13.
83 example, it is not uncommon in Akkadian letters from different eras to refer to the same individual as father and lord.142
Closer examination into their use demonstrates that abu is used for individuals that are considered socially closer and are thought to exhibit more paternal care and affection for the other. For example, in the Amarna letters, Rib-Haddi addresses an
Egyptian official named Amanappa as “my father” (line 1) and Rib-Haddi appeals to their closer relationship near the end of the letter by saying, “Report this matter in the presence of the king, your lord, for you are father and lord to me, and to you I have turned” (EA 73).143 Rib-Haddi emphasizes that Amanappa is acting as an intercessor between him and the king, indicating that Amanappa is socially closer to Rib-Haddi. That this was an intentional way of characterizing their relationship is noticed in the lack of
“father” in Rib-Haddi’s later letters to Amanappa after he has become convinced that
Amanappa will not help him.144 A letter from a military general refers to Rib-Haddi as
“son” and himself as “father” (EA 96), but Rib-Haddi never refers to the king of Egypt using father/son terminology, despite a large corpus of letters.145 Rib-Haddi and others in the Amarna correspondence use the term abu to refer to a lower ranked superior to
142 See CAD A/1, abu 2a
143 All translations of the Amarna letters are taken from William L. Moran, The Amarna Letters (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000).
144 In EA 77 and 82, Rib-Haddi continues to call him “father” but later drops this title and either calls himself “your servant” or leaves out any overt mention of a relationship (see EA 86, 87, 93).
145 The letters of Rib-Haddi are composed of EA 68–138.
84 highlight the bridgeable social distance and hopefully engender greater paternal care.
Even though this occurs between correspondents whose native language is not Akkadian, it indicates that such a distinction may be a wider ancient Near Eastern practice.
The distinctions between abu and bēlu are clear in this quotation from a letter from the exorcist Adad-šumu-uṣur to the Assyrian king Esarhaddon,
The king, my lord, has treated his servants as a father treats his sons; ever since mankind has existed, who is the king that has done such a favour for his servants, and what friend has returned a kindness in such a manner to his friend? May the great gods of heaven and earth in the very same way do a kindness and favour for the descendants of the king, my lord, as long as heaven and earth exist! (SAA 10, 227).146
Adad-šumu-uṣur compares the two relationships (master/servant vs. father/son) and finds that the king, Esarhaddon, was so generous that not even a father is as merciful to his own sons. Thus, even though both relationships represent differences in rank and power, the father/son relationship indicates increased “kindness” and “favor,” something that prompts a father to be more generous with his sons. That the father/son relationship tends toward a closer relationship is made explicit in the EA 158, a letter from Aziru to an Egyptian official named Tutu. Aziru claims that “Moreover, a[s] you in that place are my father, whatever may be the request of Tutu, my f[at]her, just write and I will grant it.
[A]s you are my father and my lord, [and] I am your son, the land of Amurru is your
[lan]d, and my house is your house. [Wr]ite me any request at all of yours, and I will grant your [ev]ery request.” Aziru tells Tutu that they share a common estate and share
146 For translation, see Simo Parpola, “SAA 10 227. Thanking the King (ABL 0358) [from Exorcists],” ORACC, 1993, http://oracc.museum.upenn.edu/saao/saa10/P334234/html. 85 their resources based on need. In fact, when both the relationship of Aziru to Tutu and that of Aziru to the king are put side by side, they are characterized similarly to what we find in šuilla prayers: “I am the servant of the king, my lord, and I will [n]ot deviate from the orders of the king, my lord, or from the orders of Tutu, my father, forever.”
Although one could refer to various officials by the term “father” in Akkadian correspondence, this title was not directed towards a king, unless one was closer in social standing. In the Amarna letters (EA 44), the king is not usually addressed as ‘father,’ but the Hittite prince calls the Egyptian king ‘father,’ a title that Moran notes corresponds to a difference in age (since most of the kings would call him brother).147 Examples from correspondence out of Ugarit (MRS 9 216, RS 17:83:2, 217 RS 17.143:2, 294 RS
19.70:3) that use “father” all seem to be examples of kings communicating with other kings; this implies a familiarity and closeness that others cannot claim.
Returning to our šuilla corpus, the use of the master/servant relationship for the addressed deity in opposition to the parent/child relationship provides more evidence for the social distance that is evidenced through the prayer. There are a few examples of mother and father being used toward the addressed deity in šuilla prayers, but this language is not meant to label the relationship between the supplicant and the deity.
One example, can be seen in Marduk 5, “you are lord, you are like father and mother in people’s speech” (line 34). First, Marduk is called “lord” to the people, but the quality of his lordship is such that it is like a parent to a nation. Other uses of parental
147 Moran, The Amarna Letters, 117.
86 terms are also used to express a quality of a relationship, but do not claim this relationship. For example, Marduk 4 begins, “O warrior Marduk whose anger is the deluge, whose relenting is that of a merciful father” (lines 1–2).148 Marduk 4, as well as
Ištar 10, ends with a stock phrase common in eršaḫunga prayers, “like the father who begot me and the mother who bore me, let your heart return to its place” (line 38).149
These gods are compared to the supplicant’s parents in order to emphasize the quality of their compassion and care.
Second, the fact that the titles of both father and mother are applied to a single diviner ruler, as in Marduk 5, emphasizes that this a quality of his lordship, rather than a gender specific relationship. This statement is similar to the Azatiwada inscription where
Azatiwada claims that “Baʿal made me father and mother to the Danunians.”150
The exception to this use of parental terms occurs with the goddesses Gula and
Bēlet-ili. In Gula 1b, which is identical to Bēlet-ili 1, she is referred to as “most great lady, merciful mother who dwells in the pure heavens” at the beginning of the prayer.
This title is repeated once more in the petition of the prayer (line 7). The prayer proceeds
148 The indirect equation of Marduk to a merciful father is also seen in Marduk 18 where the supplicant claims to have committed sin “against your great divinity, [as against] one’s own father” (Foster, 688). The juxtaposition of Marduk’s fury with his relenting is argued to be one of the defining characteristics of Marduk by W. G. Lambert; see “Some New Babylonian Wisdom Literature,” in Wisdom in Ancient Israel: Essays in Honour of J. A. Emerton, ed. J. Day, R. P. Gordon, and H. G. M. Williamson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 30–42.
149 For an introductory discussion of eršaḫunga prayers, see Lenzi, Akkadian Hymns, 43– 46.
150 “The Azatiwada Inscription,” translated by K. Lawson Younger, Jr. (COS 2.31:149).
87 atypically for a šuilla prayer, since the quoted passage constitutes the entire invocation.
An invocation this short is more typical of prayers to personal gods. In fact, in Gula 1b where “merciful mother” is included in an almost equally short invocation, the supplicant attempts to characterize his or her relationship with Gula as a personal god relationship by saying, “I have turned to you, I sought you, I grabbed your hem like the hem of my god and my goddess” (line 15). The care and mercy of Gula are highlighted by the title
“mother,” and as Alan Lenzi notes “the comparison of Gula to a personal god in line 3 has foreshadowed her intermediary role” since she is asked to intercede with the supplicant’s actual personal gods who are angry.151 The use of a parental term to close the social distance and highlight an intermediary role was noticed in the examples among the
Amarna correspondence. Why this strategy is only used for the goddess Gula is not completely clear, but she is called “mother” elsewhere in Mesopotamian lore.152 It should be noted that despite the use of “mother” the supplicant stops short of calling her “my mother,” possibly in an effort to highlight an important identity of the goddess without claiming a direct relationship.
In summary, the addressed god is characterized as a high-ranking sovereign, in contrast to the personal god and goddess who are considered more intimate social superiors. Although some parental imagery is used to refer to addressed gods in šuilla prayers, they are not used as a label for a relationship, but to express its quality.
151 Lenzi, Akkadian Hymns, 245.
152 Barbara Böck, The Healing Goddess Gula: Towards an Understanding of Ancient Babylonian Medicine (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 15.
88 The petition itself represents the next move that expects a reciprocating response of the ruler. Since the supplicant has been brought before the ruler and can directly interact with him or her and can finally use the term “my lord,” it is now up to the ruler to show acceptance of this very personalized relationship term by granting the request that is offered.
2.5.5 Step 9 – Thanks of Petitioner In looking at the final section of the šuilla prayer itself and the penultimate step for the audience scene, it has generally been assumed that the response of the ruler has not yet been given (step 8) and the verbal section of the ritual ends with praise that looks forward to a favorable response to the ruler. Among incantation-prayers, there are two examples that indicate that the favorable divine response has been given (Step 8) before the prayer ends, because they include the thanks of the petitioner (Step 9) at the end of the prayer itself. Given that this is a ritual performance where roles and actions are prescribed, there is no reason a priori that the divine response could not be assumed to have been given during the ritual itself.
After the self-presentation, lament, and petition in which the supplicant asks for his or her boon of the ruler, prayers in this dataset typically end with what Mayer called either the “promise of praise” or the “wish of praise.”153 Nabû 2, ends with the more common “promise of praise,” and reads, “By your august word which is not turned aside, and by your firm ‘yes’ which does not change, may I be healthy and recover so that I may
153 Mayer, UFBG, 310.
89 sound your praises (lines 35–38).”154 This is a performative speech act in which a promise is being made to praise the greatness of the deity after Nabû has granted his petition of health. This common element at the end of incantation-prayers is sometimes replaced or followed by statements that invoke other gods to bless the addressed deity, and Mayer calls this the “wish of praise” for the obvious reason that the petitioner cannot promise action on behalf of a third party.155 The šuilla prayer Ea 1a provides a typical example, “may the heavens be glad over you, may apsû rejoice over you, may the great gods laud you as a lord, may the Igigi gods decree your good fortune!” (lines 29–30).156
Both kinds of endings for šuilla prayers are recognized as praise by Frechette, who labels then “anticipatory praise,” because they anticipate rather than assume a favorable response to the petition.157
There are two examples, however, that have something additional at the end of the prescribed prayer that may be interpreted as the thanks of the petitioner (Step 9) in reply to the positive response of the divine ruler (Step 8). In Ištar 2, the promise of praise reads, “may your great mercy be with me, may the one who sees me in the street magnify
154 ina qibītīka ṣīrti ša lā uttakkaru u annīka kīnu ša lā innennû lubluṭ lušlim-ma / dalīlīka ludlul. Transliteration follows Ebeling, AGH, 18.
155 Mayer, UFBG, 310.
156 šamû liḫdûka apsû līriška ilānu rabûtu etelliš lišālilūka dumqīka liqbû ilānu Igigi (Greta Van Buylaere, “CTN 4, 167 [Šu’ila to Ea],” 2010, http://oracc.org/cams/gkab/ctn_4,_167).
157 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 131.
90 your name and may I praise your divinity and heroism to the black-headed people (100–
102).” 158 After this, there appears another statement, “Ištar is surpassing, Ištar is queen, the Lady is surpassing, the Lady is queen, Irnini the daughter of Sîn, the hero who has no rival (103–105).” This kind of statement after the promise of praise is rare, but a similar statement does occur in another incantation-prayer, Girra 2. Following a final plea for health, it appends, “you alone are my god, you alone are my lord, you alone are my judge, you alone are my aid, you alone are my avenger!”159 Abusch has made a convincing argument that Girra 2 represents the praise promised by many incantation- prayers by pointing out that final praise in Girra 2 is in place of the promise of praise in a typologically similar prayer.160 To add further support to Abusch’s argument, we can turn to Tablet IV of Enūma Eliš.
Praise that follows the granting of a petition during an audience scene in Tablet
IV is very similar to the final praise of both Ištar 2 and Girra 2. At the end of Tablet III, the great gods assemble to feast and invest Marduk with the authority and power he needs to defeat Tiamat and her forces. After the feast puts the great gods in a good mood, they set Marduk on a throne and offer praise. In some ways this audience is a strange reversal.
The gods who convene to feast are normally the superiors in an audience, but they have
158 For transliteration, see Zgoll, Die Kunst des Betens, 42–48.
159 For a normalization and translation of Girra 2 in Maqlû II 77–104, see Tzvi Abusch, The Witchcraft Series Maqlû (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 58–61.
160 Tzvi Abusch, “The Promise to Praise the God in Šuilla Prayers,” in Biblical and Oriental Essays in Memory of William L. Moran, ed. Agustinus Gianto (Rome: Pontificium Istituto Biblico, 2005), 1–10. 91 convened to make Marduk their superior. Thus, by setting up a throne for him and beginning their speech with praise, the audience scene has been reversed and has performatively given Marduk the superior role.
The praise that is offered to Marduk has similarities to the invocation of šuilla prayers, but this praise is not merely a description of his attributes, but the actual decree of destinies and the empowerment of Marduk. After praise and a series of injunctions, the gods instruct Marduk to command a constellation to disappear and reappear. When
Marduk heeds the petition of the great gods, “[w]hen the gods, his fathers, saw his utterance, they rejoiced, they blessed, “‘Marduk is king (IV:27–28)’” After this final triumphant praise to Marduk, he is further invested with the symbols of kingship (mace, throne, rod), and given an order to defeat Tiamat. The sequence concludes with the summary, “the gods, his fathers, decreed the destiny of Bēl, and set him on the road, the way of prosperity and success (IV:33–34).”
The declaration of the great gods, in audience with Marduk, that he is king after he has granted their petition, is analogous to the supplicant declaring “Ištar is queen” after his or her petition is granted within the ritual. Marduk is also called an “avenger” throughout the praise of the great gods, and this is one of the titles bestowed upon Girra at the end of Girra 2, “you are my avenger.” The statement made by the gods, that
Marduk is king, is prefaced with the narrative explanation, “they rejoiced, they blessed.”
This is essentially what is wished upon the addressed deity in many šuilla prayers, where the “great gods” are asked to rejoice and bless the addressed deity for his successful granting of the petition. As mentioned previously in §2.5.3.3, the statements used for
92 praise both at the end and beginning of the šuilla prayers are similar to what is attributed to Marduk in Enūma Eliš. The similarity in the final statements of Ištar 2 and Girra 2 with the final statement of praise in the audience scene in Enūma Eliš provide another compelling reason that, in at least some cases, the petition was expected to have been granted in the ritual itself.
This final statement in which the power and sovereignty of the addressed god is praised in both Ištar 2 and Girra 2, signals a change from the praise offered at the beginning of the ritual. Claus Westermann, in his comparative work between Babylonian prayer and the Psalms, makes a distinction between declarative and descriptive praise.
Descriptive praise is “general praise for [God’s] actions and being as a whole,” while declarative praise “praises God for a specific deed, which the one who has been delivered recounts or reports in his song.”161 The petitioner, in our šuilla prayers, has already offered praise to the deity but only descriptive praise. Although he can laud the deity’s credentials and power from a general perspective, the petitioner cannot refer or point to an instance where the deity has done something for him or her. From our analysis of the
šuilla ritual, this inability to offer declarative praise is caused by a lack of a former relationship as much as it is the present dire affliction of the petitioner. The giving of declarative praise is not only a more personalized and contextualized statement of the
161 Claus Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms, trans. Keith R. Crim and Richard N. Soulen (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1981), 31.
93 deity’s power and mercy, but, as Kugel argues, it is essentially “a vow of subservience” or, as Abusch calls it, “a pledge of loyalty.”162
Especially in the case of Girra 2, the directness and the intimacy by which the petitioner now accesses the deity are unparalleled, and contrasts with the praise found at the beginning of most prayers. Praise at the beginning makes no reference to the supplicant and typically refers to the deity in the third person about his or her divine credentials and general importance and greatness to the cosmos. Here, however, something has changed by the time this praise is uttered. The deity is addressed directly and is praised only in relation to the supplicant without reference to anything else. This declarative praise, to use Westermann’s term, is itself a reaction to the ruler or deity granting the petition. It displays for us the evolution of a relationship. Each step in which the supplicant acted, the ruler reciprocated. The progressing relationship asserts a growing closeness to the ruler or deity. In the initial praise the supplicant makes little mention of himself or herself, but after the ruler acknowledges the supplicant’s status as a servant, the supplicant then references himself or herself, referring to himself or herself as servant and the ruler as “my lord.” After the request is made, the ruler again reacts by granting the petition, and this provides another affirming and reciprocating response to the supplicant who responds by declaring allegiance to this deity in personal terms, using
“my god,” a term usually reserved for personal gods or for close patron deities.
162 James Kugel, “Topics in the History of the Spirituality of the Psalms,” in Jewish Spirituality: From the Bible Through the Middle Ages, ed. Arthur Green (New York: Crossroad, 1986), 127; Abusch, “Promise to Praise,” 9.
94 The privilege to offer declarative praise was something only afforded those who have been helped. As we have previously seen in the šuilla ritual, when the deity accepted the actions of the supplicant, he or she ratified the relationship between the two parties. When the deity grants the petition of the supplicant, the deity demonstrates that he or she is “lord” over the supplicant. This final cementing of their relationship allows the petitioner to take things one step further, by declaring praise, essentially swearing allegiance in public to this god. In regards to Girra 2’s final praise, Abusch observes that
“[i]t is interesting that this statement focuses upon the relationship of the man and the god…it recognizes the existence of a mutual relationship, for the god has judged or championed the supplicant, and thereby has either fulfilled the terms of an already existing relationship or created a new one.”163 The relationship has moved closer still by referring to Girra as essentially the supplicant’s personal god. The term “my god” is not used in šuilla prayers because this implies a closer relationship than exists in these prayers. However, after this distant relationship is established and a few ritual exchanges make this relationship more concrete, then the supplicant is able to offer praise because of what the deity has done for the individual.
2.6 Conclusion This chapter has shown how a performance approach to šuilla rituals helps us understand the interaction between the supplicant and the addressed deity. I have shown that šuilla rituals are a category of ritual procedures that utilize a variety of prayers that
163 Abusch, “Promise to Praise,” 8.
95 were deemed appropriate for reestablishing a relationship with the divine sphere. The ritual provides a framed environment in which the world inside the ritual may not always correlate with the world outside the ritual. Describing a ritual can be similar to a critic describing a play. From one perspective, a critic may describe the venue, the people cast for each role, its staging, and the critical reception. However, from another perspective, the critic may leave the elements of the “outside” world behind and instead explore the world created on stage by describing plot, character development, theme, and motif. This chapter has attempted to do some of both for the performance of šuilla rituals.
From the perspective within the world of the ritual, the prayers used in the šuilla ritual are persuasive pieces of rhetoric meant to move a social superior to action. They also tell the story of a supplicant who comes before a powerful deity and who has little previous relationship with this deity. The distance between then shrinks with each successful interaction. The gradual closing of the distance is demonstrated by moving from 3rd person to 2nd person address, and by emphasizing the deity’s power to aid individuals just before the supplicant moves to mention him or herself for the first time in the petition. In the petition is the first time that “my lord” or “my lady” is used, and after the granting of the petition, the supplicant can now praise the deity for something he or she had done for the supplicant.
However, from the perspective outside of the ritual world, the prayers are not only rhetorical, they are performative utterances that accomplish things by their enactment.
The entire exchange is a scripted interaction where there is no doubt as to its ending.
When all the human or divine participants take part in the ritual, the results are assured;
96 this is similar to how a theatrical performance will always end the same way when all the actors show up and perform their parts correctly.
Additionally, from the outside perspective, we notice that the roles adopted within the ritual frame are not entirely congruous with the roles of either participant outside of the ritual frame. The identity and role of each participant is supplied by the ritual itself in the same way that the script of a play supplies the identities of individual actors and the relationships between them while on stage. This was brought into focus when Balasi participated in a šuilla ritual with his personal god. Balasi took a much more distant stance from his own personal god than might be natural in other ritual settings.
This chapter has hardly exhausted all of the ways that the šuilla ritual can be considered performance or how this social domain is similar to and different from other social domains. However, it has given us appropriate pause to realize that what takes place within šuilla rituals may not be easily mapped to other areas or domains of
Mesopotamian culture without adequately taking into account the ritual frame. The next chapter will look at dingiršadabba rituals and will build on our observations and provide opportunity to bring new ones into perspective.
Table 7: Characteristics of Invocations of Prayers Used in šuilla Rituals
Lack of 1st Use of 2nd 3rd to 2nd Person Segue to Deity’s Person in Person in Shift in Power to Aid Invocation Invocation Invocation Individuals Adad 1 x Adad 2 x x x Anu 1 x
97 Table 7: (continued)
Lack of 1st Use of 2nd 3rd to 2nd Person Segue to Deity’s Person in Person in Shift in Power to Aid Invocation Invocation Invocation Individuals Ea 1a x x Enlil 1a x x x x Enlil 1b x x x x Ereqqu 2 x x x x Gula 1a x Gula 1b x x Ištar 1 x x x Ištar 2 x x Ištar 3 x x Ištar 10 x x x Ištar 23 x x x Ištar 31 x x x Kakkabū 1 x x Kaksisa 1 x x x x Kaksisa 2 x x Madānu 1 x Marduk 2 x x x x Marduk 4 x Marduk 5 x x x x Marduk 16 x Marduk 18 x x Marduk 19 x x x x Nabû 1 x x x x Nabû 2 x x x x Nabû 3 x x x Nabû 6 x x Nergal 1 x Nergal 2 x x x Ninurta 1 x x x x 98 Table 7: (continued)
Lack of 1st Use of 2nd 3rd to 2nd Person Segue to Deity’s Person in Person in Shift in Power to Aid Invocation Invocation Invocation Individuals Nisaba 1 x x Nusku 5 x x Nusku 13 x Šamaš 1 x x x Šamaš 2 x x x Šamaš 5 x Šamaš 34 x Sîn 1 x x x Sîn 3 x x x x Sîn 6a-b x x Sipazianna x 1 x x x Sipazianna x 2 x x x Tašmētu 1 x x x Tašmētu 2 x x x x
99 CHAPTER 3: THE HUMAN-DIVINE RELATIONSHIP IN DINGIRŠADABBA
PRAYERS TO PERSONAL GODS
3.1 Introduction In this chapter, I will look at dingiršadabba rituals from a performance perspective in order to understand the relationships between human and deity as they take place within the ritual frame. In doing so, I will focus on two aspects of the ritual.
First, we will enter the world created within the ritual frame in order to determine the type of audience between human and god that is assumed during the ritual enactment.
The audience in the šuilla ritual was a particular type of audience, one in which the deity is often a third party who is expected to help the supplicant in need. The dingiršadabba, however, assumes a much different type of audience with the deity; this audience becomes a more dangerous situation because the supplicant appears before a directly offended deity within the ritual world. As we assess this change in the ritual world, we will investigate how the change in the structure and layout of these prayers attests to this, and how the larger rituals that use dingiršadabbas also assume this kind of a situation.
We will confirm our assessment by matching the behaviors and strategies manifest in dingiršadabba rituals with narratives found in ancient Near Eastern literature.
Second, we will look at how the circumstances in which these rituals were employed might help us understand the bounded nature of the relationships themselves as well as the current status of these relationships. In order to see this, we will look at the three circumstances in which these rituals could be employed: one was on a calendrical
100 basis, another when an omen was observed, and the last was based on physically manifesting symptoms. When these were performed according to a calendar, the ritual participants, both human and god, would take on an estranged stance toward each other, and reconciliation became the major goal. These performances were units of activity themselves and could be considered both as remedies for manifesting symptoms and as prophylactic treatment against future problems.
The other indicator of the framed nature of these interactions is seen when both the šuilla and dingiršadabba are used in the same ritual complex. This was noted in the previous chapter, and it comes into clearer focus when we realize not only the difference in social distance or proximity but also that the stance of the god toward the individual is completely different.
3.2 The Category of dingiršadabba As we explore the identities and relationships created within the ritual world of the dingiršadabba, it is important to clarify what texts are included in this category and what brings them together. Our discussion is meant to point out that the term dingiršadabba as used in modern scholarship is different from the way that this term is used in ancient texts.
The rubric, or subscript, DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB(5).BA GUR.RU.DA.KAM (“turning away divine wrath”), often appears in conjunction with a number of prayers that also bear the
101 1 EN2 superscription. These prayers, similar to those used in šuilla rituals, belong to the craft of the āšipu. In modern literature, this rubric is often shortened to
2 DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB.BA (“divine wrath”), as it is in the Exorcist Manual (KAR 44). When dealing with these prayers, I understand the corresponding dingiršadabba rubric to refer to the purpose of the entire ritual—which was to turn divine wrath—not as a generic label describing formal features of the prayer.3 In this way, it labels a prayer as being appropriate for use in dingiršadabba rituals.
When this group of prayers is usually discussed in modern scholarly literature, however, only a subset of them is usually referred to. When W. G. Lambert published the first edition of dingiršadabba prayers, he collected all the dingiršadabba prayers to personal gods and excluded all other prayers to named deities that had this rubric.4 While noting that there were other dingiršadabba prayers, he found that the wide range of use and the vague purpose of turning away wrath made this rubric “irrelevant.”5 Lambert’s edition is a helpful subset of dingiršadabba prayers, but Lambert’s dingiršadabba label is not the same category as the ancient dingiršadabba label. Lambert’s use of the term has
1 A new edition and study of dingiršadabba prayers was published too late to be incorporated into this dissertation; see Margaret Jaques, Mon dieu qu’ai-je fait? Les diĝir-šà-dab(5)-ba et la piété privée en Mésopotamie, OBO 273 (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2015). 2 It is written DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB.BA in KAR 44, the Exorcist’s Manual. For bibliography, see §2.2.4.
3 Jaques, “To Talk to One’s God,” 120; Zgoll, Die Kunst des Betens, 21–22. 4 Lambert was clear and explicit on this point; see Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba,” 268. 5 Ibid., 267.
102 been adopted in the literature to such a degree that all prayers to personal gods are sometimes considered dingiršadabba prayers.6
Looking at the evidence we have for the dingiršadabba rubric makes it clear that this ritual category was not exclusively directed at personal gods. For example, a prayer to Sîn (Sîn 6a-b) noted in chapter 1, bears three different rubrics among five exemplars,
7 one of which is also DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB.BA (LKA 26). A catalog of prayers published by
Mayer (K.2832+) includes two dingiršadabba rubrics attached to prayers to Marduk.8
Another unpublished text and its duplicate are a dingiršadabba to Marduk and
Zarpanītum (K.3519+, duplicate Rm. 246).9 Nisaba 1 includes both šuilla and dingiršadabba rubrics on the tablets of two exemplars.10 Ereqqu 2, a prayer addressed to
6 Butler, in her edition of dream rituals, classifies prayers to personal gods in this corpus as dingiršadabba prayers even though they do not have this rubric; see Sally A. L. Butler, Mesopotamian Conceptions of Dreams and Dream Rituals (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 1998). Because the prayers deal with personal gods, problems of divine anger, and in at least some examples, appear in similar ritual contexts, it seems reasonable to put these prayers together. But the use of the ancient dingiršadabba rubric to then label this category is a problem.
7 See Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba,” 295; Jaques, “To Talk to One’s God,” 120..
8 Mayer, UFBG, 399; Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 127. 9 This is mentioned by Lambert in “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba,” 268; for photographs of both tablets, see “K 02549 + K 03519 + K 03117 + K 03287 + K 09012 + K 12920 + Sm 0828 + Sm 1326,” CDLI, n.d., http://cdli.ucla.edu/P394505; “Rm 246,” CDLI, n.d., http://cdli.ucla.edu/P424659. 10 Frechette, “The Ritual-Prayer Nisaba 1 and Its Function.” Frechette argues that the addition of the dingiršadabba rubric to Nisaba 1 is meant to “link” or “[establish] a relationship between [Nisaba 1] and dingiršadibba prayers that follow the sequence of šuillas that it initiates” (Ritual-Prayers, 166 nn.1, 174). Frechette rejects dingiršadabba as a possible classification for Nisaba 1 because he argues that dingiršadabba prayers are
103 the Great Wagon (Ursa Major), bears the dingiršadabba rubric along with three others
(šuilla, ŠU.DU8.A.KAM ‘hand-releasing,’ ŠA3.ZI.GA ‘potency incantation,’
11 E2.GAL.KU4.RA.K[AM] ‘incantation for entering the palace’). Additionally, the ritual of
Ištar 3 ends with a very similar rubric.12
The fact that these prayers are rarely employed in studies or discussions of dingiršadabba prayers indicates that the dingiršadabba in modern scholarship means something different. This is not to say that Lambert’s subset of the dingiršadabba is not useful for our research. His subset does isolate a group of prayers addressed to the same type of deity that occur with frequency together in similar rituals. We just need to be careful that the conclusions that we draw about this category of texts are not extended to all dingiršadabba prayers without further research.
The real element that binds the dingiršadabba prayers edited by Lambert is not their exclusive rubric, but rather the relationship between the supplicant and deity that is assumed in the ritual. The ancient rubric itself covers a wider range of rituals that can be
only directed towards personal gods and not high-ranking deities (ibid., 174). As our review has shown, this is not always the case. If we cannot reject a dingiršadabba classification because it is not directed towards a personal god, then it seems better to see the addition of rubrics as designating acceptable ritual procedures and purposes for which the ritual wording might be used. 11 M. J. Geller, “Review of Uruk. Spätbabylonische Texte aus dem Planquadrat U 18. Teil IV. (= AUWE 12) by E. von Weiher,” AfO 42/43 (1995): 245. 12 At the end of the ritual instructions, the āšipu is instructed to repeat the ritual after three days and then angry god will be turned (U4.3.KAM GUR.GUR-ma DINGIR.DIB.BA GUR.GUR.RU.DA.KAM); see Zgoll, Die Kunst des Betens, 151.
104 directed at gods in their roles as personal gods or some other role. This chapter is limited to dingiršadabba rituals directed at personal gods.
The corpus of prayers directed at personal gods and marked for use in dingiršadabba rituals gives us a dataset of nine prayers with which we can conduct our analysis. The tablets on which these prayers are found use the rubric sparingly; even among the tablets edited by Lambert, the rubric is only found once for three different prayers (ilī ul īde šēretka dannat (CBS 515, obv. 10′); ilī ellu bān kullat nišî attu
(K.8870+ obv. 64); ilī bēlī bānû šumīya (K.143+ obv. 55)). The dataset is expanded to nine prayers, however, if we assume that prayers that occur alongside these three explicitly marked dingiršadabba prayers are also dingiršadabba prayers.13
3.3 The Audience Scene in dingiršadabba Rituals Looking at the šuilla ritual as an audience helped us unlock the progression of the relationship between human and deity within the ritual world; this chapter will explore how the audience can help us better understand the world within dingiršadabba rituals.
Because the dingiršadabba is considered an incantation-prayer by some scholars and shares many of the same features as other incantation-prayers, this encourages us to extend the audience scene framework to this set of rituals as well.14 Noting the
13 The one exception to this is the incantation-prayer Ea Šamaš u Marduk minû annīya, which is placed alongside dingiršadabba prayers when performed as part of bīt rimki.
14 Mayer did not include these prayers in his category of incantation-prayer; see Mayer, UFBG, 16–17. If we take the approach that incantation-prayers are merely prayers that carry the EN2 superscription, then we can consider dingiršadabbas incantation-prayers; from this perspective Lenzi calls them incantation-prayers; see Akkadian Hymns, 41.
105 similarities that šuillas share with other incantation-prayers, Christopher Frechette agrees that this “indicat[es] all incantation-prayers, not just šuillas, presume conventions of an audience.”15 Closer examination will vindicate this observation in regard to dingiršadabba rituals, but also signal to us that there are fundamental differences between the type of audience found in Akkadian šuillas and the type of audience found in dingiršadabbas. These differences can be seen in the structure and tone of the prayers.
Before highlighting the differences between šuillas and dingiršadabbas, I will make a case for their general similarities.
3.3.1 Ritual Action / Objects in dingiršadabba Based on the descriptions of ritual objects, actions, and gestures within the prayers themselves and the preserved performance guidelines for these prayers, we can reasonably assume that the audience scene was important in dingiršadabba rituals, as in
šuilla rituals. These rituals were performed by the āšipu, the same specialist who performed šuillas, and dingiršadabbas were also included in larger rituals alongside
šuillas.16 Because of this, it is not surprising to see many of the same elements that we saw in our description of šuillas in §2.4. In larger rituals, dingiršadabba prayers are often performed in the steppe within reed enclosures, not unlike šuilla prayers.17 The place
15 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 32. 16 See discussion of bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê below. 17 The location of the ilī ul īde ritual (KAR 90) is not specified (aside from the mention of a “door”; KAR 90 obv. 2). This ritual, however, may have also been performed in conjunction with other rituals like šurpu, bīt salā mê, or bīt rimki, which would influence its location (see below). The dingiršadabba prayers included in bīt salāʾ mê and bīt rimki would have been performed on the steppe as well as within reed structures. The
106 where the ritual would be carried out was also purified by sweeping and sprinkling water
(65).18 Prayers are carried out before a deity, but usually in the daylight, in contrast to
šuillas which usually took place when stars were out.19 For šuillas, the prayers are usually directed at the astral manifestations of the gods, whereas dingiršadabbas can, in at least one ritual, be addressed to an actual image of the deity.20
Dingiršadabba prayers are similarly offered in front of ritual arrangements (riksu) and incense burners (nignakku) and can be accompanied by various types of food offerings. For example, in bīt rimki (BBR 26 iv 19), the āšipu is instructed to set up multiple ritual arrangements (BBR 26 iv 16), and to stand in front of them to recite the dingiršadabba prayers ilī ul īde and ilī bēlī (BBR 26 v 77–81). Similarly, in bīt salāʾ mê, the specialist sets up two ritual arrangements to the personal god and goddess facing south, specifically including a sheep offering (x+36′-37′). Later in the ritual, presumably before the same ritual arrangements, the patient recites ilī ul ide to his personal god and recites ilī bēlī before his personal goddess (y+11′-12′). Other ritual instructions specifically call for incense burners (see 68 (of juniper), K.3177+ iii 14′) and others call
dingiršadabba prayers would be performed in the šutukku; see Ambos, Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst, 53, 56, 166 x+35′; Ambos, “Temporary Ritual Structures,” 247. Bīt rimki stipulates setting up reed standards (urigallu) around the “house of the ritual bath” that includes seven structures that were adjacent or adjoining; see ibid., 251–52; BBR 26 iii 22–27.
18 Line numbers to dingiršadabba prayers refer to Lamberts edition in “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba.”
19 In both bīt salāʾ mê and bīt rimki rituals, the personal god and goddess are addressed with dingiršadabbas after the rising of the sun (see BBR 26 iv 34–35; x+34′–37′). 20 The ilī ul īde ritual specifies the placement of an image of the patient’s personal god, along with other images made for the occasion (KAR 90 obv. 5–6).
107 for garden plants, breads, oil, wine, and beer (65–66, KAR 90 obv. 3–14). Allusion to such offerings can be found in the prayers themselves. In mannu īde ilī šubatka, which may have been a part of ilī bēlī, it mentions a presentation of “the holy, divine meal of the best oil (elli mākalê ili ulû šamni)” (48).
Posturing and gestures are also similarly reflective of an audience before a deity.
In bīt salāʾ mê, the supplicant is told to prostrate himself (uškēn) when carrying out ilī ul
īde (y+11′), and in bīt rimki, the supplicant is told to stand (DU) (BBR 26 iii 80 // SpTU II
44). In the prayers themselves, we have reference to “my raised hands (nīš qātīya)” (36), and “I am bowing at your feet (akmis šapalka)” (62). Similar to šuilla prayers, these prayers are often repeated multiple times, sometimes up to seven times.21 The various gestures, posturing, and offerings point to social conventions used when formally addressing social superiors and are in line with the audience scene discussed in chapter 2.
3.3.2 Ritual Speech in dingiršadabba
3.3.2.1 Use in Other Rituals There should be little surprise that prayers used in dingiršadabba rituals share similarities with other incantation-prayers, since the same prayers are used in other ritual procedures as well. For example, ilī ellu bān kullat nišî attu is a variant of a prayer to Sîn
d (Sîn 6a-b) and bears the rubrics šuilla and IGI.DU8.A 30 ḪUL SIG5.GA, in addition to
21 KAR 90 obv. 7 calls for minû annūyā-ma kiam epšēku to be repeated seven times; AMT 81/5 rev. 10 calls for ilī ul īde to be repeated seven times; however, ilī ellu bān kullat nišî attu is repeated three times (69) as well as an incantation with an unknown incipit (II 9).
108 dingiršadabba. Also, the prayer anāku minû ēpuš is used in an eršaḫunga as far back as the Old Babylonian period.22 Aside from the complete appropriation of entire prayers, sections of dingiršadabba prayers also share passages from the Lipšur Litanies, a group of incantations meant to free one from the effects of a curse or oath (NAM.ERIM2
23 BUR2.RU.DA.KE4). The facts that multiple lines in a row are used from a specific incantation and that they occur together in two dingiršadabba prayers are evidence that this was more than a common stock phrase. The two dingiršadabba prayers also share a desire that sins be “absolved” and “released,” which is a characteristic of the prayers used in namerimburruda rituals.24
3.3.2.2 Structural Features It is the structure of the prayers used in dingiršadabba rituals that forces us to approach these prayers in a different way than we have the šuilla rituals. When we examine the actual layout of the prayers suitable for use in dingiršadabba rituals, we see
22 Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba”; Margaret Jaques, “Metaphern als Kommunikationsstrategie in den mesopotamischen Bußgebeten an den persönlichen Gott,” in Klagetraditionen: Form und Funktion der Klage in den Kulturen der Antike, OBO 251 (Fribourg: Academic Press, 2011), 3–19. 23 For the so-call Lipšur Litanies, see Erica Reiner, “Lipšur Litanies,” JNES 15 (1956): 129–49. Parallels include the following: LL II:50′=I:121, LL II:51′=I:34 lā pāliḫ ilīšu u ištarīšu ina qātīya līmur; LL II:52′=I:124 aqbī-ma ēni utakkil-ma ul addin; LL II:54′ ≈I:125–126; LL 56′=II:6 amēlûtu eli šārti qaqqadīšu annūša gillātūša maʾdā; LL II:57′=II:7 annūya ḫiṭâtūya gillātūya ša kīma ḫāmī tabkū-ma elīšina ukabbis; see LL II:58′ ≈I:19, II:8 lū paṭranni lū pašranni. 24 For the connection between dingiršadabbas and the šurpu ritual, see §3.4.1.2.
109 that they demonstrate a greater diversity of internal structure than the šuilla prayers we examined in chapter 2.25 A rough breakdown is provided in the table below.
Table 8: Structures of Prayers Used in dingiršadabba Rituals DINGIRŠADABBA INCIPIT STRUCTURE ilī ul īde šēretka dannat (1) confession (23–29, invocation = ilī) (2) petition (30–38) (3) promise of praise (39) ilī bēlī bānû šumīya (1) invocation: praise (40–41) (2) petition (42–43) mannu īde ilī šubatka (1) lament (44–46, invocation = ilī) (2) petition (47–53) ilī ellu bān kullat nišî attu (1) invocation: praise (55) (2) lament (56) (3) petition (57–63, 62 is self- presentation) (4) promise of praise (63) anāku minâ ilī ēpuš (1) invocation: lament (71–79) (2) negative confession (80–84) (3) lament (85–88) (4) petition/lament (89–108) ilī šurbû qāʾišu balāṭi (1) invocation: praise (109–110) (2) self-presentation (111) (3) petition (112–120) (4) promise of praise (119a, only attested in KAR 39) egû arnum gillatu ḫiṭītu (1) confession (121–127) (2) petition (127–131) (3) confession (132–149) (4) petition (150–172?) (5) promise of praise (172–175) minû annūyā-ma kiam epšēku (1) lament (II:10–25?) Broken ilī ul īde šēretka našâku (1) lament (III:6–16?, invocation = ilī) Broken
25 Lenzi makes the point that “dingirshadibba-prayers do not show a common structure” in Akkadian Hymns, 42.
110 When applying the audience scene to the words used in dingiršadabba rituals, the first thing we notice is that the audience used in šuilla rituals does not perfectly fit the general structure of the dingiršadabba. Šuilla prayers enjoy, for the most part, a clean tripartite form, which is fairly predictable (see §2.2.3). They go from praise, to petition, and then to a promise of praise. This makes the progression in the prayer easily mapped to the steps of the audience scene. Although the prayers used in dingiršadabba rituals include many of the same elements that are common in prayers used in šuilla rituals, such as invocations, self-presentation formulas, laments, petitions, and promises of praise, there are two features that cause significant differences. First, in six of the nine prayers, the invocation is merely incidental to initial confession or lament. The invocation, if it occurs at all, is often only a single word, ilī, or ‘my god.’. Second, because the invocation is truncated or omitted, confession and lament are the elements that begin the prayer.26
Just looking at the general schematic of these prayers, we notice that lament and confession have a dominating presence.
Previous work on these prayers has identified the short and familiar invocation in dingiršadabba prayers as the product of the familiar relationship between a supplicant and his or her personal god or goddess.27 Of the nine dingiršadabba prayers in this dataset three have ilī as their sole invocation (see ilī ul īde šēretka dannat; manû īde īli
šubatka; ilī ul īde šēretka našâku). The invocation is incidental to the confession or
26 Zgoll has pointed out that the fronting of lament does not occur in šuilla rituals; see Zgoll, Die Kunst des Betens, 22.
27 Lenzi, “Invoking God”; Zernecke, “Vain Flattery.”
111 lament that follows. There is no invocation for egû arnum gillatu ḫiṭītu or minû annūyā- ma kiam epšēku. Of the longer invocations, such as the one found in ilī bēlī bānû šumīya, the focus is no longer on the god’s place in the cosmos, but specifically the connection that the god has with that person. The invocation reads, “my god, my lord who created my name, who protects my life, who causes my seed to exist” (40–41).28 Immediately, the relationship that the god has had and continues to have with the supplicant is placed front and center. No longer is it considered relevant to reference the importance of the god among the divine pantheon, his or her credentials and divine lineage, or even the god’s importance and benevolence for humanity.
However, the shortened, or non-existent, invocation in dingiršadabba prayers may not be caused by a single factor. We notice that even in some šuilla prayers, which are not directed at personal gods, the invocation can be quite short. In chapter 2, we discovered multiple indicators, beyond mere length, that were evidence for an unfamiliar relationship before the supplicant and the addressed deity (§2.5.3.2). Likewise, the shortened or omitted invocation may also be related to the fronting of confession and lament. The shortening of the invocation may be a reaction to the heightened danger and urgency of an audience with an offended ruler. The confession needed to be delivered quickly before further punishment was exacted.
Although the ritual frame in which these prayers take place assumes that the deity is much more connected to the praying individual, there is still a considerable amount of
28 ilī bēlī bānû šumīya nāṣir napištīya mušabšû zērīya
112 social distance between these two parties. The personal gods are certainly addressed in more familiar terms, but within the ritual frame they are still divine rulers who possessed frightening power. In the prayers, the deity is addressed as “my god” (e.g. 23, 40, 44, 55),
“the creator of my name” (40) and “who begat” (73) and “gave birth” (74) to the supplicant. Despite these very familiar terms, the personal god is still “my lord,” “very great one” (109), “who gives judgments, whose command is not altered” (110) and “holy one, creator of all peoples” (55). Additionally, although the personal god seems to be considered one who “begat” or “gave birth” to the supplicant, the supplicant is also considered a “slave” (79, 135) and a “house-born slave” (78). Within the dingiršadabba prayers in general, the personal god is a closely connected divine parent, but also a powerful judge who is the owner and master of the supplicant. The supplicant also acknowledges that the personal god has “carried off” his wife and son (88), which demonstrates that the other family members’ connection to the addressed deity did not save them from the fatal effects of his wrath. Within the ritual frame, even though the deity is a divine parent of sorts, he is also a powerful and demanding deity who punishes an individual for ignorant infractions and bereaves him of his own family. Within the rituals, the position of the personal god among the divine hierarchy is irrelevant because he is a judge whose command is not altered. Therefore, even though this is a more familiar relationship with the addressed deity in comparison with the šuilla rituals, it cannot be accurately characterized as informal. The entire exchange takes place in a formal audience and assumes that the stakes are high for the supplicant.
113 The fronting of confession or lament in the face of punishment shows that divine attention is the source of supplicant’s problems, something that needs to be dealt with immediately. Whereas šuilla prayers create an audience in which the supplicant is free to be rather slow at getting to the actual petition, the dingiršadabba assumes a situation that cannot afford this luxury. Confession or negative confession of misdeeds is a common element of dingiršadabba prayers, but is decidedly less common in šuilla prayers. The next section makes it clear that rather than an audience in which a specific favor it sought, the dingiršadabba reflects a situation in which direct reconciliation is sought in a dangerous situation. Appearing before an offended personal god or goddess creates a dangerous situation where the goal is not to have a specific petition granted but to have one’s life spared. Rather than creating a relationship step-by-step, dingiršadabbas assume a very close relationship. The brief invocation and lack of praise are not only indicative of this close relationship but also hint at the danger and urgency of other pressing needs.
The next section will describe the dingiršadabba as a direct confrontation rather than a petition being asked of a third-party.
3.3.2.3 The Petitioner’s Problem Besides structural features, the content of the petition points to another important difference between the audience assumed in šuilla rituals and the audience assumed in dingiršadabba rituals. One of the most important purposes of the šuilla ritual was to petition the addressed god to intercede with other gods or the personal gods on behalf of
114 the human petitioner.29 Such a purpose is often explicit within the wording of the ritual as well as in the instructions for the āšipu. This is seen clearly in CTN 4, 168, a collection of
šuilla prayers to goddesses. Many of prayers included on the tablet have the stated purpose of reconciling the supplicant and other gods. The ritual instructions after Ištar 31 state that “this will reconcile the wrath of god and goddess with him” (ii 38). Nisaba 2 on this tablet includes a ritual arrangement for the personal god, despite the fact that the
29 As Frechette notes, there are 14 prayers in our dataset that make mention of either the addressed deity being angry or reconciliation being important (Ritual-Prayers, Appendix 4). However, of those 14 prayers, all but 6 include mention of the anger or reconciliation with other deities. Of those 6 that only discuss reconciliation with the addressed deity, Tašmētu 2 includes a petition to “reconcile with me, the one who fears you…” (CTN 4, 168 ii 58). In the extant portion of the prayer, there is very little to suggest what the problem of the supplicant actually is. This merely seems to be a general petition for the wellbeing of the supplicant (although there is possibly the command “destroy” in CTN 4, 168 ii 57). In Nusku 13, the ritual occurs in the case of a lightning strike that causes fire, and the supplicant’s offering and incantation to Marduk and Ea were also important to soothing the heart of the god (ibid., 187–88). Both Nergal 1 and Marduk 18 are very similar; they include short invocations, confession of sins, and the pouring of water to calm the deity (this was also done in Nusku 13). Nergal 1 seems to have been adapted specifically as a prayer for a sick person. Marduk 4 has characteristics of eršaḫunga prayers where it mentions Marduk’s anger (Lenzi, Akkadian Hymns, 294). Even though the anger of Ištar is clearly in view in Ištar 3, it also includes a petition “may god and goddess go at my side” (line 16, Ištar 3). The context of a dangerous audience is certainly in the background in some šuilla rituals, but not the majority. The phrase “I bring my life before your great divinity” hints at the fact that one’s life is on the line and occurs in both Marduk 18 and Nergal 1. These prayers, however, are atypical in the sense that they include a very short invocation and front confession and lament. These characteristics align these two prayers more closely with the dingiršadabba rituals we are describing. Regardless, we see that the general trend is for the šuillas to be framed as a request to a higher power to reconcile a problem that they may not be directly involved with. Even in prayers that do not include language about reconciliation, they include petitions that “god and goddess” or “god and king” might be with them or be favorably disposed (see Ea 1a, Enlil 1a, Šamaš 1).
115 prayer is to Nisaba (i 48–50). Tašmētu 1 also gives the assurance that “(his) god and his goddess will be reconciled with him” (iii 49). Ištar 13 has the purpose of reconciling the supplicant with god and palace officials and staff, but makes particular mention of reconciliation with one’s angry gods (see also Ištar 7, AOAT 308, 285: 4′–5′).30 Thus, for many šuilla rituals, the addressed god is only indirectly related to the problems that are affecting the praying individual; but the addressed god does have the power to act as an intermediary in the situation.
The less confrontational type of audience found in šuilla rituals is the type of audience that Zgoll saw in the “Poor Man of Nippur.”31 The protagonist, Gimil-ninurta, initiated an audience with the mayor in order to possibly get something to go with his goat, and again, initiated an audience in front of the king in order to request a chariot.
Gimil-ninurta had not previously offended the mayor or the king, but was merely coming before them to make a request.
Of course, not all of the audiences in the šuilla dataset depict the addressed god as a third-party arbitrator; there are two notable exceptions to this scenario among the šuilla dataset from chapter 2, Nergal 1 and Marduk 18.32 After a mere two-line invocation, the
30 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, for Ištar 13, 243 (1.1.3), for Ištar 7, 244 (1.2.3R); Tzvi Abusch and Daniel Schwemer, Corpus of Mesopotamian Anti-Witchcraft Rituals (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 365–71.
31 Zgoll, “Audienz — Ein Modell.”
32 The wordings of these two prayers are very close; see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 262, 264.
116 two prayers launch into a confession, “[For wro]ng-doing known or not known, [Which]
I committed [through carelessness], negligence, or malfeasance, [Which] against your great divinity, [as against] one’s own father, I committed [through carelessness], negligence, or malfeasance, [I bring] my life before your great divinity.”33 The supplicant acknowledges that their misdeed was a personal affront to this addressed deity; the supplicant also acknowledges the danger by the statement that “[I bring] my life before your great divinity.” To proceed in front of an offended deity was to put one’s life into the hands of another. Even in these prayers that are delivered to highly ranked deities, the invocation is shortened and confession is fronted in response to the danger of the audience.
In dingiršadabba rituals, similar to the example of Nergal 1 and Marduk 18, the problem is not tangentially related to the addressed god; the problem is the petitioner himself. Within some prayers used in dingiršadabba rituals, the supplicant confesses to have committed a number of serious crimes that have resulted in very angry personal gods. An example of the dingiršadabba prayer, ilī ul īde šēretka dannat is given in full below.
23 Incantation: My god, I did not know how strong your EN2 DINGIR.MU ul i-de še-ret-[ka punishment was! dan]-na-at 24 I frivolously swore by your honored life. niš-ka kab-tu qa-liš [a]z-za-kar 25 I scorned your rules, I continued on to a great extent. me-e-ka am-te-eš ma-gal al-lik
33 This translation of Marduk 18 is from Foster, Before the Muses, 688. For a recent textual edition of Marduk 18, see Oshima, Babylonian Prayers to Marduk, 383–85. For an edition of Nergal, see Ebeling, AGH, 8–11. Nergal 1 omits the line that Foster translates, “[Which] against your great divinity, [as against] one’s own father” ([kīma ana] abi ālidi ana ilūtīka rabīti, KAR 23, 24).
117 26 I “skirted” your message in hard times. ši-pir-ka ina dan-na-ti aš2-te-ʾ- er 27 Your boundaries I transgressed to a great extent. i-ta-ka ma-gal e-te-te-eq
28 I did not know and…to a great extent. ul i-de-ma ma-gal A[N…] 29 My sins are many; what I did, I don't know! ma-a-du ar2-nu-u-a e-ma e-pu- šu2 ul i-de 30 My god, annul, absolve, release the anger of your heart. DINGIR.MU pu-us-si pu-ṭur pu- šur ki-ṣir ŠA3-bi-k[a]
31 Forget my crimes, accept my plea! me-e-ša2 gil2-la-ti-ia2 li-qi2 un- ni-ni-ia
32 Turn my mistakes into good luck! šu-kun ḫi-ṭa-ti-ia2 a-na dam-qa- a-ti 33 Your hand is strong; I have experienced your dan-na-at qat-ka a-ta-mar še- punishment. ret-ka d 34 May the one who does not fear his (personal) god and la pa-liḫ DINGIR-šu2 u 15-šu2 ina his (personal) goddess learn from me. ŠUII-ia li-mur
35 My god, be reconciled; my goddess, relent! DINGIR.MU DI-mu d15.MU nap-ši- ri II 36 To the prayer of my two raised hands, turn your faces! a-na te-nin niš ŠU -ia2 suḫ-ḫi- ra-ni pa-ni-ku-nu
37 May your angry hearts be at rest! ag-gu ŠA3-ba-ku-nu li-nu-ḫa 38 May your kidneys relent, appoint reconciliation for me! lip-pa-aš2-ra ka-bat-ta-ku-nu DI-mu šuk-na-ni
39 Without forgetting, I will sound your praises to the ša2 la ma-še-e da3-li2-li2-ku-nu widespread people!34 lu-uš-tam-mar ana UN.MEŠ DAGAL.MEŠ
We see that the petitioner confesses to have set aside divine regulations, transgressed boundaries, and sworn lightly by the life of his or her personal god. These are all personal affronts to the addressed deity.
34 Translation is my own, but I have benefited from previous translations and studies; see Lenzi, Akkadian Hymns, 431–45; Foster, Before the Muses, 722; Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba,” 274–77.
118 Not only is the audience dangerous because the supplicant has angered his personal gods through direct offense, but the very fact that an audience is happening at all is a dangerous breach of social protocol; audiences with irate individuals usually do not happen. To allow an audience with someone with whom you are angry is a break of social protocol, and to force such an encounter could prove dangerous. For example, in
Ludlul bēl nēmeqi, Šubši-mešre-šakkan claims that first, “I cried to (my) god and he did not show his face, I prayed to (my) goddess, she did not raise her head” (Ludlul II:4–5).
Šubši-mešre-šakkan does not know why his personal gods are angry, but the fact that they have refused an audience to him tells him that they are angry. He tries a number of ritual means to find out the problem, and in his last attempt, the protagonist goes to the
āšipu. However, even “the āšipu with his ritual could not dispel the wrath” (Ludlul II:9).
The task of the āšipu, in the case of a dingiršadabba, was to use his divinely sanctioned knowledge and expertise to essentially force an audience between the supplicant and the angry deity. His kikkiṭṭû ‘ritual,’ in the case of a dingiršadabba, was aimed more specifically at direct reconciliation than the šuilla.
In addition to shortening the invocation and fronting confession, the burning of statues in association with dingiršadabba rituals is evidence that these were dangerous audiences that were high-stakes encounters. In the dingiršadabba prayer, ilī šurbû qāʾišu balāṭi, figurines of the supplicant’s own close family members and their entire clan in general (father, grandfather, mother, grandmother, elder brother, elder sister,
119 clan/kith/kin) are burned in order to placate the angry deity.35 The use of figurines is rare among šuilla rituals.36 Because the addressed god is usually viewed as a mediator in less dangerous circumstances, statues are not ritually destroyed in order to preserve the life of the supplicant. The ritual destruction of one’s own family members in order to placate the wrath of one’s family god demonstrates that this could be viewed as a rather harsh, life- and-death situation. The actual misdeeds of the family members that “have come upon”
(118) the supplicant are not given in detail, but one might assume that they would been similar misdeeds that are confessed in the other dingiršadabba rituals.37 Regardless of the severity or type of the infraction, the punishment was diverted by ritually burning the figurines that represented the family members of the supplicant; the fact that these family members would have regarded the addressed deity as their own personal god does not hinder the requirement of their own ritual demise. Within the context of this ritual frame, the personal god is a demanding judge who seeks to meet out punishment as long as it is needed, even until the death of the family members with whom he has a relationship.
35 The ritual instructions accompanying ilī šurbû qāʾišu balāṭi on K.3177+ (14′-17′) indicate that seven tallow figurines would have been burned during the ritual. Each figurine corresponds to one of the family members noted in the prayer as long as we assume that “clan, kith, and kin” are collectively represented by the seventh figurine. This is also similar to the seven tallows figurines that are burned during the ilī ul īde ritual after the recitation of dištar šurbûtu (KAR 90 rev. 4–5). Throwing statues into the river is also associated with Sîn 6a-b.
36 Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 189.
37 For example, see ilī ul īde šēretka dannat above.
120 That the world within dingiršadabba rituals assumes a particularly dangerous audience is indicated by the shortening of the invocation, the fronting of confession and lament, the ritual destruction of statues, and the fact that the supplicant is before a highly irate personal deity, who would normally refuse such an audience. In terms of structure, the fronting of confession and lament are reactions to the heightened danger of the audience.
Literary examples of dangerous audience scenes allow us to see how the strategies and elements of dingiršadabba prayers are designed to help the supplicant survive such a dangerous encounter. As we explore these audience scenes, we will draw connections to elements that are paralleled in the text of dingiršadabbas as well as their use within larger rituals. Finding corresponding strategies in literary texts will provide support for the proposal that dingiršadabbas assume a dangerous encounter with an offended deity.
3.3.3 Examples of Dangerous Audience Scenes
3.3.3.1 Dangerous Audiences in Mesopotamian Sources Our assessment of the changes in the audience scene depicted within the dingiršadabba ritual can be confirmed if we find similar features in audience scenes among Mesopotamian sources. In this section, we will explore the dangerous audiences found in Mesopotamian inscriptions and written sources. We will look at Assyrian royal inscriptions, as well as myths such as Adapa and “Nergal and Ereškigal.”
3.3.3.1.1 Assyrian Royal Inscriptions For most of the Assyrian royal inscriptions, descriptions of the enemies of the king who are brought before him are quite general and formulaic; they give us little information for how a dangerous audience was expected to proceed. For example, in one 121 of Tiglath-Peleser I’s inscriptions it says, “I captured all of the kings of the lands of Nairi alive. I had mercy on those kings and spared their lives.”38 Perhaps more common is a description of conquered enemies grasping or kissing the feet, both of which are idioms for submission. For example, after marching on Milidia in Ḫanigalbat, Tiglath-pileser I claims that the entire town “seized my feet and I had mercy on them.”39 Esarhaddon claims that “Laialê, king of the city of Iadiʾ, who had fled before my weapons, heard of the plundering of his gods and came to Nineveh, my capital city, before me, and kissed my feet. I had pity on him and said to him ‘Aḫulap!’”40
Although direct speech is not the norm in royal inscriptions, Esarhaddon and
Sennacherib both provide us with quotations from rebellious kings.41 The most detailed narrative with direct speech comes in Esarhaddon’s description of his conquest of Šubria in his “Letter to the Gods.”42
38 Translation from A. Kirk Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of Early First Millennium BC I (1114-859 BC), RIM, Assyrian Periods 2 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991), 22 v 8–12. 39 Ibid., 22 v 33–38. 40 Translation from Erle Leichty, The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680-669 BC), RINAP 4 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 31 iii 24–30. 41 Pamela Girardi points out that “[d]irect speech as a narrative technique appears only sporadically in the inscriptions of the Assyrian kings. The inscriptions of Esarhaddon and his successor, Assurbanipal, however, make generous use of direct speech” (“Thus, He Spoke: Direct Speech in Esarhaddon’s Royal Inscriptions,” ZA 79 [1989]: 245). 42 For bibliography on Esarhaddon’s “Letter to the Gods,” see Leichty, The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680-669 BC), 80, Text 33; I. Ephʿal and H. Tadmor, “Observations on Two Inscriptions of Esarhaddon: Prism Nineveh A and the Letter to the God,” in Essays on Ancient Israel in Its Near Eastern Context: A Tribute to Nadav Naʼaman, ed. Yaira Amit (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 155–70; Israel
122 The equivalence between pleas to kings and gods is made here to a high degree.
The king of Šubria refuses to extradite certain fugitives that the king of Assyria had requested. When Esarhaddon decides to march on Šubria, the city’s king reacts by tearing off his clothes and putting on “the garment of a sinner.”43 After crying “mercy (aḫulap)” to Aššur, the king of Šubria writes a letter to Esarhaddon that is dripping with the same prayer language we find in incantation-prayers.44 He asks for Esarhaddon to “let me live so that I may proclaim the fame of the god Aššur (and) praise your heroism” (i 17) and that others might “learn from my example” (i 19). He ends his plea with “may the anger of your heart be appeased. Have mercy on me and remove my punishment!” (i 24).
Esarhaddon later refers to this letter as a “prayer (sullû)” and “plea (unnīnu)” (i 33), common words for prayers to deities.
The invocation in the king of Šubria’s letter addresses Esarhaddon as follows,
O, king, to whom abomination, untruth, plundering, (and) murdering are taboo; trustworthy shepherd, who keeps safe his camp, the strength of his army, whose attack can not be with[stood], knowledgeable in battle, war, (and) combat, capable in [all] deeds, for whom the god Aššur made mighty his weapons and whom he made greater than the kings, his ancestors” (i 8–11).
Ephʿal, “Esarhaddon, Egypt, and Shubria: Politics and Propaganda,” JCS 57 (2005): 99– 111; Erle Leichty, “Esarhaddon’s ‘Letter to the Gods,’” in Ah, Assyria...Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor, ed. Mordechai Cogan and Israel Ephʿal (Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1991), 52–57. 43 Leichty, The Royal Inscriptions of Esarhaddon, King of Assyria (680–669 BC), 81 Text 33 i 3. 44 Ibid., 81–82 i 8–24.
123 Although the invocation is long, the Šubrian king immediately confesses and accepts his punishment by saying, “let the land Šubria, the land that sinned against you, serve you in its entirety” (i 12), and after accepting punishment for his land, he confesses, “I am a thief” (i 15). The longer invocation seems to be indicative of the formal and distant relationship between the king of Šubria and
Esarhaddon, and we see that confession is fronted in the prayer because
Esarhaddon has been directly offended. This address to Esarhaddon is a letter rather than a direct audience with Esarhaddon so the urgency that might shorten the invocation is not present. This distant encounter with Esrhaddon that takes place through a letter offers more time to offer praise before worrying the king would need to worry about being dispatched.
In this same narrative, a more direct encounter has the characteristics that provide us with a closer parallel to the situation in dingiršadabba rituals. After the narrative about the Šubrian king’s unsuccessful letter, Esarhaddon’s narrative includes another attempt by the king of Šubria to get Esarhaddon to relent. Israel Ephaʾal conjectures that these two stories may be “alternative descriptions of the same event, rather than accounts of consecutive episodes.” 45 In this attempt at forestalling the Esarhaddon’s advance, the king of Šubria makes a gilded statue of himself, puts the statue in fetters, and has it hold a grindstone (ii 18–21). He then gives this to his sons and sends them to Esarhaddon “to
(make me) have pi[ty (on him and) to save] his life” (ii 22–23). This is a more direct
45 Ephʿal and Tadmor, “Observations on Two Inscriptions of Esarhaddon,” 165.
124 confrontation; rather than a nameless messenger who delivers a letter, we have the king’s own sons presenting a gift and pleading for their father’s life. Esarhaddon tells us that the sons spoke for their father, saying “Pu[t the..]…crimes (and) disobedience on the asakku- demon. Let me come [to sing] your praises. Let me a[lone..] … all of the arro[gant] enemies. Let the unsubmissive…[…] (and) let the disrespectful honor your lordship” (ii
24–27). In this instance, in a much more direct and dangerous encounter, the epithets are dropped and confession is fronted. This provides us with a parallel to our dingiršadabba examples because it is a dangerous audience scene with no invocation and a confession.
Although the sons act as proxy for king of Šubria, his sons were undoubtedly a more precious substitute than the nameless messenger of the letter. Although we certainly would not consider these quotations to be the actual dialogue of Esarhaddon’s opponents, this narrative includes plausible words and reactions of individuals in dangerous circumstances.
Sennacherib’s royal inscriptions have an example that also fits more closely with the situation we find in dingiršadabba rituals. After two kings were defeated in battle, they run to Esarhaddon and “at my [fe]et, they beseeched my lordship, (saying): ‘Let us live […so that we might proclaim] your [f]ame’” (99–100).46 This situation mirrors the danger and immediacy we have conjectured for dingiršadabba prayers. Notably, there is no invocation or epithets at all; something that we have seen in dingiršadabba prayers.
46 A. Kirk Grayson and Jamie Novotny, The Royal Inscriptions of Sennacherib, King of Assyria (704-681 BC), Part 2, RINAP 3/2 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2014), 334.
125 There is no outright confession, however, but we certainly see that the dangerous nature of situation prompted them to start their address to Sennacherib with a plea.
The evidence from Assyrian royal inscriptions provides a corroborating portrait of the dangerous audience scene we find in the dingiršadabba ritual. In cases where dialogue is present for direct encounters with named individuals, no long epithets are included. In dangerous circumstances where the threat of death is not immediate, as in the case of the king’s letter to Esarhaddon, more time can be taken to honor the king as would be fitting in a more formal relationship. Confession and a plea for mercy are fronted in both cases of a direct encounter.
3.3.3.1.2 Nergal and Ereškigal The two examples that we will explore from Mesopotamian literary sources provide us with much more detailed accounts of dangerous audiences, but it is unclear if these would have been typical ways of navigating dangerous audiences.
We find a number of audiences in the Babylonian poem “Nergal and Ereškigal.”47
In the Middle Babylonian version, Nergal has offended Namtar, the messenger of
Ereškigal the queen of the netherworld, by failing to show proper respect when Namtar
47 This myth is fragmentary and is known from a Middle Babylonian version (A+B) found at El-Amarna, and another version attested in two late exemplars (C+D). The following summary follows the MB version. For an introduction, summary, and translation, see Foster, Before the Muses, 506–24. For a critical edition of the Middle Babylonian version, see Shlomo Izre’el, The Amarna Scholarly Tablets (Groningen: Styx, 1997). For a recent edition of the Standard Babylonian version meant for students, see Simonetta Ponchia and Mikko Luukko, The Standard Babylonian Myth of Nergal and Ereškigal: Introduction, Cuneiform Text and Transliteration with a Translation, Glossary and Commentary (Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2013).
126 arrived in the heavenly court. Ereškigal demands, “send him to me here that I may kill him” (line 27).48 When Namtar arrives, the gods agree to the sentence, saying, “the god who did not stand in your presence, take him before your mistress” (lines 30–31). After avoiding death initially by disguising himself from Namtar, Nergal finally heeds the summons. Taking advice from Ea, he arms himself, and instead of begging for his life, he goes on the offensive and attacks Ereškigal. Nergal’s interaction with Ereškigal turns the audience scene on its head when the one summoned for execution becomes the attacker.
The story certainly illustrates that audience scenes with higher powers could be dangerous encounters. Not only was Nergal sentenced to death for breaking social protocol in audience with an important messenger, but he was summoned for another audience for his execution.49 Nergal and Ereškigal gives us few details about how to negotiate such a dangerous encounter since we can hardly trust that openly attacking the superior in an audience was considered a viable option in the ancient world.
48 For the translation, see Foster, Before the Muses, 506–24. Line numbers correspond to EA 357 published in Izre’el, The Amarna Scholarly Tablets, 51–61. 49 Audience scenes were dangerous, and thus, when people in the Hebrew Bible realize that they just had an audience with the deity, they are very often frightened that they will die (see Judg 13:22; Gen 32:30; Exod 33:20). This brings Jacob’s “wrestling” with an angel into the realm of audience scene, especially in light of the encounter between Nergal and Ereškigal. In all these instances, they realize they did not give proper respect or had done something to warrant death. To behold the face of god was a scary prospect because, just like an audience with a ruler, it either meant communion and legitimacy or death.
127 3.3.3.1.3 Adapa Another Akkadian myth, “Adapa and the South Wind,” features an equally dangerous scene, but negotiates this danger in a more nuanced way.50 After breaking the wing of the South Wind, Adapa is summoned to an audience with Anu for his misdeed.
Adapa was in great danger, but Ea gave him specific instructions on how to deal with the danger of a heavenly audience. Adapa is told how to amuse the attendants of Anu, so that they can put Anu in a good mood. Ea also tells Adapa to refuse the food and drink of death, but to accept a garment and oil. Ea’s advice succeeds in rescuing Adapa before
Anu, but also prevents Adapa from the possibility of eternal life with the gods.51
As far as navigating a dangerous audience, the Adapa story corroborates what we saw in the dingiršadabba, but also alerts us to other important strategies. When Adapa is asked about his breaking the wing of the South Wind, he replies, “My lord! For the lord’s household I was catching fish in the middle of the sea. He cut the sea in half, the South
Wind blew, and me—she drowned. I was plunged into the lord’s house. In the rage of my heart I cursed [he]r?” (lines 49′-54′).52 Adapa’s speech is not a confession as much as it is a statement of what happened, but he does explain what happened. Anu, the most
50 For an English translation, see Foster, Before the Muses, 525–30. For a study and critical edition of the Akkadian text, see Shlomo Izre’el, Adapa and the South Wind: Language Has the Power of Life and Death (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001). 51 Various possibilities have been put forward for why Ea would have told Adapa to refuse food. For one possibility and a review of others, see Jack M. Sasson, “Another Wrinkle on Old Adapa,” in Studies in Ancient Near Eastern World View and Society: Presented to Marten Stol on the Occasion of His 65th Birthday, 10 November 2005, and His Retirement from the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, ed. R. J. van der Spek (Bethesda, MD: CDL Press, 2008), 1–9. 52 Izre’el, Adapa and the South Wind, 18–19.
128 powerful deity, is addressed with a short “my lord.” Adapa’s quick speech worked because of other strategies that he used in tandem. First, the advice of Ea was essential for properly navigating the scene, highlighting the importance of having a knowledgeable intermediary. Second, because Adapa was able to win Anu’s attendants to his cause, they were able to put in a good word for him, and “his heart calmed” (lines 54′-57′).
3.3.3.2 Dangerous Audiences in the Hebrew Bible Although the accounts we have reviewed can be used to support my case about the dingiršadabba outlined above, they hardly represent the smoking gun we need to confirm our assessment. The lack of well-described dangerous audience scene parallels in the narrative and literary depictions of Mesopotamia leaves us wondering about the specifics of the expected social protocols for navigating such scenes. However, if we cast our net still wider within the ancient Near East, we get further parallels that elucidate the dangers of an audience with an offended deity. In a reversal of what is typically the norm in comparative studies, I want to use data from the Hebrew Bible to shed some light on
Mesopotamian sources. I will use dangerous audience scenes from the Hebrew Bible in order to bolster my argument about the dingiršadabba. Although we might be skeptical that social conventions were exactly similar between these cultures, the conventions for audiences found in the Hebrew Bible seem to be quite similar. The ultimate justification for our comparison is a better understanding of the ritual circumstances of the dingiršadabba.
The notion that an audience with an angry ruler or an angry god was not a safe experience is widely held in the Hebrew Bible; when a ruler was angry they refused to
129 hold audience. For example, in the Exodus narrative, after Moses presses Pharaoh to allow the Israelites to bring their livestock to serve Yahweh, Pharaoh throws Moses out of his court with this warning: “Go from me. Watch yourself, you must not see my face again. For when you see my face, you will die” (Exod 10:28). Moses had angered the
Pharaoh enough that he refused any further audience with Moses, and threatened to kill
Moses if an audience ever occurred in the future. When Absalom seeks reconciliation with his father David, he acknowledges the danger of an audience, “let me see the face of the king and if there is any iniquity in me, let him kill me!” (2 Sam 14:32). This danger of holding audience with an angry king or deity is also behind Yahweh’s refusal in Exodus
33 to show Moses his face, “for there shall no man see me and live” (Exod 33:20). This danger in meeting an angry superior is at the background of many of the narrative examples that we will explore in this section.
3.3.3.2.1 Shimei and David For our first example, we will look at the audience between Shimei and David.
Shimei had previously cursed and thrown stones at David as he left Jerusalem in the face of Absalom’s rebellion (2 Sam 16:5–8). After Absalom’s defeat, Shimei undoubtedly saw the difficult situation he had put himself him, and we are told that he “hurried” to help ferry the king’s household across the Jordan (2 Sam 19:17, 19). The narrative tells us that
“Shimei, son of Gera, fell down before the king when he crossed the Jordan and he said to the king, “Do not impute iniquity to me, my lord; and do not remember what your servant did wrong when my lord the king when out from Jerusalem, that the king puts it into his heart. Because your servant knows that I have sinned, I came here today first of all the house of Joseph to come down to meet the king, my lord” (2 Sam 19:20–21). 130 Shimei’s strategy was to come quickly and confess what he had done to David. Shimei must confess quickly because time was of the essence. He was in serious danger of being dispatched out of hand. This is shown by Abishai’s comment, “Should not Shimei be put to death for this, because he cursed the anointed of Yahweh?” (v. 22). There are two things that we should notice about Shimei’s confrontation with David. First, confession was the first element of his address to David and any invocation of the king was incidental to his confession. Second, we notice that the purpose of the encounter was not for David to grant something so much as for Shimei to survive the encounter. To survive was the ultimate goal in front of an angry and offended superior.
3.3.3.2.2 Abigail and David We find these same principles in the audience between David and Abigail in 1
Sam 25. Nabal, Abigail’s husband, foolishly insulted David’s young men and incited
David to answer this insult with a slaughter. When Abigail hears of this dangerous situation, she sends gifts ahead of herself and confronts David on his way to kill Nabal (1
Samu 25). Knowing that lives are on the line and time is of the essence, she “hurried,” got off her donkey, and prostrated herself (1 Sam 25:23). In her attempt to persuade
David, she turns the entire episode into a confession for something she has done wrong.
She begins by saying, “The iniquity is in me my lord” (v. 24), and she claims that it is her fault because she did not notice David’s men had come, and asks David to “forgive the transgression of your handmaiden” (v.28). Her initial words are a confession with an incidental invocation. It is significant here that David is not marching to kill for anything that Abigail has actually done, but Abigail sees that the situation warrants a confession and couches the entire situation as an oversight on her part. 131 David’s audiences with Shimei and Abigail have provided some confirmation of our initial assessment. Dangerous situations that involve an offended social superior are best navigated by fronting confession. In such situations, time is of the essence, and the survival of inferior is on the line. The unique features that we found in the dingiršadabba are the same features that we find in the dangerous audience scenes of the Hebrew Bible.
3.3.4 Comparisons to the use of the dingiršadabba as used in larger rituals In order to further verify that dingiršadabba rituals truly set up a dangerous audience between an individual and his personal gods, we should also expect this situation to be reflected in the use of dingiršadabbas when they form a part of larger rituals. And if the interaction between human and god continues to be driven by social factors, we should find additional parallels in dangerous audience scenes. I will demonstrate that the reconciliation between David and Absalom provides us with an important window into the social conventions that help us understand the use of dingiršadabbas in three Mesopotamian rituals, ilī ul īde, bīt rimki, and bīt salāʾ mê.
3.3.4.1 Summary of Larger Rituals Appeals to the personal god and goddess using dingiršadabba rituals often appear at the end of larger rituals, and show that reconciliation with one’s angry gods marks an important high point in these rituals. In both bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê, the culminating ritual act towards the gods was the king approaching his personal god and goddess through dingiršadabbas. Claus Ambos has argued that reconciliation with the personal gods was an important purpose of both rituals, and that the ritual activity that preceded the appearance before the personal god and goddess is geared towards preparing for the
132 encounter.53 Ambos’s description about the assumptions made in the āšipu’s ritual practice are enlightening for the current situation.54 He argues that the personal gods were responsible for ensuring the fortune and wellbeing of the individual. However, when they became estranged and removed their protection, the patient became vulnerable to all sorts of evils that were thought to be attached to the body of the individual. Mesopotamian ritual practice worked to ensure that the symptoms caused by this evil and the evil itself were removed. After removal, the actual cause of the problem had to be dealt with, which was the estrangement of one’s personal god and goddess. The dingiršadabba rituals facilitated the culminating encounter with the personal god and goddess that completed the healing process. In addition to Ambos’s assessment, I argue that we can also see that the danger of a direct audience with the personal gods necessitates many initial steps by the supplicant before such a direct encounter is attempted.
53 Ambos has shown that “healing” in a wider sense is the purpose of bīt salāʾ mê. Bīt salāʾ mê was proceeded by the ritual “if the death-spirit seizes a man” in which the “symptoms and the evil forces which had produced them” were taken care of (Claus Ambos, “Ritual Healing and the Investiture of the Babylonian King,” in The Problem of Ritual Efficacy, ed. William S. Sax, Johannes Quack, and Jan Weinhold, Oxford Ritual Studies [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010], 23–25). Ambos argues that “such protection was not sustainable if a person had been abandoned by his or her personal gods” and that treating this particular cause “was the aim of the next ritual of the cluster, House of sprinkling water [bīt salāʾ mê]” (ibid., 25). Ambos argues that bīt rimki operates with the same purpose of removing the symptoms and illness inducing agents, and then reconciling oneself with personal gods; see Ambos, “Purifying the King by Means of Prisoners, Fish, a Goose, and a Duck: Some Remarks on the Mesopotamian Notions of Purity,” 92–93. 54 Ambos, “Purifying the King by Means of Prisoners, Fish, a Goose, and a Duck: Some Remarks on the Mesopotamian Notions of Purity,” 92–93; Ambos, “Ritual Healing,” 23– 25.
133 In the following sections, I provide a brief summary and synopsis of each ritual, ilī ul īde, bīt rimki, and bīt salāʾ mê. This will allow us to see dingiršadabbas in some of their ritual contexts as well as provide us with a number of ways that the patient was prepared to approach the personal god and goddess at the end of the ritual. These observations will allow us to compare their progression towards the personal gods with the David and Absalom story.
3.3.4.1.1 KAR 90 The clearest and best preserved ritual that utilizes dingiršadabba prayers is the ilī ul īde ritual (KAR 90), which has the stated purpose of alleviating worry for the patient
(“his personal god will be reconciled with him and he will not be worried (ilšu ittīšu isallim niziqtu ul irašši)” (KAR 90 rev. 15)).55 The name of the ritual (‘my god, I did not know’ ilī ul īde (obv. 1)) seems to draw on the name of two of the prayers (ilī ul īde
šēretka dannat [rev. 4], ilī ul īde šēretka našâku [rev. 3]) which are cited by incipit and included in our dataset.56
55 Transliteration and German translation of KAR 90 are found in Erich Ebeling, Tod und Leben nach den Vorstellungen der Babylonier (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1931), 114–20. A useful explanation of this ritual in the context of the personal god is found in Jaques, “»Mein Gott, was habe ich nur getan?” My own understanding of the ritual diverges from Jaques’s description at some points and follows Ambos (“Temporary Ritual Structures,” 248). A collection of rituals aimed at personal gods (AMT 81/5) includes a section that calls for the prayer ilī ul īde to be used along with ritual instructions that mirror those described in KAR 90. There is no published transliteration of AMT 81/5. 56 In Lambert’s edition, ilī ul īde šēretka dannat is I:23–39, and ilī ul īde šēretka našâku is III:6–19 before it breaks off entirely (Lambert, “Dingir.s̆ à.dib.ba”).
134 The ritual may be summarized as follows. First, the ritual involves setting the statue of one’s personal god on a brick along with clay and fabric in a flour circle to the left of a door (obv. 1–5).57 A rack or stand for offerings is placed in front of this (obv. 3).
Additional images of clay are made and placed on a brick, and gifts of food are offered to these images as well (obv. 7). Then the patient is prepared for the encounter with the gods by being purified through a mouth-washing ceremony (obv. 15). The āšipu recites one incantation while standing on a mat (obv. 16, GA2.E LU2 KU3.GA ME.EN ‘I am a pure man’) and then takes the patient by the hand and has him recite an incantation to his personal god (obv. 17, tānīḫat libbīya ilī šemânni ‘O my god, hear the moaning of my heart’).58
After this, a reed hut (šutukku) is set up behind the ritual arrangement, which serves as a temporary shrine for the gods involved in the ceremony (obv. 18).59 Then an enclosure of
57 It is not clear which door is being referred to in the ritual instructions. There is a possibility that this refers to the reed structure (šutukku) that is set up later on in the ritual. Ambos interprets this hut as a temporary shrine for the gods participating in the ritual (“Temporary Ritual Structures,” 248). At the end of the ritual, after the patient has been removed from prison, he bows before the door and speaks whatever is in his heart. Either way, the patient is brought to his personal god after his confession and plea within the prison. 58 Before the patient enters into the reed hut, he recites tānīḫat libbīya ilī šemânni (rev. 17), which, although clearly a prayer to a personal god, is not attested elsewhere, and it is not known if it was considered a dingiršadabba prayer. 59 This is Ambos’s interpretation of the ritual procedure. If the statue of the personal god and the other gods were meant to reside inside, one wonders why this was not mentioned and constructed earlier in the ritual. However, Jaques’s interpretation that the man is placed in the reed hut is also not accurate (“»Mein Gott, was habe ich nur getan?,” 78), since the reed hut and the reed enclosure are separate structures. Ambos’s interpretation squares with other rituals that utilize both reed enclosures and reed huts; see Ambos, “Temporary Ritual Structures.”.
135 reed standards is set up in which a “prison of flour” is drawn with a brick placed in it
(obv. 19). The patient is placed in this prison and made to sit on the brick and a brazier is set in front of him (obv. 20). While in the prison, he washes his hands in a mixture of various foods and shakes it off over the brazier and recites two dingiršadabba prayers, ilī ul īde šēretka našâku followed by ilī ul īde šēretka dannat (rev. 1–3). When the supplicant arrives at the incipit “great goddess,” the āšipu is to throw seven statues of tallow into the brazier, and then the āšipu and the patient are to finish the recitation (rev.
3–6).60 The exorcist withdraws and burns two statues of wax and two statues of tallow while reciting three incantations, including one dingiršadabba (rev. 8, minû annūyā-ma kiam epšēku; rev. 9, nūḫu dGirra qurādu ‘calm down O hero Girra’; rev. 9
šangammaḫāku-ma ‘I am the purification priest’).61 Then the āšipu extinguishes the brazier and throws it into the river (rev. 10), and recites an incantation to the divine assembly (rev. 11, anamdi šipta ana puḫur ilāni kalāma, ‘I will cast an incantation before the assembly of all of the gods’). After bowing, he takes the patient by both hands and
60 Upon returning to the incantation to be recited, KAR 90 says that EN2 ilī ul īde tuqattā- ma DU11. DU11-ub terêqam-ma (rev. 6). Dabābu usually refers to the patient’s speech (see next note), therefore, it might be translated as “you finish the incantation ilī ul īde and he says (it and then) you withdraw.” If this is the case, this is the last time the patient speaks before appearing before the personal god at the end of the ritual.
61 In KAR 90, the verbs for speaking differentiate between the āšipu and the patient; manû (ŠID) for the āšipu and šudbubu for the patient. Cynthia Jean notes that dabābu and manû are also used to contrast the speech of the patient and āšipu in bīt rimki and šurpu, “You Recite the Incantation ‘I am a pure man’: qabû, manû or dabābu?,” in Proceedings of the 53e Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale: Language in the Ancient Near East, ed. Leonid Kogan (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 341. If this is correct, the āšipu would present himself as the supplicant as he recites minû annūyā-ma kiam epšēku.
136 leads him out of the prison and the patient prostrates in front of the door, where the personal god sits, and says whatever is in his heart (rev. 12–13). He is then to return home after walking through the smoke of the incense burner and torches (rev. 14).
The purpose of the ritual was to restore a proper relationship between the patient and his personal gods, because it was this ruptured relationship that caused the supplicant to have ‘worry’ (niziqtum). Although each of the prayers themselves is essentially a framed audience before the personal god, the entire KAR 90 ritual is an extended audience in with each dingiršadabba plays a part in the encounter with an angry deity.
After offering a gift to the deity and initially expressing his desire to address his personal god while standing on a reed mat, the patient was separated from his god in a prison.
While in prison, separated and protected from the personal god,62 the patient offers immediate confession and lament while he or she recited dingiršadabba prayers. The danger of addressing the personal god is alleviated within the prison, and statues that may have served as substitutes for the individual or his family are burned outside of the prison by the āšipu in order to divert divine anger. The āšipu also acts as intermediary, separately taking the supplicant’s case to his personal god on behalf of the supplicant.63
62 Jaques points out the fact that the supplicant is isolated yet protected; see “»Mein Gott, was habe ich nur getan?,” 78. 63 If the distinction between manû and šudbubu holds out for this text, then we have a curious case in which the āšipu actually takes the place of the patient in performing a dingiršadabba before the personal gods. One other incantation (Calm down, O hero Girra) would also feature the āšipu standing in place of the patient as well (see šurpu V- VI:187–199 in Reiner, Šurpu, 35. Whether this is an argument against the distinction between manû and šudbubu or rather a fascinating insight into these rituals as performance is not clear.
137 After the gift, the transferring of sin and evil, confession, and the help of a third party in placating divine wrath, the patient is led out of prison to bow before his personal god. It is only after all of these procedures that the supplicant is able to appear before the statue of the deity unprotected and unscripted.
3.3.4.1.2 Bīt rimki Both bīt rimki and bīt salāʾmê also include dingiršadabba prayers in contexts that are similar to the ritual described in KAR 90. As noted previously, Claus Ambos argues that the main purpose of these two rituals was to maintain and reestablish harmonious relationships with the divine sphere, especially one’s personal gods. Although the two rituals are both different and complex, they share broad similarities and the contexts that we have for dingiršadabba prayers in both bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê appear to be quite similar.64
The long ritual complex known as bīt rimki is unfortunately lacking an up-to-date edition and comprehensive study, so our understanding of it is limited. The ritual is known to us in two versions, one from Nineveh from the Neo-Assyrian period (BBR 26)
64 For a note on the similarities of the two rituals, see Hrůša, Mesopotamian Religion, 141. Other attested rituals also conform to this general outline. A letter sent to the Assyrian king by one of his exorcists (Nabû-nādin-šumi), describes to the king the general outline of a ritual similar to both bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê (SAA 10, 277). The exorcist tells the king that he will sit for 7 days within a reed enclosure (urigallu) while šuilla prayers and a “universal” namburbî is carried out, and the king will recite “rituals to his god and his goddess” during that time. It is not clear if the “rituals” can be connected with our dingiršadabba incantations, but the surrounding context is quite similar. The fact that we have prayers to both named gods and personal gods being made while the supplicant was in a reed enclosure concerning vague or unknown transgressions must point to this being an effective strategy for diverting divine anger.
138 and another from Uruk from the Late Babylonian Period (SpTU II 12).65 The order of some of the elements appears to be different between these two versions and neither of the two are completely extant.66
Bīt rimki was carried out when an inauspicious omen had revealed that the gods were angry and the life of the king was in danger.67 After the king and the palace were purified by various means, the rite that gives the ritual its name began. Ambos provides a nice summary description.
In the flat countryside, the exorcist constructed the so-called “house of the (ritual) bath”, a complex structure made of reeds in which the ritual performance took place…During the night, the ritual expert made the king recite a long cycle of [šuilla] prayers to the major gods of the pantheon and the stars, and planets…In the morning at sunrise, after having bathed himself and put on a clean garment, the king passed through seven “houses”, as they are called in the text….The ritual actions in the seven houses consisted of washing parts of the body of the king, and of manipulation of figurines in front of the rising sun, Šamaš…After the king had passed through the seven houses, there followed, still in the house of the (ritual) bath, it seems, further rites of purification, in which men and animals were released…After these several acts of releasing carriers of impurity, a sequence of rituals and incantations against sorcery followed [i.e. maqlû]. Finally, the king presented himself to the gods Ea, Šamaš, and Asalluḫi, and addressed them with prayers…Finally, the king presented himself to his personal gods and addressed them with [dingiršadabba] prayers.68
65 Ibid., 142. To BBR 26 is added Kh. 338 (PBS 1/1, no. 15) and a number of texts published in Læssøe, Studies on the Assyrian Ritual and Series Bît Rimki. 66 Hrůša, Mesopotamian Religion, 142, 152. 67 Ambos, “Purifying the King by Means of Prisoners, Fish, a Goose, and a Duck: Some Remarks on the Mesopotamian Notions of Purity,” 91. 68 Ibid., 94–99.
139 Ambos interprets this ritual as a rite of passage which includes rites of separation, a liminal state, and rites of aggregation.69 Separating and purifying the king separates him from the evils that may have caused his inauspicious fate, and he reassumes his ruling authority as he proceeds from house to house. From another perspective, we can see the entire ritual as geared towards helping the supplicant successful navigate the audience with his personal gods that will take place near the end of the ritual. Many of the šuilla prayers recited at night have the purpose of asking the “great gods” to intercede between the supplicant and his personal god and goddess. After this nighttime appeal to many different gods, the patient is able to move closer to the personal gods as he progresses to the next reed structure. After appearing before the divine triad of Ea, Šamaš, and Asalluḫi
(Marduk), the king is finally ready to come before his personal god and goddess. Ambos argues that ritual culminates in a positive verdict from the great tribunal of the great gods, and restoration of the relationships with one’s personal gods.70
In this ritual we see the movement through ritual space as the patient moves closer to the encounter with the personal god and goddess. After the night time appeal to other gods to intercede with the personal gods, the king moves through houses and sheds impurities while he reassumes his royal paraphernalia. All of this activity culminates in an appearance before the personal god and goddess. It is the dangerous and tense nature of this final audience that requires so many different strategies to prepare for it.
69 Ibid., 93. 70 Ibid., 99.
140 3.3.4.1.3 Bīt salāʾ mê Bīt salāʾ mê or ‘house of sprinkling’ was an annual ritual that took place during the autumn new year’s festival.71 The ritual shares a number of features with bīt rimki, such as a cycle of šuillas that is recited in reed huts, and movement toward a final encounter with the personal gods.72 Ambos’s summary of bīt salāʾ mê emphasizes the prominent place that the personal gods have within the ritual. He summarizes the ritual as follows:
For the performance of the ritual, the king traveled to a specially arranged space in the steppe where he stayed for one night and the following morning…The king passed through this ritual space from west to east during the night and morning. In the evening, at sunset, the king and the ritual experts entered this reed building by the western door. The king was not wearing his royal insignia. During the night, he stayed in the prison made of reeds and recited prayers to various heavenly bodies and to the gods of the cities Nippur and Babylon, the two cities of Babylonian kingship…In the morning at sunrise, the king left the prison and entered the reed hut. This building was a temporary shrine where many gods had assembled to decide the request of the king. There were present the gods Ea, Šamaš, and Asalluḫi, the divine board whose favorable decision ensured the success of a ritual performance. Also present were the personal tutelary gods of the king. All these deities were addressed by the king with prayers and sacrifices. Thanks to divine intercession, the angry gods became reconciled, and thus harmony between the king and the divine sphere was restored.73
71 Our understanding of this ritual has benefited enormously from the recent critical edition by Claus Ambos in Ambos, Der König im Gefängnis und das Neujahrsfest im Herbst. Helpful summaries of the layout of bīt salāʾ mê and Ambos’s interpretation can be found in “Temporary Ritual Structures”; “Ritual Healing.” 72 Hrůša, Mesopotamian Religion, 141. 73 Ambos, “Temporary Ritual Structures,” 247.
141 After this, the king was reinvested with his royal attire before the rising sun and could be a part of the new year’s festival.74 In his approach to the personal gods, the patient moves gradually closer in proximity as the ritual progresses, third-party deities are invoked to assist in placating the personal gods’ wrath, and the king makes a temporary stay in a prison. With the rising of the sun, the king is ready to approach his angry personal gods directly. It is only after the reconciliation of the king’s personal god and goddess that the king is able to be reinvested with the symbols of kingship.
Having provided a brief description of the ritual contexts in which our dingiršadabba dataset is employed, we can look to another narrative example that puts the ritual progression of each of these rituals in the context of dangerous audiences with offended rulers.
3.3.4.2 Absalom and David David’s reconciliation with Absalom after the murder of Amnon is a compelling parallel to the use of the dingiršadabba in ilī ul īde, bīt rimki, and bīt salāʾ mê. After
Absalom arranged the death of his half-brother Amnon at a banquet, he fled to Geshur for three years (2 Sam 13:37–38). Absalom’s stay in Geshur used physical distance to protect himself from any retribution by his father. Additionally, Absalom’s stay is Geshur is also referred to as a banishment, or a punishment, later in the narrative (2 Sam 14:13–14).
David wishes to have his son back (2 Sam 13:39), but presumably feels that doing so would condone Absalom’s actions and leave a crime unpunished. Joab, however,
74 Ibid.
142 intercedes for Absalom by sending the wise woman of Tekoa to persuade David; Joab succeeds in convincing David to allow Absalom to return to Jersualem. Absalom’s return to Jerusalem reduces the physical distance from his father, but not completely. David will still not allow an audience between him and his son, saying, “He (Absalom) will turn to his own house and not see my face” (2 Sam 14:24). Again, the assumed rationale is that by holding an audience with Absalom, David condones what Absalom had done, something he was not ready to do. In modern practice, this is similar to the President of the United States refusing to meet bilaterally with countries whose actions the president condemns. After two years of this treatment (v. 28), Absalom calls on Joab to intercede once again in order to normalize his relationship with his father. Absalom, believing in what he had done and knowing David’s compassion, told Joab, “let me see the king’s face; and if there be any iniquity in me, let him kill me” (2 Sam 14:32). Joab finally does intercede, and when David does confront his son, David relents. The narrative only tells us that he kisses Absalom (2 Sam 14:33).
I want to highlight two important aspects about Absalom’s reconciliation with his father. First, the intercession of others was essential to Absalom’s final reconciliation, and second, the space between Absalom and his father could only be gradually closed.
Absalom’s return to favor with his father follows a similar path to what is found in ilī ul
īde, bīt rimki, and bīt salāʾ mê.
The nighttime stay within reed structures in bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê is analogous to Absalom’s exile in Geshur. In bīt salāʾ mê, this structure is specifically called a
“prison of reeds.” In both Absalom’s case and in bīt salaʾ mê and bīt rimki, the separation
143 from the offended superior served as punishment as well as protection. If Absalom was to have gone to Jerusalem during this time, he may have forced his father to kill him. In
Absalom’s case, the distance is gradually closed, first to Jerusalem, then finally in audience with David. In bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê, progression through ritual space has a similar function. The patient does not proceed to the personal gods at the beginning, but gradually moves closer to them after specific rites have been carried out. In bīt salāʾ mê, the patient progresses from west to east, moving closer to the encounter with the personal god. In bīt rimki, each of the seven houses moves the patient closer to his encounter with the personal gods. The ilī ul īde ritual also includes a stay in a “prison of flour” before the supplicant is allowed to appear before the statue of his personal deity at the door.
The use of intermediaries is also essential in Absalom’s reconciliation as well as the reconciliation with the personal gods in the three rituals we have looked at. Each time
Absalom moved closer to his father, he did so after a third-party had interceded for him; first, it was the wise woman of Tekoa, and second, it was Joab himself. In two of our rituals, the šuilla prayers during the nighttime stay in the prison, or reed structure, provide an analogous situation. We have already noted that one of the important purposes of these prayers was to ask the addressed god or goddess to reconcile the patient with his or her personal gods. In ilī ul īde, the āšipu petitions other gods on behalf of the supplicant before grasping the hand of the supplicant and moving him out of prison.
The final and most dangerous step in Absalom’s reconciliation was his final audience with his father; during which, according to Absalom’s words, he would be killed if his father still found him guilty. The narrative is silent about any words spoken,
144 since David’s kiss tells us everything we need to know. David kisses his son; he does not kill him. The most important and dangerous encounter of each of the three rituals takes place near the end, an encounter for which the previous ritual activity has worked to prepare the patient. In bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê, when the patient appears before his personal gods, he proceeds very differently than Absalom. Absalom trusts his father’s compassion and the justice of his cause to keep himself alive; the dingiršadabba prayer ilī ul īde, on the other hand, adopts the same strategy as Abigail and Shimei: quickly confess. When Absalom walks away from the audience with his father, he knows he succeeded. Similarly, within the ritual world, if the supplicant walks away from the encounter, the audience has succeeded. When the patient survives the audience, he or she knows they have mended their relationship with their personal gods.
Just as in the story of Absalom and David, the length of the ritual and all the strategies that go into ensuring a successful encounter with the patient’s personal gods do not dull the danger and urgency of the final encounter. Even though Absalom had spent years slowly reconciling with his father, the danger and tense nature of the final audience scene is still palpable as Absalom leaves himself exposed in front of his father David. In this way, despite the strategies that are used in bīt rimki, bīt salāʾ mê, and ilī ul īde in order to navigate the danger of the final audience before the personal gods, the encounter remains dangerous and tense in the ritual world.
One more example of a dangerous audience in which space between the inferior and superior is gradually closed is found in Jacob’s reuniting with Esau in Genesis 33.
Jacob had seriously wronged Esau by swindling his birthright in a weak moment (Gen
145 25:29–34), and by getting the chief blessing from their father by trickery (Genesis 27).
When they last parted company, the narrative told us that Esau was planning to kill Jacob
(Gen 27:41–42). When Jacob returned, such murderous intent was indicated by his coming to meet Jacob with 400 men (Gen 32:6). Jacob responds by sending waves of gifts to “find favor/grace in the sight of my lord” (Gen 33:8). When Jacob eventually confronts Esau, he closes the physical distance separating them slowly. He bows seven times on his approach, getting closer to his brother each time he bowed (Gen 33:3).
Esau, however, runs to him, embraces him, falls on his neck, and kisses him (34:4). After this exchange, the words they share are mere pleasantries, since the decision of Jacob's fate has been decided without a word being spoken. When Jacob approaches Esau, he closes the gap slowly and gradually while he continues actions that demonstrate his subservient status.
Jacob’s approach to Esau, similar to Absalom’s eventual reconciliation with
David, closed the physical distance between them slowly and carefully. We see the gradual closing of physical distance as being important to the larger rituals that utilize dingiršadabba prayers, indicating that they represent dangerous audiences with offended personal deities.
3.3.5 Renewed Assessment of Gift Giving in dingiršadabba Now that we have confirmed that the ritual world of the dingiršadabba assumes a dangerous encounter between the supplicant and his personal gods, it becomes apparent that the gift offered in the ritual may take on new meaning within the ritual encounter. In the audience scene in the šuilla ritual, the gift served as a way of validating a relationship and providing an incentive for the superior to take the case of the supplicant. However,
146 the danger of the audience that is highlighted in the dingiršadabba demonstrates that divine attention was supposed to be diverted rather than attracted. The one reference we have to the presented offering within one of the dingiršadabba prayers demonstrates its purpose in placating anger. It reads, “turn you neck with which you are angry with me,
(and) turn your face to a holy, divine meal of the best oil” (47–48). The importance of bringing a gift to placate wrath was clearly demonstrated in the Abigail’s interaction with
David as well as Jacob’s gifts to Esau.
3.4 Performance Aspects of dingiršadabba Rituals So far, this chapter has analyzed the world created within the dingiršadabba. We have explored the scene that is enacted between the supplicant and his or her personal god and found that it matches closely some narrative depictions of dangerous audiences where the life of the supplicant is in danger. In order to finish our performance analysis of the dingiršadabba, we now need to spend time understanding the way that the world outside of the ritual frame correlates with the world created inside of it. Seeing how they match or do not match helps us get a better understanding for how the performance is framed and how the relationships inside of it correspond with the world outside the ritual.
3.4.1 Circumstances of the dingiršadabba As we explore how the world inside the dingiršadabba corresponds with the world outside, it is important to look at the circumstances that necessitated the performance of these rituals. In this section, we will see how these rituals could be prompted by physically manifesting symptoms, observed omens, and a ritual calendar.
147 3.4.1.1 Observed Symptoms Understanding the larger role and craft of the āšipu is essential to understanding some of the circumstances under which this set of rituals would have been used. The
āšipu, the ritual specialist who carried out the dingiršadabba, was a specialist who was trained, among other things, to diagnose a large number of medical conditions based on symptoms that could manifest physically, mentally, or emotionally.75 In the Diagnostic and Prognostic Series (DPS) used by the āšipu, many diagnoses point to the “hand of his god (ŠU DINGIR-šu2)” and give a prognosis such as “he will die (GAM)” or “he will get well (TIN).”76 After diagnosing the patient using the knowledge from DPS, an āšipu might then consult a series like UGU that was a compendium of therapeutic treatments that followed the same format as the DPS.77 Other collections of treatments, not included in UGU, sometimes group treatments based on common causes; examples are STT 95 and
BAM 316, which group a number of conditions and treatments thought to stem from divine wrath. Based on common diagnoses, Scurlock and Andersen argue that the
75 The Diagnostic and Prognostic Series (DPS), known anciently as SA.GIG, was a large collection of symptoms and their diagnoses arranged by the place it occurred on the body (head to toe) or by specific areas of care (gynecology, obstetrics); Scurlock, Sourcebook, 7–10. 76 Ibid., passim. 77 Ibid., 295–336.
148 personal god and goddess were often considered responsible in situations of stress, anxiety, and “mysterious aches and pains in the chest and upper body.”78
The dingiršadabba rituals are a part of the āšipu’s repertoire of remedies for dealing with observed symptoms, and this is made clear by connections to diagnostic and therapeutic texts used by the āšipu. Karel van der Toorn was the first to point out that dingiršadabbas, used individually, “represent the therapeutic counterpart of the diagnostic texts.”79 The DPS itself is clearly echoed in AMT 81/5, a ritual text that cites a dingiršadabba prayer and parallels the ilī ul īde ritual (KAR 90). AMT 81/5 rev. 4 includes the rubric “[KA.INIM.M]A amīlu ikkib ilīšu īkul-ma ilšu...(word for word formula if a man has eaten a taboo of his god and his god [is angry]).”80 This clause is found in the DPS in multiple locations as a diagnosis for a constricted larynx or when a patient repeats the phrase, “my insides, my insides.”81 The connection of the rubric of dingiršadabba with the āšipu’s work as a medical professional is also made explicit when
78 Jo Ann Scurlock and Burton R. Andersen, Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2005), 439, 458–59, 480–81. 79 Karel van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia : A Comparative Study (Assen: Van Gorcum, 1985), 123. Nils P. Heeßel points out that van der Toorn’s cited texts are not diagnostic texts; they are rather therapeutic texts (Babylonisch- assyrische Diagnostik [Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2000], 83). Despite Heeßel’s critique, van der Toorn’s larger point, that dingiršadabba texts were part of the remedies for problems that correspond to diagnoses found in the DPS, is correct. 80 The connection of this rubric to the DPS is pointed out by van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 123. 81 Scurlock, Sourcebook, 78, 115, 116, 144. A constricted larynx (78,144) and crying “my insides, my insides” (155,116) are symptomatic of such a problem.
149 one of the prayers in our corpus is included in BAM 316, one of the therapeutic collections dealing with divine wrath.82 Another medical text, BAM 315, includes the variant rubric DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB.BA.BUR3̅[.RA] (‘for dispelling divine wrath’) as well as the
83 less formulaic ana DAB DINGIR-šu2 BUR2 (BAM 315 iv 14, ii 26).
In a medical text (BAM 234) that attributes anxiety and chest pains to the “anger of god and goddess,” the ritual attempts to diminish the effects of “the sins of his father or mother, brother or sister or most distant relations that afflict him and for his worries
(adirātīšu) not to ‘get’” him.”84 These two problems, the sins of one’s family members and worry (typically niziqtum), are also associated with our dingiršadabba corpus.
Concern for the sins of the family members, as well as the use of images to thwart unpleasant consequences is seen in the dingiršadabba ilī šurbûtu qāʾišu balāṭi.85 CBS
82 The prayer on BAM 316 vi 14–23 (Sîn 6b) is a version of ilī ellu bān kullat nišî attu, but is also considered a šuilla in other contexts. Multiple sections of BAM 316 begin with “šumma amēlu kimilti(DIB-ti) ili u ištar elīšu ibaššī” (BAM 316 ii 26, iii 9, iv 4, vi 6′), see CAD K, kimiltu, p. 372. The use of the term “medical professional” is not to imply that medicine in ancient Mesopotamia is analogous to modern, Western notions. This term, however, is a useful term in describing the āšipu’s connection to cuneiform medical texts. 83 CAD K, kimiltu, p. 372 84 Edith K. Ritter and J. V. Kinnier Wilson, “Prescription for an Anxiety State: A Study of BAM 234,” Anatolian Studies 30 (1980): 21; Scurlock and Andersen, Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses, sec. 16.20. 85 The connection between these texts is noted in Ritter and Kinnier Wilson, “Prescription for an Anxiety State,” 27. It is interesting to note that in BAM 234 the appeal is not made to the personal gods but to Šamaš. Our dingiršadabba corpus, however, is geared at directly approaching the personal god and goddess when there is a problem. As discussed below, the appearance before an offended deity could be a much more dangerous situation.
150 514, one source for the dingiršadabba ilī ul īde šēretka dannat, also alludes to a similar context in its rubric, “word for word formula for turning away divine wrath if a man is constantly worried ([KA].INIM.MA šumma amēlu niziqtu irtanašši
DINGIR.ŠA3.DAB.BA.GUR.RU.DA.[KAM]).” The alleviation of niziqtu (worry) is also the purpose of the ilī ul īde ritual, which involves multiple dingiršadabba prayers.
3.4.1.2 Observed Omens In addition to larger rituals such as ilī ul īde, dingiršadabbas could be used in other rituals based on an occasional need that could be prompted by an observed omen or something else that might indicate a problem. For example, dingiršadabbas are used in conjunction with the šurpu ritual.86 Šurpu was a ritual conducted, according to Erica
Reiner, when “the patient does not know by what act or omission he has offended the gods and the existing world order.” 87 As van der Toorn notes, šurpu includes mostly prayers to named deities and the ilī ul īde may provide a corresponding ritual towards
86 The connections between dingiršadabba rituals and šurpu is fairly explicit. For example, the end of KAR 90 specifies that “after it (ilī ul īde), you should carry out the šurpu ritual” (arkīšu nēpeši ša šurpâ teppuš; rev. 20). The connection is also noted in šurpu itself, where two incantations overlap between KAR 90 and the Aššur version of šurpu. The incantations that the āšipu recites “I am a purification priest” (see šurpu V-VI 173–186) and “Calm down, O hero Girra” (šurpu V-VI 187–199) are found in both (see KAR 90 rev.9) Also, the Nineveh version of šurpu calls for ilī ul īde to be recited after šurpu (see šurpu I 18′). It is not entirely clear, however, if the citation of ilī ul īde refers to a single incantation or the entire ilī ul īde ritual (KAR 90). This is made more ambiguous by the fact that there are two dingiršadabba incantations that begin ilī ul īde (ilī ul īde šēretka dannat; ilī ul īde šēretka našâku) 87 Reiner, Šurpu, 3.
151 personal gods.88 The dingiršadabbas often complain of not knowing what they have done, so it is not a complete surprise that they would be used with šurpu.
Both šurpu and dingiršadabba rituals are used within bīt rimki, a large complex of rituals that was necessitated by a lunar eclipse.89 Both Nineveh and Uruk versions of bīt rimki include dingiršadabba prayers. In the Uruk version it is clear that both šurpu and the dingiršadabba rituals are called for.90 In these cases, rather than being prescribed for physically manifesting symptoms, the dingiršadabba rituals would be used when an observed omen was thought to reflect the anger of the gods.
3.4.1.3 Scheduled Performance Lastly, the appearance of dingiršadabbas within bīt salāʾ mê shows that these rituals could be enacted prophylactically or according to a ritual calendar even when no observable symptoms or omens were manifest. Bīt salāʾ mê was a scheduled ritual that took place in conjunction with the autumn new year’s festival, and by extension the dingiršadabba rituals used within it become scheduled performances as well.
3.4.2 Circumstances Inside and Outside the dingiršadabba Performance
3.4.2.1 Prophylactic Performance Regardless of the circumstances that prompted the āšipu to carry out dingiršadabba rituals, the personas or roles that each of the ritual participants steps into
88 van der Toorn, Sin and Sanction, 122. 89 Ambos, “Purifying the King by Means of Prisoners, Fish, a Goose, and a Duck: Some Remarks on the Mesopotamian Notions of Purity,” 91; Hrůša, Mesopotamian Religion, 141. 90 See Hrůša, Mesopotamian Religion, 149–51.
152 are invariable. Our investigation inside the ritual world of the dingiršadabba has confirmed that it assumes that a particularly dangerous audience is taking place between the supplicant and his or her personal gods. This danger is navigated through a number of strategies such as shortening the invocation, confessing, slowly approaching the deity, appealing to other deities, and presenting gifts to divert this anger. From the perspective of the ritual frame, survival was the end goal of the ritual. Within the ritual frame, the supplicant confesses to have committed a number of crimes, mostly in ignorance, against his personal gods and asks them to relent. In ilī ul īde šēretka dannat, the supplicant confesses that “I did not know how harsh your punishment was” (23) and “your hand is strong; I have experienced your punishment” (33). Not only is the supplicant a repentant sinner who is cowering under the oppressive anger of his personal god, but the personal god takes the role of the offended deity who has been betrayed by one of his servants.
The ritual, however, ends in reconciliation between the two parties. This is made clear by the supplicant walking away from the audience and it is made explicit in the ilī ul īde ritual that “his (personal) god will be reconciled with him; he will not be worried” (KAR
90, rev. 15).
The difference between the world inside the ritual frame and outside the ritual frame becomes starkly constrasting when dingiršadabbas are performed as part of bīt salāʾ mê. Because bīt salāʾ mê necessitates a scheduled performance of dingiršadabba prayers, these prayers may be performed at a time when none of the observable signs of divine displeasure may be apparent. These signs, as noted previously, could include physically manifesting symptoms or ill-portending omens such as a lunar eclipse.
153 Although there are no signs of divine displeasure, the supplicant still takes on the persona of a repentant sinner suffering under the weight of his offended and angry personal gods.
This mismatch between the world outside and the world inside highlights the bounded and framed nature of these performances. Under these circumstances we may call the performance of dingiršadabba rituals a prophylactic treatment, ensuring proper divine relations down the line even if nothing is currently awry.91 This prophylactic use of the dingiršadabba highlights the performed nature of these ritual procedures.
3.4.2.3 Changing Stances between Rituals The bounded nature of the performances that facilitate interactions between god and human are again illuminated when a patient in bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê might use a dingiršadabba ritual and a šuilla ritual directed at the same deity. Such a situation is not hypothetical; we know that bīt rimki was conducted for Šamaš-šum-ukīn, Esarhaddon’s son who was regent over Babylon.92 We also know that the personal gods of Šamaš-šum- ukīn were Marduk and Zarpanītum as attested from copies of šuilla prayers that were personalized for him.93 When the ritual was conducted, he would have first offered a
šuilla to both Marduk (Marduk 2) and Zarpanītum (Zarpanītum 1), his personal god and
91 Claus Ambos uses the term prophylactic to describe the use of bīt salāʾ mê in “Ritual Healing,” 22.
92 Hrůša, Mesopotamian Religion, 141 n.380. 93 Frechette, “The Ritual-Prayer Nisaba 1 and Its Function.”
154 goddess, before approaching them with a dingiršadabba the following morning.94 In this initial encounter with Marduk, the dangerous setting that might be expected is replaced with an audience where the patient seeks general well-being or intervention with one’s personal gods. In this prayer to Marduk (Marduk 2), Šamaš-šum-ukīn would have recited,
“may my (personal) god stand at my right, may my (personal) goddess stand at my left”
(lines 16–17).95 Šamaš-šum-ukīn would have pled before Marduk to reconcile him with his personal gods, highlighting that this is a framed and bounded performance. Just after this mundane approach to Marduk, Šamaš-šum-ukīn would have pled for his life and profusely confessed his wrongdoing in front of same divine pair during subsequent dingiršadabba rituals.
The encounter with Marduk in bīt rimki tells us two things. First, not only is the social distance in relationships a variable when appearing before the same deity, but every aspect of one’s stance toward that deity is subject to change. Not only is Marduk not addressed as a personal god in the initial šuilla, but he also becomes a third party who is not directly angry with the supplicant. When Šamaš-šum-ukīn enters the dingiršadabba ritual, this changes, and Marduk acts as the personal god who has been directly offended and is actively punishing the supplicant for his misdeeds. Almost every aspect of the relationships between a human and deity can be altered depending on the ritual frame in which these relationships take place. Even as the participant moves between šuilla rituals
94 For a list of the šuilla prayers used in bīt rimki, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers, 178.
95 Foster, Before the Muses, 687.
155 and dingiršadabba rituals within a larger ritual like bīt rimki, relationships can change drastically. Therefore, not only does the ritual frame provide a bounded performance in contrast to non-ritual environments, but it also finds itself different from other ritual environments that might even take place alongside of it. In this way, some performances within larger rituals are nested frames; they are demarcated even from the larger ritual frame in which they take place.
From our performance perspective we see how the ritual provides a temporary and spatially located frame in which both humans and deities are invited to participate.
Participating in a prescribed ritual necessitates that individual agency is suspended to some degree, and this allows the human and divine encounter to proceed in a predictable and prescribed manner. As our literary examples demonstrate, one did not come before a deity without a plan or without taking great care not break social protocol, since this could be fatal. The prescription of the ritual provides a prescribed process as well as an outcome. Along with the prescribed process come prescribed roles and relationships that both human and divine participants must take up in order for the ritual to be successfully enacted.
3.5 Summary and Conclusion This chapter has explored the world that is portrayed within the ritual frame of the dingiršadabba as well as how this world correlates with what takes place outside of this frame. We have seen that the dingiršadabba creates two personas—one for the human participant and one for the god— that interact with one another in a prescribed way. The human participant takes on the role of an individual that is afflicted and ostracized by the
156 misdeeds that he has ignorantly committed against his divine protector. The personal god takes on the persona of a god that has an established relationship with the supplicant, but the personal god is also an all-powerful and angry divine judge who is actively punishing the supplicant for his misdeeds. The goal, from the perspective of the supplicant, is to survive the encounter. We have seen how narrative examples of dangerous audience scenes match the elements that we find in the dingiršadabba rituals as well as how dingiršadabbas are employed in larger rituals. If both human and god properly participate in this performance, the outcome is as guaranteed as the end of a play; the supplicant and deity will reconcile with each other once more.
This performance could be conducted in response to physically manifesting symptoms, observed omens, or it could take place on a scheduled basis as a prophylactic ritual. The use of the ritual when no obvious signs of divine displeasure are apparent highlights the difference between the performance happening within the ritual frame and what is observed outside of it. What happened in the ritual frame was starkly contrasted not only from the “non-ritual” environment but from other rituals that may even take place side-by-side in larger rituals, such as bīt rimki or bīt salāʾ mê.
157 CHAPTER 4: HUMAN-DIVINE RELATIONSHIPS IN THE INDIVIDUAL AND
COMMUNAL LAMENTS OF THE HEBREW BIBLE
4.1 Introduction In this chapter, we shift our focus from first-millennium Mesopotamia to the ritual practices of first-millennium ancient Israel. My dataset will be the individual and communal laments in the Book of Psalms, and I will create at least one ritual setting in which these prayers would have been performed. In doing so, we will see how a performance approach to ritual helps us contextualize the human-divine relationships found in the individual and communal laments within specific ritual frames.
In §4.2, we will examine the individual and communal laments in the Book of
Psalms. Despite the fact that these categories were created using an outdated methodology, the categories of individual and communal lament continue to be useful, especially when they are contextualized alongside other communicative genres in ancient
Israel. Although we are able to understand these prayers as pleas for help to a divine superior in times of crisis, in order to fully appreciate these texts, we need to understand the ritual frames in which they could be used. Therefore, in §4.3, based on the evidence from within the Hebrew Bible, I will reconstruct one setting out of the undoubtedly many ritual contexts for these prayers. Both communal and individual laments were, at one time, performed by ritual specialists in conjunction with the burnt offerings of the
Jerusalem temple. The burnt offering and lament were typically only one part of a larger ceremony that also included the performance of a thanksgiving psalm in conjunction with
158 a thank-offering or peace offering. Our reconstruction will rely on 2 Chr 29 and various pieces of indirect evidence that point to the association of lament psalms and burnt offerings. In §4.4, we will continue to argue this case as we explore this ritual as an audience scene before Yahweh. Not only is Yahweh’s positive answer assumed in the ritual speech itself (§4.4.1), the invariable order and progression of ritual activity in the
Hebrew Bible also supports the assessment that the lament is part of a successful audience before Yahweh (§4.4.2). Narrative depictions of audiences before human superiors also help to strengthen the connection between a divine audience and the individual and communal laments (§4.4.3). Additionally, looking at narrative depictions of the enactment of similar rituals suggests that it could take place in the face of an impending crisis or according to a ritual calendar (§4.4.4).
In §4.6, in order to flesh out our understanding of the lament within a successful audience to Yahweh, we will compare the relationship between Yahweh and the supplicant(s) in the individual and communal laments. Our analysis will demonstrate that each lament genre attests to a distinct way of relating with Yahweh.
This assessment of both types of lament will demonstrate not only that the laments were part of a prescribed performance but also that other aspects of Israel’s ritual system took part in the scripted and prescribed ritual drama. The description of the boundaries of the ritual frame will help us better understand and contextualize activities and identities that take place within a ritual frame in ancient Israel.
159 4.2 Classifying Individual and Communal Laments
4.2.1 The Lament Genre: Generic Realism? The two categories of prayer that are the focus of this chapter are the individual lament and the communal lament. Because these two categories of prayer are not demarcated within the ancient sources but are categories created by modern scholars, we must proceed with caution. This section will explore some of the assumptions that went into the creation of the modern categories of individual and communal lament. Even though these categories were made with misguided assumptions about genre, they still provide useful categories for this project.
The genres of individual and communal lament that form the basis of this study are the result of form-critical research pioneered by Herman Gunkel.1 Gunkel moved
Psalms research away from a preoccupation about the author and historical milieu and read individual psalms as witnesses to genres, or literary categories, that reflected
1 Hermann Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms: The Genres of the Religious Lyric of Israel, trans. James D. Nogalski (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998); Hermann Gunkel, The Psalms: A Form-Critical Introduction (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967). Gunkel was not the first to see genre as important in the research of the Psalms (J. G. Herder, The Spirit of Hebrew Poetry, trans. James Marsh, 2 vols. [Burlington: Edward Smith, 1833]; W. M. L. de Wette, Commentar über die Psalmen [Heidelberg: Mohr und Zimmer, 1811]). However, he provided an important voice to what had come before him and facilitated the widespread adoption of the approach (see J. H. Eaton, “Psalms, Book of,” in Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. John H. Hayes, vol. 1, 2 vols. [Nashville: Abingdon, 1999], 326; Henning Graf Reventlow, History of Biblical Interpretation, Volume 4: From the Enlightenment to the Twentieth Century [Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2010], 355).
160 elements of the religious experience in ancient Israel.2 Gunkel’s movement toward genre as a method of classification yielded important results, yet the approach to genre that was built into form criticism created its own set of problems when it was applied to both biblical studies and Assyriology.3
Form criticism, as advocated by Gunkel, sought to explore the world behind the text, and posited that specific situations called for specific genres.4 Gunkel espoused an approach to genre that Kenton Sparks calls “generic realism,” an approach that assumes that texts “are uniquely and intrinsically related to the generic categories in which we place them.”5 Gunkel argued that genres actually exist in the same way that their “life settings” existed, and that the task of the exegete was to discover these genres by using their textual features as clues. As Gunkel himself put it,
2 For a brief history of Psalms research, see Eaton, “Psalms, Book of.”
3 Gunkel’s method heavily influenced scholars of Mesopotamian prayers; see Kunstmann, Die babylonische Gebetsbeschwörung; Mayer, UFBG. For a description of the problems this has caused the study of Akkadian šuillas, see Frechette, Ritual-Prayers.
4 As Sparks notes, “Gunkel presumed that each piece of literature belonged to only one genre, that each genre stemmed from one unique Sitz im Leben, and that the relationship between form and context was essentially inflexible” (Kenton Sparks, Ancient Texts for the Study of the Hebrew Bible: A Guide to the Background Literature [Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005], 6). For example, Gunkel notes that “very frequently a particular genre was associated with a specific social group (Stand), which ensured the purity of the genre, such as the priests and their Torah, or the prophets and their oracles” (Hermann Gunkel, “The Literature of Ancient Israel,” in Relating to the Text Interdisciplinary and Form-Critical Insights on the Bible, ed. Timothy J. Sandoval and Carleen Mandolfo, trans. Armin Siedlecki [London: T & T Clark, 2003], 26–83).
5 Sparks, Ancient Texts, 6.
161 The division that we attempt, should not be arbitrarily instituted. Rather it should derive from the character of the material itself. The researcher should strive to overhear the innate, natural division of this type of poetry. It requires a basic observation concerning the original essence of this poetry, whereby it falls seamlessly into various genres” (emphasis in original).6
The point that Gunkel missed was that genre is not something that exists inside of the text, but something that exists in the minds of those who approach the text; genre aids in understanding what a text is and how one is to read it.7 Because of this, Gunkel was not discovering genres but manufacturing genres.8 There is nothing wrong with creating genres, but it is the purpose that ultimately defines the usefulness of the categories. For example, if one creates a taxonomy of the animal kingdom, it is the individual animals that are the real objects, and there are an infinite number of ways that one might choose to group them.9 One can group these animals by specific traits, evolutionary descent, habitats, etc. There is no correct or incorrect way to group these animals, only helpful and unhelpful ways. The same goes for the genres of ancient Near East texts. The texts are the real objects, and there is no intrinsic way to group texts or correct way to classify the
6 Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 6–7.
7 Mark Sneed, “Is the ‘Wisdom Tradition’ a Tradition?,” CBQ 73 (2011): 54.
8 In reference to film and television, Jane Feuer notes that “Genres are made, not born. The coherence is provided in the process of construction, and a genre is ultimately an abstract conception rather than something that exists empirically in the world” (Jane Feuer, “Genre Study and Television,” in Channels of Discourse, Reassembled: Television and Contemporary Criticism, ed. Robert C. Allen [Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992], 144).
9 Sparks makes a similar comparison to taxonomy; see Sparks, Ancient Texts, 6.
162 genre of a text, only helpful and unhelpful ways.10
From this perspective, we can see the genres, or categories, of individual and communal laments as modern constructs; they bring together a number of texts that can be useful for a given project. However, to take full advantage of this category of texts, we must always keep in mind how the genre that we have created may or may not correspond with how the ancients may have categorized them. This is the discussion in the following section.
4.2.2 Individual and Communal Laments as Analytical Genres Even if we agree that genres and categories do not exist in the text, we still need to exercise restraint when we draw boundaries around categories, especially when we hope that our categories will illuminate how texts were read or performed in antiquity.11
Genres are always culturally situated, and it is the shared assumptions about
10 My discussion about genre, thus far, has centered on the task of the researcher to categorize data into groups that aid in understanding. In this way, as Daniel Chandler puts it, “How we define genre depends on our purposes; the adequacy of our definition in terms of social science at least must surely be related to the light that the exploration sheds on the phenomenon” (“An Introduction to Genre Theory” [1997]: 3, http://visual- memory.co.uk/daniel/Documents/intgenre/chandler_genre_theory.pdf). Sparks also notes that “although there are many legitimate ways to classify texts, not all of these classifications are equally helpful” (Ancient Texts, 11). For these categories to be sufficiently helpful and for them to shed light on ancient phenomena, our task is never fully complete until we map the categories that we have created as researchers back onto the categories that were relevant to the ancients themselves. For the distinction between a researcher’s genre and ancient genre, see note 12.
11 John Collins makes the point that just because we can find similarities between texts does not mean that they formed a genre or category to the ancient audience; see Collins, “Towards the Morphology of a Genre,” 1.
163 conventions found within texts that are essential for creating meaning and integral for a given text to make “sense” to members of a community.12 A single text operates in what
Sparks calls a “generic matrix,” or “the sum total of all determinants and contingencies that result in the production of a verbal utterance or a written text; it is context in the widest possible sense.”13 Because this “generic matrix” that existed in the minds of the inhabitants of ancient Israel is lost, we are left to sift through the indirect evidence for this in the form of the textual evidence that they left behind. As we approach texts like the psalms, Sparks argues that we need to create “an analytical genre, a class of texts that serve our comparative purposes by helping us adjust our generic expectations, which may be either broadened or narrowed, depending on the situation.”14
In creating these analytical genres, Sparks warns of two pitfalls that we might
12 The distinction between the genres we make as scholars and the genres that existed within the minds of the ancients is essential for any study of genre in ancient texts. This distinction between emic and etic genre was explained in folklore circles by Dan Ben- Amos; see “Analytical Categories and Ethnic Genres,” in Folklore Genres, ed. Dan Ben- Amos (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1976), 215–42. This distinction was also highlighted by Anna Zernecke in her comparison between šuillas and individual laments; see Zernecke, Gott und Mensch in Klagegebeten aus Israel und Mesopotamien.
Mark Sneed points out that genres are essential for “the production of meaning” and facilitating communication (Sneed, “Wisdom Tradition,” 54). I also adopt his use of the term “convention” to talk about commonalities between examples of genre. The use of “convention” rather than “feature” points us to cultural processes at work outside of the text. Sneed explains that “[g]enres are basically the universal, and this is what builds expectations in the reader, which are known as conventions” (ibid., 55).
13 Sparks, Ancient Texts, 10.
14 Ibid.
164 encounter. First, we may misunderstand the relation between two texts and “mistakenly believe that two texts are similar in ways they are not.”15 Sparks uses the example of
Archbishop Ussher who mistakenly compared the chronologies in Genesis to chronologies made by modern historians.16 This results in a truly infelicitous reading of the book. And second, our category may just be unhelpful in adjusting our generic expectations, and Sparks uses the example of creating a category of “all written texts.”17
The analytical genres that have come out of form-critical research have certainly proven helpful for understanding the individual texts of the psalms and adjusting our generic expectations. I believe that these categories allow us to better understand the generic matrix from which individual and communal laments emerged.
In the following sections, we will look not only at the how reading the individual and communal laments together can help us create meaning as we read these texts, but we will also extend our analytical category in order to better glimpse the wider context of the individual and communal laments. We will compare them not only to the laments of the
Psalter but to prayers outside of the psalter, to petitions to social superiors, and to the rhetorical strategies that these compositions share with letters from the ancient Near East.
All of these texts will aid us in adjusting our general expectations and allow us to read these texts more in line with their ancient setting.
15 Ibid.
16 Ibid.
17 Ibid., 11.
165 4.2.3 Laments as Rhetorically Persuasive Pleas for Help Directed at a Divine Superior
4.2.3.1 Psalms in the Book of Psalms The following section will describe the characteristics and features that have brought the individual and communal lament genres together. Because these two categories converge more often than they diverge, they are often introduced together in commentaries and introductions to the psalms. I will present them together as the genre of “lament” but some of their more important differences will be explored in §4.6.
The psalms that are the nucleus of these categories are from the Book of Psalms.
This book gradually grew into the book that we know today and shows significant evidence for a long editorial history.18 The fact that we find evidence for similarities between individual texts in this collection is certainly a result of it being a carefully curated anthology of texts. The texts that have been singled out as individual and communal laments are usually characterized as the prayers of an individual or a community that are asking help from Yahweh in the face of an impending crisis.19
18 Since the work of Gerald H. Wilson (The Editing of the Hebrew Psalter [Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985]), the field of psalms studies has shifted toward reading and studying the Book of Psalms as a book. For an overview of the trends in recent scholarship, see J. Kenneth Kuntz, “Continuing the Engagement: Psalms Research Since the Early 1990s,” CurBR 10 (2012): 321–78. Current scholarship on the editorial history of the psalms can be found in Nancy L. deClaissé-Walford, ed., The Shape and Shaping of the Book of Psalms: The Current State of Scholarship, Ancient Israel and Its Literature 20 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014).
19 The main difference between the categories of individual and communal lament is the obvious one that one is about an individual (“I”) and another about a community (“we”); although there are other differences between these two prayers, this is how the category
166 Common features of the lament genre are the presence of invocation, lament, petition, motivational clauses, expressions of trust, and vows of praise. In order to illustrate each of these elements, we can briefly examine Ps 13, which is often considered a prototypical example of this genre.
1 ]1[ לַמְ נַצֵּ֗חַ מִ זְמֹ֥ ור לְדָוִִֽ ד׃ .For the leader, a psalm of David 2 ]2[ עַ ד־אָ ָ֣נָ ה יְְ֭הוָ התִשְ כָח יָ֣נִ נ ֶ֑צַ ח עַ ד־אָָ֓ נָ ה How long, O Yahweh, will you forget me? Forever? ׀ תַסְתִ ִּ֖ איר ת־פָנ ָ֣יָך מִמ ִֽנִ י׃ How long will you hide your face from me? 3 ]3[ עַ ד־אָָ֨ נָ ה אָשִ ִׁ֪ עית צֹ֡ ותבְ נַפְשִֵּ֗ י יָגָ֣ ון How long will I set counsel in my soul and grief in my heart daily? בִלְבָבִ יָ֣ יומָ ֶ֑ם עַ ד־אָָ֓ הנָ ׀ יָרִּ֖ ּום אֹיְבִ ָ֣י ִֽ עָלָ י׃ How long will my enemy rise up against me? 4 ]4[ הַבִ ָ֣ יטָ ִֽה ע ְ֭ ננִ י יְהוָ ָ֣ה אֱ ֶ֑ ֹלהָ י הָ אִֹ֥ירָ ה ע ֵ֝ ינֵַּ֗ י Look, answer me, O Yahweh my ʾĕlōhîm;20 פ ן־אִ ישַ ֹ֥ ן הַמָ ִֽות׃ .Illuminate my eyes, lest I sleep in death
5 ]5[ פ ן־יֹאמַ ָ֣ ראֹיְבִ י ָ֣ יְכָלְתִ ֶ֑ יו ֹ֥צָרַי יֵָ֝גִֵּ֗ ילּו ָ֣ כִ י Lest my enemy says, “I prevailed over him,” א מִֽ וט׃ and my adversaries rejoice because I falter. 6 ]6[ וַא נִ ִ֤י ׀ בְחַסְדְ ָךָ֣ בָטַחְתִ י֮ יָ ִָ֤֤ג ֹ֥ל לִבִֵּ֗ י ,But I have trusted in your faithfulness my heart rejoices in your salvation. בִִֽ ישּועָָ֫תֹ֥ ָך אָשִֹ֥ירָ ה לַ יהוָ ֶ֑ה כִ ִּ֖ י גָ מַ ָ֣ל ִֽ עָלָ י׃ I will sing to Yahweh because he has rewarded me. of lament is usually characterized in commentaries and introductions; see John Day, Psalms (London: T & T Clark, 1990), 33, 94; Walter Brueggemann and William H. Bellinger, Jr, Psalms (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 5; Artur Weiser, The Psalms: A Commentary (Philadelphia: Westminster John Knox, 1962), 66; Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Psalms, Part 1, with an Introduction to Cultic Poetry (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1988), 11; Hans Kraus, Psalms 1-59 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 47; Nancy L. DeClaissé-Walford, Rolf A. Jacobson, and Beth LaNeel Tanner, The Book of Psalms (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2014), 19.
20 I transliterate ʾĕlōhîm throughout this dissertation because ʾĕlōhîm is an important term that identifies a specific type of relationship that people had with deities in ancient Israel. For discussion of this term see §4.6.2.
167
The invocation in Ps 13 invokes Yahweh by name (v.2) during the initial lament section (v.2–3). The lament describes both the cause and effects of the crisis and can be divided into three different types of lament.21 Verse 2 is considered a god-lament because it focuses on Yahweh’s part in the crisis; verse 3a is called a self-lament because it focuses on the effects of the crisis on the praying individual; and verse 3b is called an enemy-lament because it is focused on the problems caused by enemies. Verse 4 includes the two petitions that Yahweh “answer” and “illuminate,” which are followed by two motivational clauses in v.4b and v.5. They motivate Yahweh to answer the plea of the supplicant because it is assumed that he does not want the supplicant to die, and because the supplicant’s shame would reflect poorly on Yahweh’s ability as a patron deity. Verse
6a includes an expression of trust and praise to Yahweh, and verse 6b ends with a vow of praise. The last section of this and other psalms that often exhibit a sharp change in tone and mood is often called a “change of mood” or “certainty of a hearing,” and this will be explored in §4.4.1. These common elements that are characteristic of the lament genre do not occur in any specific order and do not provide any type of prototypical structure.
The texts that I have selected for analysis in this chapter are those that have achieved a certain amount of consensus among scholars. Any approach to categorizing
21 Claus Westermann, The Psalms: Structure, Content, and Message (Augsburg Fortress, 1980), 37–38.
168 and assembling texts always has a certain amount of circularity to it, and I hope to avoid discussions about the inclusion or exclusion of certain texts by selecting the texts that most scholars would agree are representative of the category.22 Because Gunkel’s original list of individual laments is still accepted with little alteration, the individual laments in our dataset will be those identified by Gunkel (Pss 3, 5, 6, 7, 13, 17, 22 ,25, 26, 27:7–14,
28, 31 , 35, 38, 39, 42–43, 51, 54, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61, 63, 64, 69, 70, 71, 86, 88, 102, 109,
120, 130, 140, 141, 142, 143).23 Communal laments, on the other hand, are subject to wider disagreement about which texts are to be included in this generic category. My list of communal laments will be those psalms that have achieved a relative consensus among scholars (Pss 44, 60, 74, 79, 80, 83, 89).24
4.2.3.2 Prayers Outside of the Book of Psalms In order to further understand the texts that we have included in our analytical category, we can now widen our comparison to other types of texts that can help us
22 Sparks makes the point that the hermeneutical circle is a part of this textual categorization in Ancient Texts, 11.
23 Of compositions within the Psalms, Gunkel included: 3, 5, 6, 7, 13, 17, 22 ,25, 26, 27:7–14, 28, 31 , 35, 38, 39, 42–43, 51, 54, 55, 56, 57, 59, 61, 63, 64, 69, 70, 71, 86, 88, 102, 109, 120, 130, 140, 141, 142, and 143; see Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 121.
24 There is wide disagreement about what to include in and exclude from this dataset even though most scholars agree on a general definition of a communal lament. For a study of the communal lament that includes a list of the laments that most scholars include in this category, see Walter C Bouzard, We Have Heard with Our Ears, O God: Sources of the Communal Laments in the Psalms (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997). Bouzard, following Haar (Murray Joseph Haar, “The God-Israel Relationship in the Community Lament Psalms” [Ph.D., Union Theological Seminary in Virginia, 1985]), takes Psalms 44, 60, 74, 79, 80, 83, and 89 as the representatives of the communal lament genre; see Bouzard, We Have Heard, 123. These will be the communal laments used in my dataset.
169 continue to adjust our generic expectations. The psalms themselves give us very little context, but based on the psalm headings and the evidence from prayers outside of the
Book of Psalms, we know that this language was thought to be effective in times of crisis.
The scribes that compiled and annotated the Book of Psalms tell us that the laments were used in times of crisis during the life of David. According to the headings of many psalms, they were thought to have been first used “when [David] fled from
Absalom” (Ps 3:1), “when the Philistines took him in Gath” (Ps 56:1), “when he fled from Saul in the cave” (Ps 57:1), “when Saul sent, and they watched the house to kill him” (Ps 59:1), and “when Nathan the prophet came to him, after he had gone to
Bathsheba” (Ps 51:2). As we adjust our reading of the text, we do not see these headings as evidence for the historical milieu or the identity of the composer. These headings, however, do reflect the occasions that later scribes felt were appropriate for the performance of these prayers.
The fact that these prayers were pleas for help in times of crisis is corroborated by comparison to prayers found throughout the narrative texts of the Hebrew Bible. Patrick
Miller, who explored prayers for help throughout the Hebrew Bible, concluded that invocation, petition, and motivational clauses represent the general pattern for these prayers.25 He also shows that laments and expressions of trust are also present in prayers
25 Patrick D. Miller, They Cried to the Lord: The Form and Theology of Biblical Prayer (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), 56. Miller’s assessment is also supported by Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer; Anneli Aejmelaeus, The Traditional Prayer in the Psalms / Literarische Studien zur Josephsgeschichte (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1986).
170 outside of the Psalter. These prayers show a wide variety of circumstances and show that such a prayer was acceptable whenever divine intercession was needed.26 Both the elements and occasions for prayer in prose texts are mirrored by those in the Book of
Psalms.
4.2.3.3 Petitions to Superiors Many of the psalms headings and the narrative contexts of prayers outside of the
Psalter offer evidence that our dataset were considered to be prayers to Yahweh in times of crisis. However, if we look still further, we realize that not only do the psalms compare favorably with prayers to Yahweh found elsewhere, they also compare favorably to petitions given to human social superiors in the Hebrew Bible. Moshe Greenberg, in a study of prose prayer in the Hebrew Bible, has shown that petitions or confessions directed at kings are quite similar to prayers to Yahweh.27
The fact that people interacted with their gods using behavior and speech patterns that were socially appropriate for human superiors is rarely explicitly stated in ancient sources because it was so widely assumed and considered foundational to all relationships with gods.28 We find a rare expression of this equivalence in Mal 1:6 when
26 For a structural outline and a summary of the occasions for all the prayers for help in prose texts in the Hebrew Bible, see Miller, They Cried to the Lord, 337–57.
27 Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer.
28 Karel van der Toorn, “Sources in Heaven: Revelation as a Scholarly Construct in Second Temple Judaism,” in Kein Land für sich allein: Studien zum Kulturkontakt in Kanaan, Israel/Palästina und Ebirnari für Manfred Weippert zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Ulrich Hübner and Ernst Axel Knauf, OBO 186 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,
171 Yahweh says, “A son honors a father, and a servant his lord; if I am a father, where is my honor? If I am a lord, where is my reverence?” Furthermore, the lack of socially appropriate food items for Yahweh was such a problem that he challenges the priests,
“Offer it to your governor; will he accept you or will he lift your face?” (Mal 1:8).
Yahweh expected to be treated on par with or better than human social superiors. As Alan
Lenzi has noted, “people anthropomorphized their deities as if they were their social superiors—only supersized.”29
4.2.3.4 Laments as Rhetorically Persuasive This way of reading the laments in the psalms is also corroborated by a study by
Roger Tomes who showed that the same rhetorical strategies used in ancient Near
Eastern epistolary correspondence can be found in the prayers of the psalms in the Book of Psalms.30 Letters to social superiors and kings share strategies, such as protesting loyalty, confessing faults, describing the plight, appealing to the king’s or god’s own interest, and expressing dependence.31
4.2.3.5 Summary This textual network that is connected to communal and individual laments, including letters and narrative, have shown that the lament genres can be read profitably
2002); Karel van der Toorn, “Theodicy in Akkadian Literature,” in Theodicy in the World of the Bible, ed. Antti Laato and Johannes C. De Moor (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 57–89; Lenzi, “Invoking God.”
29 Lenzi, “Invoking God,” 308–9.
30 Tomes, “I Have Written to the King, My Lord.”
31 Ibid.
172 as rhetorically persuasive petitions to social superiors. Each aspect that we can observe about these compositions aids us in producing meaning as we read these texts. Although these insights alone provide us with illuminating and profitable generic expectations, they still fall short of a complete understanding of these texts in their wider context. In §4.3 and §4.4, we will explore a new way of looking at these texts by seeing them as prescribed ritual speech performed by ritual specialists. The premise of this dissertation is that we cannot fully understand what is going on inside these types of texts until we properly contextualize them within the ritual frame in which they were used. The observations we have made above are most helpful when situated within the ritual frame that we will construct in §4.3 and §4.4.
4.3 A Ritual Setting for the Individual and Communal Laments Now that we have looked at the prayers in our dataset, this section will construct one possible ritual setting in which these prayers were used. Our search for a ritual setting is not the same as Gunkel’s form-critical search for a “life-setting.” We do not need to find the “original” setting for these psalms nor do we need to assume that they could not be used in more than one situation. I am interested in finding at least one setting for our psalm dataset, even if it is a general setting, that can put these texts into a ritual frame that we can analyze.
173 The search for the ritual context of the psalms truly began in earnest after the work of Sigmund Mowinckel.32 Unlike Gunkel who saw the psalms as merely influenced by the cult, Mowinckel argued that the psalms in the Hebrew Psalter were the actual texts used in the ritual activity of the temple.33 Mowinckel pushed his argument as far as he could and reconstructed a new year’s festival in which the kingship of Yahweh was renewed.34 Few scholars today are willing to go as far as Mowinckel in reconstructing larger ritual complexes in Psalms, yet many still agree that many psalms had a place within the temple.
Since Mowinckel, there have been various proposals for the ritual setting of the individual laments. Some scholars, like Erhard Gerstenberger and Rainer Albertz, have pushed for a less temple-centered approach to finding a context to the laments of the
Psalter.35 Gerstenberger argues that these laments have their origins in the ritual practice
32 Sigmund Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1962); Sigmund Mowinckel, Psalm Studies: Volume 1, trans. Mark E Biddle, History of Biblical Studies 2 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014); Sigmund Mowinckel, Psalm Studies: Volume 2, trans. Mark E. Biddle, History of Biblical Studies 3 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014).
33 The opinions of both scholars evolved somewhat during their lifetime, but they continued to differ on the relationship of the psalms to the temple; see Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 124; Mowinckel, Psalm Studies: Volume 1, 142.
34 Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, 106–92. For a well-informed assessment of Mowinckel’s proposal as well as other proposals for the use of the psalms in a larger festival, see Day, Psalms, 67–87.
35 Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch: Bittritual und Klagelied des Einzelnen im Alten Testament, Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 51 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1980); Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit; Rainer
174 of the family and reconstructs a ceremony quite similar to the rituals of the āšipu in
Mesopotamia.36 In addition to a comparative approach, based on internal evidence from the psalms themselves, some scholars have sought to identify ritual contexts such as ordeals, temple trials, or healing rituals.37 Most scholars reconstruct a different setting for individual and communal laments. The setting for communal laments is usually considered to be national days of mourning and disaster, during which the community gathers at the temple and prays for deliverance.38
Rather than argue for a specific circumstance that might be in view outside of the ritual frame, my argument for the ritual setting will focus on the connection between the lament genre and a specific unit of ritual activity within the Jerusalem temple, the burnt offering.39 I will make the case that the laments (both individual and communal) were
Albertz, “Family Religion in Ancient Israel and Its Surroundings,” in Household and Family Religion in Antiquity, ed. John Bodel and Saul M. Olyan (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 89–112.
36 Zernecke remarks that Gerstenberger’s “reconstructions are quite plausible, though rather optimistic, as there is very little biblical evidence with which to work” (“The Use of Akkadian Prayers in the Study of the Hebrew Bible,” in Reading Akkadian Hymns and Prayers: An Introduction, ed. Alan Lenzi [Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011], 65).
37 For a review of some of the scholarship, see Day, Psalms, 25–30; Jerome F. D. Creach, “Cult, Worship: Psalms,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Wisdom, Poetry & Writings, ed. Tremper Longman III and Peter Enns (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2008), 71–78.
38 Day, Psalms, 33.
Other .עֹלָה When I refer to the “burnt offering,” I am referring specifically to the 39 scholars have noted the connection between the psalms and the burnt offering, but have not provided a detailed ritual description. For example, Nahum Sarna makes the
175 used in the Jerusalem temple and performed by ritual specialists during the burning of a burnt offering. This performance of lament and burnt offering was also a part of distinct series of ritual activities. As I make this case, I will start with evidence from psalm superscriptions, and then proceed to narrative depictions of performances of the lament in first-millennium Israelite literature.
4.3.1 Evidence from Psalm Headings For our present purpose, the Psalm headings provide us with one very important point of data as we reconstruct a ritual context in which these prayers were used. Many psalm headings tell us that these prayers were performed as part of the repertoire of ritual specialists in the Jerusalem temple.40
argument that the psalms in general were performed at regular burnt offerings in the temple; see Nahum M Sarna, “The Psalm Superscriptions and the Guilds,” in Studies in Jewish Religious and Intellectual History : Presented to Alexander Altmann on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday, ed. Siegfried Stein and Raphael Loewe (Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press, 1979), 281–300. Weiser points out that Ps 5:3 provides evidence that “the psalm was uttered in the worship of the Temple and in connection with the offering of the morning sacrifice” (Weiser, The Psalms, 125; see also Kraus, Psalms 1-59, 153–54). Even Yehezkel Kaufmann, who did not believe that the psalms were performed in the first temple, thought that individual laments might be offered in conjunction with a burnt offering as a healing ritual; see Yehezkel Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel: From Its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile, trans. Moshe Greenberg (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960), 109.
40 For a sampling of previous investigations related to the headings of the psalms, see Sarna, “The Psalm Superscriptions and the Guilds”; Bathja Bayer, “The Titles of the Psalms: A Renewed Investigation of an Old Problem,” Yuval 4 (1982): 29–123; Bruce K. Waltke, “Superscripts, Postscripts, or Both,” JBL 110 (1991): 583–96; John F. A. Sawyer, “An Analysis of the Context and Meaning of the Psalms-Headings,” TGUOS 22 (1967): 26–38; Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, ii:207–217; D. A. Brueggeman, “Psalms 4: Titles,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament Wisdom, Poetry & Writings, ed. Tremper Longman III and Peter Enns (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2008), 613–21; James William Thirtle, The Titles of the Psalms: Their Nature and
176 The Psalms, according to the tradition that assembled them into a collection, were a collection of prayers performed by authorized and trained ritual specialists. Of the 45 individual and communal laments in our dataset, 23 begin with the prepositional phrase
,see Pss 5, 6, 13, 22, 31, 39, 42–43, 44, 51, 54, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 64, 69, 70) לַמְ נַצֵּחֲַ
80, 88, 109, 140). Although there are various proposals for how to translate this term, the
is used in the later ,מְ נַצֵּחֲַ ,clearest meaning would be “for the overseer.’41 This term biblical books of Ezra and Chronicles, and most often refers to Levites who were appointed overseers over specific duties in the Jerusalem temple. Ezra 3:8 tells us that
Zerubbabel and those with him appointed Levites to “oversee the work of the house of
Ezra 3:8).42 ;לְנַצֵּחֲַעַל־מְ לֶאכֶתֲבֵּית־יְהוָה) ”Yahweh
This responsibility to “oversee” or “lead” is also associated with the musical duties of the Levites in the Book of Chronicles. The Chronicler tells us that before the temple in Jerusalem was built, David brought the ark of the covenant to Jerusalem and appointed the Levites as “singers who, with instruments of song, with harps, lyres, and cymbals, raise voices to sing for joy” (1 Chr 15:16). Heman, Asaph, and Ethan were
Meaning Explained (London: Henry Frowde, 1904); Brevard S. Childs, “Psalm Titles and Midrashic Exegesis,” JSS 16 (1971): 137–50.
41 In English translations, this is usually translated as “chief musician” (KJV) or “music leader” (CEB). However, the LXX takes this term as “εἰς τὸ τέλος” and the Targum as I in HALOT, p. 716. Mowinckel agrees with נצח meaning “in glorification;” see ”,לְשַבָחָא“ the Targum and takes this to be a direction for performance; see Mowinckel, Psalm Studies: Volume 2, 620–24.
42 Ezra 3:9 makes note that the priestly families were also to “oversee” the Levites who do the “service of Yahweh.”
177 appointed as singers to make music with brass cymbals (15:19), others to play harps to
with harps to the tune of (לְנַצֵּחֲַ) ”the tune of “Alamoth” (15:20), others were told “to lead
“Sheminith” (15:21). Second Chronicles 34 tells us that during the reforms of Josiah,
Levites were appointed to “oversee,” and “the Levites all understood musical instruments
for all who did the work for (מְ נַצְחִ ים) and were over those who bore burdens and overseers any type of service; some of the Levites were also scribes, officers and gatekeepers” (2
Chr 34:12–13). First Chronicles 23:4–5 gives us an idea of how the duties of Levites were divided. After telling us that there were 38,000 Levites, “of these, 24,000 were to
,the work of the house of Yahweh, and 6,000 were officers and scribes (לְנַצֵּ ַח) oversee
4,000 were gatekeepers and 4,000 were for praising Yahweh with instruments.”
With the majority of Levites categorized as “overseers,” it appears that rather than signifying a position of authority among the Levites, the term suggests oversight over the basic duties of the sanctuary, something that would have required a large number of people. That “those praising Yahweh with instruments” are separated from this group and
than merely מְ נַצֵּחֲַ in smaller number indicates that there may be more to the duty of the interacting with the musicians.43 The “overseers” in the temple may be those who were on the ground in charge of actually carrying out the ritual activity of the temple rather than the scribes, bureaucrats, and guards.
43 The large number of “overseers” may reflect the fact that Levites were considered to be the ones who interacted with the average worshipper most often and would be the ones helping them to conduct ceremonies. This is certainly reflected in Ezekiel 44:11–12 where Yahweh declares, “they will slaughter the burnt offering and the sacrifice for people and they will stand before them [the people] to minister to them because they had been ministering to them before their idols.”
178 The superscriptions of the Psalms link the performance of these compositions with Levites, who were ritual specialists and were expected to oversee the performance of these psalms. The tune names that are found throughout the Psalms in the superscriptions match some of the tune names that were used by the founding musicians in 1 Chr 15. The collecting of these psalms dates to the Second Temple period, and the scribal metadata would at least reflect the circumstances of the second temple.44 For the present, the important point is that the tradition that compiled the Book of Psalms gives us an idea of who was involved in performance.
4.3.2 Evidence of Psalms Employed in Temple Rituals Not only does the tradition that compiled the Book of the Psalms attribute the psalms to trained ritual specialists, 2 Chronicles also provides us with a prototypical ritual that employs psalm-like compositions within temple rituals.
Second Chronicles 29 provides one of the most detailed accounts of the progression of a temple ritual in the Hebrew Bible, and it provides a clear context for the laments. This ritual takes place as part of Hezekiah’s effort to renew “normative” temple worship at the beginning of his reign (2 Chr 29:3–11). Hezekiah instigates a ritual reminiscent of the inaugural ritual of the tabernacle in Leviticus 9. After making a sin offering for “all Israel” (2 Chr 29:23–24), Hezekiah commands a burnt offering to be made on the temple altar (2 Chr 29:27). During the burning of the burnt offering on the
44 Childs makes the argument that the superscriptions would have been added sometime between the writing of the Book of Chronicles and the composition of the psalm scrolls at Qumran. He assumes that because the Chronicler does not employ superscriptions, they were not yet part of the tradition; see Childs, “Psalm Titles and Midrashic Exegesis,” 148.
179 altar, the Levites played the “song of Yahweh” (v.27) with “cymbals, harps, and lyres”
(v.25), and the priests used the trumpets (v.26, 28). During the performance of musical instruments, the “assembly prostrate themselves and the singer sang” (v.28). This all continues “until the end of the burnt offering” (v.28). Then “as the offering ended, the king and all those found with him kneeled and prostrated themselves” (v. 29). At this point in the ritual, Hezekiah commands “the Levites to praise Yahweh with the words of
David and Asaph the seer” and the narrative tells us that “they praised joyfully and bowed and prostrated themselves” (v. 30). At the end of the performance, Hezekiah tells the assembly to “bring sacrifices and thank-offerings to the house of Yahweh” (v. 31).
The ritual describes two performances by the Levites, one during the burnt offering and another that occurs just before Hezekiah’s command to offer sacrifices and thank-offerings. In the second performance, the Levites “praise joyfully,” but the first performance that occurs during the offering of the burnt offering lacks this phrase. The description of the ritual implies that the initial performance of the Levites was not a joyful psalm but one meant for petitioning. Although the ritual description of 2 Chr 29 is not explicit on the nature of the first performance, the connection of the burnt offering to petition helps us understand this performance to be one of petition.
The connection between petitions and the burnt offering is made in a similarly described ritual in the Jerusalem temple recorded by Ben Sira during the 2nd century
180 BCE.45 During this particular ritual, Ben Sira describes “the entire assembly of Israel” present and watching Simon the high priest perform an offering at the altar (Sirach
50:11–17).46 At the signal from the priests who “cried out”47 and “sounded on trumpets…as a memorial before the Most High (v.16),” “all the people hurried with one accord, and they fell face down on the ground, to do obeisance to their lord, the
Almighty, God Most High (v.17).” During their prostration, the “harp-singers sang praises with their voices” (v.18) and “the people petitioned the Lord Most High with prayer…until the Lord’s arrangement was completed and they finished his ministrations”
(v.19). The Levites participate during the sacrifice by singing praises, and the people use this as an opportunity to petition Yahweh.48 Ben Sira’s description of this Second Temple ritual offers further evidence for the importance of petitioning prayer during burnt offerings.
45 For a discussion of this text and bibliography; see Jeremy Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer in Second Temple Period Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 45–48. As Penner notes, there is dispute on whether Ben Sira’s description refers to the daily tāmîd or Yom Kippur; for more bibliography and discussion on this specific subject, see Fearghas Ó Fearghail, “Sir 50,5-21: Yom Kippur or The Daily Whole-Offering?,” Biblica 59 (1978): 301–16. Whether this refers to the daily service or to Yom Kippur is inconsequential for our purpose; both situations would assume a burnt offering, since drink offerings occur alongside both services (see Sir 50:15; Num 29:11; Exod 29:38–42).
46 The English translation is taken from Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright, eds., A New English Translation of the Septuagint (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).
47 The NETS translates ἀνέκραγον as “cheered” but is better rendered as “cried out.”
48 Although the Levites “praise” in the Ben Sira example, we need not assume that praise and petition are completely separate endeavors.
181 The fact that petitioning Yahweh was an important part of Levitical duty is made explicit in 1 Chr 16. In this tradition, David inaugurates ritual performance in front of the ark of the covenant before the temple has been built, and the Chronicler notes that David
“placed some of the Levites before the ark of Yahweh as ministers, in order to remind
Yahweh, the god of Israel” (v.4). These (לְהַלֵּל) and to praise ,(לְהֹודֹות) to thank ,(לְהַזְכִ יר) three verbs, “to remind,” “to thank,” and “to praise,” provide a taxonomy of purpose for the ritual speech present in the Hebrew Psalter. These three verbs appear in high-
appears in the Hebrew Bible 146 times, and 89 הלל .frequency in the Book of Psalms
,occurs 111 times and occurs 67 times in the Psalms; and lastly ידה ;times in the Psalms
occurs 41 times and 7 times in the Psalmsְ; these are a disproportionately large הזכר numbers within the context of the Hebrew Bible.49 The fact that these occur at higher frequencies indicates the importance of these verbs for purpose of the Psalms. The following sections will explore what can be understood from this taxonomy of ritual speech and the occasions for their use.
It is my contention that the initial performance by the Levites in 2 Chr 29 was an example of the Levitical duty to “remind Yahweh,” while the second performance in
we should expect הלל Assuming an even distribution across the Hebrew Bible, for 49 we ידה Psalms to include only 9 references (6.3%) rather than the actual 89 (61%). For should expect it to include only 7 references (6.3%) rather than the actual 67 (60.4%); we should expect 2–3 references (6.3%) rather than the actual 7 (17%). For הזכר and for .(as a whole, we should expect 15 references (6.3%) rather than the actual 54 (23% זכר These numbers were calculated using The Dead Sea Scrolls Electronic Library (Leiden: Brill, 2006).
182 which the Levites “praise gladly” was an example of the “thanking” and “praising” aspect of Levitical performance.
4.3.3 Levitical Participation in Petition arguably ”(לְהַזְכִ יר...לַיהוָה) The duty of the Levites “to remind Yahweh
לְהַזְכִ יר encompasses our category of individual and communal laments.50 The phrase occurs in the superscriptions of both Ps 38 and Ps 70, both of which are individual laments. The verb itself is also closely associated with Yahweh or human rulers granting petitions or acting favorably toward their inferiors. Although the semantics of the verb
are complex, if the qal implies “remember” then the hiphil is “to cause to זכר remember.”51 Rather than being limited to recalling or remembering something already known, the verb also implies cognition about a certain subject. For example, after the exoneration of the butler in Genesis 40, Joseph asks the butler to “make Pharaoh think of
Gen 40:14). This highlights the inadequacy of the translation) ”(וְהִ זְכִירתַנִיֲאֶ ל־פַרְ עֹה) me
“remind,” since Pharaoh has never heard of Joseph before. The most important element
Joseph. It is in זכר of the butler’s duty was to cause Pharaoh to have Joseph in mind, or this sense that David set up the Levites to “make Yahweh mindful” and that Pss 38 and
to the laments was also noted by Paul Wayne Ferris, The לְהַזְכִ יר This connection of 50 Genre of Communal Lament in the Bible and the Ancient Near East (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 104–5. Although Ferris does note the connection, he does not explore the full implication of how “remember” is used outside of the Psalms as well.
51 For previous studies on this particular word; see B. Seevers, “Remembrance,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament Wisdom, Poetry & Writings, ed. Tremper Longman III ;zākhar זָכַר“ ,and Peter Enns (Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity, 2008), 643–47; H. Eising ʾazkārāh,” in Theological Dictionary of the Old אַ זְכָרָ ה ;zikkārôn זִכָרֹון ;zēkher זֵּכֶר Testament, ed. G. Johannes Botterweck and Helmer Ringgren, 4 (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1980), 64–82.
183 70 are “to make [Yahweh] mindful.”
In one .זכר to hear,’ there are two levels of meaning at play in‘ שמע Similar to sense, to ‘hear’ means that the biological process of hearing is happening, while in
can not only imply mental זכר ,שמע another sense, ‘to hear’ means to obey. Similar to
(וַיִזְכֹר) cognition but also acting appropriately in response. Thus, when God remembered
Noah and all onboard the ark, he then began to remove the flood waters (Gen 8:1). When
God saved Lot from the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah he did so when he
“remembered” Abraham (Gen 19:29), and when God “remembered Rachel,” he “listened to her and opened her womb” (Gen 30:22). In each of these examples, ‘to remember’ is to act to help or to grant a petition. When the Levites are tasked with making Yahweh remember/be mindful, they are tasked with moving Yahweh to grant a specific petition, just as the Pharaoh would grant Joseph’s petition for freedom once he was mindful of
Joseph.
The opposite of “remembering” is made explicit by the butler’s failure to help
Joseph, “but the chief butler did not remember Joseph but forgot him” (Gen 40:23). In this sense, not only is cognition at play, but an important aspect of “forgetting” is the lack of an appropriate response. For this reason, an individual sometimes banks on God
“forgetting,” such that “he says in his heart, God has forgotten, he has hidden his face, he will not ever see it” (Ps 10:10).52 Such an expectation is not only voiced by the enemies in the Psalms but is also voiced by the Psalmists themselves. This lack of appropriate
52 Such imagery is also a way of describing an audience between a superior and inferior. The refusal to show one’s face implies a refusal to meet someone in audience.
184 response stands behind the Psalmist’s lament, “how long will you forget me, forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?” (Ps 13:1). However, to act appropriately is to remember and not forget, “[Yahweh] seeks their blood, he remembers; he does not forget the cry of the afflicted” (Ps 9:13). God can be expected to “forget” and not take appropriate action, but if the Levites are able to make him “remember” then they can ensure that a petition is granted.
The duty of the Levites was to aid individuals and communities in making
Yahweh mindful of them in much the same way that the butler needed to make Pharaoh mindful of Joseph. This was more than the goal of inducing cognition in Yahweh; it was to make him act on the pleas of these individuals and communities.
This section has made an argument for understanding the connection between the burnt offering and the Levitical duty “to remind…Yahweh” (1 Chr 16:4). Hezekiah’s temple ritual in 2 Chr 29 provides evidence for Levitical performance during the burnt offering that is contrasted with the joyful mood and praising character of the performance preceding the thank-offerings and sacrifices. Our case that finds a connection between the burnt offering and individual laments is strengthened as we observe the connection between the burnt offering and petitions toward Yahweh throughout the narrative texts of the Hebrew Bible.
4.3.4 Laments and the Burnt Offering The connection between burnt offerings and the laments is strengthened when we notice that burnt offerings are usually offered in conjunction with petitions in the narratives of the Hebrew Bible. The importance of the burnt offering for petitions is made clear by the narrative context, but it is also indicated by the fact that petitions are usually
185 granted during the actual burning of the burnt offering. For example, in 1 Sam 7, when the Philistines were posing a threat, Samuel told Israel to gather to Mizpeh where he would “pray on their behalf to Yahweh” (v.5). After some preparatory ritual activity,
Samuel “took a nursing lamb and offered the entire burnt offering to Yahweh and Samuel cried to Yahweh on behalf of Israel and Yahweh answered him” (1 Sam 7:9). It is at the very moment of the offering of the burnt offering and the petition that Yahweh answers in the affirmative. As evidence that this is not just narrative telescoping, the narrator informs us that “while Samuel was offering the burnt offering” is when the Philistines are defeated in battle (1 Sam 7:10).
We see another example of the association of burnt offerings and petitions in 1
Sam 13. When Samuel appeared to be late to an appointment at Gilgal, Saul feared that the people would lose confidence in the face of the gathering Philistines, so he commands
“bring me the burnt offering and the peace offerings” (1 Sam 13:8). The ritual itself is cut short, since the narrative tells us that “when he finished offering the burnt offering,”
Samuel arrived and then Saul “went out to bless him” (1 Sam 13:9). When Saul is reprimanded for not keeping Yahweh’s commandment, Saul replied, “I thought, ‘the
Philistines are going to come down to Gilgal and I have not petitioned the face of
Yahweh and I forced myself to offer a burnt offering” (1 Sam 13:12). Saul’s explanation for his decision is illuminating to the purpose of the burnt offering. First, of the two offerings slated to be offered, it was the burnt offering that was to “entreat” Yahweh to help in the face of the oncoming Philistines, not the peace offering. Second, the offering was meant to present his petition to the “face of Yahweh.” This aspect of the burnt
186 offering ties it with divine presence and the audience scene, indicating the proximity to
Yahweh in making the petition. The connection to the audience scene will be explained in more detail in §4.4, but the important point is that the burnt offering is often used in conjunction with petitions.
There are a number of other stories that show burnt offerings used in conjunction with petitions. For example, in the story of the plague that came in response to David’s census (2 Sam 24:21–25 | 1 Chr 21:18–27), David offers both burnt offerings and peace offerings, and calls on Yahweh to stop the plague. In the 1 Chronicles version, the narrator tells us that Yahweh answers during the burning of the burnt offerings, “he called to Yahweh and he answered him with fire from the sky upon the altar of the burnt offering” (21:26). In the Balaam story, in order for Balaam to obtain the word of
Yahweh, he sets up seven altars, and Balak is told to stand by his burnt offering (Num
23:1–3). It is during the burnt offering that Balaam petitions Yahweh and receives his answer (Num 23:4–5). When Balaam returns to Balak, he fulfills Balak’s petition to
Yahweh while Balak continues to stand by his burnt offering (Num 23:6). At the end of
Job, Yahweh tells Job’s friends to offer a burnt offering while Job prays for them (Job
42:8).
4.3.5 Levitical Participation in Praise and Thanksgiving I have made the case that the initial performance by the Levites in 2 Chr 29 was a petition to Yahweh, and now I will make the case that the second performance of the
Levites in that ritual would have included thanksgiving psalms similar to those in the
Hebrew Psalter.
In the ritual described in 2 Chr 29, when the burnt offering had finished,
187 Hezekiah commanded the Levites to perform again but this time “to praise Yahweh with the words of David and Asaph” and we are told that “they praised joyfully” (2 Chr
29:30). Immediately following this joyful performance, Hezekiah tells the people to
to the house of (תֹודֹות) and thank-offerings (זְבָחִ ים) draw near and bring sacrifices“
Yahweh” (29:31). This connection between the Levites’ joyful praise and the bringing of celebratory sacrifices suggests that the Levites would have performed a thanksgiving psalm.
Of all the psalm genres, the ritual setting for the thanksgiving psalms is the clearest example of a prayer that was tied closely to a particular ritual activity.53 Praising and thanking is often connected with the bringing of thank-offerings, and this is explicitly depicted in the Book of Jeremiah. In a prophecy that looks toward the gathering of the
Judahites back to Jerusalem, Yahweh foretells:
Again it will be heard— in this place which you say is desolate, without humans or beasts, in the cities of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem that are abandoned without humans or inhabitants or beasts—the sound of joy and the sound of gladness, the sound of the bridegroom and the sound of the bride, the sound of those who say ‘thank Yahweh of armies because Yahweh is good, because his loyalty is forever,’ who bring a thank- offering to the house of Yahweh, because I will return the captives of the land as at first” (Jer 33:10–11).54
The joyful words spoken by those who bring a thank-offering (“thank Yahweh of armies because Yahweh is good, because his loyalty is forever”) is a statement repeated
53 For an accessible discussion of the connection of thanksgiving psalms to the temple, see Miller, They Cried to the Lord, 187–98.
54 I have benefitted from previous research that has collected the evidence for the ritual use of the psalms; see Creach, “Cult, Worship: Psalms.”
188 in the psalm offered in 1 Chr 16 (v.34, 41), and this statement is often used as an incipit to make reference to the “praising” and “thanking” aspects of the ritual speech of the
Levites (Ezra 3:11; 2 Chr 5:13, 7:3, 7:6; 2 Chr 20:21). This statement also serves as the incipit to four different psalms within the Psalter, three of which are considered individual and communal songs of thanksgiving (see Ps 106:1; 107:1; 118:1; 136:1).55
Jeremiah’s future vision offers evidence that thanksgiving psalms were performed in conjunction with presenting thank-offerings.
The use of ritual speech attributed to the Levites during joyful sacrifice is corroborated by thanksgiving and praise within the laments and the thanksgiving psalms themselves. For example, the latter half of Ps 22 describes ritual activity that accompanies the thanksgiving prayer itself.
23I will recount your name to my brothers; Among the assembly I will praise you. 24O those who fear Yahweh, praise him! All the seed of Jacob, honor him! And fear him, all the seed of Israel! 25Because he did not despise and did not detest the affliction of the afflicted, He did not hide his face from him, But he heard his plea for help directed at him. 26My praise of you is in the great assembly; My vow, I fulfill before those who fear him. 27The afflicted will eat and be filled They will praise Yahweh, those who seek him. May your (pl.) heart live forever! 28They will remember and return to Yahweh, all the ends of the earth. And they will prostrate themselves before you, all the families of the nations. 29Because the kingdom belongs to Yahweh and he rules over the nations. 30They eat and prostrate themselves, all the fat ones of the earth. Before him they bow, all those who go down to the dust and whose soul is not alive
55 Brueggemann and Bellinger, Jr, Psalms, 9–12.
189 31Posterity will serve him, it will be recounted of my Lord for a generation; They will come and tell his righteousness To a people born that he did it.
In the ritual activity that immediately follows the lament, Yahweh’s deliverance is narrated to the assembly and a celebratory sacrifice is made and shared with others.
Those present, in addition to hearing the praise of Yahweh and a narrative of his saving deeds, will “eat and be filled” (v.25). Both the “afflicted” (v.25) and the “fat ones” (v.30) eat of the sacrifice and prostrate themselves in acknowledgement of what Yahweh has done for this individual (v.30). Another thanksgiving psalm asks, “what will I return to
Yahweh for all his benefits to me? I raise the cup of salvation and call on the name of
Yahweh, I will fulfill my vows to Yahweh before all his people” (Ps 116:12–14) and later, “to you, I will sacrifice the sacrifice of thanksgiving and I will call on the name of
Yahweh; my vows to Yahweh I will fulfill before all his people, in the courtyards of the house of Yahweh in Jerusalem” (Ps 116:17–19). Once a petition has been granted, the petitioner calls on the name of Yahweh before all the people at the temple and eats and drinks with other adherents to Yahweh. The use of joyful praise and thanks before the thank-offering fits well within the context in 2 Chr 29, which includes joyful praise in anticipation of the sacrifices and thank-offerings.
We have thus far described the first performance of the Levites as a petition to
Yahweh, and now we see that the second performance of the Levites acts as a joyful celebration after the petition has been granted. The joyful celebration includes both words and feasting.
190 4.4 A Scripted Audience with a Positive Reply The data that we have explored thus far strongly suggest that we view the laments and the rituals in which they are used as prescribed audiences before Yahweh. We have already seen that the laments themselves proceed as rhetorically persuasive pleas for help before a human or divine social superior (§4.2). We have seen that one of the main purposes of the Levites and the laments was to cause Yahweh to be mindful of supplicants so that he would grant their petitions (§4.3.3). The progression of the ritual in
2 Chr 29 suggests that one came before Yahweh to petition during the burnt offering and then celebrated his positive answer just before bringing sacrifices and thanksgiving offerings (§4.3.5).
2 Chr 29 suggests that laments were used within a prescribed progression of ritual activity that created a ritual world in which the supplicant(s) appeared before Yahweh to petition and then to celebrate. The petition or lament is offered during the burning of the burnt offering and the successful granting of the petition is then celebrated just before offering the thank-offering. The fact that the progression of the ritual itself was prescribed and predetermined is demonstrated in two ways. First, the granting of the supplicant’s petition is built into the text of the laments themselves (§4.4.1); and second, the movement from petition to celebration is built into the fixed ritual order of Israelite ritual practice (§4.4.2).
After looking at the evidence that sees the performance of the laments and sacrifices to be a prescribed and predetermined performance, we will explore how the audience depicted in this ritual world corresponds with narrative examples of audiences in the Hebrew Bible (§4.4.3). This will help us situate each of the elements of the ritual 191 progression within the ritual world, and provide further confirmation of my assessment.
In §4.4.4, we will then look at the circumstances by which we may or may not be able to distinguish the performance of individual and communal laments. In §4.4.5, we will look at the external circumstances that might necessitate the performance of these rituals based on narrative examples.
4.4.1 Psalms: Internal Evidence for Scripted Performativity We have already noted in §4.3.1 that the psalm headings attest to a tradition that considered the laments to be prescribed prayers that were part of the regularly performed repertoire of ritual specialists in Jerusalem. Many of these prescribed prayers fit nicely into the performance of a successful audience because they assume that Yahweh has granted the petition of the supplicant during the performance of the prayer.
One of the characteristic features of individual laments has been their distinctive shift from lament and petition to praise. Scholars have called this a ‘change of mood’ or the ‘certainty of a hearing’ and have invested a great deal of effort into understanding this element of the individual laments.56 Psalm 6 provides a good example, where a clear break in the tone of the prayer occurs between v.8 and v.9. 57
56 For discussion and bibliography on this topic, see Federico G. Villanueva, The Uncertainty of a Hearing: A Study of the Sudden Change of Mood in the Psalms of Lament, VTSup 121 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 2–27; Day, Psalms, 30–32, 37. To this bibliography we can add Uwe Rechberger, Von der Klage zum Lob: Studien zum “Stimmungsumschwung” in den Psalmen (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Theologie, 2012); Davida H. Charney, Persuading God: Rhetorical Studies of First-Person Psalms (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2015).
57 For examples of this phenomena, John Day points to 6:8ff; 7:10ff; Ps 13:5–6; Ps 28:6ff; Ps 31:19ff; Ps 52:8–9; Ps 55:24; Ps 56:9–13; 57:7ff; 61:5; 94:22f; 130:7f; 140:12f (Day, Psalms, 30.
192 2 2יְִֽהוֵָּ֗ האַל־בְאַפְ ָךֹ֥ תוכִ יח ֶ֑ נִ י ;O Yahweh, do not reprove me in your anger Do not chastise me in your wrath. וְִֽאַל־בַח מָתְ ָךֹ֥ תְ יַסְר ִֽ נִ י׃ 3 3 נחָ ֹ֥נִ י יְהוָה֮ כִ ִ֤י אֻמְ ללַָ֫ ֹ֥אָ נִ י ;Have mercy on me, O Yahweh. because I am feeble Heal me, O Yahweh, because my bones are dismayed. רְ פָא יֹ֥נִ יְהוָ ֶ֑ה כִ י ִּ֖ נִבְהלָ֣ ּו ע ִֽ צָמָ י׃ 4 4וְְ֭נַפְ שִ י נִבְ ה לָ ָ֣ה מְ אֶֹ֑ ד וְאַ ֹ֥תָ .And my soul is very dismayed But you, O Yahweh, how long? יְֵ֝הוֵָּ֗ ה עַ ִֽ ד־מָתָ י׃ 5 5שּובָ ָ֣ה יְְ֭הוָ החַ לְצָ ָ֣ה ֶ֑נַפְשִ י ;Return, O Yahweh, deliver my soul Save me because of your loyalty, הֵ֝ ושִ יע ֵּ֗ נִ י לְמַ ָ֣עַ ן חַסְדִֽ ָך׃ 6 6כִִ֤י א ָ֣ין בַמָ תָ֣ו זִכְר ֶָ֑ך בִֵ֝ שְאֵּ֗ ול ;Because there is no remembering you in the grave In Sheol, who will praise you? מִָ֣ י יִֽודה־לָ ִֽ ְך׃ 7 7יָגַ יִ֤עְתִ ׀ בְִֽאַ נְחָתִֵּ֗ י אַשְ ח ָ֣ ה .I am exhausted in my sighing; I mutter every night in my bed I dissolve my couch with my tears. בְכָל־לְַ֭יְלָ המִטָתִ ֶ֑י בְֵ֝דִמְעָ תִֵּ֗ י עַרְשִ ֹ֥ י אַמְס ִֽ ה׃ 8 8עָ ִֽשְשָ הָ֣ מִכַ ָ֣עַ ס ע ינִ ֶ֑י עִֵָֽ֝ תְקֵָּ֗ ה ,My eye is wearing out from distress It is passing away because of my enemies. בְכָ ִֽ ל־צורְרָ י׃ 9 9סָ֣ ּורּו מְִ֭מ ינִ כָ ל־פָֹ֣ע לי ֶ֑אָ ון כִִֽ י־ !Turn from me all workers of iniquity Because Yahweh has heard the voice of my weeping שָמַֹ֥ ע ה יְֵ֝הוֵָּ֗ קָ֣ול בִכְיִִֽי׃ 10 10שָמַ ָ֣ע יְְ֭הוָ התְחִ נָתִ ֶ֑ י יְֵ֝הוֵָּ֗ ה ;Yahweh has heard my supplication Yahweh receives my prayer. תְִֽפִלָתִ ֹ֥ י ִֽ יִקָ ח׃ 11 11י בִֹ֤ שּו׀ וְיִבָה לָ֣ ּו מְְ֭ אֹד כָ ל־ ,May my enemies be ashamed and may they be dismayed greatly May they turn back in shame in a moment. אֹיְבָ ֶ֑ייֵָ֝שֵֻּ֗ בּוי בֹֹ֥ שּו רָ ִֽגַ ע׃
Psalm 6 shows a dramatic shift from the pleas for deliverance in v.5 and the lament found in vv.7–8 to the confident statement that “Yahweh has heard the voice of my weeping; Yahweh has heard my supplication” (vv.9b–10a).
One influential theory that was advocated by Joachim Begrich argued that this shift in mood was a reaction to a prophetic oracle of salvation that would have been given during the prayer and would allow the individual to proclaim that Yahweh had heard his
193 prayer.58 Others have offered psychological explanations, asserting that the prayer was a powerful way to change the emotional state of an individual.59 Rather than look at the cause of this phenomenon, others have looked at its function and its implications for the theology of the psalms or questioned the nature of this shift.60
Most scholars that have looked at this phenomenon have lost sight of the fact that this is speech that would have been performed within a ritual frame. The prayers themselves were fixed and prescribed prayers that were part of the repertoire of ritual specialists. Artur Weiser is one of the few scholars who keeps this setting distinctly in view when he notes that “many a psalm of lamentation served as a formulary appointed for continual use.”61 Many of the explanations that have been put forward by scholars to explain this phenomenon only work inside the ritual frame. The analogy of a theatrical production continues to serve us well as we think about ritual activity as performance. In using this analogy, I do not wish to say that what takes place within the ritual frame is less “real” than what takes place outside of it, but the social domain of theater provides a
58 Joachim Begrich, “Die Vertrauensäusserungen im israelitischen Klageliede des Einzelnen und in seinem babylonischen Gegenstück,” ZAW 5 (1928): 221–60; for an unfavorable assessment, see Day, Psalms, 30–32.
59 For a discussion of this approach and bibliography, see Villanueva, The Uncertainty of a Hearing, 6–7; Day, Psalms, 32.
60 Villaneuva classifies approaches to the “certainty of a hearing” into three groups; those who look at the cause, those who look at the function, and those who question the nature of the change of mood; see Villanueva, The Uncertainty of a Hearing, 4–27.
61 Weiser, The Psalms, 69. Weiser makes this observation when exploring the heading of Ps 102 which reads, “A prayer for the afflicted when he is tired and pours out his lament before Yahweh” (102:1).
194 domain in which what takes place on-stage may diverge sharply from what takes place off-stage. In a play, if the script and staging direction stipulate that something happens, then it will happen like that when it is performed correctly. We may still enter the world on-stage and explore the reasons that the characters have acted in a certain way, but this cannot diminish the fact that it happens on stage because it is stipulated to do so. In the same way, I argue that the phenomenon described as ‘certainty of a hearing’ is a part of the ritual performance where the positive answer is assumed to be given by Yahweh. We do not need to conjecture any sources like prophetic oracles or a change in the emotional state of the ritual participants. Part of the ritual that the individual laments were a part of assumes that the answer given by Yahweh is positive.62
4.4.2 The Order of Sacrificial Activity The fact that the laments work in tandem with the sacrificial activities of a ritual specialist to create a prescribed audience before Yahweh is also attested by the fixed order of ritual activity in the Hebrew Bible. Not only did specific ritual activities, like sacrifice, occur in a fixed order; they also assumed positive results upon enactment.
Although offerings are often referred to in various orders throughout the Hebrew
Bible, Anson Rainey has demonstrated that in narratives that depict the actual offering of
62 In arguing against the need to posit a salvation oracle to explain this phenomenon in the psalms, Zernecke actually points to the statements in šuilla prayers that assure positive results to argue that “it is not necessary to presuppose the intervention of a cultic institution” (Anna E. Zernecke, “Mesopotamian Parallels to the Psalms,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms, ed. William P. Brown [New York: Oxford University Press, 2014], 31–32; for more explanation, see Zernecke, Gott und Mensch in Klagegebeten aus Israel und Mesopotamien, 322–29).
195 the sacrifices, or the procedural order, the order of sacrifices is always the same.63 The order of ritual activity moves from sin offering to burnt offering and finally to peace
.(תֹודָ ה) or thank-offering (זֶבַח) offering or one of its derivative offerings such as a sacrifice
We have already seen this movement in 2 Chr 29, and it occurs whenever the actual presentation of the offerings is described.64
This set order to the sacrifices offers us a number of clues to the performance of these rituals and the psalms that were used as a part of them. First, we have already noted that the movement from burnt offering to thank-offering is congruous with a successful audience with Yahweh. Baruch Levine saw this order as indicative of an audience before
Yahweh but offered a different explanation. Levine argued that the burnt offering attracted the deity’s attention, while the peace offering was intended to be the actual gift offered to the deity.65 Although Levine’s argument is innovative, to consider the burnt offering as merely something to attract the deity misses the point that petition is offered and granted during the performance of this offering (see §4.3.4). In §4.4.3, we will see that the burnt offering is better seen as a greeting gift that was considered socially appropriate for superiors. Additionally, seeing the peace offering or thank-offering as the
63 A. F. Rainey, “The Order of Sacrifices in Old Testament Ritual Texts,” Biblica 51 (1970): 485–98.
64 Ibid., 494–98.
65 Baruch A. Levine, In the Presence of the Lord: A Study of Cult and Some Cultic Terms in Ancient Israel, Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity v. 5 (Leiden: Brill, 1974).
196 primary gift to the deity misses the point that it is a joyous celebration and that most of the offering is enjoyed by those offering it.66 The most important gift that is given to the deity at this point is the verbal blessing that takes place alongside the peace offering or thank-offering, and this act is similar to the blessing that was expected to be rendered by the inferior to his superior when a favor was rendered; this will be explored in §4.4.3.
Not only is the order of ritual activities itself confirming of our assessment of a performed audience with Yahweh, but the way that narratives describe the movement from one ritual to the next demonstrates that these rituals were considered to be efficacious upon enactment, or in other words, they were performative actions. For example, both 2 Chr 29 and Lev 9 offer detailed depictions of temple rituals that correspond to the prescribed and fixed order noted by Rainey. In the narration of these rituals, the ritual specialists move from one activity to the next with no waiting or worrying to find out if a particular part of the ritual “worked.” There is no waiting to
“find out” if one’s misdeeds have been sufficiently expiated, if one’s petition is granted, or if one’s joyful celebration “worked.” The ritual progresses from one step to the next with assurance that the ritual has taken care of each issue. The fact that these were
66 Levine does anticipate the objection that the sacrifice is mostly consumed by the human participants by stating that “the logic of this argument is superficial. The importance of a gift to Yahweh, and apparently other deities, was not primarily quantitative” (ibid., 27). which he connected to the שְ לָמִ ים Earlier in his study Levine proposed an etymology for Akkadian šulmānu, or ‘greeting gift’ (ibid., 15–20). His proposed etymology forced him into an awkward position when he attempted to interpret the significance of the order of these sacrifices.
197 considered performative actions that were considered successful upon enactment matches our observation that these were part of a scripted and prescribed performance.
The narrative depictions of offerings can be split into two types of narratives, those that take the perspective outside of the ritual frame and those that take the perspective from within the ritual frame. In the former, the narrative may give the words and actions of the parties, but it does not delve into the drama and plot of what is on the ritual “stage.” Lev 9 and 2 Chr 29 are examples of this. They describe the ritual actions but do not describe what is happening “on-stage” while the ritual takes place. Another class of narratives actually enters the world on-stage and provides a narrative that is assumed to be happening inside of the ritual frame. We have already discussed two such narratives in §4.3.4. In both 1 Sam 7 and 1 Chr 21, Yahweh answers unmistakably to the burnt offerings and allows for the next element of ritual activity to commence.
In summary, the order of sacrificial activity in the Hebrew Bible as a whole supports our assessment of the burnt offering and thank-offering as portraying a prescribed, successful audience before Yahweh. Rituals in the Hebrew Bible show an invariable progression from a petitionary burnt offering to a joyous celebration that would be accompanied by the thank-offering or peace-offering. Descriptions of rituals either describe the movement from one ritual to the next with no comment or they describe what is going on inside of the ritual frame by describing the answer of Yahweh that allows them to progress to the next ritual.
198 4.4.3 The Audience Scene in Narrative In order to understand the world created inside the ritual frame more fully, this section will compare the steps in narrative depictions of audience scenes with the general ritual outline for the lament ritual that we have proposed thus far.
The general outline for this interaction as we have noted from narrative texts is that the socially inferior party initially offers gifts, bows, petitions or confesses, and then returns a blessing on the superior when the request is granted. Each of these elements is open to variation and change depending on the circumstances of the exchange. But most audiences before an important social superior expect a similar progression even if they do not always describe it. Much of the discussion of the mechanisms of the audience for creating relationships has been discussed in chapter 2; rather than repeat what we have already observed, I will explore the greeting gift and the blessing offered by the supplicant.
4.4.3.1 Offering of the Gift One of the first social expectations in an audience is the offering of a gift. Our brief review of the greeting gift in audiences will restrict itself to noticing three things about this part of the encounter: (1) the bringing of the gift when appearing before a superior was socially required, (2) the accepting of the gift is connected with granting the petition, and (3) to “lift the face” and “hear” are both used to indicate the fact that the encounter has been successful.
First, because the greeting gift was a social obligation, it was required to be brought even when the inferior did not offer a petition. For example, when Saul requested
David’s presence, Jesse, David’s father, still felt the need to include “bread, a bottle of
199 wine and one kid” (1 Sam 16:20) when he sent his son to appear before Saul. When Jesse sends David to bring food for David’s brothers at war, he also includes 10 cheeses for the captain of the thousand (1 Sam 17:16).
Second, when a gift was presented in connection with a petition, it was the acceptance of the gift that was often connected with the granting of the petition. For example, when Abigail meets David in the dangerous audience in 2 Samuel 25, she prepared and sent ahead of herself 200 loaves of bread, two wine skins, 5 prepared sheep,
5 measures of roasted grain, 100 bunches of dried grapes, and 200 pressed figs (1 Sam
25:18). Abigail calls her gift a “blessing” (v.27) and suggests that “it be given to your young men who walk at the feet of my lord” (v.27). We notice in this instance that the gift does not need to be eaten by the superior, he just needs to accept it. The importance of this gift to Abigail’s petition is highlighted when the narrative tells us that “David received from her hand what she had brought to him” and then David tells Abigail, “go up to your house in peace, behold, I have heard your voice and lifted your face” (v.35).
The acceptance of Abigail’s greeting gift was intrinsically tied to David “hearing”
Abigail’s plea and “lifting [her] face.”
A similar situation is reflected in the encounter between Jacob and Esau in
Gen 32:14). This) (מִ נְחָה) Genesis 32. Jacob sent Esau a large number of animals as a gift gift included 200 female goats, 20 male goats, 200 ewes, 20 rams, 30 nursing camels, their young, 40 heifers, 10 bulls, 20 female donkeys, and 10 young donkeys (Gen 32:15–
16). Esau did not have to eat these, he just needed to accept them. Esau’s acceptance of the gift is tied to a successful audience. Jacob explains his intentions in sending the gift
200 his face with the gift that goes in front of me, and after ( אכַפְרָ ה) by saying, “I will appease this I will see his face; perhaps he will lift my face.” (Gen 32:21).
The tie between the acceptance of a gift and a successful audience is also noted in
Malachi 1:8. When the priests are being chastised for their improper gifts to Yahweh,
Yahweh challenges them to “offer it to your governor, will he accept you or will he lift up your face?” (Mal 1:8). The gift was an important part of the superior “lifting the face” or granting the petition of the inferior.
Last, we notice, particularly in the story of Abigail, that to accept the gift was to performatively grant the petition of the supplicant. When David accepts Abigail’s gift, he states that “I have heard your voice” and “I have lifted up your face” (1 Sam 25:35), these two statements as well as the physical act of accepting a gift act as performative actions that grant Abigail’s petition.
Understanding the burnt offering and lament in connection with the greeting gifts in the narrative depictions of audiences helps us better understand how these work within the ritual frame. First, the offering of the burnt offering when appearing before Yahweh was considered a social requirement just as much as it was to appear before a social superior. We have already noted in §4.2.3.3 that Yahweh was considered a social superior par excellence. This sort of protocol is evidenced by the stipulation that “three times a year all males will appear before Yahweh, your god…and they will not appear before Yahweh empty” (Deut 16:16). From this perspective, we can also sidestep any issues about what Yahweh did with this gift; the important point is that it was socially expected and that he accepts the gift. Just as the accepting of the greeting gift is tied with
201 a successful petition, so is the acceptance of the burnt offering often tied to accepting the accompanying petition. We see this dramatized in accounts when Yahweh sends fire out of heaven to accept a burnt offering (i.e. 1 Chr 21:26). As we have noted previously, when Yahweh “hears” a petition or “smells” a sacrifice, the goals of the ritual act are performatively granted; this is analogous to David performatively granting Abigail’s petition by accepting her gift and hearing her petition. The psalms commonly state that
Yahweh has heard their petition to indicate that he has granted it (Ps 6:9–10; Ps 28:6; Ps
34:7; Ps 40:2, etc.). For Yahweh to “smell” a sacrifice was to performatively accept the sacrifice (Gen 8:20–21; Lev 26:31; Amos 5:21).67 These two actions indicate that, similar to narrative depictions of audiences, to accept a gift was to performatively grant a petition in much the same way that human superiors grant petitions by accepting greeting gifts.
4.4.3.2 Blessing After the petition was granted in an audience, the one who was granted a favor and those who heard about it were expected to bless and praise the one who granted the petition. In Moshe Greenberg’s study that compared human-to-human verbal interaction with the language of prayer, he notes examples where the one helped was expected to render a blessing.68 For example, in Deut 24:13, we are told that if you take a pledge from
67 Rainey, who notices that smelling is used as an idiom for acceptance, still conjectures that there “must have been some observation or sign whereby the officiating priest announced to the offerer that his sacrifice had been accepted” (“The Order of Sacrifices in Old Testament Ritual Texts,” 487). Rainey misses the point that the rituals often progress as a matter of course; rituals were considered efficacious upon enactment.
68 Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer, 33.
202 a poor person, “you will surely return the pledge when the sun goes down so that he will bless you.” The blessing of the poor person will “be righteousness before Yahweh”
(v.13). When Job remembers when his life was better he claims, “When an ear heard, it called me happy, when an eye saw, it witnessed for me, because I saved the afflicted who cried for help and the orphan and the one who had no helper. The blessing of the one perishing came upon me and I made the heart of the widow sing for joy” (Job 29:11–13).
In both these cases, it is the ones helped and those who hear about these deeds that rejoice and bless the benefactor. The blessing of those helped was considered to be a tangible benefit, similar to the greeting gift that is sometimes called a “blessing” itself (1 Sam
25:27). Greenberg notes numerous examples of this in the Book of Ruth. When Ruth comes back from the field of Boaz, she asks “where have you worked? May the one who paid you attention be blessed!” (Ruth 2:19). When she hears that it was Boaz, Naomi exclaims, “Blessed be he to Yahweh whose faithfulness has not forsaken the living or the dead” (Ruth 2:20).
These examples point to a social practice of blessing and praising those who bestow favors on the afflicted. Just as a blessing was expected for human benefactors, it was considered an important part of interacting with Yahweh to bless him in return for what he had done. This connection is made explicit in Ps 28:6, “Blessed be Yahweh because he heard the voice of my supplications!” (see also Ps 31:20; Ps 66:19–20). This kind of language often comes in the latter parts of laments, particularly in those psalms that exhibit the “certainty of a hearing” and those that include a “vow of praise.” The vow of praise is a plea for the ability to bless and praise Yahweh; as Gary Anderson notes,
203 “Public praise, as a joyous act, is forbidden to penitents. It is something they can vow, but not at present experience.”69 The entire thanksgiving psalm genre was the expression of this joy that came from deliverance, and it was also a social obligation to praise Yahweh for what he had done.
In summary, the movement from greeting gift and petition to blessing is not only attested in the ritual activities in the Jerusalem temple, but it finds analogy in the narrative depictions of human audience scenes in the Hebrew Bible. The comparison of the audience enacted within ritual and the audience found in narrative has helped us better contextualize the connection of the greeting gifts and petitions, and the social obligation for recipients of aid to bless their benefactors. These observations have strengthened the argument that the burnt offering is connected with the lament, and that the celebratory offerings are a response to a successful petition.
4.4.4 Individual or Communal Laments? We have thus far created a ritual scenario in which we can situate the laments into a progression of ritual activity that moves from petition to celebration. We have yet to discuss how we can differentiate between the circumstances that might indicate the performance of the communal or individual laments. It stands to reason that communal gatherings would be the circumstances in which we would expect to see these laments
69 Gary A. Anderson, “The Praise of God as a Cultic Event,” in Priesthood and Cult in Ancient Israel, ed. Gary A. Anderson and Saul M. Olyan, JSOTSup 125 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 23. Anderson comes close to touching the thesis of this dissertation when he describes how “prayer in the Bible…could be—and perhaps more often was—a carefully prescribed cultic act” (ibid., 16). Anderson’s thesis is very illuminating for what is going on inside the ritual world, but he does not keep the prescribed nature of the entire ritual frame in proper view throughout his study.
204 performed, and we might posit more individual or personal circumstances under which the individual lament might be performed. However, 2 Chr 29 and the evidence we have reviewed so far indicates that we may not be able to distinguish these occasions so easily.
At first blush, 2 Chr 29 seems to be a prime candidate for a communal lament, since the lament takes place during a ritual that includes a large assembly, and there is a single burnt offering offered in which the people all participate. However, after the completion of the burnt offering and the joyous performance of the Levites, the people
.(Chr 29:31 2) (תֹודֹות) and thank-offerings (זְבָחִ ים) are told to bring their own sacrifices
The narrator goes on to tell us that “the assembly brought sacrifices and thank-offerings and all the willing of heart (brought) burnt offerings” (v.31). Not only would some individuals finish the ritual progression that began in a communal setting with their own sacrifices and thank-offerings, but some would begin a new series of ritual activity by bringing their own burnt offering as well. From this perspective, we see that a trip to the temple was not a one-purpose event; if a family had made the trip to the ritual center of the kingdom, they undoubtedly would have taken care of their own business as well as participated in the communal celebrations. We see this same scenario played out in 1
Samuel 1–2, where Hannah makes personal vows and offers a thank-offering in conjunction with her family’s trip to Shiloh for the yearly sacrifice.
At this point, we need to be cautious about too easily equating what goes on within the ritual frame with what has happened outside of it. We have already noted that the framing of ritual creates a domain where the identities and actions within a ritual can starkly contrast from the world outside of the ritual. The audience scene that is enacted
205 during within the ritual world may not correspond exactly with the reasons outside of the ritual world that bring individuals and communities to the temple. Similar to theater, the reasons that individual actors may come, what motivates them, or drives to them to participate is of little relevance once they appear on stage; once they are on stage, they have entered a new world. For example, there often seems to be a gap that is expected to take place between an answered prayer and the bringing of a thank-offering or something that has been vowed.70 However, from the perspective of 2 Chr 29, the thank-offerings that are brought by the individual members of the community are inserted into a ritual world that celebrates the answering of a communal petition by Yahweh.71 Therefore, the bringing of thank-offerings, even though it may have been for a specific reason, such as returning from a sea voyage (Ps 107:22–30), may have been offered at the temple in
70 For example, Ps 50 tells the people, “call on me in the day of distress, I will deliver you; and then you may honor me” (v.15). In Ps 107:22–30, sailors are expected to offer sacrifices of thanksgiving after calling to Yahweh and being delivered while on the ocean.
71 An individual who brings a burnt offering or thank-offering to the temple is participating in a distinct social domain that lies outside of the communal lament ritual in 2 Chr 29. These social domains overlap with one another when an individual’s thank- offering, which was brought for its own reasons, is slotted into a ritual world that has its own story. If we attempt to understand all the ways that a single individual relates with Yahweh in a more complete sense, then we would need to understand how each domain in which an individual interacts with Yahweh correlates with each other. We can talk about what is happening as layered social domains because we never truly exit some social domains and our actions in one frame are relevant to our actions in another. A broader investigation is outside of the scope of this dissertation.
206 conjunction with a burnt offering that was presented for another occasion.72 We have already seen that prayer and burnt offering could be offered by different individuals and still be efficacious (see Job 42:8), and this may be another example where the occasion or who brings the offering or prayer is not important to the world inside the ritual. In 1 Sam
1, however, Hannah brought multiple bulls when she arrived at Shiloh to present Samuel
(v.24). One bull is slaughtered before she presents the child and offers her thanksgiving psalms (1 Sam 1:25–2:1), leaving open the possibility that the first bull was a burnt offering and the other two bulls were slaughtered as sacrifices that would be shared with the family and community.
This fluid movement between opportunities for communal prayer and individual prayer indicate to us that these may take place side by side in the same ritual.73 The
Levities were expected to attend to the individual offerings brought by people as much as they were expected to attend to the larger communal performances. This seems to be implied by the statement in 1 Chr 23:30–31, where their duty was “to stand every morning to thank and praise Yahweh and the same at evening, and for every offering of burnt offerings to Yahweh, for Sabbaths, for new moons, and for appointed times.” The
72 Prayer in the evening was propitious time for prayer even outside of the temple because it coincided with the offerings offered in the temple (see 1 Kgs 18:36). Even the dedicatory prayer of Solomon, which was offered during an offering at the temple, assumes that the temple acts as a conduit for the prayers of the people even when they are not at the temple (see 1 Kgs 8; 2 Chr 6–7).
73 Even though the progression of the ritual tells a single story, similar to how bīt rimki and bīt salāʾ mê tell a complete story, the constituent parts of the ritual are framed domains themselves and can be regarded as something distinct. Identities and circumstances do not always carry over from one ritual moment to the next.
207 phrase “every offering of burnt offerings” could be taken to apply to occasions when individuals would bring these as well; this scenario is described in Leviticus 1 where individuals are expected to bring their own burnt offerings. The duty of the Levites to attend the prayers and sacrifices of individuals is referenced in Ezek 44 when they are
for the (הַזֶבַח) told that their duty is to “slaughter the burnt offering and the sacrifice people and they will stand before them to minister” (v.11). We assume that “ministering” would have included the other activities besides the slaughtering of the animal, such as the performance of prayers, which would have accompanied the offerings (see 1 Chr
16:4).74
4.4.5 Circumstances for the Performance of Individual and Communal Laments For the individual and communal laments, we have reconstructed a ritual series that enacts a successful audience and moves the participants from petition to joyous celebration. We have also noted in §4.4.4 that this progression may blend both individual and communal prayers and offerings. In this section, we will look at the external circumstances that might necessitate these rituals. In doing so, we will see that these rituals could be enacted in the face of an imminent threat or disaster, or they could also be performed according to a ritual calendar. The two circumstances in which the rituals could be performed helps us understand that the world outside of the ritual frame does not always coincide with what happens inside of the ritual frame.
74 Ezekiel 44:15 stipulates that the actual offering of the animal on the altar was expected to be carried out by the priests.
208 4.4.5.1 Impending Crisis One situation that scholars have considered to be an appropriate context for a communal lament is found in Judg 20.75 In Judg 20, the tribes of Israel have been defeated by the Benjaminites in two successive days of battle (vv.20–25). All the people went to the “house of God”, wept, sat, and fasted until the evening (v.26). At this point they offered burnt offerings and peace offerings (v.26). Within the ritual world, they would have offered the burnt offering to petition Yahweh for help, and then the peace offering would have broken the fast of the community and served as the joyful meal that was eaten together in response to Yahweh’s positive answer. What is noteworthy about this account is that the people took part in a ritual that assumed a positive reply and a joyous celebration within the ritual world before the actual circumstances had changed outside of this world; after the joyous celebration had been completed, the Israelites still needed to defeat the Benjaminites in battle.
An analogous situation is presented in Joshua 7. After being defeated at Ai,
Joshua rips his clothes, prostrates before the ark of Yahweh, and both he and the elders put dust on their heads (Josh 7:6). This narrative tells us that they stay in this condition
“until evening” (v.6). Rather than just an incidental detail, this implies that they waited to address Yahweh with their plea (Josh 7:7–9) when the evening offering was presented before the ark. The ritual is described as extemporaneous, but the answer is expected to be given in the moment of the complaint (Josh 7:10).
75 For example, see Day, Psalms, 33; Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 82–84.
209 A similar situation is presented in 2 Chr 20. Although there is no mention of sacrificial activity, the prayer of king Jehoshaphat is included in the ritual’s progression.
In the face of an imminent threat from the Moabites and the Ammonites, Jehoshaphat proclaims a fast and all the people gather to the temple and stand in “the new court” (v.5).
Jehoshaphat then offers a nice example of a communal lament outside of the book of
Psalms (vv.6–12). After the prayer, a Levite utters a message in the “name of Yahweh” that the lament has been heard and that Yahweh will be there in battle the next day
(vv.14–17). The people all prostrate themselves before Yahweh (v.18), and the Levites then “praise Yahweh, the god of Israel, with a loud voice” (v.19). The progression of the ritual proceeds very similarly to what we have seen in 2 Chr 29, yet rather than a prescribed ceremony, the narrative depicts the ritual as happening extemporaneously.
Even though there is no mention of sacrificial activity in this narrative, the previous two examples, in Judg 20 and Josh 7, indicate that a communal fast at the temple would have been accompanied by burnt offerings and peace offerings. The people would have broken their fast after the praise of the Levites in v.19. The extemporaneous nature of the ritual procedure may be a result of it being described from the perspective within the ritual frame.
We have already seen that celebratory peace offerings were brought before the petition had even been offered or granted in multiple instances, such as 1 Sam 13:9 and 2
Sam 24:25 || 1 Chr 21:26. In each of these instances, a positive reply to the deity is assumed from the beginning of the ritual, so that the fat of the peace offering might be burning on the altar at the same time as the burnt offering. This is an indication that this
210 planned performance took place regardless of the external circumstances, because the ritual itself enacted a successful audience before Yahweh.
4.4.5.2 Ritual Calendar The lament ritual, which would have included lament and thanksgiving, was enacted not only in the face of impending disaster but it also according to a ritual calendar. Zechariah 7–8 reference scheduled fasts that are performed during the exilic and post-exilic periods. These particular occasions have been singled out by scholars as ideal times for communal laments.76 Rather than depict a ritual carried out in the face of an imminent crisis, this text points to rituals being carried out on a scheduled and calendrical basis even after the disaster has passed.
Zechariah 7:2 tells us that Bethel had sent a group of men headed by Sherezer and
Regem-melech to the Jerusalem temple “to entreat the face of Yahweh” (v.2) and to ask,
“should I weep in the fifth month and abstain as I have done, this many years?” (v.3). The fast of the fifth month commemorated the destruction of the temple.77 The temple was nearing completion, and the group from Bethel was asking if it was still necessary to continue to follow the practice of commemorating the destruction of the first temple after the new temple would be put into full operation.78 Yahweh’s response through Zechariah
76 See Day, Psalms, 33; Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 82–84.
77 Carol L Meyers and Eric M Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1987), 386.
78 As Eric and Carol Meyers put it, “the point at issue for the delegation, however, is whether or not their behavior might be changed now that the temple is about to be
211 asked them, “when you fasted and mourned in the fifth and seventh months this seventy years, did you fast to me? And when you ate and when you drank, were you not (merely) eating and drinking?” (Zech 7:5–6). Zechariah refers to the ritual that we have noted previously, which would have included a petition to Yahweh and then a meal celebrating the answer given by Yahweh as the fast is broken together by the community.79 The problem that Yahweh points out is that the people have not used it as a time to call to
Yahweh during their fasts or to celebrate his answer during their meals afterwards. He claims that this same message was delivered to the nation before exile, “Are these not the words which Yahweh called by the hand of the former prophets when Jerusalem was inhabited and prosperous and its cities around it and the Negeb and the Shephelah were inhabited?” (Zech 7:7). In the following oracle, Zechariah also connects the exile to the
rededicated and now that the Jerusalem establishment in its nonmonarchical form has reasserted it authority” (ibid., 387).
79 Commentators are not entirely agreed on how to interpret the eating and drinking referred to in Zech 7:6. Some commentators take this to refer to normal eating and drinking or meals eaten at festivals (Anthony R Petterson, Haggai, Zechariah & Malachi, Apollos Old Testament Commentary 25 [Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2015], 197; David L Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1-8: A Commentary, Old Testament Library [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984], 286–87). Meyers and Meyers tentatively note that “a connotation of celebration, or of festal meals, is perhaps also present as part of the range of meanings that ‘eat’ and ‘drink’ provide in combination. Since the oracle containing those worlds is addressed specifically to priests along with the “people of the land,” it would not be out of place to posit a reference to cultic meals, or to the partaking of sacrificial portions” (Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 389). I agree with this observation, but we do not need to assume that a separate ritual is in view. The pairing of fasting with eating and drinking corresponds with our earlier observations concerning temple rituals that conclude with a meal.
212 inability to follow the admonition to “judge truthful judgment and to treat everyone and his brother with compassion and loyalty and the widow, orphan, sojourner and the poor do not oppress and the do not devise evil in your hearts” (Zech 7:9–10). Because Judah had not observed these important matters, the ritual was improperly carried out, “so that they called, but I would not hear” (Zech 7:13). The question of the Bethel delegation becomes a lesson on ritual failure. The petitions that they made during the ritual found no ear because they participated in the ritual for the wrong reasons and they also failed to execute social justice in their own communities.
Zechariah, in another oracle (Zech 8:19–23) mentions many other fasts that are carried out by the community; rather than declaring an end to the many fasts, including the fast of the fifth month, Zechariah sees the day when they will actually be effective.80
19Thus says Yahweh of armies, ‘The fast of the fourth month, the fast of the fifth month, the fast of the seventh month and the fast of the tenth month will be for the house of Judah for joy and rejoicing and good appointed times and they will love truth and peace.’ 20Thus says Yahweh of armies, ‘Peoples and the inhabitants of many cities will still come. 21And the inhabitants of one will say to another, ‘Let us go to entreat the face of Yahweh to seek Yahweh of armies,’ ‘I will go as well.’ 22And
80 Very similar sentiments are expressed in Isa 58. One of the great purposes of the communal fasts was to make Yahweh hear the voice of the community; however, the ritual seemed to be failing. In Isa 58, petitions were assumed to accompany fasting, and the people were imagined to ask, “why do we fast and you (Yahweh) do not see? Why have we afflicted our souls and you do not acknowledge?” (Isa 58:3). The writer of Trito-Isaiah agrees that “you should not fast like today in order to make your voice heard on high” (Isa 58:5). The prophetic writer argues that the fasting ritual is not about afflicting and mourning (v.5), it is about lifting social burdens by feeding the hungry and clothing the naked (vv.6–7). When the people are able to fast like this, then they are told “your light will break forth like the dawn” and “then you will call and Yahweh will answer; you will cry for help and he will say, ‘here I am’” (Isa 58:9). In both Zechariah 7–8 and Isaiah 58, the ritual has failed because the people have not properly participated, and likewise, they both see that fasting should be an occasion for joy and freedom from social oppression. 213 many peoples will come and strong nations to seek Yahweh of armies in Jerusalem and to entreat the face of Yahweh” (Zech 8:19–22).
Because the inhabitants of Judah would finally follow the admonitions of
Yahweh, the fasts that they continue to carry out would actually be effective in the world outside of the ritual frame. The fact that other nations would also come to “entreat the face of Yahweh” not only mirrors the entire point of the fast in general, but it also mirrors the purpose that Regem-meleck and Sherezer have come to the temple in the first place.
Zechariah tells the contingent from Bethel that if they continue to carry out the fasts, then they will get the results they want, which is more than merely having the temple built.
When Yahweh is able to be entreated for Judah, they will finally be able to focus on the joyous aspects of the temple ritual.
What had been taking place within the ritual frame contrasted with what had taken place outside of the ritual frame. Despite the assurance of the answer within the ritual frame and the celebration within its world, the ritual, whose primary purpose was for Yahweh to hear and answer the people, continued to be a failure. In Zechariah, the failure is not placed on the ritual, but their improper participation; they did not fast for
Yahweh and eat and drink for him as well. When they would properly participate in the ritual, this would not make the need for Yahweh to hear their petitions go away, but the ritual would continue to be carried out, but in much happier and more festive
214 circumstances.81 From this perspective, we see that despite the outside circumstances of the ritual, the people were still expected to carry out the same ritual.
These examples demonstrate that the ritual progression that takes individuals and communities through a successful petition and a joyous celebration could also be enacted according to a ritual calendar rather than in response to an imminent threat. It appears that at least some fasts were thought to be in response to a specific disaster, such as the destruction of the temple, but the fact that the people are instructed to continue to observe this aspect of the ritual calendar even after the disaster has been remedied implies that these rituals were conducted on more occasions than just a response to external threats.
4.4.6 Summary At this point, we have shown that laments were an integral part of Israel’s ritual activity in the temple. We have seen that 2 Chr 29 can serve as a template to the ritual activity in which laments would have been involved in. The Levitical performance during the burnt offering was when the Levites “reminded Yahweh” and offered prescribed prayers to him. The efficacy of each of the ritual actions in 2 Chr 29 and other larger rituals is demonstrated by the unquestioned progression from each step to the next. The fact that Yahweh was expected to answer positively to the petitions performed by the
Levities is made clear in the texts of the individual laments as well as the narrative
81 Other commentators regard the oracle in Zech 8:19 as a time when fasting will no longer be necessary or will be replaced by festivals ((Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1-8, 435; Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1-8, 313–14; Petterson, Haggai, Zechariah & Malachi, 209). However, the conditions seen in Zechariah’s oracle are a result of proper fasting, and the purpose that the nations come to Jerusalem, to entreat Yahweh, is the entire point of the fast. I think this is better seen as a happier time where what goes on inside of the ritual frame finally matches what goes on outside of it. Now the meal shared by the community at the end of the fast will finally be joyful. 215 depictions of rituals that take the perspective from within the ritual frame. Yahweh answered the petition and then the people joyfully celebrated with praising prayer and joyous sacrifice that was shared in a celebratory meal.
4.5. Where is Prescribed Prayer in the Hebrew Bible?: The Diachronic Issue In assessing the validity of my proposal in §4.3–4, one of the most pressing questions is, why do we have so little evidence for the coordination of prayer and ritual activity in the many different sources within the Hebrew Bible? For example, in the traditions that portray the establishment of ritual activity in the Pentateuch, ritual speech is rarely referred to or prescribed. Based on this evidence, Yehezkel Kaufmann previously argued that the psalms and the priestly cult were completely separate endeavors and said that “the priestly temple is the kingdom of silence.”82 Israel Knohl also agrees that the priestly traditions in the Pentateuch reflect what he called a
“sanctuary of silence.”83 Knohl’s argument is that P’s depiction of a silent cult was “an idealized approach, which apparently was never put into practice outside the limited area
82 Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel, 303. Although Kaufmann agrees that the psalms could be used against illness and even accompanied by a burnt offering, he rejects any association with “priestly rituals or sacrifices,” especially noting that the psalms are typically ascribed to non-priests, David or the heads of Levitical families; see Ibid., 109– 10.
83 See Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995). Although Kaufmann agrees that the psalms could be used against illness and even accompanied by a burnt offering, he rejects any association with “priestly rituals or sacrifices,” especially noting that the psalms are typically ascribed to non-priests, David, or the heads of Levitical families; see Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel, 109–10.
216 in which the Priestly cult was performed.”84 Gary Rendsburg agrees with both Kaufmann and Knohl that the priestly sources represent an idealized depiction, but also makes an argument based on a variety of sources that Levitical performance of the psalms began at least by the late 8th century.85
Nahum Sarna explores the same issue, but comes to a different and much more convincing assessment. He agrees with Kaufmann “firstly, that in the eyes of the priests psalmody was indeed extrinsic to the sacrificial rites…and, secondly, that the origins, cultivation and preservation of the psalms must be sought outside of the priestly circles, though not necessarily beyond a temple ambience.”86 Sarna argues that the psalms originated in musical guilds of Levites, but that psalms were always important to sacrifices. He argued that the separation of the two cultic elements of sacrifice and psalmody in the priestly literature was a result of them being conducted by separate groups of specialists, and that the lower social status of the Levites contributed to the secondary status of the psalms.87 I agree with Sarna’s assessment of this evidence. The lack of information about the performed prayers in the priestly writings is certainly
84 Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence, 149.
85 Gary A. Rendsburg, “Psalms as Hymns in the Temple Cult,” in Jesus and Temple: Textual and Archaeological Explorations, ed. James H. Charlesworth (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 99.
86 Sarna, “The Psalm Superscriptions and the Guilds,” 283.
87 Ibid., 290.
217 influenced by the fact these different elements of ritual activity were performed by different specialists.
Another element that is complementary to Sarna’s argument can be found in the ritual texts from Syria-Palestine in the Late Bronze Age. For example, from Emar we have descriptions of two elaborate rituals that were conducted within the community, the installation of the high priestess and the zukru-festival.88 These elaborately detailed ritual texts from Emar make no mention of a single word that should be spoken during the proceedings. It would be highly improbable to envision feasts, sacrifices, processions, and installation ceremonies with no speech of any kind. In the installation of the high priestess, on day two of the ritual, singers are told to walk in front of a procession that includes sacrificial animals, the high priestess, and the divine weapon, yet there is no mention within the ritual texts of them actually singing (Emar 373:7–8). The ritual texts at Ugarit exhibit a similar silence with regard to prayer or ritual speech taking place
88 The installation of the high-priestess is found on Emar 369; for a transliteration and translation, see Daniel E. Fleming, The Installation of Baal’s High Priestess at Emar: A Window on Ancient Syrian Religion (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992). For an accessible English translation, see “The Installation of the Storm God’s High Priestess” (COS 1.122:427–431), translated by Daniel Fleming. Witnesses to the zukru-festival are found on Emar 373 and other fragments; for transliteration and translation see Daniel E. Fleming, Time at Emar: The Cultic Calendar and the Rituals from the Diviner’s Archive (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000). For just the English translation, see “The Zukru Festival” (COS 1.123:431–436), translated by Daniel Fleming.
218 during ritual activities.89 There are some rituals that do stipulate that the king or someone else rgm yṯṯb “repeat the recitation, ” but the general trend is to merely outline the offerings for each god. 90 The content of these recitations are not spelled out within the ritual texts.
The general tenor of the evidence shows us that Emar and Ugarit omit the prayers and performances that would accompany ritual activity, even if singers are specifically mentioned in the ritual. These ritual texts are witnesses for a distinctive way of writing ritual texts that held sway at least from the Late Bronze Age in Syria-Palestine, and the priestly writings of the Pentateuch seem to follow similar generic conventions. Similar to the problem we have in Israel, we still do not know why ritual speech is often separated from other forms of ritual action at Emar and Ugarit. However, the explanation advanced by Sarna would equally apply to these cultures as well; these two elements of ritual activity probably fell under the purview of different ritual specialists. The fact that we have both prayer and other ritual activities attested together in Mesopotamian texts is probably a result of these both being performed by the same ritual specialist, like the
āšipu.
89 For a collection of the ritual texts found at Ugarit and its vicinity, see Dennis Pardee, Ritual and Cult at Ugarit, vol. 10, Writings from the Ancient World (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002).
90 For examples of rgm yṯṯb in ritual texts, see Text 8:20 (RS 24.256), 14:23,31 (RS 24.250), 15:45,46 (RS 1.003/RS 18.056) in ibid. One ritual (RS 1.003/RS 18.056) seems to shows signs of Mesopotamian influence. The ceremony takes place on a roof and the final prayer of the king—in which he speaks “according to what is in his heart” (15:52– 53)— takes place before the rising sun, two aspects that are attested in the rituals reviewed in chapters 2 and 3.
219 In contrast to the earlier trend seen in the priestly writings, the performance of
Levites alongside sacrificial offerings in the Jerusalem temple is clearly depicted in the later books of the Hebrew Bible, such as 1 and 2 Chronicles. This is usually explained by indicating that a shift in the ritual practice of the temple occurred in the Second Temple period and then was projected into the past. It is surmised that because the Levites could not point to Moses as the founder of their ritual practices, the Levites looked toward
David as a founder in order to vie for greater legitimacy during this period.91 However, it is more likely that there was a shift in the way that ritual texts were written and read rather than a fundamental change in the ritual activities themselves. The generic conventions that held sway since the Late Bronze Age that prevented the inclusion of
Levitical performance in earlier texts no longer applied during the writing of later biblical books. This change in how texts were written would also have been associated with a change in how they were read as well. Because the Levites and others would have read the “silence” that Kaufmann had noted as evidence that their own participation in the temple was not legitimate, they would have felt the need to remedy this absence by appealing to David, rather than Moses, as their founder. Thus, they would need David’s legitimacy, not necessarily because their practices were new, but because the foundational ritual texts of the community had begun to be read quite differently.
The relative absence of the coordination of prayer and other ritual activities in the
Hebrew Bible has much to do with the considerations of genre as well as the professional
91 Penner, Patterns of Daily Prayer in Second Temple Period Judaism, 55–56.
220 classes that would have been involved in each activity. Keeping these two considerations in mind helps provide an answer as to why prayer is not mentioned more often alongside ritual in the earlier texts of the Hebrew Bible.
4.6. The Human-Divine Relationships in Individual Laments and Communal Laments In §4.3–4, we have situated the laments within a ritual that enacts an audience scene between one or more supplicants and Yahweh. In this ritual, they offer a petition during the burning of the burnt offering and celebrate the granting of the petition during the thank-offering. The words and actions in the ritual are prescribed and are a part of the ceremony, leaving no uncertainty to the positive outcome of the ritual. Not only is the progression and outcome determined by the ritual procedure itself, but the identities and roles of the ritual participants are predetermined as well. Just like a player who steps on a football field or an actor who steps on stage, participants in ritual take on new identities within the ritual frame. Aside from the basic inferior/superior relationship that is created by an audience scene, the verbal component of the ritual adds more details about the relationship between human and deity and their stance toward each other. In this section
(§4.4.6), we will explore how the ritual personae for both Yahweh and the supplicant(s) are different for individual and communal laments. Understanding the personae for both human and divine participants helps us better understand the ritual world as well as how the identities within the ritual world contrast with identities outside of it.
We noted in §4.2.3.1 that individual and communal laments are often discussed together in introductions and commentaries to Psalms because they share many of the same features. What most scholars agree on is that individual laments are geared toward
221 the needs of private persons and the communal laments are geared toward the needs of the community. The most important element in our investigation, however, is the difference in the relationship between the supplicant and Yahweh in these prayers. The one scholar who has undertaken a systematic investigation in this regard is Rainer
Albertz.92
In Albertz’s larger study, he sought to distinguish between two types of religious expression in both ancient Israel and Babylon, which he termed “personal piety” and
“official religion.”93 Albertz compared aspects of the individual and communal laments in order to isolate characteristic features of personal piety from the official religion of ancient Israel.94 Albertz was a pioneer in the move to recognize religious pluralism in the ancient Near East, and since the publication of his study the field has taken notice of this issue.95 However, I am not interested in the possible origins of these laments but rather I
92 Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit, 23–49.
93 Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit. Albertz was building off of Erhard Gerstenberger who had previously argued that the individual laments originated in local, family settings rather than in the official cult; see Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch.
94 Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit, 27.
95 Many subsequent studies have been devoted to exploring this dichotomy, but more recently, the shortcomings of this approach have been acknowledged and researchers have moved on to more helpful paradigms; see Jacques Berlinerblau, “The ‘Popular Religion’ Paradigm in Old Testament Research : A Sociological Critique,” JSOT 60 (1993): 3–26; Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, “Modes of Religion: An Alternative to ‘Popular/Official’ Religion,” in Anthropology and the Bible: Critical Perspectives, ed. Emmanuel Pfoh, Biblical Intersections 3 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2010), 77–90; Francesca Stavrakopoulou, “‘Popular’ Religion and ‘Official’ Religion: Practice, Perception, Portrayal,” in Religious Diversity in Ancient Israel and Judah, ed. Francesca Stavrakopoulou and John Barton (New York; London: T & T Clark, 2010), 37–60.
222 hope to understand the ritual world that is created when either of these laments were performed in the Jerusalem temple. Regardless of the origins of the psalms, they were regarded as appropriate for use by the ritual specialists in Jerusalem and could be used by the same specialists, at the same place, at the same time. Albertz’s previous findings will be used as a springboard for my own investigation of the differences between the ritual personae and relationships within the individual and communal laments.
In Albertz’s investigation, he argued for five points of divergence between these types of laments. He noted (1) a difference in how the past relationship between Yahweh and the supplicant was reviewed, (2) a difference in how epithets were employed, (3) a different emphasis in Yahweh’s creative power, (4) a difference in Yahweh’s relationship to the crisis situation, and (5) a difference in the kinds of enemies or powers that each prayer type struggles with.96 Because many of these points help us understand the relationship between the supplicant(s) and Yahweh, they will be beneficial to our attempt to flesh out the ritual personaes created during the enactment of the rituals in which these texts participate.
4.6.1 Previous Relationship with Supplicant(s) Albertz characterizes the first difference as a form-critical one; the communal laments have an element called, “the review of God’s past saving acts,” whereas the individual laments have “expressions of trust.”97 The “review” that is an important part of communal laments is full of what is commonly called the “salvation history” of Israel,
96 Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit, 48–49.
97 Ibid., 27–28.
223 specific events in the lore of ancient Israel in which Yahweh had helped the entire community. All things being equal, Albertz suggests that we might expect to hear statements like, “you have saved the people of Israel from Egypt, therefore save me also in my affliction,” in the individual laments.98 He notes that there is no such statement among the individual laments, and his first example of the “expressions of trust” in the individual laments is indeed illuminating. Ps 71:5–9 reads,
5For you are my hope, O Lord Yahweh; My trust from my youth. 6I have leaned myself on you from the womb; You are the one who cut me from the womb of my mother, My praise is always on you. 7I am like a sign to many, but you are my strong refuge. 8May my mouth be filled with your praise, Every day, (may it be filled) with your beauty. 9Do not cast me away at the time of old age, While my strength ends, do not forsake me!
Thus, Albertz argues that the communal laments reflect confidence in Yahweh’s saving action by appealing to Yahweh’s historically situated deeds, whereas the individual laments express this same confidence by referring to a “trusting, personal relationship” with Yahweh.99
I agree with Albertz that this difference is a significant one. Rather than seeing this difference as a manifestation of religious strata, the most relevant point from the perspective of this project is that these two prayers refer to a past relationship with
98 Ibid., 29.
99 Ibid., 48.
224 Yahweh in different ways. The two elements that form criticism calls “the review of
God’s past saving acts” and “expressions of trust” can be collapsed into what might be described as “statements of past relationship.”
The past relationship elements that individual laments look back to are previous experiences in the life of the supplicant and his or her family when Yahweh delivered them from death and protected them from social or physical harm. The best example occurs in the first individual lament, Ps 3. One of the main issues that this psalm deals with is the accusation of enemies that claim that “he has no salvation in an ʾĕlōhîm” (Ps
3:3). The supplicant, however, refutes this claim by citing prior experiences in which
Yahweh has indeed acted as his ʾĕlōhîm. In his prayer, he tells Yahweh that “you are a shield for me, my honor and the one who lifts my head” (v.4). Already he implies that
Yahweh had acted on his behalf in the past, particularly noting that Yahweh had lifted his head, an important idiom for a granted petition. This background is made explicit in another psalm when the supplicant claims that “Yahweh is my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, I was helped and my heart exulted; I will praise him with my song” (Ps 28:7). Yahweh can be called a shield or strength because of what he has already done for the supplicant. The supplicant in Ps 3 also makes his or her past relationship with Yahweh much more explicit when the supplicant specifically claims that “I cried to Yahweh with my voice and he heard me” (v.5) and another time, “I lay down and slept; I woke up because Yahweh supported me” (v.6).
This personal touch is also emphasized in Pss 22 and 71. We already noticed that
Ps 71 describes a relationship with Yahweh “from the womb” (v.6) and “from my youth”
225 (v.5) and that this relationship was expected to last into the old age of the individual
(v.9). Psalm 22 also tells of a personal relationship with Yahweh that began quite early; the supplicant states that “you drew me from my mother’s womb; you are my god from the womb of my mother” (v.10). Not only has this relationship been relied on since birth, but the supplicant also explains that “our fathers trusted in you, they trusted, and you rescued them; they cried to you and were delivered; they trusted and were not ashamed.”
(v.5–6). Although this has overtones to a wider relationship than the individual, it has a distinctly familial tone. Not only had the individual been delivered and supported by
Yahweh throughout his life, but his or her ancestors had as well.
The communal laments also talk about their past relationship with Yahweh, but look back to events and locations that are shared by the community rather than the individual. In Ps 44, the community reviews this relationship, “We have heard with our ears, O ʾĕlōhîm, our fathers told us what you did in their days, in former days” (v.2). This statement is not altogether different from Ps 22:5–6, but in Ps 44, the community goes on to contextualize Yahweh’s deliverance in terms of nation and community by rehearsing an account of the exodus from Egypt and the conquest of the land; “You, your hand dispossessed the nations and planted them [i.e. our fathers], you did bad things to the nations and dispatched them” (Ps 44:3). This relationship with Yahweh goes from these founding events of the community into their own time, “you have saved us from our enemies and those who hated us you have put to shame.” (v.8). In Ps 74, he is told to
“remember your assembly you purchased of old, you redeemed the tribe of your inheritance, mount Zion in which you reside” (v.2). In Ps 80, Yahweh is told that he “led
226 a vine from Egypt, you drove out nations and you planted it. You cleared the ground before it, and you made it take root and it filled the land” (vv.9–10). The relationship between the community and Yahweh is also exemplified by the covenant Yahweh has made with David; in an example of Yahweh’s own words included in a psalm, Ps 89 reads, “I have made a covenant with my chosen, I have sworn to David my servant” (v.4).
The past relationship is described in very different ways between these two types of prayer. In the individual laments, the relationship is between Yahweh and the individual. Yahweh has been with a specific individual throughout life and his deliverance allows the individual to call him various praiseworthy epithets. The relationship in the communal laments is between Yahweh and the community. This relationship is characterized not only by the fact that Yahweh had delivered them and attended to them in the past, but it is anchored in specific events and times that are shared by the community.
4.6.2 Epithets of Yahweh The second argument by Albertz is that we can see a difference in the relationship between Yahweh and the supplicant when we examine the epithets that are used in the individual and communal laments.100 In particular, he argued that the use of “my god” in individual laments is evidence for a trusting and personal relationship, because they are often used in the petition and in the expressions of trust to move Yahweh to intervene.101
100 Ibid., 32–37, 48.
101 Ibid., 34.
227 He noted a similar function for the phrase, “you are my god.”102 In contrast, Albertz points out that the communal laments only use “our ʾĕlōhîm” once; he argues that this phrase merely distinguishes between other gods and that a trusting relationship is
“subordinate” to this usage.103
We have already established in the previous section that Yahweh’s relationship with the individual is intimate by definition; it is between a single individual and
Yahweh. He is expected to intervene in the course of an individual’s life and deliver him or her from enemies and afflictions from birth until old age. In the communal laments,
Yahweh is in a relationship with an entire community. Because the prayer represents a community rather than an individual within a community, it is unclear if we should regard Yahweh’s connection to this community as any more or less intimate.104 In order to evaluate Albertz’s assertions about the use of epithets, we will briefly review some of the common epithets between these two datasets.
If we look at all the epithets of Yahweh in the individual laments—including adjectives, participles, and names—we get a feel for the epithets that are commonly used.
102 Ibid.
103 Ibid., 35, 48.
104 Within communal laments, Yahweh is considered a god who operates on the cosmic scale, whereas in the individual laments, Yahweh is a god who operates on a much smaller scale. Even though Yahweh might be considered higher and more distant by his grander role in communal laments, the entity that Yahweh has a relationship with, the community, also operates on a larger scale as well. Therefore, if we are interested in comparing social proximity, there are now two variables that need to be taken into account. The clues provided by the epithets seem to be related to Yahweh’s spheres of influence rather than a difference in social proximity. 228 and ʾĕlōhîm (in its absolute ,(א דֹונַי) In the individual laments, if we exclude Yahweh, Lord form), we get over 50 different epithets. The most common are “my ʾĕlōhîm” (25x, Ps
3:8; 5:3; 7:2, 4; 13:4; 22:3; 25:2; 31:15; 35:23; 35:24; 38:16; 38:22; 42:7, 12; 43: 4, 5;
59:2; 69:4; 71:4, 12, 22; 86:2, 12; 109:26; 143:10), “my ʾel” (6x, Ps 22:2 (x2), 10; 63:2;
102:25; 140:7), “ʾĕlōhîm of my salvation” (5x, Ps 25:5; 27:9; 51:16; 69:14; 88:2), “my rock” (5x, Ps 28:1; 31:3; 31:4; 42:10; 71:3), “my strength” (4x, Ps 22:19; Ps 28:7; Ps
31:5; Ps 59:18), “my defense” (3x, Ps 59:10, 17, 18), and “my shield” (3x, Ps 7:11; 28:7;
59:12). The communal laments represent a much smaller dataset, only about a fifth of the size, and the limited number and diversity of epithets is reflected in this. Using the same criteria on the communal laments, I count only about 18 distinct epithets in this dataset, which is a proportionally comparable number to the 50+ that we have in the individual laments. They include “ʾĕlōhîm of armies” (5x, Ps 80:5, 8, 15, 20; Ps 89:9), “my/our king” (3x, Ps 44:5; 74:12; 89:19), “my/our ʾĕlōhîm” (2x, Ps 44:21; 83:14) which occur in multiple instances, but the other epithets are used only once, including “ʾĕlōhîm of our salvation” (Ps 79:9) and “our shield” (Ps 89:19).
Just looking at the common epithets, we notice that the relationship between the individual and the community can be described in the same way. In both cases, Yahweh is expected to be an ʾĕlōhîm to an individual or a group. Joel Burnett, in his study on the usage of ʾĕlōhîm in the Hebrew Bible, showed that although it is often used
229 synonymously with other words for god, it has a wider usage.105 Part of this wider usage is designating the patron deities that can be connected to individuals, places, and nations.106 Just as there can be an “ʾĕlōhîm of Elijah” (2 Kgs 2:14) or an ʾĕlōhîm of
David (2 Kgs 20:5), we can have an “ʾĕlōhîm of Ekron” (2 Kgs 1:2) or an ʾĕlōhîm of the land (2 Kgs 17:26). The patron deities of the nations around Israel are often described using this term, as in 1 Kgs 11:33, “because they abandoned me and prostrated themselves to Ashtoreth, the ʾĕlōhîm of the Sidonians, Chemosh, the ʾĕlōhîm of the
Moabites, and Milcom, the ʾĕlōhîm of the Ammonites…” To call Yahweh, “our ʾĕlōhîm” or “my ʾĕlōhîm” is to indicate a patron deity relationship, which may describe a connection between the deity and a particular individual, a location, or a nation. It becomes difficult to judge the distance or proximity of these different patron deity relationships when we notice that the relationship between Yahweh and a single individual, David, can also be representative for the ʾĕlōhîm relationship that Yahweh has to the community. Even as the community calls Yahweh “our defense” and “our king,” the community quotes Yahweh who declares that “I have found David, my servant…he will call to me, ‘You are my father, my god (ʾel), and the rock of my salvation’” (Ps
89:19,21,26).107 Yahweh’s relationship with the community is exemplified by David’s
105 Joel S. Burnett, A Reassessment of Biblical Elohim, SBL Dissertation Series 183 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001), 54–66.
106 Ibid., 64–65.
107 Yahweh is also addressed as a “my king and my ʾĕlōhîm” (Ps 5:3) in an individual lament.
230 personal relationship with Yahweh, which implies that the relationship that Yahweh has with the community itself is equivalent to the relationship that Yahweh has with David as an individual. Although there is certainly a difference between the ʾĕlōhîm relationship with an the individual and the same relationship with a community, proximity does not seem to be the essential element that captures this difference.
The frequent usage of “my ʾĕlōhîm” in the individual laments in contrast with a less frequent use of “my/our ʾĕlōhîm” in communal laments may have less to do with the difference in social distance between Yahweh and the supplicant(s), and have more to do with the different rhetorical needs of the prayer. Gods are usually recognized as the
ʾĕlōhîm of a particular place or nation, even across cultures.108 For example, Rab-shakeh, the Assyrian emissary to Jerusalem, notes that Yahweh is the ʾĕlōhîm of the people (2
Kgs 18:22). He simply doubts that Yahweh has the power to deliver when he taunts,
“have any of the ʾĕlōhîm of the nations delivered someone’s land from the hand of the king of Assyria?” (2 Kgs 18:33). The relationship of a land or a community to a patron deity is fairly self-evident; but the relationship between a patron deity and an individual is much harder to demonstrate. Therefore, in individual laments, there is a rhetorical need to
108 There is a striking exception to this in the contest between Yahweh and Baʿal described in the narrative in 1 Kgs 18. There appears to be a deep-seated dispute about the true identity of the patron deity of the Northern Kingdom. Elijah asks the people, “how long will you limp over two branches, if Yahweh is the ʾĕlōhîm, go after him; but if Baʿal [is the ʾĕlōhîm], go after him” (1 Kgs 18:21). After Elijah’s famous contest, the people then declare, “Yahweh, he is the ʾĕlōhîm; Yahweh, he is the ʾĕlōhîm!” (1 Kgs 18:39). For a description of this story in the context of the meaning of ʾĕlōhîm, see Burnett, A Reassessment of Biblical Elohim, 116–19.
231 demonstrate the relationship between the supplicant and Yahweh, and the supplicant directs his arguments toward both those who hear the prayer and Yahweh himself.109
Psalm 3 provides a nice example of the necessity of proving the relationship between the individual and Yahweh.
2 ]2[ יְְ֭הוָה מָ ִֽה־רַ בָ֣ ּו צָרָ ֶ֑ ירַ ֵ֝בִֵּ֗ים ֹ֥ קָמִ ים ִֽ עָלָ י׃ !O Yahweh, how many are my adversaries Many are those who rise up against me. 3 ]3[ רַבִים֮ אֹמְרִ ִׁ֪ ים לְ נַָ֫פְשִ ֹ֥ אי יןִ֤ יְִֽשּועָָ֓תָ הלֹּ֬ ו ,Many are those who say to my soul “There is no salvation for him in an ĕlōhîm.” בִֽ אֹלהִֹּ֬ים ס ִֽלָ ה׃ .Selah 4 ]4[ וְאַתָָ֣ ה יְְ֭הוָ ה מָג ָָ֣֤ןבַע דִ ֶ֑ יכְֵ֝ בודִֵּ֗ י ּומ רִ ֹ֥ ים רֹאשִִֽ י׃ ,But you, O Yahweh, are my shield My honor and the lifter of my head. 5 ]5[ יקְ֭ולִ אל־יְהוָ אָ֣ה קְרָ ֶ֑א וַיַ ִֽע נ ָ֨נִ י מהַ ִּ֖ ר קָדְשָ֣ ו ,I cried to Yahweh with my voice And he answered me from his holy hill. ס ִֽ לָ ה׃ 6 ]6[ אנִ ֹ֥י שָ כֵַּ֗בְתִיוָ ִֽאִָ֫ ישָ ֹ֥ הנָ הֱקִ יצֶ֑ ותִ י כִ ִּ֖ י יְהוָ ָ֣ה ,I lay down and slept I woke up because Yahweh supported me יִסְמְכ ִֽנִ י׃ 7 ]7[ לִֹֽ א־אְִ֭ירָ אמ רִ בְבֹ֥ ות עָ ֶ֑ם אש ֹ֥ רסֵָ֝בִֵּ֗ יב שָ ָ֣ תּו ,I will not fear 10,000s of people Who set up against me round about. ִֽ עָלָ י׃ 8 ]8[ קּ֘ומִָ֤ה יְהוָָ֨ ה׀ הושִ֘ יע ִ֤נִ י יאֱֹלהֵַּ֗ כִִֽ י־הִכִ ָ֣יתָ את־ !Arise, O Yahweh; save me, my ĕlōhîm Because you have smitten all my enemies on the כָ ל־אֹיְבַ ָ֣י ל ֶ֑חִ י שִנ ִּ֖ירְ שָעִ ָ֣ ים שִבִַֽ רְתָ ׃ ,cheek you have broken the teeth of the wicked. 9 ]9[ לַיהוָ ֹ֥ה הַ יְשּועָ ֶ֑ה עַ ִֽ ל־עַמְ ָךִּ֖בִרְ כָת ָ֣ ָך ס ִֽלָ ה׃ ;Yahweh has salvation Your blessing is on your people. Selah.
The main rhetorical movement of this psalm is to demonstrate that Yahweh is truly the ʾĕlōhîm of the petitioner. The enemies in v.3 make the opposite claim, “He has no salvation in an ʾĕlōhîm” (v.3). The enemies are not doubting that Yahweh has the
109 W. Derek Suderman draws attention to the fact that social address is an important part of the individual laments in W. Derek Suderman, “Are Individual Complaint Psalms Really Prayers?: Recognizing Social Address as Characteristic of Individual Complaints,” in The Bible as a Human Witness to Divine Revelation Hearing the Word of God through Historically Dissimilar Traditions, ed. Randall Heskett and Brian Irwin (New York: T & T Clark International, 2010), 153–70. 232 power to save the supplicant, they are doubting the supplicant’s relationship with any god who can act as his ʾĕlōhîm. The petitioner’s task is to refute this statement by referring to his past, current, and future relationship with Yahweh (vv.4–7). After reviewing how
Yahweh has acted to hear and deliver the supplicant in the past, the supplicant now refutes the saying of the enemies by repeating two elements from their statement: ʾĕlōhîm
,(הֹושִ יעֵּנִי) The supplicant now petitions, “arise, Yahweh; save me .ישע and the root (אֱֹלהִ ים) myʾĕlōhîm!” (v.8), refuting the statement that the petitioner had no ʾĕlōhîm in the first
(יְשּועָה) place. At the end of the psalm, the supplicant again reiterates that salvation belongs to Yahweh and his people. In this final statement, the supplicant claims membership in the group of people who claim Yahweh’s support.
This same rhetoric is common in other individual laments, where the supplicants must argue that they have membership in the group that Yahweh will protect and their enemies have no such membership. For example, we see this argument made in Ps 5. The supplicant claims that Yahweh is “my king and my ʾĕlōhîm” (v.3) and then praises
Yahweh for his stance toward the wicked (vv. 5–7). In v.8, the supplicant demonstrates that he or she is not among the wicked by contrasting his or her own behavior, “But I, I enter your house in the multitude of your loyalty; I prostrate myself towards your holy temple in your fear.” In vv. 9–10, the supplicant asks deliverance from enemies and equates these enemies with the wicked talked about in vv.5–7. After making the connection between the wicked and the enemies, the supplicant calls on Yahweh to destroy them (v.11). Doing so will “let all who seek refuge in [Yahweh] rejoice” (v.12).
233 In Ps 109, the supplicant also makes the claim that they have membership among the “poor and needy” and thus qualify for Yahweh’s aid, whereas the behavior of the supplicant’s enemies disqualifies them from aid. The supplicant complains against enemies who have mistreated the supplicant despite the supplicant’s love and prayers on their behalf (vv.4–5). In the face of the evil plot of these adversaries (vv.6–19), the supplicant asks for Yahweh to act on his or her own behalf (v.21) “because I am afflicted and poor” and asks “help me, Yahweh my ʾĕlōhîm…that they may know that this is your hand, (that) you, O Yahweh, have done it” (v.27). He or she asks Yahweh to “let your servant rejoice” (v.28), which would prove that “he [Yahweh] will stand at the right hand of the needy” (v.31). We see similar rhetoric in Ps 140 as well.110
In the world depicted in the individual laments, there are no geo-political or cultural distinctions that can prove association with Yahweh or another’s disassociation; one must assert a connection to Yahweh by appealing to one’s own trusting behavior. In
Ps 86, the supplicant asserts his connection to Yahweh while noting that Yahweh is not the only choice for an ʾĕlōhîm. When the supplicant calls Yahweh “my ʾĕlōhîm,” he pleads, “save your servant who trusts in you” (v.2). In this way, a true servant of
Yahweh, one who can claim a connection, is one who trusts in Yahweh. The fact that there may be other patron deities that one can choose is alluded to when the supplicant
110 In Ps 140, the supplicant laments the enemies are “evil” and “violent” (v.2) that seek to destroy the supplicant, but in v.7, the supplicant claims that “you are my ʾel” and refers to a past time that Yahweh has saved him or her (v.9), and makes a clear distinction between him or herself and the enemies. For Yahweh to uphold the enemies of the supplicant is to “allow the desires of the wicked” (v.9) and the “man of a tongue to be established” (v.12), but for Yahweh to support him is to “uphold the case of the afflicted and the justice of the poor” (v.13). 234 praises, “there is no one like you among the ʾĕlōhîm, O Lord” (v.8). After explaining that
“I walk in your truth” and “I praise you” (v.12), the supplicant notes that “the arrogant who rise against me…and they have not placed you (Yahweh) before them” (v.14). In other words, Yahweh is not their ʾĕlōhîm because they do not trust in him; therefore, the supplicant can ask, “give strength unto your servant and salvation to the son of your handmaid” (v.16). The supplicant feels a need to explain their connection with Yahweh and the disconnection of the enemies. The same trend is found in Ps 7, where the supplicant addresses Yahweh, “Yahweh, my ʾĕlōhîm, in you I put my trust” (v.2). It is the trust that one places in Yahweh that qualifies one to call Yahweh one’s own ʾĕlōhîm. In
Ps 25, the supplicant explains that “my ʾĕlōhîm, I trust in you; do not let me be ashamed, may my enemies not exult over me, neither let any who wait on you be ashamed, but may the treacherous ones without a cause be ashamed (vv.2–3). Again, the claim here is that the “enemies” and the “treacherous” should not be protected from social shame like the supplicant, who trusts in Yahweh.
The rhetorical need to prove who is the enemy and who is not, is made evident in the frequent use of “your enemies” in the communal laments (Ps 74:4, 23; Ps 83:3; Ps
89:11; 52) and the lack of this term in the individual laments. In the communal laments, it is self-evident who the enemies of Yahweh are and to whom he must direct his anger; but this needs to be argued in individual laments. The enemy of the supplicant cannot just be assumed to be an enemy of Yahweh; there is a rhetorical need to argue that Yahweh should act against the supplicant’s enemies because of their behavior.
235 In the communal laments, there is no need to demonstrate membership in the community because the community itself is praying to Yahweh. We have noted in §4.6.1 that Yahweh’s relationship with the community can be tied to specific events, but rather than proving a past relationship, these events are reviewed in order to make their argument that Yahweh is acting strangely in the present. They do not need to prove that
Yahweh is their ʾĕlōhîm. In Ps 89, despite the covenant with David that will be
“established forever like the moon,” the community accuses, “but you have rejected and refused it...you have repudiated the covenant with your servant.” (vv.39–40). In Ps 44, after explaining that Yahweh had “saved us from our enemies” the community then contrasts this with the present time, in which Yahweh “has rejected us and put us to shame and [he does] not go out with our armies” (v.10). In Ps 80, despite transplanting
Israel like a vine from Egypt and clearing the ground, Yahweh is then accused of having
“broken her walls so that all who pass by on the road pick from it” (v.13). From the perspective of the community, no one questions that Yahweh is the God of Israel; rather, the community itself questions why Yahweh is not currently doing his part. It is not the relationship between Yahweh and the community that is in question, it is his current behavior.
Although we can doubt that the frequency of the epithets can tell us anything about the social proximity or level of trust in the relationship, some of the epithets that are used are certainly indicative of some differences in the relationship. One of most common epithets in communal laments is “ĕlōhîm of armies” (e.g. Ps 80:5; Ps 89:9), which reflects the enemies and problems that Yahweh, as ĕlōhîm of the community, is
236 meant to deal with. He is also called the “shepherd of Israel” (Ps 80:2) and “ʿelyôn over the land” (Ps 83:19), which indicate his position over a community or area of land rather than a single individual. We do have similar epithets in the individual laments such “the one who rules Jacob” (Ps 59:14) and “Lord Yahweh of armies” (Ps 69:6), but the general tenor of the epithets in the individual laments is more in keeping with a god who protects individuals who trust in him, rather than an affiliation to a named people or land. Yahweh is a “savior of the upright of heart” (Ps 7:11) and “savior of those who trust your loyalty”
(Ps 17:7), and “the one who hears the poor” (Ps 69:33).
The epithets tend to point toward a similar distinction in the type of relationship that we saw in the “statements of past relationship.” Each type of prayer expects Yahweh to operate in a distinct sphere in which his responsibilities rarely overlap. The ĕlōhîm of the individual is expected to be with him during life because he trusts in him. The ĕlōhîm of the community is expected to hear the cries of the entire community and is bound to the community through his actions at specific events and places shared by the community as a whole.
4.6.3 Yahweh as Creator Albertz argues that Yahweh’s creative power is characterized differently between the individual and communal laments. Particularly, Albertz argues that the individual laments talk about Yahweh’s creation of the supplicant, while the communal laments talk about his creation of the world.111 Although our dataset is more restricted than the one used by Albertz (he included Pss 119 and 138), Yahweh does seem to be involved in the
111 Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit, 37–38, 48.
237 birth of the individual in Ps 22:10 and 71:6. Albertz’s observation that the communal laments focus on the cosmic powers of the deity is correct. It is only in the communal laments that we hear about Yahweh operating in the cosmos, and these instances are often part of the statements about the community’s past relationship with Yahweh. In Ps
74, the voice for the community calls Yahweh “my king of old who works salvation in the land” (v.12) and goes on to praise Yahweh for how he “broke the heads of the dragons in the waters” (v.13) and “broke the heads of Leviathan” (v.14), “split the source and stream” (v.15) and “established the light and sun” (v.16) and “formed summer and winter” (v.17). Additionally, in Ps 89, Yahweh’s power is considered to be incomparable
“among the bənê ʾēlîm” (v.6) because he “rules the rising of the Sea” (v.10) and “crushed
Rahab as a slain one” (v.11). In the communal laments, Yahweh is not only a god that is attached to a particular community; he is a cosmic god who created the earth and is incomparable among other divine beings. Although Yahweh is certainly considered to be a powerful god in the individual laments, the cosmic aspects of his power are not in view.
4.6.4 The Crisis in the Laments The fourth and fifth points of divergence that Albertz notes have to do with
Yahweh’s relationship to the crisis situation and the enemies that are in view in each type of lament. Albertz argues that the communal laments consider Yahweh’s anger to be the cause of the crisis, and that the enemies are clearly political and military enemies.112 In the individual laments, he argues that Yahweh’s responsibility is more indirect, and it is
112 Ibid., 49.
238 his absence that leaves the individual vulnerable. Rather than struggling against political or military enemies, Albertz argues that the individual laments struggle against “demonic powers” and the mocking of neighbors and enemies.113
Albertz is correct that Yahweh is considered responsible for the disaster that has befallen the community, but divine anger is not always explicitly mentioned. Psalm 44:9–
14 makes it clear that Yahweh is responsible for the community’s defeat; he “rejected”
(v.9) them, but it does not talk about divine anger. The psalmist wonders, “why do you sleep?” (v.24) and “why do you hide your face and forget our affliction and oppression?”
(v.25). Ps 83 also assumes that divine silence is the root of the problem: “may you not keep quiet; do not be speechless; do not be inactive!” (v.2), but does not specifically mention why this is the case. Although divine anger is mentioned as a specific catalyst to
Yahweh’s actions in other communal laments (Ps 74:1; Ps 79:5; Ps 80:4), it is not clear why he is angry. As Walter Bouzard notes, in the communal laments “the reasons for the apparent divine rejection remained mysterious to the psalmist” and that “[d]ivine inattention, and the notion that God simply had not adequately considered the plight of
God’s people are suggested as explanations.”114 There is, however, one instance where divine anger seems to be the result of the past misdeeds of the community; the
113 Ibid.
114 Bouzard, We Have Heard, 133.
239 community asks Yahweh to “not remember against us former iniquity” (Ps 79:8) and asks
Yahweh “to expiate our transgressions” (Ps 79:9).115
Bouzard also notes that the “the primary destructive agent in the Hebrew communal laments is the foreign invader.”116 Although Yahweh is characterized as the cause of the community’s problems, this is facilitated and exacerbated by the efforts of enemies and neighbors. As in the individual laments, these enemies are not usually identified, but the enemies and neighbors are set within the framework of the geo- political situation of ancient Israel and Judah. After reviewing Yahweh’s help against the inhabitants of Canaan (Ps 44:2–4), the community turns to the present situation in which
“you do not go out with our armies; you make us turn back from the enemy” (Ps 44:11–
12). Not only are they afflicted by enemy armies but they also accuse Yahweh that “you are turning us into a reproach of our neighbors and a derision to those around us” (Ps
44:14). Ps 60 quotes one of Yahweh’s former pronouncements that mentions his dominance over Moab, Edom, and Philistia (v.10). This is then juxtaposed with the present reality in which “you do not go out with our armies” (Ps 60:12). In Ps 80, the community is led out of Egypt only to be preyed upon by wild animals (v.14). Psalm 83
115 Bouzard argues that “the Psalter’s communal lamentations are curiously silent on the subject of sin and penitence,” and argues that Ps 79:8–9 does not count because it “remains unclear that the psalmist confesses his own generation’s sins so much as recognizes that the iniquities of the ancestors remain a potential cause for punishment and an explanation for the present disaster,” in ibid., 143–44. I am not sure there is much gained by making a distinction between these two different cases.
116 Ibid., 130.
240 also mentions the historical enemies of Edom, Ammon, Philistines, Tyre, and Aššur (v.7–
8) as well as the great enemies of Hebrew lore, such as Sisera, Jabin, Oreb, Zeeb, Zebah, and Zalmunna (v.10–12).
In the individual laments, Yahweh exhibits a variety of relationships to the situation at hand. There have been past attempts to define Yahweh’s relationship to the crisis situation and to use this as a method for sub-grouping laments, but this has been met with criticism.117 John Day sees it “better to think of a continuum ranging from psalms in which Yahweh is blamed outright for suffering, through psalms in which he is passively standing back, and to psalms in which God is not explicitly held responsible at all.”118 Therefore, although we can identify situations in which Yahweh is not considered responsible for the afflictions of the sufferer (e.g. Ps 3), there are other individual laments that assign responsibility for the afflictions to Yahweh (e.g. Ps 38). This particular feature of individual laments is certainly important when assessing the world within the ritual, but it does not help us distinguish between the communal and individual laments.
Although I disagree with Albertz’s characterization of the crisis in the individual laments as “demonic powers,” he is certainly correct that the threat of death looms large
117 Craig Broyles, The Conflict of Faith and Experience in the Psalms: A Form-Critical and Theological Study, JSOTSup 52 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989); Bouzard, We Have Heard, 134–35; Day, Psalms, 20–21.
118 Day, Psalms, 21.
241 in these individual laments.119 This death, however, is not just physical death, but also a social death. Bernd Janowski argues that the life and death of the supplicant are connected to two spheres, the bodily sphere and the social sphere.120 He argues that
‘Life’ means connectivity: the integration of the individual into the social fabric, which is the basis for communal life. ‘Death,’ on the other hand means dissolution and destruction of these connections, which provide support for the individual within the community and before God. Life can therefore end even before death if the social bonds loosen and the forces take effect, which the Psalter associates again and again with the person of the enemy (social death). Bodily sphere and social sphere, body and social structure, therefore correspond to each other.121
This connection between these spheres is apparent when the health of the individual is affected by the “enemies” of the Psalms and the bodily suffering also affects the social standing of the supplicant in the prayer. These two spheres are in view in Ps 13, where the supplicant laments, “How long will I set counsel in my nepeš and sorrow in my heart daily? How long will my enemies rise up against me?” (v.3), and the consequence of Yahweh not intervening to save the supplicant is expressed in the plea, “Look! Answer me, O Yahweh my ʾĕlōhîm, illuminate my eyes lest I sleep in death” (v.4). In this way, the actions of enemies and the estrangement of neighbors and family work to disconnect and afflict the social sphere of the individual. In Ps 55, the supplicant laments that “it is
119 For Albertz’s views of the demonic in individual laments, see Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit, 45–46. The importance of death was seen by Gunkel, who noted that “the trip into the underworld” was an important image in the individual laments; see Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 94.
120 Bernd Janowski, Arguing with God: A Theological Anthropology of the Psalms, trans. Armin Siedlecki (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2013), 49–51.
121 Ibid., 51.
242 not an enemy who reproaches me; [if it were an enemy] then I would bear it; it is not someone who hates me who has magnified themselves over me; [if it were someone who hates me] then I would hide from him; but it was you, a man like me, my friend, and the one who knew me” (Ps 55:13–14). Even amidst this crisis of social estrangement, the supplicant laments that “the terrors of death have fallen on me” (Ps 55:5). The power of illness or divine punishment might be exploited by enemies or made worse through social estrangement in general (see Ps 38:4–13; 88:16–19).122 In each of these instances, we might characterize the power of death, both physical and social, as threatening the supplicant.
Therefore, in the communal laments, the enemies are the geo-political forces that surround the community. The community suffers defeat at the hand of these powers and asks for Yahweh to intervene. In the individual laments, the individual supplicant faces the power of death in the face of physical and social harm in which Yahweh is asked to intervene to deliver the individual.
4.6.5 Close vs. Distant Relationship?
Before closing our comparison of the individual and communal laments, we need to investigate a proposal by Alan Lenzi about the social distance or proximity between the supplicant(s) and Yahweh in the laments. Lenzi has previously proposed that the presence of a hymnic element in communal laments suggests a more formal and distant
122 Both Pss 38 and 88 are regarded as illness psalms by K. Seybold; For a discussion of Day, Psalms, 25–27.
243 relationship with Yahweh than the relationship found in individual laments.123 Lenzi’s comparison between individual and communal laments was a test case for his main argument that both the dingiršadabba and the individual lament demonstrate close and intimate relationships with their divine addressees. He argued that the long, hymnic invocations in šuilla prayers are an indication of increased formality and social distance when they are compared with the brief and familiar invocations of dingiršadabba prayers. Based on the same criteria, he argues that the individual laments lack such a hymnic element and demonstrate a less formal and distant relationship with Yahweh than the communal laments, which contain hymnic elements.
I agree with Lenzi’s assessment of the lack of social distance between the supplicant and the addressed god in individual laments and dingiršadabbas, but his assessment of the communal laments may still be open to question. The convincing contrasts that are found between dingiršadabba and šuilla rituals are not apparent between individual and communal laments. Lenzi argues that because the cosmic and global aspects of Yahweh are touted in communal laments, “we should expect more formality in the way the Israelites address their deity” and “we should expect an invocation to work in tandem with something like we saw in šuillas, namely, hymnic elements, that intend to move the social superior to be obligated to the supplicant.”124
Lenzi does find a number of hymnic elements in the communal laments (Ps 44:2–9;
123 Lenzi, “Invoking God,” 313–15.
124 Ibid., 315. 244 74:12–17; 80:2–3a, 9–12; 89:2–19). The force of the results is lessened by the facts that both the invocations of individual and communal laments refer to a longstanding relationship between the supplicant(s) and deity and that both individual and communal laments have hymnic elements.
The hymnic elements that Lenzi identifies in the communal laments (Ps 44:2–9;
74:12–17; 80:2–3a, 9–12; 89:2–19) are mostly what we have called “statements of past relationship” in §4.6.1. These sections tie the community to Yahweh because of what he had done for them. For example, Ps 44:2–9 talks about what “you did in [our fathers’] days” (v.2) and notes that “you saved us from our enemies and those who hate us you put to shame” (v.8). In Ps 74:12, he is called “my king of old.” In Ps 80, the epithets tie
Yahweh to the community (“Shepherd of Israel” (v.2)) and the metaphor for the exodus and conquest (v.9–12) connect Yahweh to the community by a shared event. A slightly different but equally connected relationship with Yahweh has also been described for the individual laments in §4.6.1. The distant relationship created by hymnic element of šuilla rituals was created in part because no direct link between the praying individual and the addressed god was mentioned; communal laments create strong links between the community and Yahweh.
The presence of a hymnic element is not itself a sign of formality or social distance, because we find similar hymnic elements in individual laments. Individual laments also include sections that praise the deity. For example, in Ps 5, the supplicant praises, “for you are not a god who delights in wickedness, evil does not sojourn with
245 you. Boasters do not stand before your eyes; you hate all doers of iniquity. You make those who speak lies perish; the bloody and deceitful person Yahweh detests” (vv.5–7).
These sections of praise can equally be considered a hymnic element and are common throughout the individual laments (e.g. Ps 3:4–7; Ps 5:5–7; Ps 7:11–14; Ps 25:8–10, 12–
15).
Because of these issues, comparing the social distance or proximity between individual and communal laments may not be as productive an approach as it was for
šuilla and dingiršadabba prayers. Lenzi’s approach to formality finds clearer results when applied to dingiršadabba and šuilla prayers because they are the petitions of single individuals addressing single deities. When we start to compare social distance between an individual and a god with the social distance between a community and a god, there are now multiple variables and it is not entirely clear how proximity is to be gauged. We have already noted in §4.6.1–6.4 that the differences are better characterized as spheres of action than differences in distance or proximity.
4.6.6 Summary: The ʾĕlōhîm of the Individual and the ʾĕlōhîm of the Community Our look at the relationship between Yahweh and the supplicant(s) in the individual and communal laments has shown us that each type of lament creates a different ritual world for the participants. Even though Yahweh is considered to be the
ʾĕlōhîm, or patron deity, of the supplicant(s) in both types of lament, the way that this relationship is tracked and the spheres in which Yahweh is expected to operate are different. Because the relationship and the situation differ so sharply between these laments, we are able to see how these prayers can take place in framed ritual
246 environments in which the identities, roles, and relationships are bounded and restricted to these frames.
In the individual laments, Yahweh is the ʾĕlōhîm of an individual. This relationship is personal; it started at the beginning of the supplicant’s life and was expected to last until his or her death. This relationship could also be shared by family members across generations. When individuals look at their past relationship, they see how Yahweh has helped deliver them from their own trials and helped them against the enemies and afflictions they have confronted in their own lives. Because the relationship with Yahweh is not always self-evident within the larger social context, the supplicants must spend time arguing that they have the right to claim Yahweh as their ʾĕlōhîm.
In the communal lament, Yahweh is the ʾĕlōhîm of the community, but this relationship with the community is sometimes characterized as Yahweh’s relationship with a single individual, David. In this relationship, Yahweh has helped the community in shared events that the community can look back to. The relationship with this community is considered self-evident, even though the change in his behavior is often considered to be the source of the problem. Yahweh participates in the creation of the earth and the geo-political events of Israel’s past and present.
4.7. Summary and Conclusion This chapter has argued that the individual and communal laments of the Book of
Psalms find a place alongside the burnt offering in the Jerusalem temple. This combined performance of the lament and burnt offering is part of a ritual series that enacts a successful audience before Yahweh.
247 Our analysis of the laments within a ritual frame has helped us properly contextualize these prayers. In keeping with our performance approach to ritual, we are able to understand the lament ritual from two different perspectives. From one perspective, the lament ritual was a unit of performative action. The successful performance of the lament ritual essentially guaranteed that Yahweh would grant the petition of the supplicant. The positive reply of Yahweh was prescribed into many of the laments, and the unquestioned movement from burnt offering to peace offering demonstrates that each ritual element was expected to be efficacious upon enactment.
From another perspective, however, the laments are persuasive pieces of rhetoric meant to persuade a divine superior to act on behalf of the supplicant(s). This perspective comes from within the ritual frame. In the ritual frame, the individual or the community comes to Yahweh in dire need and pleads for his intervention to stop their enemies from prevailing. In individual laments, the individual takes on the role of one who has trusted in Yahweh from youth and expects him to deliver him or her once again. Yahweh takes on the role of the patron deity of an individual who is expected to intervene to help the physical, emotional, and social wellbeing of the supplicant.
In the communal laments, the participants become a part of a wider community that looks to specific events of their shared past in which Yahweh has delivered them.
However, Yahweh has changed his behavior and his actions have allowed the armies of their political enemies to prevail. They plead with Yahweh to intercede. In this instance,
Yahweh takes on the role of the patron deity of the community who operates on the global and cosmic scale.
248 These performances within the ritual frame may or may not reflect the situation of the individual and community outside of the ritual frame. Although this ritual performance could be enacted in the face of impending danger to individuals and communities, it could also be enacted according to a ritual calendar. Therefore, despite the external circumstances, both human and divine participants were expected to take on these roles and assume this situation. As they took on these roles and played their parts to completion, within the ritual frame the conflict was resolved and Yahweh would hear the pleas for help and grant their deliverance.
This performance approach helps us better understand how to interpret the human-divine relationships within individual and communal laments. Some ways of relating with deity are restricted to specific, framed environments. Seeing the different human-divine relationships attested in these two lament genres helps us understand how individuals related with Yahweh in specific rituals; this change in relationships between rituals is similar to how relationships between two individuals change depending on the social domain they are in. Since social domains, including ritual domains, have so much influence on relationships, we must exercise caution in extending these same relationships to other circumstances. Although we might be able to call the relationship found in individual laments a “personal god” relationship, it is not clear if that relationship was any more real to the supplicant than the one enacted in the communal laments. We are unsure of the other contexts within the life of the individual in which these different relationships might be activated, but it is clear that the two relationships
249 found in the individual and communal laments were clearly options for relating with
Yahweh during the first-millennium BCE.
250 CONCLUSION
This dissertation began with the question of how the ritual environment should influence how we approach and understand human-divine relationships in ancient Near
Eastern prayer. Performance approaches to ritual have helped us see important characteristics of the ritual domain and what goes on inside of this domain, and these characteristics have transcended cultural boundaries and helped us understand rituals and human-divine relationships in both Israel and Mesopotamia.
Ritual domains are social domains, like theatre or sports, and social life is a network of overlapping domains that have various amounts of influence on the actions of social actors. Each ritual takes place in a uniquely framed environment that social actors enter into and exit from. Framing demarcates all social domains from each other and allows distinct kinds of actions to take place inside of them; not only do the participants agree to abide by the rules that are specific to a given domain, they also take on new identities when they enter these framed domains. Some social domains are more restricting than others, so that the actions and identities that take place within these domains might be starkly contrasted with actions and identities outside of that specific domain. We saw that this is the case in the social domain of theatre in Western cultures.
In the four ancient Near Eastern rituals that we explored, their framing was extremely restricting of the agency of their participants; in this way they were similar to the theatrical domain of Western societies.
251 Within each of the ancient Near Eastern rituals that we explored, the supplicant participated in an audience scene with the addressed deity. Audiences before human rulers are just as much a framed social domain as the rituals that we have explored; however, the human audience takes place in a frame that is typically less restrictive than the rituals that we examined. Although the actors in a human audience take on the role of the inferior and superior when they enter the frame and are limited in the way they can interact with each other, the ultimate end of the audience is negotiated by the actors themselves.
The audiences that take place within the ritual frames explored in this dissertation, however, dictate every turn of the exchanges and ultimately end in positive outcomes for the supplicants. This guaranteed positive outcome turns the rituals that we have observed into performative acts. In order for these actions to be efficacious, both human and divine actors were expected to enter each ritual domain and voluntarily given up their agency in order to participate; just as actors agree to follow specific rules in order to participate in the domain of theatre. When all parties correctly took part in these rituals, they were considered to be successful and efficacious each time. These assumptions about the performativity of the rituals were made explicit in the procedural instructions of šuilla and dingiršadabba rituals and the ritual complexes that included them. In the Hebrew
Bible, the individual laments assumed a positive reply within the prayers themselves, and the sacrificial activities that accompanied both individual and communal laments were also considered efficacious on performance. Even though we can see how the framing of the social domain dictates so many aspects of the encounter between human and god, this
252 is not to imply that the interaction between the supplicant and the deity is less “real” or relevant to the participants.
In addition to understanding rituals as framed social interactions that can work as performative actions, rituals create a new world into which the participants enter. Just as a theatrical performance creates a new world on-stage, rituals create a new world that can be explored in the same way that plays on stage can; we look for character development, changes in the relationships between characters, and we can look at the setting and environment that is created within this world. We saw that in all the rituals that we examined, regardless of the circumstances outside of the frame, when the ritual actors enter the ritual, they become specific personae that are contextualized within a particular scene, and that human and divine actors are given distinctive relationship that may change and progress as the encounter unfolds.
In šuilla rituals, the supplicant takes on a persona in which he or she has little personal relationship with the addressed deity. The deity is addressed in terms of cosmic credentials and divine pedigree, and is often a third-party to a problem for which the supplicant needs the deity to intercede, often because of the anger of the personal gods.
The addressed god is expected to play the part of a distantly related all-powerful deity, even if the addressed god did not occupy the top spot in the pantheon. As the ritual progresses, the social distance between the supplicant and the addressed deity shrinks while the connection between these ritual actors increases. Each successful exchange allows the relationship to progress. At the end of the prescribed encounter, the god or
253 goddess will ultimately accept the petition of the supplicant, and the two parties will have an established relationship.
The dingiršadabba created a ritual world in which a supplicant is suffering under the surprisingly oppressive wrath of his personal gods and pleads for deliverance from this punishment. The supplicant has a longstanding relationship with this deity, and the deity is angered because of a direct offense against the him or her; the fact that the supplicant appears before an angry and irate divine ruler heightens the danger of this audience. Although the deity takes on the persona of the angry and offended deity, the deity also consents to relent and allow the supplicant to walk away from the dangerous encounter.
Within the individual lament, the participants also take on a very personal and intimate relationship with Yahweh. In this setting, Yahweh is a god who has acted as the participants’ patron deity in the past and who is asked to deliver them from their enemies and from Yahweh’s own wrath. Yahweh is a god who is connected with the supplicant since birth, and the supplicant continues to trust in the power of this deity. Yahweh heeds the petition of the supplicant and commands deliverance that is celebrated at the end of the lament as well as when a thanksgiving psalm and thank-offering are presented.
The communal lament creates a persona for an entire community and Yahweh;
Yahweh is the patron deity of a community and these two parties share a past relationship that can be described through a number of shared events and places. The community takes on the role of a group reeling after a military defeat at the hands of one of their geo-
254 political enemies, and persuades Yahweh to intervene. Yahweh takes on the persona of a god who operates on the global and cosmic scale, and is currently causing the community to suffer because of neglect or divine anger. Because of the plea of the community,
Yahweh will ultimately relent and listen to the plea of the community; this positive answer is celebrated by the community through joyous feasting and praise.
This approach to ritual has bridged the gap between studies on the texts of the prayer themselves and studies of ritual in general. We have been able to see how we can describe and explore relationships that take place in ritual in a way that not only illuminates the relationships themselves but also their ritual environments. This performance approach holds promise for helping us better understand the religious practices of the ancient Near East.
Much more work remains to be done if we want to better contextualize these ritually embedded human-divine relationships within the broader social and religious life of ancient Near Eastern peoples. This sort of contextualization could be facilitated by exploring other social domains and analyzing the human-divine relationships that are more or less relevant in these domains. In addition to understanding how specific human- divine relationships might be latent or more active in specific social domains, more can be done on how social domains allow for a plurality of assessments within a single culture. In any kind of social interaction, problems arise when a specific activity is
255 interpreted differently by social actors who wish to properly coordinate behavior.1 This sort of approach may help us better understand why the ritual system of ancient Israel could be understood differently even by those who participated within the system. There remains much more work to be done, but keeping the ritual framing of human-divine relationships in view will keep further research on firmer footing.
1 A sociological approach that attends to the cognitive roots of how humans relate with one another is called Relational Models Theory; see Alan Page Fiske, “Relational Models Theory 2.0,” in Relational Models Theory: A Contemporary Overview, ed. Nick Haslam (Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2004), 3–25. This approach has already been profitably applied to different interpretations of gift-giving in the Amarna period by Andrew Bevan, “Making and Marking Relationships: Bronze Age Brandings and Mediterranean Commodities,” in Cultures of Commodity Branding, ed. Andrew Bevan and David Wengrow (Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press, 2010), 45–46. 256 BIBLIOGRAPHY
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