How should considerations of the socio-economic status of early Christians shape our reading of the New Testament? Is there evidence that some of Jesus's more fantastical miracles are less grounded in historical reality? To what extent should the reading of religious scripture be an act of artistic expression, and to what extent should it be an act of scientifically-rigorous inquiry? Have translators of the Bible betrayed an anthropocentric bias that undermines a more egalitarian kinship between human and nonhuman animals? To what extent, if at all, should the graphic desire for violence against children expressed in Psalm 137 trouble readers today? In addressing these sorts of questions, this volume of Biblical Theology Bulletin provides fascinating insights into a variety of interpretative and ethical issues.
Jerome Neyrey examines the world of and behind the text of Revelation 1–3, emphasizing the underbelly of Asia Minor cities in that time. This study provides a supplement (and perhaps even corrective) to Wayne Meeks' First Urban Christians inasmuch as, per Neyrey's argument, Meeks' work focuses on the elites of the city, not the majority of those struggling at lower levels of economic stratification. Neyrey takes these struggling classes to be the intended audience of Revelation; hence, understanding their socio-economic reality is helpful in discerning the authorial intent of the letter. Drawing upon models of city life with a particular focus to how the majority of “expendable” citizens experienced such life, Neyrey provides fresh insight into the messages to the cities in Revelation.
Per Bjarne Ravnå explores the miracles of Jesus from a source-critical methodology. Ravnå argues that, while a number of miracles are attested to by source material, not all attestations are equal. Ravnå differentiates between miracles that “fit within a modern scientific worldview” and those that do not, arguing that the former have a more consistent “source-critical strength” (i.e., based on the strength and reliability of the sources, they are more historically plausible) than do the latter. Ravnå does not go so far as to claim that this correlation demands accepting the thesis that miracles that do not fit within a scientific worldview did not actually occur—the emphasis is historical plausibility as opposed to authenticity. While acknowledging the possibility that his findings might reflect biases stemming from his self-described “scientific and godless worldview,” Ravnå also invites readers to consider the possibility that the correlation between strong and weak source-critical attestation and, respectively, non-anomalous (i.e., scientifically possible) and anomalous (i.e., scientifically impossible) miracles suggests that anomalous miracles have much less historical plausibility.
David Zucker contributes a thorough summary of Karen Armstrong's recent book, The Sacred Art of Scripture. Armstrong's text explores the development of world religions through an emphasis on sacred texts. It also aims to demonstrate that reading Scripture ought to be an artistic endeavor aimed at transformation as opposed to either a strictly scientific endeavor or a mere exercise in confirmation bias. Zucker's essay is surgical in drawing out the structure and themes of the book. On the whole, he finds Armstrong's 605-page work to be praiseworthy in its comparative analysis of the development of various world religions. However, Zucker also echoes criticisms that Armstrong's text would benefit from a more judicious editorial process. Drawing on his expertise, he also highlights several errors in the text related to Judaism.
Robert Gnuse provides a provocative and emotive essay regarding the kinship relation between human and nonhuman animals. Gnuse highlights a compelling point in identifying what he refers to as “human imperialism in translation”: namely, that while the same Hebrew phrase (nephesh hayya') is used to describe human and nonhuman animals in Genesis 2, English versions often translate the phrase differently. When referring to humans, nephesh hayya' is translated as “living soul” (KJV) or “living being” (NRSV). But when referring to animals, nephesh hayya' is translated as “living creature” (KJV and NRSV). Gnuse argues that this inconsistency in translation betrays an imposition of human superiority onto the text. Translating the text consistently (and acknowledging the common origin of all creatures in the dust of the earth) would embrace the kinship between human and nonhuman animals, a kinship that resonates well with biological evolution. It would also, argues Gnuse, help humans to recover their unique responsibility as caretakers of the Earth and its inhabitants—a necessary corrective to the current practices that are reducing the planet's biodiversity at an astonishing rate.
I find Gnuse's article compelling, but I would add two points, which strike me in light of his stimulating discussion. First, when Gnuse notes that imagery and language of kinship in Genesis 2 highlight the common origin of both human and nonhuman animals (the dust of the ground) and the common terminology used to describe them (nephesh hayya'). It occurs to me that it is also important to highlight the reason the nonhuman animals were created in Genesis 2: It was not good for Adam to be alone. The mythos envisions the creation of animals, fellow nephesh hayya', as companions (as opposed to slaves or food) for the human. Second, Gnuse maintains that humans “alone were created with the ‘breath of life.’” But even this characteristic may not be reserved for humans alone. While Genesis 2 speaks of God breathing the “breath of life” (Hebrew, nismat hayyim) into humans (but does not mention it with reference to nonhuman animals), Genesis 7:22 identifies “all flesh” (Hebrew, kal-basar) as containing nismat ruah hayyim (lit., the breath of the spirit of life). This commonality could add further validity to Gnuse's already strong argument regarding the kinship between human and nonhuman animals.
Xi Li explores the violent imagery of Psalm 137, arguing for a nuanced reading of the psalm based on psychological insights regarding the experience of trauma. Drawing on the world behind the text, Xi maintains that the author of the psalm has experienced the traumatic events of the 6th century bce, including the destruction of Jerusalem and the exile into Babylon. Based on recent studies is psychology, Xi notes that while trauma is often associated with negative outcomes—which are linked to disillusionment about cherished beliefs concerning the world and one's place in it—it can also lead to growth (a phenomenon referred to as “post-traumatic growth” [PTG]). Xi argues that the psalmist evinces signs of PTG, in particular an increased religious faith and a heightened sense of meaning in life. He also maintains that the psalmist deals with a challenged assumption about the justness of the world by reaffirming God's justice within it. Read with this context, Xi argues, the violence images of the psalm (including the gruesome destruction of children) take on a positive light inasmuch as they “bear witness to the speaker's psychological growth after a traumatic event and, more importantly, to the speaker's belief that the world will become more just through the Lord's correction of injustice.” Xi's article is helpful in portraying an alternative reading of the violence in Psalm 137. It is left to the reader to decide whether the issues surrounding the violence of the psalm are softened by Xi's post-traumatic reading.
Collectively, these essays provide fertile ground to consider how one reads biblical texts (or any religious text) and the potential consequences, both positive and negative, of that methodology.
