Abstract
The book of Judges continues to inspire research and interpretation, from an ongoing focus on traditional research methods such as historical criticism and redaction criticism, to newer approaches like cultural criticism and postcolonial readings. This article surveys recent research on the book of Judges since 2003 by separating the discussion into two sections: the first section traces current research on the overall book of Judges as well as specific characters and/or passages, while the second section notes two growing areas of research; namely, reception history and gender studies.
Keywords
Introduction
Hebrews 11.32 reads, ‘For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah …’ In his 2005 commentary, Gunn lamented, ‘Time would also fail me to tell of Judges’ reception over two millennia’ (p. 1). Like Gunn and the author of Hebrews before him, this article also mourns that there is neither adequate space nor time to examine fully all of the recent research on the book of Judges, with recent here defined not by two millennia but rather only since Craig’s (2003) survey of scholarship on the book. Instead, what follows will attempt to highlight the main contours and questions that shape explorations of the strange, sometimes funny, and often violent book of Judges. Accordingly, the ensuing pages open by tracing research on the overall book of Judges, beginning with commentaries and general monographs and then moving on to areas of research related to specific characters and/or passages. Subsequently, the second and final section notes two growing areas of research on Judges; namely, gender studies and reception history.
Reading the Book of Judges: Commentaries and Monographs
Since Craig’s (2003) survey of research on the book of Judges, a treasure trove of commentaries has appeared. As was the case in 2003, these commentaries approach the book from a number of angles. On one hand, Gross’s (2009) German commentary on the book places itself in the long trajectory of redaction-critical studies of the book that identifies earlier stories that were revised by various ‘Deuteronomistic’ and other later redactors. Gross’s work is prodigious, spanning some 896 pages, and includes attention to redaction-critical questions, literary features of the text, and reflections on the reception history of the various stories. On the other hand, a number of commentaries have appeared in English. Most recently, Sasson’s Judges 1–12 (2014) is an updated Anchor Bible commentary, the first of two volumes, which focuses on a range of issues in the book of Judges, from ancient Near Eastern background, literary and textual features, and the reception history of the text. Other commentaries include Frolov (2013a), which is a uniquely form-critical study of Judges; Butler (2009), a commentary that also provides summaries of many previous works on the book; Niditch (2008), which traces ‘three major voices’ throughout the book of Judges while also attending to the texture in Judges (pp. 8-18); Gunn (2005), which largely focuses on the reception history of the book; and Matthews (2004), which concentrates on social, historical, and theological questions related to life as depicted in Judges. In addition, this list of commentaries could be expanded to include Chisholm (2013a); Biddle (2012); Webb (2012); McCann (2011); Goldingay (2011); Walton (2009); Campbell (2008); and Ryan (2007).
Beyond the standard commentaries, Alter produced a new translation of Judges alongside a commentary (2013), while Franke and Oden’s volume provides commentary on Joshua, Judges, Ruth and 1–2 Samuel from the early Christian fathers (2005). Yee edited an updated edition of her Judges and Method (2007), which includes revised versions of the original chapters as well as new chapters on gender criticism, cultural criticism and postcolonial criticism. Additionally, Brenner and Yee’s Joshua and Judges is a volume of collected essays that approaches various texts from the contexts of interpreters, including ‘social factors (such as location, economic situation, gender, age, class, ethnicity, color, and things pertaining to personal biography) and…ideological factors (such as faith, beliefs, practiced norms, and personal politics)’ (2013: x). Some of these essays will be discussed below. A number of other monographs consider the book of Judges as a whole, including Davidson’s Intricacy, Design, and Cunning in the Book of Judges (2008); Guillame’s Waiting for Josiah: The Judges (2004); Michelson’s study of violence and kingship in Judges and Samuel (2011); Mobley’s exploration of the ‘heroic tradition’ in Judges (2005); Wong’s examination of the ‘compositional strategy’ of the book (2005); and Yoder’s detailed analysis of the way that power and politics function in the stories of men and women of valor (2015). Other monographs have a more narrow focus, such as Assis’s (2005) study of how leadership is portrayed in the stories of Gideon, Abimelech and Jephthah. Though space does not permit a thorough evaluation of each commentary and/or monograph, readers will find that the number of methodological approaches used by these works and the intended audiences for which these volumes were written are comprehensive.
A Walk through the Book of Judges: Recent Readings of Major Characters
‘Give Me a Present’: Beginnings
‘That the book of Judges almost begins and certainly ends with women figures is a given fact and an indication of their importance in it’, writes Brenner (2013: 128). The first of the many key women who appear in the pages of the book of Judges is Achsah, daughter of Caleb and bride of Othniel, the first of the so-called judges. Recent years have seen a number of studies that focus on Achsah. For example, Fleishman explores the legal background of Achsah’s demand for better land and her father’s acquiescence to that demand in light of ancient Near Eastern and early Jewish laws regarding dowries, ultimately arguing that Achsah, ‘an opinionated woman…with long-ranging economic insight’, worked within her legal rights, as did Caleb when he granted his daughter the land (2006: 372). For Hackett, the story of Achsah stands out in a ‘violent book’, where ‘there is hardly a single narrative that is not concerned with violence of some sort’ (2004: 356). Hackett sees Achsah as ‘the excuse for heroic acts in battle’, but she also notes that Achsah ‘is not simply a pawn, as she demonstrates when she asks for and receives a dowry of land that is more attractive than what she and Othniel would otherwise have’ (2004: 363-64). Other readings of the Achsah story in Judg. 1.11-15 bring new methodologies to the text, including McKinlay’s gendered and postcolonial reading, which traces the unsettling aspects of the story, noting that the land Achsah gains ‘is land taken in conquest’ (2009: 2). In contrast to Hackett’s reading, McKinlay (p. 8) states, ‘Achsah is a pawn, three over. She is a trophy pawn, used by Caleb within the story plot. She is the disturbing Kenizzite, colluding with the Israelite imperium, used by Israel’s Deuteronomistic writers. Forever located in Scripture, she is the pawn of an imperial hegemony…’.
The Problematic Assassin: Ehud
Chisholm writes, ‘The assassin Ehud has generated extensive controversy among interpreters’, who are left to decide whether Ehud should be praised or shamed for his role in the death of King Eglon (2011: 274). For example, Christianson reflects on Ehud’s violence, particularly by comparing the ‘rhetoric of entertainment that it shared with the Western’ (2003: 54). Christianson offers a tantalizing list of the social commentary at work in the Ehud narrative, including the idea that ‘Just as the Westerns use all kinds of “baddies” to satirize identifiable social forces, perhaps the production of this satire was driven by social inequalities and disempowerment’ (p. 77). Yet, while Christianson focuses on the ways that violence in the Ehud story might function as social satire, Wong turns to an examination and comparison of the Ehud and Joab stories, arguing that Ehud’s assassination of King Eglon of Moab and Joab’s assassinations of Abner (2 Sam. 3.27) and Amasa (2 Sam. 20.8-10) have resemblances in plot and language: all three stories use deception in the assassination of the victims, with the use of swords and single blows to the stomach also uniting them (2006a: 400-401). For Wong, ‘one can infer that there must have been aspects of Ehud’s assassination that were also viewed negatively’, including the use of deception (p. 410). In short, ‘there is room for disquietude when it comes to Ehud’s use of deception’ (p. 410). In contrast, Chisholm (2011: 282) defends Ehud from a number of readings that find fault with the Benjaminite (including Wong’s), ultimately concluding that the narrator in the book of Judges ‘presented Ehud in a thoroughly positive light and linked him with Othniel to form a paradigmatic tandem’—the only two men in the book of Judges who are called ‘deliverers’. Cottrill (2014) continues to think about violence in the Ehud story, alongside the story of Jael and Sisera, through the use of affect theory, which helps to show how violent images work on readers. Neef’s (2009) reading of Judg. 3.12-30 turns to Eglon’s name, arguing against the idea that it need be understood in a negative light in the sense of a ‘Kälbermann’, but focusing instead on how the story is a hero saga that examines Ehud’s ability to defeat Eglon with the help of Y
A Prophet and a Poem: Deborah
In 2009, Mayfield published ‘The Accounts of Deborah (Judges 4–5) in Recent Research’, covering scholarship on Judges 4–5 from 1990–2009. Mayfield noted several trends: a shift away from historical-critical methodological approaches to more literary approaches (although attempts at dating Judges 5 remained prevalent along with interest in the historicity behind the texts as they relate to the ‘period of the judges’), the tendency to treat chs. 4 and 5 separately from one another, and growth in feminist readings of the texts that witnessed a plethora of voices and opinions on both Deborah and Yael, often including contradictory interpretations of these figures (pp. 327-28). Since the publication of Mayfield’s article, interest in chs. 4 and 5 of the book of Judges endures, in many ways still focusing on the trends Mayfield identified in previous scholarship.
For example, articles exploring the question of how to date the song in Judges 5 continue to appear. Frolov challenges the overwhelming consensus that Judg. 5.2-31a is a text that ‘“may be one of the most ancient works of the Hebrew Bible”’ (2011: 163; citing Niditch 2008: 76), instead dating it to ‘between c. 700 and c. 450
Leuchter focuses on the strange appearance of chariots in Judg. 5.28, which he notes have failed alongside Sisera on the battlefield (2010: 257). Leuchter questions why the chariot is highlighted in a poem that he views as highly symbolic and mythopoetic. Leuchter notes the historical reality of the Bronze and early Iron Age, which saw Canaanite cooperation with Egyptian hegemony, and explains the odd reference to the chariot in this verse by positing that ‘The poet behind the Song of Deborah draws attention to the chariot and its deep association with Egyptian campaigns in characterizing the Kulturkampf between Israel and the Canaanite forces’ (p. 266).
While Leuchter looks backward to the historical realities of Egypt and Canaan in the Bronze Age and early Iron Age in order to explain the presence of chariots in Judg. 5.28, Vainstub (2011) looks forward to Greek mythology in an attempt to understand the figures of Deborah and Yael. He explores similarities between the meaning behind the names of Deborah and Yael and two female prophets in extant Greek myths from Crete. Deborah (“bee”) is similar to the name of the main prophet at Delphi, Melissa (‘bee’). Yael (‘mountain goat’/‘ibex’) finds a parallel in stories about Melissa’s sister, called Amaltheia, ‘who is a goat living in a mountain’ (p. 328). According to Vainstub, the parallel pairs—Deborah and Yael, Melissa and Amaltheia—‘are too much for being a mere coincidence’ (p. 329). Moreover, he also points to the fact that in both stories—biblical and Greek—there is ‘a fugitive fleeing for his life’ who ‘takes refuge amidst the “mountain goat”, and she gives him milk’ (p. 329). Yet the similarities end there; in the biblical account, famously, Yael kills Sisera, but ‘in most of the Greek versions the refugee is none other than the god Zeus (Iove) fleeing from his father’s ire, and Amaltheia hides and suckles him’ (p. 329). Nevertheless, according to Vainstub, the vessel in both the biblical and Greek accounts is stressed as being one of plenty: he translates the enigmatic Hebrew phrase from 5.25 as ‘bowl of (milk’s) plenty’, and the Greek stories refer to a horn—sometimes even the ‘inexhaustible “horn of plenty” or cornucopia’ (p. 331). The conclusion: ‘the parallels discussed in this study ought to be added to the vast and growing evidence of Eastern-influenced motifs in Greek mythology, even though the ways, direction, and time of contact and influence fall over the scope of this paper’ (p. 331).
In two separate articles, Wright (2011a, 2011b) examines Judges 5 and challenges some of the old consensuses regarding these passages, reading them instead with an eye toward the politics of war commemoration. First, Wright focuses on Judg. 5.15b-17, particularly the interpretations of Cross (1973, 1988) and Halpern (1983) that explain these verses as ‘acclamations and tributes’ for tribes that participated in the war effort described in the poem (Wright 2011b: 507). Yet the problem of reading vv. 15b-17 as indicating participation in war is created by the presence of v. 23, in which only Meroz is censored for ‘not coming to the help of Yhwh’. Accordingly, Wright proposes a reading of vv. 15b-17 that sees these verses ‘as expressions of disapprobation for the failure of Reuben, Gilead, Dan and Asher to participate in battle’ (p. 519). Wright also points to similar war commemoration accounts that include censure for non-participation in the Aegean world, including the ‘Catalogue of Ships’ from the Iliad, which includes those ‘who stayed behind by their ships’ instead of coming to war (pp. 518-19). With these facts, Wright argues for Judg. 5.15b-17 as a list of those who did not participate. In his subsequent article, Wright (2011a) examines the problem of v. 23: why is only Meroz censured for lack of participation, but not Reuben, Gilead, Dan and Asher as well? To explain this, Wright argues for an expansion of the song of Deborah—namely, ‘assuming that at least part of the song in Jud 5 is old, we might expect that readers introduced new perspectives to it over the course of its literary transmission’ (2011a: 517). According to Wright, chs. 4 and 5 originally shared only a reference to a battle in the Jezreel Valley, and ch. 5 originally consisted of only a victory hymn. Later, the victory hymn was expanded on the basis of the prose account now found in ch. 4. Why, then, expand the victory hymn and make it parallel with ch. 4? Per Wright, such a move: (a) elevates Y
For Herzberg, ‘the story of Deborah has much in common with the story of the Israelites crossing the Reed Sea in Exodus 14–15’ (2013: 16). Yet, as Herzberg notes, Deborah is more regularly compared with Miriam than with Moses (p. 17). Herzberg traces a number of literary similarities between the figure of Moses and the figure of Deborah, including that both operate as judges (pp. 17-18), as prophets (pp. 19-20), and as military leaders (pp. 20-23). Yet ‘the battle that most connects Moses with Deborah, though, might not be considered a battle at all: the parting of the Reed Sea’ (p. 23). Here Herzberg notes that in Exod. 14.24-25, God threw the Egyptian army into a panic, and subsequently the Egyptian chariot wheels lock in the mud, while in Judg. 4.15 Y
A number of articles also focus exclusively on the figure of Jael, including three pieces from Brenner and Yee’s Joshua and Judges (2013). Each article focuses on a different contextual reading of Jael’s story. Brison (2013) sees Jael as a cultic intermediary (see pp. 156-58 especially). Bonfiglio (2013) traces the different portrayals of Jael in Judges 4 and 5, noting that in ch. 4 Jael is a heroine for Israel, while in ch. 5 she is a heroine among women more broadly. Using postcolonial theory, Bonfiglio traces how in Judges 4 Jael becomes a ‘model minority’ (p. 170), while in Judges 5 she is a model of agency and resistance for women (p. 171). Yee (2013) examines the parallels between Jael and Fa Mulan, especially the intertextual overlaps where each is portrayed as a warrior with ethnically ambiguous backgrounds and occupying the gendered space between male and female.
The Least in His Family and His Sons: Gideon, Jether, Joram and Abimelech
Gideon—also known as Jerubbaal—and his sons Jotham and Abimelech are the focus of a number of new studies. For example, Dietch’s (2015) work on Judges 6–9 combines sociological and literary lenses to examine questions of authority and violence in the stories of Gideon and Abimelech, noting how ‘The story celebrates the wordsmith’s ability to protest, assuage, and precipitate violence; to resurrect and question the past; to obliterate or highlight distinctions; and even to debate with the deity’ (p. 191). In a monograph, Murphy (forthcoming) examines Judges 6–8 from primarily two methodological lenses, namely, redaction history and masculinity studies, in order to examine how Gideon’s status as gibbôr in the different strata of the text reflects distinct expectations about hegemonic masculinity in various periods in ancient Israel’s history. Her study is further supplemented by focusing on the reception history of Judges 6–8, especially in how various communities read the Gideon narrative based on the gender norms of their own contexts.
Additionally, a number of articles examine various historical and/or archaeological questions related to chs. 6–8. For example, Niesiołowski-Spanò attempts to locate Gideon’s hometown, Ophrah, ultimately deciding that: ‘A good candidate for a city of such an important hero, a judge of royal charisma, is modern Ramat-Rahel’ (2005: 493). Other historically and/or archaeologically focused articles include Malamat’s (2004) reading of the Succoth and Penuel story from Judges 8 in light of ancient Near Eastern Treaties, Schmitz’s (2008) reading of dedicatory formulae and Judg. 7.18, 20, and Scherer’s (2003) exploration of the way that ‘ephod’ appears in ancient Israel and the larger ancient Near East, which sheds light on the ephod in the Gideon narrative. Additionally, Sharon (2006) focuses on many intertextual links between the story of the ephod in Judges 8 and other biblical texts.
Other articles on Gideon have focused on peculiarities within the story. For instance, Beck asks, ‘Why would Gideon have requested the manipulation of dew rather than some other sign?’ (2008: 28). Using a synchronic approach that he calls ‘narrative-geographical analysis’ (p. 30), Beck argues that the ‘manipulation’ of dew in 6.36-40 ‘would be a powerful way for the real deity to stand up and be counted since both Baal and the Lord had claimed the right to provide this moisture so critical to survival in the land…’ (p. 38). Derby focuses on Gideon’s two names, suggesting that the two names resulted from the uncomfortable fact that Gideon’s birth name was Jerubbaal, leading the embarrassed author of Judges to devise ‘the name Gideon to be used only in telling this story and nowhere else in the Bible’ (2003: 184). Murphy (2014) explores the strange presence of the ‘sword’ in the battle scene found in Judg. 7.16-22, arguing that it is a later addition to an earlier battle account that featured only jars, torches and horns.
Others concentrate on evaluating Gideon—both on his own and in light of his sons’ actions. Haddox (2010) examines Gideon’s actions in light of ancient Israelite concepts about masculinity, noting that from a final form perspective, the more ‘manly’ Gideon acts, the more he disobeys Y
A number of other studies focus in particular on Judges 9 and the figures of Jotham and/or Abimelech. Oeste (2011) uses a multi-disciplinary approach (narrative analysis, rhetorical analysis and social scientific analysis) to read and analyze Judges 9: is it ultimately pro-monarchy or anti-monarchy? He concludes that though Abimelech’s role is not considered legitimate, the overarching lesson of the book is one in favor of centralized monarchy. Janzen unravels the puzzle of Jotham’s fable, suggesting that there is a key to unlocking it: ‘once we see Gideon and his house as the אטד (‘bramble, thornbush’), Jotham’s fable fits both its context and the way that Jotham tries to apply it to this context through his moral’ (2012: 475). Others attempt to make sense of the presence of the Abimelech narrative in the book of Judges, especially vis-à-vis attitudes toward monarchy and kingship. According to Irwin, ‘Standing at the center of the book of Judges, the Abimelech narrative disposes of the idea that there might be a royal alternative to the leadership of the Davidic dynasty. The northern monarchy initiated by Jeroboam I was a model for ruin, not peace and stability’ (2012: 453). Other studies on Jotham, Abimelech and/or Judges 8 are many, including Bar Mymon (2013), Farber (2013), Na’aman (2011) and Heffelfinger (2009).
Vows and Violence: Jephthah and Jephthah’s Daughter
Recent research on Judg. 10.6–12.7 focuses primarily on the (in)famous story of Jephthah’s vow and the resulting sacrifice of Jephthah’s unnamed daughter, though monographs by Mobley (2005) and Assis (2005) both devote chapters to analyzing the broader narrative concerning Jephthah. Additionally, an article by Bloch-Smith (2015) examines the story of Jephthah and the Ammonites in 11.12-33 by surveying the archaeological evidence. Otherwise, research on the story of the vow and sacrifice has tended to coalesce around four main topics: (1) how to understand the vow/sacrifice in light of literary connections with other texts and legends (biblical and extra-biblical); (2) why the story of the sacrifice of Jephthah’s daughter might have been included in the book of Judges; (3) how to use such a text; and (4) the reception history of the narrative (see below).
A number of studies focus on how to understand and read the vow/sacrifice in light of literary connections with other texts. For example, Monroe reads Judges 11, Judges 19 and Numbers 25 together ‘to explore the sacrificial dynamics at work in each text’ (2013: 33), arguing that these three narratives ‘point to the idea that at least within the parameters of narrative, the most readily imaginable form of human sacrifice was that of a woman, whose life and body constituted acceptable offerings to Yhwh’ (p. 52). For Monroe, ‘the willing, female martyr, a well-attested trope in Christian and Greek texts of the Hellenistic period, was already being engaged by an array of Israelite scribes in the process of narrativizing emergent Jewish identity’ (p. 33). Beavis (2010) also explores the relationship between the story of Jephthah’s daughter and other biblical texts—in particular, the story of the raising of Jarius’s daughter in Mk 5.21-24, 35-43 (and parallels in Lk. 8.40-42, 49-56; Mt. 9.18-19, 23-26). Beavis notes that the stories of Jepthath’s daughter and the story of Jairus’s daughter share a number of features, including a unique focus on a father and a valued daughter whose death looms near, two fathers who are military leaders, and similarity in language, incidents and plot between the
Continuing earlier discussions in biblical studies, a number of scholars reflect, in various ways, on why the story of Jephthah’s vow and the sacrifice of his daughter are included in the book of Judges in the first place and how it should be evaluated accordingly. Janzen (2005) (in partial response to Römer’s 1998 article, ‘Why Would the Deuteronomists Tell about the Sacrifice of Jephthah’s Daughter?’) argues against the idea that the story was a later Hellenistic insertion influenced by the story of Iphegenia and inserted into an earlier tradition about the so-called judge Jephthah. Instead, Janzen suggests that the story of Jephthah’s daughter fits into the overarching Deuteronomistic theology/ideology: ‘the Deuteronomist tells the story of the sacrifice of Jephthah’s daughter to show, yet again, that foreign sacrifice and foreign morality accompany each other for Israel’ (p. 354). The story is yet ‘one more step in the decline of Israel in Judges’ (p. 355). Like Janzen, Smith (2005a) also sees Jephthah as a failure: ‘If the judges are pictures of Israel at the time, then Jephthah pictures the self-destruction of the nation, from the family level on up’ (pp. 297-98). For Smith, the themes of marriage and family need to be examined, and the story of Jephthah functions to illustrate how ‘what happened in his own family in the episode with his daughter reflects what happened in the larger family of the nation at the end of the story’ (p. 298). In contrast to Janzen and Smith’s negative reading of Jephthah, particularly vis-à-vis the fulfillment of the sacrifice, Logan focuses on how an ancient audience would not have missed the ways that the narrator portrays Jephthah positively, including that they ‘would not have missed Jephthah’s David-like portrayal, the empathetic comparison to Abraham, or the reference to /
Achor’ (2009: 683). Logan argues, ‘Whether we moderns agree or disagree with what Jephthah did, the author told the ancient audience that Jephthah was trapped—by Western Semitic custom, by Israelite war vow tradition, by Priestly votive law, and by the strict law of herem. Jephthah and his daughter should be remembered, he contends, because they performed as custom demanded of its royals despite the enormous personal cost’ (p. 683).
A third trajectory in research on Judges 11, and, again, particularly on the vow and sacrifice, asks ‘What do we do with this story now that we have it?’ Robinson argues that Jephthah is an anti-hero, yet the story remains pertinent for contemporary readers: it reminds readers that ‘God uses human beings not only when they are being faithful and dutiful, but also when they are deficient and sinful’ and it is also a ‘dire warning against rash oath making’ (2004: 347). Milne (2013) focuses on the role of Judges 11 in her own career, particularly as it relates to marginalization. She conducted a research project related to whether feminist biblical studies is transformational or not; the project was ‘a feminist qualitative study of how ordinary readers construct meaning when they read the story in Judges 11’ (p. 213). At the conclusion, Milne noted the disappointing results of the study: ‘There was no awareness of any feminist studies of this text in the response of any of the readers. Nor was there any evidence to suggest a conscious application of a feminist critique of patriarchal social structures or gender ideology. None of the readers made gender a central category in their interpretation of the story’ (p. 231). For Milne, the case study of Judges 11 illustrates how if feminist methodology ‘is to have a transformational effect on the way the biblical tradition influences the lives of women and if it is to play a role in building a truly equitable society, it appears we will have to work harder to take our research out of the academy and into the streets’ (p. 232). In another example, Bruner notes of Judges 11, ‘Although this text is multivalent, a better reading does not find a foolish vow, an evil father, a saucy daughter, or a dysfunctional family at the root of this tragedy. Instead, a community with a flawed character is the primary cause’ (2011: 82). For Bruner, the portrayal of a flawed community is a call to hospitality for present-day readers, particularly for children who might need help in contemporary communities (pp. 93-95).
Finally, a plethora of studies related to Judges 11 and the reception history of the text have appeared in recent years. These will be explored in more detail below.
Hero or Bumbling Buffoon?: Samson
The story of Samson, long a favorite in both academic study and in popular culture, continues to be investigated from a number of angles. Several studies focus on the figure of Samson and his story overall, including Mobley’s (2006) monograph Samson and the Liminal Hero in the Ancient Near East. Mobley traces how liminality functions in the Samson narrative, particularly in the ways that Samson moves across the boundaries of field and house, agitation and rest, and male and female domains (2006: 37-108). Other monographs on Samson include Galpaz-Feller (2006b) and Eynikel (2014). Outside of book-length studies, scholars explore how best to understand Samson, who has been portrayed over the years as both hero and tragically flawed, as both intelligent and comically dumb, and as both willing and forced into his ambiguous status as a nazirite. For example, Chisholm asks, ‘Who was Samson’s father and when was Samson conceived? What was Samson’s understanding of his role in life? What was the nature of Samson’s Nazirite calling?’ (2009a: 147). He argues against angelic impregnation for Samson’s mother, though ‘the narrator does exploit the idiomatic expression “come to” to emphasize that God was the one who enabled Samson’s mother to conceive’ (p. 162). He also argues that the text gives no indication that Samson ‘understood himself to be Israel’s deliverer’ (p. 162), and that it is largely unclear whether or not Samson broke the Nazirite rules (or even which ones applied to him in the first place) (p. 162). For Mbuvi, reading the Samson narrative means understanding how ‘the theopolitical takes center stage’ in the book of Judges, and that ‘Samson lives out this military and ideological struggle in his very person’ (2012: 389-90). The figure of Samson is one of both judge and ‘embodiment of Israel’—he both leads Israel and represents the nation. Mbuvi writes, ‘By dramatizing Israel’s ambivalence toward Y
In contrast to many of the readings above, which see Samson as tragically flawed if not outright ‘stupid or loutish’, Herzberg blames an ‘unreliable narrator’ for Samson’s seemingly negative portrayal (2010: 227). In particular, Herzberg focuses on how and why Samson finally acquiesced to Delilah’s demands to know his secret, asking, ‘How would we explain Samson’s action if we were not told it was caused by nagging?’ (p. 227). For Herzberg, Samson is a complicated and intelligent character (a poet, a trickster and a hero). Like other readers, Herzberg wonders whether Samson was bound to follow all the nazirite restrictions—and raises ‘the question of how Samson feels about his status as nazirite from birth’ (p. 230). Samson reveals his secret to Delilah in order ‘to test, or end, restrictions that have become unbearable’ (p. 248)—to find out if his strength is his own or only God’s. A similar question stands behind Schipper’s article, ‘What was Samson Thinking in Judges 16,17 and 16,20?’ (2011). These two verses appear to contradict one another (did Samson tell Delilah his ‘whole heart’ or not?), and Schipper explains this problem by postulating that Samson wanted to give up his strength, which Schipper sees as coming with a ‘significant downside’—namely, the inability to sleep peacefully (p. 63).
Several other articles on Samson also focus exclusively on certain passages or verses, including Schipper’s (2003) examination of the riddle in 14.14, 18, Paul (2008, 2010) on Judg. 14.18 and 16.16-17, Strawn (2009) on 14.5, and Halton (2009) on the pun in 16.25-27.
Unsurprisingly, Delilah—the infamous ‘nagger’ of Judges 16—has also continued to fascinate readers of Judges. In addition to several reception history studies (see below), Delilah is the focus of a cross-cultural narrative reading by Victor (2013). Victor understands Delilah as a ‘forgotten hero’ (p. 250); namely, a forgotten Philistine hero. Delilah’s status as forgotten hero is compared with a story found in the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, both Indian epics written in Sanskrit (pp. 250-51). Both ‘narrate a story of an unnamed woman who is prepared to sacrifice her life for the welfare of her country’. Victor concludes, ‘Just like Delilah the Philistine, the unnamed courtesan of the Indian epics who risked her life for the well-being of her country and people was forgotten for generations’ (p. 253).
Characters and Cults: Judges 17–18
Though Judges 17–18 often does not receive as much scholarly attention as other parts of the book of Judges, recent research has included some focus on these two chapters. In particular, the neglected figures of the Levite and Micah’s mother have received more attention, and various historical and archaeological examinations of the possible origins of the cult site have also been proffered. Szpek (2007a) focuses on the figure of Micah’s mother, whose role ‘is not marginal, peripheral or incidental to the narrative, rather her actions contribute to a negative impression of the “mother-son” relationship and of the cultus in the book of Judges, as well as foreshadow future perspectives on the introduction of idolatry in the Deuteronomic history’ (2007a: n.p.). Moster (2014) looks at the Levite from Judges 17–19 from a literary standpoint, particularly how the Levite is characterized. Despite that the Levite is unnamed, Moster argues that he is ‘a character with a number of well-developed traits’ (p. 736) who changes over time (p. 737).
In addition to character studies, others have focused on what we might know about the historical realties behind Judges 17–18. For example, Bray examines these chapters with a focus on recovering historical information on the sanctuary, concluding, ‘The Danite story may be seen as a crystallization of the historical process by which the Levites became priests’ (2006: 150). Cox and Ackerman ‘find in Judges 18 an aggressive account of the Danites’ efforts to conquer a נַחֲלָה that was not theirs and to which, according to the logic of the text, they had little grant’ (2012: 35). Why steal Micah’s teraphim? Even if fraudulent, they ‘were something the Danite clans, in order to lay claim to new land in Laish, would feel the need to possess’ (p. 36). Faraone, Garnand and López-Ruiz (2005) also focus on Micah’s mother, in particular on the curse she utters, its similarities with a Punic curse from Carthage, and their similarities with Greek and Latin curses against thieves. They postulate, ‘it should be clear that the parallels between the Canaanite and Greco-Roman curses are compelling, and the evidence of titulature points to Canaanite influence, even if future evidence or argument should compel us to abandon the relative chronologies of the texts presented here’ (p. 186).
There Was No King in Israel: Judges 19–21
Scholars continue to question the best way to read and make sense of the final chapters of the book of Judges, both in terms of their literary development and the sheer amount of violence found in them. This is perhaps best described by the title of Eynikel’s 2005 article ‘Judges 19–21, an “Appendix”: Rape, Murder, War, and Abduction’. Edenburg’s (2016) Dismembering the Whole: Composition and Purpose of Judges 19–21 is a monograph-length treatment of these chapters, which argues for understanding these passages as Babylonian and Persian political polemic. Additionally, many recent articles on the final three chapters of the book have focused on how these difficult texts might be read and used in light of newer methodological approaches, with most studies focusing on the story of the unnamed woman from Judges 19. For example, Szpek (2007b: n.p.) surveys the narrative structure and vocabulary of Judges 19 with an eye toward Amit’s (2004b) postexilic dating of the text, identifying a number of biblical allusions that connect the story with others from Genesis, Joshua and Judges. Szpek looks back to the composition of Judges 19 as a postexilic tale crafted as a ‘horrific and effective metaphor of warning’ and not a ‘historical text of terror’.
Two essays in Brenner and Yee’s (2013) edited volume Joshua and Judges also wrestle with the difficult text of Judges 19. First, Embry (2013) explores how the text is largely ignored in his own confessional and institutional setting, ‘a Christian liberal arts University associated with a Pentecostal-Holiness tradition from North America, the Assemblies of God (AG)’ (p. 257). Noting how by ignoring difficult texts such as Judges 19 ‘the community creates (is creating) a “canon with a canon”’, Embry traces out the ‘potential effects of effacing this story for a contemporary, covenantal community’ (p. 267). This includes creating a ‘disabled narrative—that is, one in which the entire narrative is no longer functioning’ (p. 268), and thereby eliminating ‘an important method of reflection on its own potential and capacity for evil’ (p. 268). Moreover, Embry notes that by creating such a ‘canon within a canon’, particularly in the case of Judges 19, it is noteworthy that the ignored text is one that ‘narrates the abuse of the female figure, and argues clearly that this is a problem’ (p. 269). Part of the lesson of Judges, Embry notes, is that ‘women should not be marginalized’ and that ‘when they are abused, this abuse becomes a signal of the abominable state of affairs of society’ (p. 270). For Embry, ‘Judges 19 therefore functions as a warning that this type of behavior is possible within the covenantal community’ (p. 270); after all, ‘When a community loses, or forces out, this possibility through effacing this story in practice, either intentionally or unintentionally, does it run the risk of finding itself in Gibeah of Benjamin, hearing knocking on the door or, worse yet, knocking on the door itself?’ (p. 271). In the same volume, Stanley (2013) reads Judges 19 through a ‘psychological lens’ (p. 275), especially by focusing on the way that the text embodies trauma. Using narrative psychology (‘how humans deal with experiences through the construction and telling of stories’ [p. 280]), Stanley examines the use of distortion, dissociation and repetition in ch. 19 as clues that this is ‘traumatic narrative’ (p. 283), and especially then how in telling traumatic stories, healing can occur (pp. 288-89). After all, the chapter ends, as Stanley notes, with a warning, ‘Consider it, take counsel, and speak out’—this is a ‘call here for a communal response to trauma’ (pp. 288-89) and a text that ‘recognizes the power of constructing a traumatic narrative’ (p. 289).
Other Issues
Again, time and space fail to allow sufficient description of the many areas of research involving the book of Judges, so a few examples must suffice. A number of recent articles focus on the question of 4QJudga or the Judges scrolls from Qumran more broadly, including M.S. Smith (2016), Ausloos (2014), Müller, Pakkala and Haar Romeny (2014), and Rezetko (2013). Questions about the relationship between the book of Judges and the larger so-called ‘Deuteronomistic History’ continue to abound (Ausloos 2008), as do questions regarding the period during which the book of Judges was edited (Amit 2009, 2014; Gillmayr-Bucher 2014). Levine (2009) and Murphy (2015) both explore the question of the ‘spirit of Y
New and/or Expanding Areas of Research on the Book of Judges
Gender Studies
Feminist studies of the book of Judges had long been underway when Craig completed his 2003 article, and Craig highlights their increasing prominence and importance for understanding the book of Judges. Since then, however, approaches to the book of Judges increasingly include gender studies more broadly. A few examples will illustrate the contours of this area of research. For example, Stone offers two gender readings of Judges (2009a, 2009b). In his queer reading of the Achsah story, he explores how ‘the relations between reading and gender are more complex, unstable, and perhaps even “queer,” than accounts of biblical interpretation often allow’ (2009b: 410). Other gendered readings include Guest’s (2011) lesbian reading of the story of Jael, and Derks’s (2015) use of queer theory to examine the Samson narrative. These and other gendered readings offer critical insights into how we as readers approach the texts of Judges. Additionally, a number of studies also examine the portrayal of masculinity in the book of Judges, including Haddox (2010), Bar Mymon (2013), Murphy (2015, forthcoming), and Wilson (2014, 2015). Such readings serve as significant reminders that the male figures of Judges were shaped by the gender norms and gendered expectations of both the periods in which Judges was composed and/or edited and by the different interpretative communities that used the text throughout history. Furthermore, Schroeder’s Deborah’s Daughters: Gender Politics and Biblical Interpretation (2014) is an excellent example of how scholarship on Judges now often combines a variety of approaches. Her work explores the ‘disruptive potential’ of Judges 4–5 (p. 3), and in it she traces the way that Deborah has been understood and used in gender debates throughout the centuries, from early Judaism and Christianity to the Middle Ages, the early nineteenth century, and the contemporary world. The question of whether Deborah offers precedent for women as leaders (in a variety of capacities) echoes throughout each period that Schroeder examines, and she writes, ‘yet the persistence of similar questions speaks not only to the enduring nature of gender debates through the millennia, but also the power of a biblical character to capture the imaginations of generations of readers’ (p. 258).
Reception History
As Schroeder’s work nicely demonstrates, one of the most exciting and expanding areas of Judges research is found in the development of commentaries, monographs and articles that include and/or focus on the reception history of the texts and on the power of these texts to continue to capture imaginations across time and contexts. Several recent commentaries focus on the reception history of the texts, including Gunn’s Judges (2005), sections of Sasson’s commentary (2014), and portions of Gross’s monumental Richter (2009). In a series of articles, Begg (2004, 2006a, 2006b, 2006c, 2007a, 2007b, 2007c, 2008) examines the way that Josephus used the book of Judges, editing and modifying as needed. Other articles focus exclusively on rabbinic interpretations of various stories from the book of Judges. For example, Aranoff (2013: 80) examines how various Talmudic passages, the Zohar, and Rashi’s commentary on Judges connect the otherwise seemingly unrelated story of the idol of Micah and the story of Gibeah by claiming that the defeat of the Israelites in the battle against the Benjaminites in Judges 20 is a result of their acceptance of Micah’s idol. Jephthah’s daughter is the focus of many reception histories, from how she was perceived in Judaism during the medieval period (Baumgarten 2007) to how she appears in monastic accounts from the same time (Berman 2005). The stories surrounding Samson are likewise popular, with studies tracing how he shows up in children’s toys (Murphy 2015), in movies (Kozlovic 2006, 2010), and in children’s cartoons (Gunn 2012). These studies are important on several levels, not least of which is that they often serve to connect somewhat obscure biblical scholarship to larger societal ideas about/uses of the Bible. Moreover, many reception critical studies—like Schroeder’s (2014) monograph on Deborah—unite diverse approaches to the text (historical, reception history and gender studies) in a way that opens the world and stories of Judges up to new and innovative questions.
Conclusions
From the sometimes comical stories of Ehud and Eglon to the troubling narratives of Jephthah’s daughter or the Levite’s concubine, scholarship on the book of Judges flourishes, and approaches to the book of Judges continue to vary. Traditional questions about how to date the text, what we might be able to discern about the world of pre-monarchic Israel from these stories, and what we might know about the authors and/or editors who shaped them remain prevalent avenues of research, but new, innovative and exemplary approaches and questions about the texts are also being utilized and asked. The previous pages do not do justice to the range of methods that scholars use to wrestle with the texts of Judges, and there is no doubt that in the future scholars will continue to lament, ‘For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah…’ (Heb. 11.32). Doubtless, though, future readers and interpreters will insist on unraveling not only the stories of the famous men of Judges, but also the stories of Deborah and Delilah, the other unnamed men and women of the book that have been too often ignored, and the voluminous ways all of these narratives have been understood and interpreted throughout the many afterlives of the book of Judges.
