In Those Days There Was No King
IN THOSE DAYS THERE WAS NO KING
(The Emergence of Israelite
Identity and Faith)
I. FOUNDATIONS AND
QUESTIONS
As so often before, the concluding chapters of Judges puzzled me. Chapters
13 – 16 recount the Samson cycle; chapters 17 – 18 describe the migration of
the tribe of Dan; and chapters 19 – 21 culminate in the grim story of the
concubine of Gibeah and the ensuing civil war within Israel. But what did they
wish to convey?
Before long, I wondered whether to contact Theophil to obtain his counsel.
In the past, his manner – measured, observant, and sparing in speech – reflected
discipline rather than detachment. I concluded that he would – once again – be a
strong counterparty.
As I raised my eyes from the Koren bible, Theophil revealed his presence.
Looking at me thoughtfully, he let his concern show.
“Peter’le,” he started, “you want to embark on a discussion of the
closing chapters of Judges. But, to proceed, you have to come up with some
surmises related to the composition of the book as a whole. If you refrain, you
may build a house without a foundation. That won’t do.”
“Right you are,” I affirmed. “Back in secondary school the ethos was that
the Hebrew Old Testament – better known as the Masoretic Text (‘MT’) – is
sacred, constitutes an accurate historical record and should not be
questioned.”
“But you rebelled against this doctrine even in those days,” he grinned. “So why do you want to depart from it now? Do
you want to get embroiled in an ensuing debate carried on by scholars working
in a field which you pursue as an outsider or amateur?”
“I have reflected on this, Maestro. But then, the Bible was meant to
address ordinary people. So why keep out?”
Theophil tilted his head slightly,
studying me with that familiar blend of patience and scrutiny. I knew that
mankind – especially as Judaism developed and Christianity appeared – dubbed him
Satan and regarded him the epitome of evil. To me, though, he had been kind and
helpful: a reliable friend and a detached observer.
“And what direction would you take this time, Peter’le?” he asked
quietly.
“I am considering,” I began, choosing my words with care, “whether to
voice certain doubts – not about faith as such, but about the historical
underpinnings of some of the narratives. In particular, the account of the
Exodus.”
A faint smile crossed his face. “Ah. You are venturing into contested
terrain.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “For many, the Exodus is not merely a story – it is
the foundational narrative of liberation. But when one turns to archaeology and
historical records, the evidence for a mass departure of slaves from Egypt – on
the scale described – is, at best, elusive.”
Theophil did not interrupt. He simply motioned for me to continue.
“There are no clear Egyptian records,” I went on, “of such a large group
of slaves escaping. Nor is there decisive archaeological evidence of a
prolonged desert wandering by a substantial population. One would expect traces.
Their absence is striking.”
“And this troubles you?” he asked.
“It does,” I admitted. “Not because I wish to dismantle belief, but
because I struggle with the tension between the narrative as received and the
findings of modern inquiry. If the historical basis is uncertain, what then are
we to make of the story? And why and when did the story take shape?”
“It would seem unlikely, Peter’le, that a story of such magnitude arose
without context. Some scholars suggest that it may have been formulated or
substantially developed during the late monarchic period or even during the
Babylonian exile, when questions of identity, loss, and restoration pressed
themselves upon the people with particular urgency.”
Seeing me nod, he continued: “In such circumstances, a narrative of
deliverance from bondage – culminating in covenant and land – would not merely
recount a past; it would interpret a present and project a hope.”
“Basically, this answers the question,” I agreed. “Indeed, prophets such
as Amos, Hosea, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel allude to the Exodus myth without
elaboration, as though invoking a tradition already familiar to their audience.
However, the detailed formulation of the episode is, as you say, post exilic.”
“But tell me, Peter’le, are you seeking to disprove the Exodus, or to
understand its meaning?”
“I would say the latter,” I replied. “Yet I cannot ignore the former. If
we present these texts as history, should they not withstand historical
scrutiny?”
He nodded slowly.
“Let us assume,” he said, “that the archaeological record does not
support a literal reading of a vast multitude leaving Egypt. Does it follow
that the narrative is without value – or even without truth?”
“That depends, on what we mean by ‘truth,’ Maestro.”
“Precisely,” he responded. “Ancient texts often convey truths that cannot
be reduced to empirical verification. The Exodus may reflect a smaller
historical memory later shaped, expanded, and given theological significance.”
“So, you suggest,” I said, “that the narrative is not fabricated, but…
transformed?”
“Refined,” he corrected gently. “Interpreted. Elevated. The question is
not only ‘Did it happen exactly as written?’ but also ‘Why was it told this
way?’ and ‘What did it come to mean?’”
“But” I replied after a pause, “if we acknowledge such transformation, don’t
we risk undermining the authority of the text?”
“On the contrary, Peter’le we may begin to appreciate its depth. A text
that survives generations often does so not because it records events with
journalistic precision, but because it speaks to enduring human realities – bondage,
liberation, identity, covenant.”
“Consider this,” he continued: “must faith rest solely on verifiable
events? Or can it also draw strength from narratives that shape a people’s
understanding of themselves and their place in the world?”
“You are asking me,” I said slowly, “to accept that meaning may outweigh
historical certainty. This is the essence of Ahad Ha’Am’s article on Moses,
which we have discussed on a previous occasion.”
“Quite so. And I am asking you,” he replied, “not to confuse the two.
They intersect – but they are not identical.”
“Then perhaps,” I said after a pause, “my role is not to dismiss the
Exodus because of the lack of evidence, but to question how it should be read –
and what kind of truth it conveys.”
“That,” concluded Theophil and reclined his head, “would be a discussion
worth having.”
“Which suggests, Maestro, that if we discard the Exodus as a historical
or factual truth, we must come up with premises explaining the appearance of
the Israelites as a cultural entity in the Levant: an entity bound by national
perception and by faith.”
“We do,” he agreed.” “Based on linguistic and cultural evidence, many
modern scholars aver that Israel likely
developed within the region of Canaan. This perspective positions Israel not as
an external import, but as an internal evolution within the Levant.”
“Let us then proceed on the basis of taking this as our starting point,”
I replied readily. “Archaeology shows that small settlements began to form
themselves in the hill country during the Late Bronze Age (c. 1550–1200 BCE).”
“Quite so,” nodded Theophil. “This period saw the rise of small
hill-country communities that may have formed the early basis of Israelite
society.”
“Is there any supporting evidence?” I wanted to know.
“There is! The Merneptah Stele is an Egyptian victory inscription dated
to around 1208 BCE, that is, just before the Iron Age. It records a campaign in
Canaan of Pharaoh Merneptah and contains the earliest known reference to
“Israel” outside the Bible. Significantly, Israel is described not as a state
or city but as a group, indicating a population rather than an organized kingdom.”
“Then tell me, Maestro,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “if these
groups were not yet bound by a king or centralized authority – what, in fact,
united them?”
Theophil regarded me for a moment, as if weighing how far to simplify a
complex matter.
“It may be tempting,” he began, “to assume that unity requires structure
– institutions, leadership, codified law. But in early societies, cohesion
often rested on something less formal, yet no less potent.”
“You mean kinship?” I asked.
“In part,” he nodded. “Shared ancestry – whether real, constructed, or
remembered – can provide a powerful sense of belonging. But it rarely suffices
on its own.”
“Then what else?”
“A convergence of interests,” he replied. “Groups that occupy similar
terrain, face comparable threats, and pursue overlapping aims will find it
expedient to cooperate. They come to each other’s aid when it suits them; and
such decisions are often taken on a case-by-case basis.”
“That sounds… fragile,” I observed. “More like an alliance of convenience
than a people.”
“Indeed,” he said calmly. “And yet, over time, repeated cooperation can
harden into expectation. What begins as expediency may evolve into custom; what
is customary may, in turn, acquire moral weight.”
“So, you are suggesting,” I said slowly, “that identity can emerge from
practice – from doing things together – rather than from an initial shared
conviction?”
“Precisely. Identity is often the consequence, not the cause, of
collective action.”
“Please sum up, Maestro,” I ventured.
“If the Exodus did not happen historically in the form described in the
Bible, it was probably not a pure invention. Rather, it is best understood as a
later national and theological synthesis of older memories and traditions.
These may have included small-scale migrations, experiences of Egyptian
contact, or memories preserved by groups within early Israel. Over time – especially
during the monarchic period and then more fully in the exilic and post-exilic
periods – these traditions were shaped, expanded, and woven together into a
single, powerful origin story.”
“And the object?” I asked.
“The purpose of this story was to
define Israel as a people rescued by their God. In short: the Exodus narrative
is best seen as a theologically shaped memory of origins.”
“But would that be enough,” I pressed, “to sustain a sense of unity
beyond immediate necessity? Cooperation in times of danger is one thing – but
what binds people in times of relative peace?”
Theophil’s expression softened. “Here we must emphasise a specific
element: Narrative.”
“Narrative?” I asked stupefied.
“Yes. Stories – about origins, about shared experiences, about divine
encounters – can bind disparate groups into a perceived whole. Such stories provide
a framework within which individuals understand themselves as part of something
larger.”
“Then,” I said, “are you implying that the very texts we have been
discussing – these traditions – may have played a role in forging that unity?”
He inclined his head slightly.
“And yet,” I said after a pause, “if these narratives emerged gradually,
alongside the people themselves, we are faced with a circular process: the
people shape the story, and the story shapes the people.”
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
“History is rarely linear, Peter’le. It is more often a weaving – threads
crossing and recrossing, until a pattern becomes visible.”
“I take your point, Maestro. But now we have to turn to a thorny problem.
How did the Israelites become monotheistic or, in other words, how did they
come to worship Jehova [Yahwe] as the only God.”
“It is a delicate problem, Peter’le. You don’t want to offend your
people; and I have no wish to criticise His standing. Well, what is your
problem, my friend?”
“I find myself moving between two
modes: participation, in which the tradition is lived, and analysis, in which
it is questioned. The tension between them is real—but perhaps unavoidable.”
“But you do manage to alternate between them, Peter’le. So, in
reality, the process does not present a
problem.”
“With this in mind, Maestro, let us have a look of how Jehova became the
Israelite’s sole God. Please tell me what scholars say.”
“Modern scholarship,” Theophil told me, “understands early Israelite
religion as evolving rather than originating as strict monotheism. The earliest
communities in Canaan likely shared many cultural and religious features with
their neighbours, including a broader pantheon. Within this setting, the
worship Jehova appears to have emerged as the dominant – though as yet not
exclusive – focus of devotion (a stage often described as monolatry or
henotheism). Under the influence of prophetic traditions and in response to
political crises such as the Babylonian exile, this developed into a more
explicit and exclusive monotheism, in which Jehova was affirmed as the only
God.”
“It makes sense,” I added. “The Song of Deborah [Jud. 5] commences by
telling us that God came from Edom or Seir. We find a similar statement in
Moses’ blessing [Deut. 33:2] and in Habakkuk [2:3]. Unlike Akhnaton’s sun God, Jehova
was, initially, a storm God.”
“Quite a lucid observation, Peter’le. And note that other nations had
their own superior God, who gave them their own land.”
After pausing for a moment, he added: “Narratives of the type referred to
above likely contributed not only to the formation of Israel as a people but
also to the development of a religion.”
“Quite so, Maestro. And when the redactors of the MT edited the available
texts, they revised them to ensure that they suited the theological framework
put forward by them. So, in the ultimate, we can conclude that Jewish
monotheism – like its national identity – developed gradually and reached its
final form either during or shortly after the Babylonian exile.”
“So far, Peter’le, we have focused on the development of Israelite – later
Jewish – identity and religion. Shall we now turn to the next issue?”
II. THE PATTERN AND THE MESSAGE OF
JUDGES
1.
Declaration of Message and Pattern
“With the groundwork now laid,” I began, “we can turn to the Book of
Judges itself. Its message and pattern are already indicated in the opening
verses of Chapter 2.”
“Actually, why not in chapter 1?” asked Theophil.
“Chapter 1 and verses 6 – 10 of chapter 2 are an extension of Joshua,” I replied.
“They are a bridge. Chapter 2 as a whole conveys the message. An angel of
Jehova reminds Israel: ‘I caused you to go out of Egypt … and I will never
break my covenant with you’ [Jud. 2:1]. Yet the people are also warned that
they must not worship other deities.”
“Correct, Peter’le. If they fail, they fall under the domination of their
enemies. In their distress, they cry out. Jehova responds by raising a
deliverer – a ‘judge’ – who restores their freedom. Yet once stability returns,
the cycle begins anew. Each episode reinforces the same lesson: without
fidelity, there can be no lasting security.”
“And the judges themselves, Maestro? Are they to be understood as
rulers?”
“Not in the later, institutional sense,” Theophil replied. “They are
charismatic leaders, raised in times of crisis. Their authority is not
hereditary, nor is it permanent. It is functional – tied to the task of
deliverance.”
“This means that the victories attributed to them are, in the narrative’s
logic, victories of Jehova,” he completed.
I paused for a moment. “This suggests that the book is less concerned
with recording history than with conveying a theological interpretation of
events.”
“That would be a fair assessment,” he said. “The pattern serves as a
framework through which the fortunes of Israel are explained.”
“And yet,” I added, “the repetition itself carries a certain weight. The
fact that the cycle continues – that it does not resolve – seems to point to a
deeper problem.”
Theophil regarded me thoughtfully. “You are beginning to see the broader
implication. The instability described in Judges reflects the absence of a
unifying structure capable of sustaining order over time.”
“You are referring,” I said, “to the absence of kingship.”
He nodded slightly. “A conclusion that will become explicit toward the
end of the book.”
“So, the cycles are not only descriptive,” I said, “but also
preparatory.”
“Exactly. They lead the reader to a question: if this pattern cannot be
broken, what is lacking?”
“And the answer,” I ventured, “will emerge only later.”
Theophil allowed himself a faint smile. “As with so much in these texts,
understanding unfolds gradually. The pattern must first be observed before its
implications can be grasped.”
2. Pattern
Holds and is Explained: Early Judges
“The pattern is most clearly
discernible in the case of the early judges,” I commenced. “Othniel, Ehud,
Deborah – their accounts are concise, almost schematic.”
“Just so,” replied Theophil. “Othniel is presented as the model:
oppression, cry, deliverance, rest. A clean cycle, almost didactic in its
clarity.”
“And Ehud?” I asked.
“A variation,” he said. “More colour, more narrative detail – yet still
within the same framework. The emphasis remains: deliverance comes through an
unexpected agent.”
“And Deborah?”
“There the pattern expands,” he noted. “Prophetic authority,
collaboration with Barak, and the poetic reflection in the Song. Yet even here,
the underlying structure persists.”
I hesitated. “But how about Shamgar, who appears to precede Deborah?”
Theophil raised an eyebrow. “Ah – the anomaly.”
“Exactly,” I said. “A single verse: no cycle, no cry, no divine raising,
no aftermath. Merely the statement that he struck down six hundred Philistines
with an ox-goad.”
“And what do you make of it?” he asked.
“It disrupts the pattern,” I replied. “Almost as though a fragment has
been inserted – a memory preserved, but not fully integrated into the
theological scheme. Actually, some scholars aver that he is mentioned only
because Deborah refers to his era [5:6].”
“A perceptive observation,” he said. “Shamgar poses a problem precisely
because he does not fit.”
“So,” I ventured, “it is possible that he is referred to just in order to
maintain continuity from Ehud to Barak. Does this suggest that the redactors
worked with disparate traditions – some of which resisted harmonisation?”
“Indeed,” Theophil nodded. “The presence of Shamgar reminds us that the
pattern, though dominant, is imposed upon material that was not originally
uniform.”
I paused, then added: “There is another aspect, Maestro, which may
deserve attention. Shamgar is said to have struck down Philistines – a people
who do not feature in the earlier cycles we have discussed.”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. “A significant observation.”
“It suggests,” I continued, “that his brief notice may derive from a
different stratum of tradition – one that reflects conflicts of another period.
If so, his inclusion here is not entirely organic, but editorial.”
“And perhaps,” I added, “this anticipates what we shall later encounter
in the Samson narrative, where the Philistines assume a central role.”
Theophil allowed himself a faint smile. “You are already looking ahead,
Peter’le. That is seldom a mistake – provided one returns to the present
thread. Their presence reminds us that the composition is layered.”
“And this,” I said after a moment’s reflection, “brings us to a broader
conclusion. What we have before us is not merely a record of events, but a
shaped narrative – one in which a theological pattern has been imposed upon
diverse and, at times, resistant material.”
Theophil regarded me with quiet approval. “Once this is recognised, the
irregularities cease to be obstacles. They become evidence.”
“In other words,” I concluded, “the structure of Judges is both
deliberate and imperfect. This raises the question whether the pattern arises
from events themselves – or from the way they were later shaped. Please
explain, Maestro.”
“The best way to explain this pattern is to realise the Judges is a composition,” he said quietly, “that reveals
its own seams to those who look closely. And we must ask whether its pattern arose
spontaneously – or whether it reflects a guiding hand.”
“You mean an editor?” I asked.
“More than that,” he replied. “A school of thought. Modern scholars often
speak of what they call the Deuteronomistic composition.”
I hesitated. “That term is familiar – but not entirely clear to me. Does
it refer to the Book of Deuteronomy alone?”
“Not quite,” he said. “The term is derived from Deuteronomy, but it
extends beyond it. According to this view, a group of writers or editors shaped
a larger body of texts — encompassing Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and
Kings – into a coherent narrative.”
“A single work?” I asked, surprised.
“A unified history, at least in intention,” he answered. “A composition shaped
and refined over time. Many scholars suggest that a significant stage of this
process took place during the reign of King Josiah (640–609 BCE).”
“The reforms associated with him?” I asked.
“Indeed,” he replied. “Josiah’s programme sought to centralise worship in
Jerusalem and to reinforce the exclusive devotion to Jehova. In such a context,
earlier traditions could be gathered, arranged, and interpreted in a manner
consistent with these aims. The past was organised so as to support a renewed
religious vision.”
“And the final form?” I pressed.
“That likely belongs to a later stage,” he continued, “when the collapse
of the kingdom and the experience of exile compelled further reflection. What
began under Josiah may have been expanded and given its definitive shape in
response to that crisis.”
“And what was the object of this extra revision, Maestro?”
“To interpret Israel’s past, Peter’le, in light of its present crisis.
The loss of land, temple, and kingship demanded explanation. The final Deuteronomistic
writers sought to provide one.”
“A theological explanation?” I ventured.
“Precisely. They drew upon the covenantal framework articulated in
Deuteronomy: fidelity to Jehova brings blessing; infidelity brings calamity.”
I reflected for a moment. “Then the events described in these books are
not presented as isolated occurrences, but as consequences.”
“Just so,” he said. “History is not random. It is meaningful: structured
by the relationship between the people and their God.”
“And this,” I continued slowly, “would explain the recurring pattern in
Judges: apostasy, oppression, supplication, deliverance…”
“…and relapse,” he completed. “The cycle you identified is a theological
construct. It illustrates, repeatedly and emphatically, the consequences of
Israel’s conduct.”
“But”
I objected, “does this not imply that earlier traditions were… reshaped?”
Theophil smiled faintly. “An unavoidable conclusion. The Deuteronomistic
editors did not invent all their material. They worked with older traditions –
stories, songs, memories of local heroes. Yet they arranged and, at times,
adapted these elements to fit their interpretive framework.”
“And the seams we noticed?” I asked. “Shamgar, for instance – the
unevenness in certain accounts?”
“They are the traces of this process,” he replied. “Not all material
could be perfectly integrated. Some elements resisted the pattern yet were
retained. Their presence reminds us that the composition is layered.”
“So, the pattern we identified, Maestro, represents an interpretive
framework through which earlier traditions have been arranged and understood.”
“Just so,” he said. “And once this is recognised, the irregularities
cease to be obstacles. They become evidence.”
“Evidence, that Judges is not simply a chronicle of heroic figures, nor
merely a collection of tribal memories. It is part of a broader work – one that
seeks to explain Israel’s fortunes through a consistent theological lens.”
“A sound conclusion,” said Theophil. “And one that will guide us as we
proceed.”
3. Pattern
Holds but with Nuances: Gideon and Abimelech
“With this in mind,” I started, “we may now turn to Gideon. At first
glance, his story appears to conform to the familiar pattern: Israel does evil,
falls under oppression – this time at the hands of Midian – cries out, and a
deliverer is raised.”
“Indeed,” said Theophil. “The initial sequence is intact. Yet even at the
outset, the narrative begins to thicken.”
“You are referring,” I said, “to Gideon’s hesitation?”
“Precisely. Unlike Othniel and Ehud, Gideon does not step forward
readily. He questions, seeks signs, tests the divine summons. The fleece, laid
out once and then again, is emblematic. And that doubt, Peter’le, is not merely
psychological. It is theological. Gideon asks: ‘If Jehova is with us, why has
all this happened?’ [Jud. 6:13].”
“Then,” I observed after a pause, “the pattern is under strain. The
explanation – sin leads to oppression – is no longer received without question,
even within the story itself.”
“Just so,” he replied.
“And yet,” I continued, “Gideon proceeds. The reduction of his forces,
the victory with a mere three hundred men – all this reinforces the principle
that deliverance is the work of Jehova rather than of human strength.”
“A reaffirmation, Peter’le, but one that comes after hesitation, not
before it.”
I nodded. “But the real deviation comes later – after the victory.”
“Ah,” he said quietly, “you are referring to the offer of kingship.”
“Exactly. The people say: ‘Rule over us – you, your son, and your
grandson also’ [Jud. 8:22]. This is no longer merely charismatic leadership. It
is a proposal for dynastic rule.”
“And Gideon’s response?” he prompted.
“He refuses, Maestro, and says: ‘I will not rule over you, nor shall my
son rule over you; Jehova shall rule over you’ [Jud. 8:23].”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. “A decisive statement.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “In the context of Judges, his response seems almost
programmatic.”
“And yet,” he added, “does Gideon’s conduct fully align with his words?”
“Not entirely,” I replied after
some hesitation. “After the victory Gideon requests gold from the spoil and
fashions an ephod, which he sets up in Ophrah. The text then states: ‘All
Israel prostituted themselves by worshipping it there, and it became a snare to
Gideon and his household’ [Jud. 8:27].”
“And what do you make of this?” he asked.
“That is precisely the difficulty,” I replied. “An ephod, in earlier
contexts, is associated with priestly inquiry – a legitimate object within the
worship of Jehova. Yet here it becomes an object of devotion, even of
apostasy.”
“So, Peter’le, we are confronted with an ambiguity: is this an act of
proper worship, or a deviation?”
“Difficult to say, Maestro. The text condemns the outcome, but it does
not fully clarify the intention. Gideon, who has just affirmed that Jehova
alone should rule, now establishes an object that draws Israel into worship –
but which God?”
A
brief silence followed.
“Is the ephod,” I elaborated, “meant as a means of consulting Jehova? Or
does it become a localised cult object, detached from the central conception of
Him? Has Gideon, perhaps unwittingly, reintroduced a form of worship that the
narrative elsewhere seeks to exclude?”
Theophil folded his hands. “You are touching upon a central tension. In a
religious landscape not yet fully defined by exclusive monotheism, the boundary
between legitimate and illegitimate forms of worship is not always clear.”
“Which may suggest that Gideon stands at a threshold,” I said. “He
affirms Jehova’s sole rule, yet his actions blur that very exclusivity.”
“Precisely, Peter’le. He is neither a model of pure fidelity nor a
straightforward apostate. He embodies the transitional nature of the period.”
“And this,” I concluded, “fits with the broader development we discussed
earlier: a movement from a more fluid religious environment toward a stricter
monotheism.”
“A perceptive connection,” he said.
I leaned back. “Then the story of Gideon does not simply illustrate the
pattern – it complicates it. The cycle still operates, but the clarity of
earlier episodes gives way to ambiguity: in leadership, in authority, and in
worship.”
“And that,” Theophil replied, “is what makes it so instructive. The
pattern holds – but no longer without tension.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “And it is altogether disrupted in the case of the
man who succeeds Gideon, namely his son Abimelech.”
“In what sense?” he asked.
“In this: unlike the judges who precede him, Abimelech is not raised as a
deliverer in response to Israel’s cry. There is no oppression followed by
supplication, no divine intervention, no restoration. Instead, we are presented
with an initiative that arises entirely from human ambition.”
Theophil inclined his head. “A significant deviation.”
“More than that,” I continued. “It is as though the narrative momentarily
sets aside its theological framework and allows us to observe what unfolds when
power is seized rather than conferred.”
“And what unfolds?” he prompted.
“A pattern of a different kind,” I said slowly. “Not the familiar cycle
of sin and deliverance, but a sequence driven by calculation, violence, and
expediency. Abimelech does not deliver Israel; he eliminates his rivals. He
does not respond to a crisis; he creates one.”
Theophil remained silent, inviting me to continue.
“It is also noteworthy,” I added, “that his claim to authority rests
neither on divine calling nor on communal recognition in the broader sense. It
is local, almost parochial – anchored in Shechem and sustained by those who
find it advantageous.”
“This needs clarification, Peterle.”
“His authority, Maestro, remains confined to Shechem, where he is
proclaimed king by local supporters; yet this fragile arrangement soon unravels
into internal conflict, culminating in the destruction of the city and his own
violent death [Jud. 9:50-57], thereby exposing the inherent instability of
power seized rather than divinely conferred.”
“You are suggesting,” he said, “that his ‘kingship’ differs in kind from
what will later emerge.”
“Precisely. He is called king, yet the term seems premature. There is no
institutional framework, no enduring structure. What we encounter is something
closer to a personal dominion – a fragile construct, dependent on force and
liable to collapse once that force falters.”
“A proto kingship, then?” he asked.
“If one wishes to use that term,” I replied. “Or perhaps more accurately:
an experiment – one that exposes both the attraction and the danger of
centralized power.”
Theophil’s expression grew more intent. “And how does the narrative
assess this experiment?”
“It does not do so explicitly,” I said. “There is no direct condemnation
in the manner of the prophetic voice. Instead, the judgment is embedded in the
course of events. Violence begets violence; alliances dissolve into hostility;
and the structure that was so ruthlessly established proves equally unstable.”
“A form of narrative retribution,” he observed.
“Exactly. And this, I think, is the crucial point: Abimelech’s story
stands as a counterpoint to the pattern we have identified. It shows what
transpires when the cycle is no longer mediated by divine intervention but
driven by human initiative alone.”
Theophil nodded slowly. “Then his role is not accidental.”
“On the contrary,” I replied. “It is integral. By placing this episode
where it does, the text invites us to consider a question that will grow more
pressing as we proceed: if the absence of stable leadership leads to disorder,
what kind of leadership can provide stability without reproducing the very
violence it seeks to contain?”
A faint smile crossed his face. “A question that will not be easily
resolved.”
“No,” I agreed. “But one that the narrative, from this point onward, will
not allow us to ignore.”
“Well, Peter’le, we have now laid the necessary groundwork and clarified
the principal assumptions guiding our inquiry. If Gideon introduces ambiguity
and Abimelech exposes the dangers of unrestrained ambition, what follows moves
yet further: leadership becomes not merely flawed, but tragic. The figures of
Yiftah and Samson will no longer illustrate the pattern – they will strain it
to its limits, revealing a society in which cohesion, morality, and even
identity itself begin to fracture.”
4. The Pattern
Unravels: Yiftah
“With this in mind,” I resumed, “we may now turn to Yiftah [Jephtah]. His
account, at first glance, appears to conform to the established pattern. This
time Israel falls into at the hands of the Ammonites and, in their distress, the people seek
deliverance.”
“Yet already at the outset,” Theophil interjected, “there is a shift in
emphasis.”
“You are referring,” I said, “to Yiftah’s origin?”
“Precisely. Unlike earlier judges, his marginal status is stressed. He is
the son of a prostitute, expelled by his half-brothers. His rise does not begin
with divine calling, but with social rejection.”
“And when the elders of Gilead approach him,” Theophil continued, “it is
not because he has already been designated as deliverer by Jehova, but because
he is deemed capable and has amassed a paramilitary group of followers. And his
appointment is negotiated.”
“Indeed,” I said. “He does not simply accept. He conditions his return on
being made head over them. Authority here is no longer purely charismatic – it
is contractual.”
Theophil inclined his head. “A subtle but important development. The
pattern still operates – but it is mediated through human deliberation.”
I paused. “Yet once Yiftah assumes leadership, the narrative briefly
returns to a more traditional form. He sends messengers to the king of Ammon, justifying
Israel’s claim to the land.”
“And what do you make of that speech?” he asked.
“It is remarkable,” I replied. “Yiftah presents himself not merely as a
warrior, but as an interpreter of history. Notably, he acknowledges that other
nations receive their land from their own gods, telling the King of Ammon: ‘Will
you not possess [just] what Chemosh your god gives you?’ [Jud. 11:24].”
“A striking admission,” Theophil observed. “It reflects a stage at which
the exclusivity of Jehova is not yet fully articulated.”
“Just so,” I replied. “And the most troubling element follows.”
“The vow,” he said quietly.
“Yes. Before the battle, Yiftah vows that if he is granted victory, he
will offer as a burnt offering whatever first comes out of his house to greet
him.”
“And the outcome?”
“His daughter: his only child. “This episode,” I continued slowly, “marks
a profound rupture. The pattern – sin, oppression, deliverance – remains in
place. Yet here, deliverance is overshadowed by tragedy.”
“And how do you interpret the vow?” Theophil asked.
“It is difficult,” I admitted. “On one level, it reflects a form of piety
– an attempt to secure divine favour. Yet it is also deeply problematic. It
suggests a conception of devotion that borders on the extreme, even the
misguided.”
“In other words,” he said, “the narrative does not present Yiftah as an
unambiguous model.”
“Far from it,” I replied. “He is both deliverer and tragic figure. His
faith is real yet flawed; his leadership effective, yet morally troubling.”
“And what of the divine role?” he pressed. “Does the text indicate that
Jehova demanded or approved the vow?”
“No,” I said. “The vow originates with Yiftah. The narrative records it
but does not explicitly endorse it. This silence is itself significant.”
Theophil folded his hands. “So, the pattern persists – but its clarity is
eroded. The line between faithfulness and error is no longer sharply drawn.”
“Exactly,” I said. “With Yiftah, the framework begins to fray. The
deliverer is no longer a straightforward instrument of divine will. Human
agency comes increasingly to the fore.”
“And the consequence?”
“The narrative, Maestro, still conveys the theological pattern; but it
also exposes its tensions. Deliverance is no longer purely restorative; it may
entail even irreversible loss.”
Theophil regarded me thoughtfully. “Then Yiftah stands, like Gideon, at a
threshold.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But where Gideon introduced ambiguity, Yiftah
intensifies it. The pattern holds – but no longer without cost.”
“And how about the monarchy issue, which arises in the case of Gideon?”
“The text, Maestro, makes clear that Yiftah’s daughter was his sole
offspring. In the absence of any male heir and given the conventions governing
succession implicit in the passage, there is no basis for construing the
situation as one in which a hereditary monarchy could develop or be contested.
The issue, therefore, does not arise on the facts as presented. And there is a
further factor, the civil war.”
“Quite so, Peter’le. When the men of Ephraim challenged Gideon, his
conciliatory reply defused the conflict and preserved unity [Jud. 8:1–3]. Faced
with a similar grievance, Yiftah responded with force, and the dispute
escalated into a civil war culminating in the slaughter of Ephraimites [Jud.
12:1–6]. This episode may also reflect a broader condition of the time:
in the absence of central authority, tensions between tribes could, on
occasion, erupt into open conflict.”
“And what does the outbreak of civil war during Yiftah’s era mean,
Maestro?”
“Where Gideon’s leadership proved integrative and broadly accepted,
Yiftah’s was fragile and contested. His success against external enemies is
thus overshadowed by internal fragmentation, marking a further step in the
disintegration portrayed in Judges.”
“So, Maestro, whilst the pattern in Yiftah is already attenuated, it
nonetheless still echoes faintly. The figure of Samson brings the pattern to
its breaking point: here, deliverance and disorder, strength and instability,
are inseparably intertwined.”
“Agreed, Peter’le. Let us then to it.”
III.
FROM DELIVERANCE TO DISORDER:
THE SAMSON SAGA
1.
Announcement and Calling
“The
Samson sage is rather lengthy, Maestro,” I started. “The narrative opens not
with a collective cry for help, but with a divine intervention directed at a
single household. The angel appears to Manoah’s wife and foretells the birth of
a child who ‘shall begin to save Israel from the hand of the Philistines.’ The
initiative lies entirely with Jehova; the people themselves are passive.”
“A significant shift,” he observed. “In the earlier cycles, distress
leads to supplication, and supplication to deliverance. Here, the chain is
broken at its very first link.”
“And even that deliverance,” Theophil continued, “is qualified. Samson is
said not to complete the task, but only to begin it.”
I nodded. “Which suggests that the narrative is no longer concerned with
closure. The restoration of stability – so characteristic of the earlier judges
– is absent. Instead, we are presented with an ongoing struggle.”
“Quite so,” he replied. “And this struggle is reflected in the figure of
Samson himself.”
“That is precisely where the difficulty lies,” I said. “Unlike Othniel,
or even Gideon, Samson does not appear as a leader in any conventional sense.
He does not gather tribes, does not command armies, does not deliver Israel
through coordinated action. His exploits are individual, episodic – almost
erratic.”
“Yet marked,” Theophil interjected, “by extraordinary strength.”
“Strength, yes,” I agreed, “but strength directed as much by personal
impulse as by collective purpose. His actions are often provoked by private
grievances: a marriage dispute, a betrayal, a desire for vengeance.”
“In other words,” he said, “the boundary between public mission and
private motive becomes blurred.”
“Precisely. Samson is set apart from birth as a Nazirite – consecrated to
Jehova, bound by specific restrictions. Yet his conduct repeatedly brings him
into contact with what the very restrictions seek to avoid, such as contact with
foreign women.”
“And how does the narrative treat this tension?” he asked.
“With a certain ambiguity,” I replied. “On the one hand, Samson’s actions
appear impulsive, even transgressive. On the other, the text repeatedly notes
that ‘it was from Jehova’ – suggesting that these very actions serve a larger
purpose.”
“Which means that the divine purpose,” Theophil observed, “is no longer
mediated through obedience alone, but may operate even through contradiction.”
“The clarity, Maestro, that marked earlier episodes – where faithfulness
leads to deliverance – gives way to a more complex picture. The deliverer
himself is divided: consecrated yet compromised; empowered yet uncontrolled.”
“And what of the people?” he asked quietly. “Do they rally behind him?”
“They do not,” I replied. “At one
point, the men of Judah hand Samson over to the Philistines. Rather than
resisting oppression, they appear to accommodate it.”
“A telling detail,” said Theophil. “It suggests that the erosion we
observed earlier has deepened. Not only is leadership unstable; the will to
resist is weakened.”
“Then Samson,” I concluded, “stands as a figure of transition. The
pattern of Judges is still faintly discernible – oppression, the presence of a
deliverer – but its inner coherence has dissolved. Deliverance is partial,
leadership is fragmented, and the relationship between the people and their God
is no longer expressed through a clear cycle of sin and repentance.”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. He then added: “And yet, the
narrative does not abandon its theological horizon. It transforms it. The
question is no longer simply whether Israel will remain faithful, but how
divine purpose unfolds in a context where both leader and people are marked by
inconsistency.”
I reflected for a moment.
“Then, Maestro, the
story of Samson does not merely continue the pattern – it exposes its limits.”
“A fitting observation, Peter’le. And, with this in mind, let us turn to
the complex issue of Samson and the Philistine.”
2. Samson and
the Philistines
“Before we do so, Maestro, we must pause to consider the Philistines’
background.”
Theophil inclined his head. “A necessary step. For unlike the earlier
oppressors in Judges – Moabites, Canaanites, Midianites – the Philistines
belong to a different historical horizon.”
“In what sense?” I asked.
“In both origin and timing,” he replied. “The Philistines were not
indigenous to the highland or inland regions of Canaan. They were part of the
so-called ‘Sea Peoples,’ groups that appeared in the eastern Mediterranean
toward the end of the Late Bronze Age, around the 12th century BCE.
Egyptian sources, particularly from the reign of Ramesses III, describe their
incursions and eventual settlement.”
“So, they arrived,” I said slowly, “at roughly the same time as the
emergence of the early Israelite communities in the hill country?”
“Indeed. While those communities were forming inland, the Philistines
established themselves along the southern coastal plain – in cities such as
Gaza, Ashkelon, Ashdod, Ekron, and Gath. This coastal pentapolis became their
power base.”
“Which would explain,” I reflected, “why they are absent from the earlier
cycles of Judges.”
“Precisely. Their prominence belongs to a later phase. This is why the
reference to them in the brief notice about Shamgar is so striking. His story
may reflect a period when they were already established as a dominant force in
the region – that is, later than the setting implied by the surrounding
narratives.”
“A plausible conclusion, Peterle. The reference to Shamgar may preserve
an older or independent tradition.”
“And perhaps,” I added, “his mention serves a secondary function: to
create a tenuous link between earlier material and what is to follow. For once
we reach Samson, the Philistines are no longer incidental – they are central.”
“Just so,” he replied. “With Samson, the narrative enters a different
register. The conflict is no longer episodic or regional. It becomes sustained,
almost endemic.”
“And yet,” I said, “there is something peculiar about that conflict.
There is no battle in which tribes unite, no cry of the people followed by
deliverance.”
“Which raises the question,” I said, “whether we are still within the
pattern described earlier on.”
“A fair question,” he replied. “We encounter a series of episodes centred
on an individual whose actions, though directed against the Philistines, do not
result in lasting liberation.”
I paused, considering this. “Then the prominence of the Philistines is
not merely historical, but also literary. Their emergence marks both a shift in
the external situation and a transition in the composition of the text.”
“A perceptive synthesis, Peter’le. The Philistines represent a new and
formidable presence along the coast – technologically advanced, politically
organised, and difficult to dislodge. At the same time, their appearance in the
narrative coincides with a loosening of the earlier schematic pattern.”
“In that case,” I concluded, “the Samson sage should not be read simply
as another instance of the recurring theme, but as something more complex: a
body of traditions shaped only partially by the Deuteronomistic framework, and
reflecting a later phase of Israel’s encounter with its neighbours.”
“And one,” he added quietly, “in which the question of leadership becomes
acute. The absence of stable authority is felt all the more sharply.”
I nodded. “Then let us proceed to Samson himself – but with the awareness
that both the historical setting and the literary structure have shifted
beneath our feet.”
3. The Samson
Cycle: Strength without Order
“The narrative opens not with the birth story – almost as though we were
dealing with a new genre,” I started.
“Precisely, Peter’le. And the
figure who emerges is equally unusual. Samson is set apart from birth as a
Nazirite; and he acts alone and often impulsively. His exploits – the lion, the
riddle, the foxes, the jawbone – are feats of strength rather than acts of
governance.”
“And yet,” I added, “the text repeatedly attributes his strength to the
spirit of Jehova.”
“In this regard, Peter’le, the text adheres to the central philosophy of
the Deuteronomistic redactor: the real deliverer is not an individual but
Jehova.”
“So, Maestro, the Samson narrative does not discard the orientation of
Judges. But it varies it substantially.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “We are confronted with a figure who both belongs
to the pattern and yet resists it almost entirely. Samson is set apart from the womb; his
strength is presented as a gift of God. One might expect, therefore, a
deliverer in the established mould.”
“And yet,” I felt the need to interject, “the pattern does not unfold as
before.”
“Precisely. The Philistine domination is stated – but Israel does not cry
out. Nor does Samson act in response to a national appeal. His actions are
personal and he remains a solitary
figure.”
“Yes,” I said. “And more than that: a figure whose exploits are entangled
with his own inclinations—above all, his attraction to Philistine women.”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. “You refer to the woman of Timnah,
the harlot of Gaza, and finally Delilah.”
“Exactly. Each episode,” I continued, “draws him deeper into the very
society he is meant to oppose. His marriage to a Philistine woman leads not to
alliance but to conflict; his visit to Gaza exposes him to danger; and his
involvement with Delilah culminates in betrayal.”
“And how do you interpret this recurring motif?” he asked.
“It is difficult to avoid the impression,” I replied, “that Samson’s
downfall is not imposed from without, but arises from within. His strength is
extraordinary, but his judgement is flawed. He moves repeatedly toward what
endangers him.”
“A tension,” Theophil suggested, “between divine endowment and human
weakness.”
“Indeed, Maestro. And Delilah represents the culmination of this tension.
Unlike earlier encounters, this is no fleeting episode. It is sustained,
deliberate, and ultimately fatal.”
“The narrative dwells on it,” he noted.
“Yes,” I said. “Almost with a sense of inevitability. Samson resists at
first, deceives, evades – but gradually yields. The disclosure of his secret is
not forced; it is given.”
“And with it,” Theophil added, “the loss of his strength.”
“Precisely. His hair is cut; he is captured; his eyes are put out. The
man who once acted with unrestrained force is reduced to helplessness.”
A brief silence followed.
“And yet,” I continued, “the narrative does not end there. In his final
act – in the temple of Dagon – Samson brings about a destruction greater than
any he achieved in life. One that comes at the cost of his own life. It is not
a restoration of order, nor a lasting liberation. It is an act of vengeance – directed
as much by personal grievance as by any broader purpose.”
“So,” he said, “we are far removed from the clarity of earlier cycles.”
“Very far, Maestro. Samson’s saga
is less a cycle than a series of episodes – linked, but not structured in the
same theological pattern as earlier sagas.”
“And yet,” Theophil remarked, “the text concludes with a familiar
statement: ‘He judged Israel for twenty years.’”
“Yes,” I said after a short pause. “And it is precisely this statement
that raises a difficulty.”
“Go on, Peter’le.”
“In the cases of earlier judges, Maestro, such a summary reflects a
period of leadership – of stability following deliverance. But in Samson’s
case, it is difficult to identify what those twenty years consisted of. There
is no indication of governance, no description of national cohesion, no sense
of sustained peace.”
“You suggest,” he said, “that the formula is applied here without
corresponding substance.”
“That is my impression, Maestro. The statement appears to align Samson
with the other judges – but the narrative itself does not support the
equivalence.”
“In other words,” Theophil said, “the framework persists, even when the
material no longer fully fits.”
“Exactly. It is as though the redactor sought to preserve the structure while working with traditions that resist
that structure.”
“And what follows from this?” he asked.
“That the Samson narrative,” I replied, “marks a further stage in the
loosening of the pattern we observed earlier. With Gideon, the pattern was
strained; with Samson, it begins to dissolve.”
III: THE BREAKDOWN OF
CULT AND IDENTITY
“We may now proceed to the closing chapters of Judges,” I started. “It
soon becomes apparent that we are entering different terrain.”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. “Indeed, Peter’le. The pattern you
have traced begins to dissolve. What follows is no longer cyclical, but
centrifugal.”
“Centrifugal?” I asked.
“Yes. Instead of returning to equilibrium, the forces at work now drive
the elements of society apart. The narratives that follow do not describe
deliverance, but disintegration.”
1. The Micah
Narrative: Religion Without Centre
“The first of these narratives, Maestro, concerns a man named Micah. At
first glance, it appears almost trivial – a private affair, confined to a
household.”
“And yet,” Theophil interjected, “it is anything but trivial.”
“Micah, Maestro, appropriates silver from his mother and returns it under the pressure of a curse. Part
of it is fashioned into an idol and Mica proceeds to establish a shrine within
his own home, complete with ephod and teraphim.”
“A private sanctuary, Peterle.”
“Precisely. And more than that: a private religion. Micah does not reject
Jehova outright; rather, he incorporates Him into a self-constructed system of
worship.”
Theophil regarded me thoughtfully. “Which is to say: he does not abandon
the tradition but reshapes it according to his own understanding.”
“Or convenience,” I added. “He even installs his own son as priest –
until a wandering Levite happens to pass by.”
“And what role does this Levite play?” he asked.
“At first, a passive one. He is invited, then hired. Micah offers him
sustenance and status; the Levite accepts. In this arrangement, priesthood
becomes a matter of employment.”
Theophil nodded slowly. “A significant shift. The priest is no longer
bound to a central sanctuary, nor to a defined community, but to opportunity.”
“Indeed. And Micah, reassured by the presence of a Levite, declares: ‘Now
I know that Jehova will prosper me.’”
“And does he?” asked Theophil quietly.
“That,” I replied, “remains unanswered. But the narrative itself suggests
otherwise. What we witness is a form of religion detached from covenantal
structure – constructed, localised, and transactional.”
“A religion, Peter’le, in which each man does what is right in his own
eyes.”
I nodded. “The refrain is not yet stated – but it is already embodied. Scholars
often regard these chapters as part of an epilogue portraying ‘social and
spiritual disintegration’. The private cult of Micah is not an isolated
curiosity, but the opening symptom.”
2. The
Levite: Mobility and the Erosion of Authority
“But the Levite himself,” I continued, “demands closer attention.”
“Just so,” said Theophil. “He is not merely a supporting figure.”
“He is introduced,” I said, “as a young man from Bethlehem in Judah – one
who is ‘sojourning.’ He is unattached, mobile, and seeking livelihood.”
“A priest without a place,” Theophil observed.
“Exactly. And this mobility is not incidental. It reflects a broader
condition: the absence of a stable framework within which the Levites might
function. Deprived of institutional anchoring, he becomes available – first to
Micah, then to others.”
“You are anticipating his later role, Peter’le.”
“I am. For when the tribe of Dan encounters him, they recognise in him
not a sacred office, but a resource.”
Theophil raised an eyebrow. “And how does he respond?”
“He does not hesitate. When offered a more prestigious position – priest
to a tribe rather than to a household – he accepts without protest.”
“Which suggests,” Theophil said, “that his loyalty is not to a principle,
but to advancement.”
“Or survival, Maestro. Yet the effect is the same: the priesthood is no
longer a stabilising force. It becomes transferable, negotiable.”
I paused, then added: “There is, however, a further important element.
The Levite is later identified as belonging to the line of Gershom, the son of
Moses – though the text preserves the name in altered form.”
Theophil inclined his head. “You refer to the reading ‘Manasseh’?”
“Yes. With a suspended letter, indicating an editorial hesitation. The
original reading - ‘Moses’ – appears to have been softened, although it is preserved
in the Septuagint [an early Greek translation of the Old Testament] and in a
scrap discovered amongst the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
“And what does this imply?” he asked.
“That even the Mosaic lineage is implicated. The text does not shield the
founding tradition from critique. On the contrary: it suggests that the very
line associated with Moses participates in the corruption.”
Theophil remained silent for a moment.
“A bold move,” he said at last. “The redactor does not merely describe
decline; he traces it into the heart of the tradition itself.”
3. The
Migration of Dan: From Allotment to Appropriation
“We may now turn,” I pointed out, “to the tribe of Dan.”
“A tribe already introduced earlier,” Theophil noted.
“Indeed. The earlier chapters suggest that Dan failed to secure its
allotted territory. Now, Maestro, we see
the consequence: they seek an alternative.”
“I thought they were allotted and occupied land bordering on the
territory of the Philistines: between Tsorea and Eshtaol, Peter’le. This is gleaned not only from the Book of
Jushua but also from the Samson narrative.”
“But, in all probability, Philistine oppression required migration, Maestro.
Accordingly, Dan sends out scouts, who eventually arrive at the house of Micah.
There they encounter the Levite – and consult him, as though he were a
legitimate intermediary.”
Theophil smiled faintly. “A curious situation: men on a questionable
mission seeking divine approval from a questionable priest.”
“Precisely, Maestro. And they receive it. Encouraged, they continue
northward and discover Laish – a city described as quiet, secure, and
unsuspecting. And they advise the tribe to proceed and conquer the place.”
“And what follows, Peter’le?”
“They attack without provocation, destroy the inhabitants, and take
possession of the land.”
Theophil regarded me steadily. “Not a conquest within the framework of
divine command, but an opportunistic seizure.”
“Exactly. And on their way, they return to Micah’s house, seize the cult
objects, and persuade – indeed compel – the Levite to accompany them.”
“In other words,” Theophil said, “they appropriate both territory and
cult.”
“Yes. The private shrine of Micah becomes the tribal shrine of Dan. What
begins as individual deviation expands into collective practice. As one
commentator puts it, the individual compromise of chapter 17 becomes ‘tribal
wickedness’ in chapter 18.”
Theophil folded his hands. “And in this manner a sanctuary is established
in the far north – detached from the central place of worship.”
“Indeed. A parallel cult emerges, sustained over time. The narrative
makes clear that this is not a momentary aberration, but an enduring
condition.”
4. Conclusion
to Part III: Fragmentation of the Sacred Order
“What we have observed,” I said following contemplation, “is a
progression. Micah establishes a private cult; the Levite embodies the mobility
of religious authority; the tribe of Dan transforms these elements into a
tribal institution. In this way religion becomes local; authority becomes
negotiable; identity becomes fluid.”
“And what follows from this?” he asked.
“A further step,” I said quietly. “If the sacred order disintegrates, the
social order cannot remain intact.”
“But before we turn to that stage,” observed Theophil, “we need to
emphasise one point: the site established by the migrating tribe became, in
later tradition, a cultic centre of lasting significance. This step was taken
by Jeroboam ben Nevat, who engineered the defection of the Northern tribes from
the United Kingdom reigned by David and Solomon. Dan is the city in which he installed one of
the two golden calves [1 Kings 12:29], thereby institutionalising a form of
worship that stood in tension with the Jerusalem cult. This continuity invites
us to see the narrative in Judges not merely as an isolated irregularity, but
as part of a longer trajectory in the religious life of Israel.”
“Point taken,” I agreed. “So, let us proceed.”
IV.
OUTRAGE AND CIVIL WAR
1. The
Breakdown of Order: The Concubine of Gibeah
“Having considered Gideon, Abimelech, Samson and the migration of Dan,” I
resumed, “we now approach the closing chapters of Judges.”
Theophil inclined his head. “You are referring to the account of the
Levite and his concubine?”
“Precisely, Maestro. In chapters 19 to 21, we are confronted with unrestrained
violence, moral disintegration, and the absence of any stabilising force.”
“And how does the story begin?” he asked.
“With a seemingly mundane domestic episode,” I replied. “A Levite takes a
concubine, who subsequently leaves him and returns to her father’s house in
Bethlehem. After some time, he goes to retrieve her.”
“A reconciliation, Peter’le?”
“On the surface, yes,” I said. “But already here, the tone is ambiguous.
The Levite’s motives are not explored, and the woman herself remains
voiceless.”
Theophil observed quietly: “A silence that is itself telling.”
“Indeed,” I continued. “From Bethlehem, the Levite and the concubine set
out on their return journey. They pass by Jerusalem – then still a Jebusite
city – and choose instead to lodge in Gibeah, a Benjaminite town.”
“And this decision, Peter’le, proves fateful.”
“It does. They are taken in by an old man, but during the night, men of
the city surround the house and demand that the Levite be brought out so that
they may abuse him.”
“A scene reminiscent of Sodom [Gen. 18:16-end; 19],” Theophil noted.
“Deliberately so,” I replied. “The parallel is unmistakable. Yet what
follows is, if anything, even more disturbing. The host offers his own daughter
and the Levite’s concubine instead. But it is the Levite himself who seizes the
woman and thrusts her outside to the mob.”
Theophil remained silent.
“This,” I continued slowly, “is the crucial moment. The Levite, who might
be expected to embody some degree of moral or religious responsibility, acts
not as protector but as betrayer. And the narrative does not condemn him
explicitly. Neither does it shield him. His action is presented starkly,
without justification. The concubine is abused throughout the night and
collapses at the door. In the morning, the Levite emerges, finds her there, and
speaks to her: ‘Get up, let us be going.’”
Theophil’s expression darkened. “A chilling line.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “There is no inquiry, no lament, no recognition of what
has occurred. When she does not respond, he places her body on his donkey and
returns home.”
“And then?” he prompted.
“Then comes the act that has echoed through centuries,” I said. “He
dismembers her body into twelve pieces and sends them throughout the tribes of
Israel.”
“A summons,” Theophil observed.
“Indeed. But we must ask: what kind of summons? The Levite frames the
event as an outrage committed by the men of Gibeah. Yet he omits his own role
in delivering the woman to them. He sacrifices the woman, then instrumentalises
her death to provoke a collective response.”
“And Israel responds,” Theophil noted.
“They do. The tribes assemble and demand justice from Benjamin. When this
is refused, civil war ensues.”
I paused, then added: “But here again, the narrative offers no comfort.
The war leads to near annihilation of the tribe of Benjamin. Only a remnant
survives, and the other tribes resort to further acts of violence – including
the abduction of women – to secure their continuation.”
Theophil regarded me intently. “So, the outrage at Gibeah does not
restore order – it multiplies disorder.”
“Precisely,” I replied. “What begins as a response to an outrage
culminates in further injustice. The moral collapse is not confined to Gibeah;
it spreads to Israel as a whole.”
2. The Levite
in an Unfavourable Light
“Let us return for a moment,” I continued, “to the figure of the Levite
himself.”
Theophil nodded.
“In earlier sections of Judges,” I said, “the Levite appears occasionally
– for instance, in the story of Micah and the Danites. There, too, he is
portrayed as opportunistic, shifting allegiance for personal advantage.”
“And here?” he asked.
“Here the portrayal is even more severe. The Levite is passive where he
should act, self-preserving where he should protest, and manipulative in the
aftermath.”
“Not a judge,” Theophil observed.
“Not even a leader,” I replied. “He does not deliver Israel; he
precipitates catastrophe. Nor does he exhibit the qualities associated with
religious authority. On the contrary, he embodies its failure.”
“And the concubine, Peter’le?”
“She remains nameless, Maestro. She is the victim not only of the mob,
but also of the Levite – and, ultimately, of the narrative itself, which uses
her fate as a catalyst for larger events.”
Theophil folded his hands. “Then the story is not merely about the
wickedness of Gibeah.”
“No,” I agreed. “It is about the breakdown of all moral structures:
hospitality, kinship, leadership, and religious responsibility. Each fails in
turn.”
“And this,” he said, “is underscored by the refrain that closes these
chapters.”
“Yes, Maestro. It tells us: ‘In those days there was no king in Israel;
everyone did what was right in his own eyes.’ This implies that Monarchy is a
step in the direction of order. However, Samuel and Kings advise us that this
is not always so.”
“We’ll deal with this later. But me’thinks that you wish to raise a
further point.”
3. A
Pro-David Polemic?
“I do, Maestro. We have to ask: what is the purpose of this grim
narrative?”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. “You suspect that it serves more
than a descriptive function.”
“I do,” I said. “Given our earlier discussion of the Deuteronomistic
composition, it seems plausible that these chapters are intended to convey a
message about the necessity of kingship.”
“And more specifically?” he prompted.
“Possibly about the legitimacy of a particular kingship,” I replied. “As
already shown, the chaos depicted here provides a powerful argument for central
authority.”
“And for whom would such an argument be most advantageous?” he asked.
“For the Davidic monarchy,” I said. “If one seeks to justify the rise of
a king – especially one associated with Judah – it is effective to portray the
preceding period as intolerable.”
Theophil considered this.
“But does the text explicitly mention David?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted. “But the location is suggestive. Gibeah is associated
with Saul, the first king, from the tribe of Benjamin. The outrage occurs in
Benjaminite territory, and the subsequent destruction nearly eradicates that
tribe.”
“So,” he said slowly, “the narrative may also cast a shadow over Benjamin
– and, by implication, over Saul’s lineage.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “If Benjamin is depicted as the source of such
depravity, and as resistant to justice, this may function – implicitly – as a
critique of Saul’s house, thereby strengthening the case for David.”
“A subtle polemic,” Theophil observed.
“Yes, Maestro. It is not overt but embedded within the narrative. The
chaos of Judges, culminating in Gibeah, prepares the reader to accept the need
for a king. And if the memory of Benjamin is tarnished, the alternative – David
of Judah – appears all the more fitting.”
Theophil leaned back slightly.
“Then we may conclude,” he said, “that this final section of Judges
operates on multiple levels: as a narrative of moral collapse, as a theological
reflection on the absence of order, and – possibly – as a political argument in
favour of the monarchy, and specifically the Davidic line. Still, one further
nuance need be noted.”
“Go ahead, Maestro.”
“Jabesh Gilead is casted in a distinctly negative light. This portrayal
sits uneasily alongside later traditions, where Jabesh Gilead appears closely
linked to Saul and is remembered in a favourable manner. This tension suggests
that differing strands of tradition have preserved contrasting evaluations of
the same community.”
`
V. JUDGES
AS A CORRIDOR:
(FROM
ORIGINS TO KINGSHIP)
I remained silent for a moment, letting the preceding discussion settle.
“Maestro,” I said at last, “if we draw together the threads of our
enquiry, the Book of Judges presents itself in a rather particular light. It is
not merely a record of episodic deliverance. It appears to stand between two
stages of being.”
Theophil regarded me attentively. “Go on, Peter’le.”
“On the one hand,” I continued, “we have the beginnings: loosely
connected groups emerging within Canaan, bound by shared narratives, practices,
and an evolving devotion to Jehova. On the other hand, we know that this
condition does not endure. In the books that follow, we encounter monarchy –
structure, continuity, and central authority.”
“You are suggesting,” he said, “that Judges forms a bridge between these
two conditions.”
“More than a bridge,” I replied. “A corridor. It does not simply connect;
it reveals movement. It allows us to observe how one stage gives way to
another.”
Theophil inclined his head slightly. “And what, in your view,
necessitates this movement?”
“The instability described throughout the book,” I answered. “The cycles
we identified – apostasy, oppression, deliverance, relapse – do not resolve.
There is no enduring structure capable of sustaining cohesion.”
“In other words,” he said, “the system contains within itself the seeds
of its own insufficiency.”
“Precisely. What begins as a flexible mode of organisation proves inadequate
for securing lasting stability.”
“And this,” he observed, “prepares the reader for a question that is not
yet fully articulated.”
“Yes,” I said. “If such a pattern cannot sustain the people, what is
lacking?”
Theophil folded his hands. “Does the text itself offer an answer?”
“Not directly at first,” I replied. “Yet as the narratives progress, the
absence of a central authority becomes more conspicuous.”
“And this absence,” he said quietly, “is eventually named.”
I nodded. “In the concluding chapters, we encounter the repeated
observation: ‘In those days there was no king in Israel; every man did what was
right in his own eyes.’”
“A striking formulation,” he remarked. “It moves beyond description to
evaluation.”
“Indeed,” I said. “It suggests that the disorder depicted is not
incidental but structural. The lack of kingship is presented as a condition
under which moral and social disintegration becomes possible.”
“Which raises a difficulty,” he observed. “If divine kingship is affirmed
in principle, why does the narrative seem to move toward the necessity of human
kingship in practice?”
I paused. “That is precisely the tension. The ideal is clear: Jehova as
sole ruler. Yet the lived reality, as depicted in Judges, appears unable to
sustain itself under that ideal alone.”
Theophil leaned back slightly. “We must now ask whether this tension is
accidental – or whether it reflects the perspective of those who shaped the
text.”
“I would think the latter,” I replied. “If Judges forms part of a larger
Deuteronomistic composition, then its portrayal of instability must be read in
relation to what follows.”
“Namely,” he said, “the establishment of kingship in Samuel and its
subsequent history in Kings.”
“Precisely. The Deuteronomistic writers do not present kingship as an
unqualified good. Rather, they treat it as an institution that is both
necessary and perilous.”
“Explain,” he said.
“On the one hand,” I continued, “kingship offers what Judges lacks:
continuity, central authority – the possibility of sustained order. On the
other hand, it introduces a new risk: the concentration of power in human
hands, which may itself become a source of deviation from the covenant.”
“And how is this tension resolved?” he asked.
“It is not resolved,” I answered. “It is managed. Kingship is accepted
but is placed under strict conditions. The king is not sovereign in an absolute
sense; he remains subject to the covenant with Jehova. His legitimacy depends
on fidelity.”
“And when that fidelity fails?”
“The consequences are severe,” I said. “The Deuteronomistic history
interprets the eventual downfall of both the northern and southern kingdoms as
the result of persistent infidelity – not only of the people, but of their
rulers.”
“So, kingship,” Theophil concluded, “does not abolish the pattern we
observed in Judges. It transforms it.”
“It does, Maestro. The cycle is no longer local and episodic; it becomes
national and historical.”
A brief silence followed before I spoke again: “There is, however,
another voice that must be taken into account.”
“The prophets,” Theophil said.
“Indeed. And among them, the Book of Hosea offers a particularly sharp
perspective on kingship.”
“In what sense?” he asked.
“In a critical one,” I replied. “Hosea does not merely warn against
unfaithful rulers; he questions the very origin of the institution. ‘They set
up kings, but not by me; they made princes, and I knew it not’ [Hos. 8:4].”
Theophil’s expression grew more intent. “That is a radical statement.”
“It is. And it is reinforced elsewhere. Hosea tells us that the granting of kingship is portrayed as an
act of divine concession, even of anger: ‘I gave you a king in my anger, and I
took him away in my wrath’[13:11].”
“So,” he said slowly, “kingship is not presented as the fulfilment of
divine intention, but as a response to human demand.”
“Precisely. Which places it in an ambiguous position. It may provide
order, but it also reflects a departure from direct reliance on Jehova.”
“In that case,” Theophil observed, “the movement from Judges to monarchy
is not simply progress. It is also a compromise.”
“That is how it appears,” I replied. “The corridor we described does not
lead from deficiency to perfection, but from one form of tension to another. What
we have before us is not merely a record of the past, but a meditation on
order, authority, and human frailty.”
“And on memory,” he added. “For it is through such narratives that a
people comes to understand itself – its failures no less than its hopes.”
5.
Conclusion: From Absence to Ambiguity
I leaned back, considering the trajectory we traced.
“Then the Book of Judges,” I said, “may be understood as a work that
exposes a fundamental problem: a people bound by narrative and faith, yet
lacking a stable structure capable of sustaining cohesion.”
“And the solution?” he asked.
“Is introduced in the form of kingship,” I replied, “but not without
reservation. The Deuteronomistic writers present it as necessary, yet
dangerous; the prophets, at times, as misguided from the outset.”
“So, the corridor you described,” Theophil concluded, “does not open onto
a settled landscape.”
“No,” I said. “It leads into a new terrain – one in which the question of
fidelity is no longer posed only to the people as a whole, but also to those
who govern them.”
“And the underlying issue remains?”
“Unchanged,” I replied. “Whether under judges or kings, the central
question persists: how is the relationship between the people and their God to
be maintained over time?”
Theophil allowed himself a faint smile.
“Then your enquiry,” he said, “has not closed the matter.”
“It has not,” I agreed. “But it has, perhaps, clarified the path by which
the question must be approached.”
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