Amos

 

A M O S

 

I. CHOOSING A PROJECT

 

            I was getting ready to switch off. The two books I was browsing through were the Koren publication of the Old Testament, opened at the Book of Amos, and C.H. Charles’ edition of the Book of Enoch. Both were bulky. I had perused them on many occasions and was currently trying to decide which to tackle.

Both deserved to be discussed in a manner that would bring them to the attention of ordinary well-read individuals, who were not biblical scholars. Charles’ own, highly analytical and clear analysis, was not meant for the general public. It was too esoteric. And Amos, though discussed in secondary schools in Israel, was seldom read by people after they had embarked on any secular career.

“Surely, this is not my business,” I soliloquised.

“Isn’t it?” asked Theophil, who suddenly chose to materialise. As often before he assumed the guise of my late friend, Peppi, the antiques dealer, whom I used to visit in London whenever I had an excuse to leave my post in Singapore for a few weeks.  I was aware that mankind was inclined to regard Theophil as Asmodeus or Satan – the epitome of evil and trickery. I – in contrast – have learned to regard him a well-wisher and brilliant conversation partner. He was also a detached and perceptive thinker.

“To answer your question, Maestro, I am 93 years of age. I am reluctant to undertake any further projects. And, in any event, very few people would read what I have to say. Isn’t it best to leave them to their own devices. After all, what is there to stop anybody from acquiring the basic materials?”

“The answer is obvious,” replied Theophil. “Nothing whatsoever. Yet people rarely do so. Most men are occupied with earning a living, raising families or pursuing some diversion. They are not inclined to wrestle with ancient texts, especially when these are surrounded by scholarly controversies.”

“I fail to see how that concerns me.”

“You overlook a major issue, Peter’le.”

“Which is?” I asked, bewildered.

“You have spent your entire life being active. You have negotiated contracts, drafted laws, taught students, written books and advised governments. You are incapable of doing nothing for any length of time. You may tell yourself that you have retired, but retirement does not suit your temperament.”

“That is a somewhat harsh diagnosis.”

“It is merely an observation. You need a project. Better still, a project that gives pleasure without imposing impossible demands.”

I looked again at the two books lying on the desk.

“You are referring to these, Maestro?”

“Precisely.”

“Enoch has always fascinated me,” I averred.

“And rightly so,” said Theophil. “Yet fascination is not the same thing as suitability.”

“How so?”

“In the case of Enoch, much is conjecture. All we possess is the English translation of a text preserved by the Ethiopian Church. That text is itself a translation from an earlier original. The fragments discovered at Qumran suggest that the original language was Aramaic, but we cannot be absolutely certain. Nor can we exclude the possibility that further manuscripts may one day be discovered. An entire version could suddenly emerge from some forgotten monastery or archaeological excavation.”

“That would not be unprecedented.”

“Indeed not. Consequently, anyone writing on Enoch must constantly qualify his statements. Every conclusion is accompanied by an asterisk.”

“You make it sound like walking through a minefield.”

“A scholarly minefield, certainly, Peter’le,” Theophil replied gravely

I turned the pages of Charles’ edition and sighed. “Then perhaps Amos?”

Theophil smiled.

“This, Peter’le, is a much safer undertaking. Amos is short. The Hebrew text is readily available. Numerous translations exist. The historical context is comparatively well established. One can discuss it without becoming entangled in endless speculation.”

He paused for a moment and added.

“And there s a further point: You speak more warmly of Amos than of Enoch. Why?

“I admire Enoch and appreciate the imaginative richness of apocalyptic literature. But I have always felt especially at home with Amos. I love the classical Hebrew of the book and its remarkable directness. Amos speaks plainly and urgently about justice and faithfulness, and that simplicity has always appealed to me more than the symbolic world of apocalyptic writings.”

“Then opt for it, Peter’le,” urged Theophil.

“But, Maestro,  the Book of Amos has already been studied exhaustively.”

“As has Shakespeare,” replied Theophil dryly. “That has not prevented people from writing about him.”

I laughed. “You have an answer for everything, Maestro!”

“Not at all. I merely pay attention. Besides, I know your tastes better than you do yourself.”

“That is an alarming claim.”

“Consider the evidence. You admire Amos. You have often quoted him. You appreciate his directness, his moral clarity and his concise style. On the other hand, you have always felt somewhat uneasy about apocalyptic literature.”

“I confess that visions of heavenly journeys and mysterious angels do not  appeal to me.”

“Exactly. Amos speaks plainly. Enoch does not. Amos denounces injustice in language that remains intelligible after almost three millennia. Enoch belongs to a different world.”

“You therefore recommend Amos.”

“I do more than recommend it. I urge you to begin there. If, after finishing Amos, you still wish to venture into the labyrinth of Enoch, nothing will prevent you from doing so. But first accomplish the simpler task.”

I glanced once more at the two volumes.

“Very well,” I said. “Amos it shall be.”

“An excellent decision, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “After all, even prophets deserve a  readership.”

I was about to close the book when another thought occurred to me.

“Of course,” I remarked, “Amos himself exercised his ministry during the reign of Jeroboam II, the son of Joash.”

“Quite so,” said Theophil. “But prophets do not appear in a vacuum. They inherit the consequences of earlier events.”

“You mean that, before examining the prophet himself, one must first understand the world in which he lived?” I asked.

“Precisely. Prosperity, political power and national self-confidence all have histories. Amos addressed the society of Jeroboam II, but that society had been shaped by generations of war, diplomacy and changing fortunes.”

“In that case,” I concluded, “before turning to Amos' message, we must first consider the historical background.”

“A wise approach, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “Context is often the key that unlocks the text.”

 

II. THE HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

“Before we proceed any further, Maestro,” I said, “I feel obliged to issue a caution.”

“A caution?” asked Theophil, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. Some readers may already be thoroughly familiar with the history of the ancient Near East. They may know the kings, the wars and the shifting alliances better than I do. Such people are unlikely to require another survey.”

“A fair observation,” replied Theophil.

“In that case,” I continued, “perhaps we should omit the historical introduction altogether and proceed directly to Amos himself.”

“On the contrary, Peter’le,” said Theophil. “That would be a mistake.”

“Why so?”

“Because you are not writing exclusively for specialists. Many educated readers possess only the vaguest notion of the political circumstances in which Amos exercised his ministry. They recognise the names Israel and Judah, but Assyria, Aram and Phoenicia are little more than words. They know that Jeroboam II existed, but not why his reign mattered.”

“Surely they can consult an encyclopaedia?”

“They can,” agreed Theophil. “But they seldom do. Besides, a reader should not be compelled to interrupt his perusal of a book  in order to understand it.”

“Then perhaps I should include a short notice.”

“What sort of notice?”

“Something to the effect that readers already acquainted with the history of the Levant during the eighth century before the Common Era [BCE] may wish to skip the next section.”

“A sensible compromise,” nodded Theophil.  “Those who know the terrain need not be detained. Those who do not may continue without embarrassment.”

“I have no desire,” I confessed, “to inflict elementary history upon people who have spent their lives studying the subject.”

“And you need not do so,” replied Theophil. “No one is obliged to read every page of a book. But remember this, Peter’le: prophets do not arise in a vacuum. Amos did not descend from heaven carrying a manuscript under his arm. He spoke to real men and women, living in a particular place and at a particular moment in history.”

“In other words,” I said, “history provides the stage upon which prophecy is performed.”

“Precisely. Without the stage, the actors become unintelligible.”

“Very well,” I said. “We shall begin with the history. Readers already familiar with the period are free to proceed directly to the next chapter.”

“A generous concession,” remarked Theophil with a smile.

“After all,” I replied, “I have no wish to bore experts.”

“An admirable sentiment,” said Theophil. “Though one should remember that experts are often the easiest people to bore.”

“The obvious place to begin,” continued  Theophil after a pause, “is with the period during which Amos exercised his ministry.”

“That much is straightforward,” I replied. “Amos prophesied during the reign of Jeroboam II in Israel and Uzziah in Judah.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. It was, outwardly at least, an age of prosperity. Jeroboam II succeeded in restoring much of Israel's former territory. Trade flourished. The kingdom enjoyed relative stability. Wealth accumulated and the upper classes lived comfortably. To many contemporaries it must have appeared that divine favour rested securely upon the nation.”

“In other words,” I said, “the situation seemed highly satisfactory.”

“Indeed. Success often creates that illusion. Military victories had enhanced national confidence. Economic growth encouraged optimism. Few people are inclined to question society when their own circumstances appear favourable.”

“And yet Amos did precisely that.”

“He did,” answered Theophil. “While others congratulated themselves, Amos denounced complacency, luxury and injustice. He saw beneath the surface.”

“So,” I nodded, “prosperity forms the background against which his message must be understood.”

“Certainly. Without understanding the conditions prevailing under Jeroboam II, many of Amos' denunciations lose their force.”

“Very well,” I said. “Then we shall begin with that period.”

Theophil smiled, but only briefly.

“By all means,” he replied. “Yet I suspect that you are not entirely satisfied.”

“You know me too well, Maestro.”

“In what respect?”

“I readily accept your description of the age. But I am not convinced that prosperity by itself explains Amos.”

“A reasonable reservation,” said Theophil.

“After all, prosperous societies have existed throughout history. They have not always produced prophets of Amos' calibre.”

“True.”

“Nor can one assume that social injustice suddenly appeared during the reign of Jeroboam II. Human beings have been exploiting one another since Cain and Abel.”

“A somewhat pessimistic assessment,” remarked Theophil.

“Perhaps. But accurate.”

“So, you are asking a different question?”

“Exactly. I wish to know why Amos appeared when he did. Why not fifty years earlier? Why not a century later?”

Theophil leaned back and appeared momentarily thoughtful.

“In that case, Peter’le, we must look beyond Jeroboam II.”

“Further back?”

“Much further back. Prophets are products not merely of the present but of the past. Every age inherits the consequences of preceding generations.”

“You therefore propose to begin before Amos himself?”

“I do. The prosperity which you have just accepted did not materialise by magic. It was the outcome of earlier events — wars, defeats, recoveries and political changes extending over many decades.”

“In other words,” I said, “to understand Amos we must first understand the period preceding him.”

“Precisely,” replied Theophil. “Only then shall we discover why his message assumed the form that it did.”

“The obvious point at which to begin,” explained  Theophil, “is not with Jeroboam II himself but with one of his more remarkable predecessors.”

“You are referring to Ahab?” I asked.

“Precisely, Peter'le.”

“That may surprise some readers,” I observed. “The biblical authors have treated him as a villain.”

“They did,” replied Theophil drily. “The Deuteronomistic historian portrays Ahab as one of the most wicked rulers of Israel.”

“Mainly because of his encouragement of Phoenician religious practices and his marriage to Jezebel.”

“Quite so. Yet historians are obliged to distinguish between theology and politics.”

“I confess,” I said, “that I have always suspected that Ahab received harsher treatment than he deserved.”

“A reasonable conclusion,” answered Theophil. “From the standpoint of statecraft, he was anything but incompetent.”

“Indeed,” I continued, “he appears to have had the interests of Israel very much at heart.”

“Exactly. Even the notorious affair of Naboth's vineyard deserves closer scrutiny.”

“You mean, Maestro, the judicial murder?”

“Yes. The biblical narrative itself makes clear that the initiative came from Jezebel, his Phoenician wife, rather than from Ahab personally.”

“Which does not entirely exonerate him,” I remarked.

“Certainly not. Kings remain responsible for events occurring under their authority. Nevertheless, the distinction is worth noting.”

“In other words,” I said, “Ahab may have been a flawed man without necessarily being a disastrous monarch.”

“An excellent formulation, Peter'le.”

“His reign was also marked by almost continuous conflict with Aram.”

“Indeed. Ben-Hadad of Damascus was both enemy and occasional ally. Ahab fought several campaigns against the Arameans and achieved notable successes.”

“The biblical account even records concessions obtained from Ben-Hadad.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. Israel emerged from those struggles stronger than before. Ahab demonstrated military ability and political realism.”

“Which culminated in the coalition against Assyria?”

Theophil nodded. “One of the great events omitted from the Bible. When Shalmaneser III advanced westward, several rulers combined to resist him. Ahab and Ben-Hadad, despite their previous hostilities, recognised the larger danger.”

“And they confronted the Assyrians at Qarqar.”

“Precisely. The Assyrian inscriptions themselves mention Ahab and the substantial forces which he contributed to the coalition.”

“A remarkable irony,” I observed. “The king whom the biblical author vilifies appears in foreign records as one of the defenders of Syria-Palestine against imperial expansion.”

“History frequently contains such ironies,” replied Theophil.

“Yet Ahab's career ended unhappily.”

“As many military careers do. He was killed during his final campaign against Aram at Ramoth-Gilead.”

“And after a few intervening reigns came the revolution of Jehu ben Nimshi.”

“A bloody revolution,” amplified Theophil. “Coups are seldom gentle affairs.”

“Jehu eliminated the house of Omri.”

“He did so with considerable thoroughness. Yet his success created new difficulties.”

“Because Hazael became king of Aram?” I asked.

“Exactly. Hazael proved one of Israel's most formidable enemies. During his reign Aram reached the height of its power and inflicted severe losses upon Israel.”

“At the same time,” I added, “Jehu adopted a new foreign policy.”

“You refer to his submission to Assyria.”

“Yes. The famous Black Obelisk depicts Jehu, or at least his representatives, paying tribute to Shalmaneser III.”

“A humiliating but perhaps unavoidable decision,” said Theophil. “Small states often survive by accommodating greater powers.”

“Yet Assyria subsequently became preoccupied elsewhere.”

“Which provided Hazael with freedom of action. Israel endured a prolonged period of weakness.”

“But eventually Hazael himself died.”

“Indeed. And his successors lacked his energy. Simultaneously, Assyria experienced internal difficulties and temporarily relaxed its pressure upon the west.”

“In other words,” I said, “all the principal actors suddenly found themselves weakened.”

“Precisely. It was an unusual conjunction of circumstances.”

“And that situation enabled Israel to recover.”

“Under Joash first, and even more spectacularly under his son: Jeroboam II.”

“So, the prosperity witnessed by Amos was not accidental.”

“Not at all, Peter'le. It resulted from the temporary decline of both Aram and Assyria.”

“A brief breathing space.”

“Exactly.”

I reflected for a moment. “A lull before the storm, Maestro?”

“A highly appropriate expression, Peter’le. For the storm had merely been postponed. Assyria had not disappeared. It was only gathering strength.”

“And neither Amos nor his contemporaries fully appreciated how temporary their good fortune was.”

“Quite so,” replied Theophil. “Men living in prosperous times usually assume that prosperity is permanent.”

“A dangerous illusion.”

“One against which Amos would soon direct his warnings.”

I remained silent for a moment.

“Tell me, Maestro,” I finally asked, “was the catastrophe that eventually overtook Israel truly unforeseeable?”

“That depends upon whom you ask, Peter’le,” retorted Theophil with a grin.

“In what sense?”

“A prophet endowed with genuine revelation could perceive it through prophecy. Amos himself claimed no military expertise, no diplomatic experience and no secret intelligence. He saw what others could not because he believed that God had disclosed it to him.”

“And those who did not possess prophetic gifts?”

“They were not necessarily blind,” replied Theophil. “A shrewd observer could have reached similar conclusions by ordinary means.”

“You surprise me.”

“Why should I? Assyria had already demonstrated its ambitions. It had merely experienced a temporary period of weakness. Such interruptions – like the stalemate at the end of the Qarqar war – are common in history. Powerful states seldom remain dormant indefinitely.”

“So, an attentive statesman might have recognised the danger?”

“Certainly. Anyone studying the political situation objectively could have perceived that Israel's prosperity rested upon unusually favourable circumstances which were unlikely to endure.”

“In other words, the storm clouds were already visible.”

“To those willing to look, yes. The difficulty is that prosperity encourages optimism. Men prefer reassuring illusions to unpleasant realities.”

“Then Amos was not warning against an imaginary danger.”

“By no means, Peter’le. Prophecy and sound judgement often point in the same direction. The prophet sees further, but the thoughtful observer may still discern the outlines of the future.”

“Which suggests,” I remarked, “that impending disaster is not always unpredictable.”

“Quite so,” answered Theophil. “History repeatedly demonstrates that calamities often announce their arrival long before they occur. The tragedy is not that men are given no warning, but that they so frequently ignore the warnings they receive.”

“In that case,” I observed, “even readers who remain sceptical of prophetic inspiration may reasonably conclude that Amos' warnings did not require supernatural foresight alone. A clear understanding of the political realities of the age, coupled with ordinary prudence, might well have opened his eyes to the dangers that lay ahead. And a ‘reasonable man’ living in Tekoa in Judah might well have possessed such insight.”

 

III. AMOS AND THE BOOK OF THE TWELVE

 

As I was preparing to turn from the historical background to Amos himself, another question occurred to me.

“Tell me, Maestro,” I asked, “why does Amos appear among the Twelve Minor Prophets rather than as an independent book. Actually, I have always found the term ‘Minor Prophets’ somewhat unfortunate. It sounds as though their importance were somehow secondary.”

“I understand, Peter’le. However, the word ‘minor’ refers only to the length of the books, not to their significance. Historically and theologically, Amos and the other members of the Twelve are major figures. Further, modern readers often imagine that each biblical book always existed in its present form. That is not necessarily so.”

“You mean that Amos may have circulated together with other prophetic writings from an early period?”

“Precisely. In fact, the evidence strongly suggests that the Twelve Minor Prophets were already regarded as a collection long before the Common Era.”

“What sort of evidence?”

“The Dead Sea Scrolls. Several fragments discovered at Qumran contain portions of more than one of the Minor Prophets. They demonstrate that these writings were copied and transmitted together rather than individually.”

“So, Amos was already one member of a recognised collection?”

“Exactly, Peter’le. The collection itself appears to have been ancient and well established.”

“Was the order always the same?”

“Not entirely,” answered Theophil. “The sequence found in the Septuagint – the Greek translation of the Old Testament –  differs slightly from that preserved in the Masoretic Text [MT]. Christian traditions have occasionally followed the Greek arrangement, but most modern Christian traditions ultimately adopted the MT order.”

“Which explains why Amos occupies its present position.”

“Quite so.”

I reflected for a moment. “Yet why form such a collection at all? Why not preserve each prophet separately?”

“Because,” replied Theophil smilingly, “practicality sometimes influences literary history. All twelve books are comparatively brief. Had they circulated independently, some might easily have disappeared.”

“You think individual survival would have been uncertain?”

“Consider Obadiah,” replied Theophil. “Or Haggai. Had either existed alone, their chances of preservation might have been considerably reduced. Small scrolls are more easily misplaced than larger collections.”

“In other words, the Book of the Twelve provided mutual protection.”

“An excellent way of putting it, Peter'le. By joining them together, scribes ensured the survival of all of them.”

“That reminds me of collections of short stories.”

“A useful comparison,” nodded Theophil. “Publishers frequently gather brief works into a single volume. Individual stories that might otherwise be forgotten thereby acquire a more secure existence.”

“Kafka comes to mind,” I observed. “Many readers encounter his shorter pieces only because they appear in collected editions. Kafka himself had no hand in the process. He instructed Max Brod to destroy his unpublished manuscripts.”

“Instructions which Brod very wisely ignored,” remarked Theophil.

“Indeed. And later editors were left to determine the order in which many pieces should appear.”

“Quite so,” replied Theophil. “Literary history is often shaped as much by editors as by authors.  And, in turn, this means that such collections are often arranged according to the order in which the stories became known or were discovered.”

“Was the same principle applied to the Minor Prophets, Maestro?”

“Not entirely. The compiler of the Twelve appears to have pursued a different objective.”

“Which was, Maestro?”

“A broadly chronological arrangement. The sequence is not perfect, nor can every position be explained with certainty, but the overall intention seems clear. The editor attempted to place the prophets in what he believed to be their historical order.”

“So, the collection possesses both practical and historical purposes?”

“Indeed. It preserved fragile writings and simultaneously presented them as successive voices speaking across the centuries.”

“In that case,” I concluded, “Amos should not merely be read as an isolated work. He belongs to a larger chorus.”

“A most appropriate metaphor, Peter'le,” replied Theophil. “For prophets rarely sing alone.”

 

IV. AMOS THE MAN

Having completed our survey of the historical background, I was preparing at last to turn to the text of Amos itself.

“Not so fast, Peter'le,” said Theophil.

“What obstacle remains, Maestro?” I asked with some impatience. “We have discussed Ahab, Jehu, Hazael, Assyria and Jeroboam II. Surely the time has come to examine the book.”

“In due course,” replied Theophil. “But before considering the message, one ought perhaps to consider the messenger.”

“You mean Amos himself?”

“Precisely.”

I reflected for a moment.

“That may prove difficult,” I observed. “Compared with Isaiah, Jeremiah or Ezekiel, Amos tells us remarkably little about himself.”

“A fair remark,” answered Theophil. “Indeed, most of what we know can be contained in a few sentences.”

“He came from Tekoa in Judah, Maestro.”

“Quite so, Peter’le.”

“He exercised his ministry during the reigns of Uzziah and Jeroboam II.”

“Correct.”

“And he himself refers to an earthquake which must have made a deep impression upon his contemporaries.”

“Precisely, Peter'le. Beyond that, certainty rapidly diminishes.”

“Then perhaps we should proceed directly to his prophecies.”

“Not yet,” replied Theophil with a smile. “For among the few facts which we do possess, one is particularly striking.”

“You refer to his occupation?”

“No. I refer to something even more unusual.”

I considered the matter briefly.

“His origin?”

“Exactly.”

“Amos came from Judah,” I said slowly, “yet his ministry was directed primarily towards Israel.”

“A curious circumstance, is it not?”

“Indeed. One naturally expects prophets to address their own people.”

“Usually, they did. Yet Amos appears to have crossed the frontier.”

“Which raises an obvious question,” I said. “Why should a Judean herdsman concern himself with conditions in the northern kingdom?”

“A very good question, Peter'le.”

“Can we answer it?”

“Only partially. The biblical text itself offers no explanation. It merely presents the fact.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “distance enabled him to see matters more clearly. Men are often blind to the faults of their own society.”

“A possibility,” agreed Theophil. “An outsider sometimes perceives what insiders overlook.”

“Moreover,” I continued, “a man from Judah would be independent of the royal court at Samaria.”

“An important consideration. Prophets who depend upon rulers for their livelihood may occasionally discover the advantages of silence.”

“A cynical observation, Maestro.”

“A realistic one.”

“Yet Amos himself denied belonging to any prophetic establishment.”

“Indeed he did. His exchange with Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, remains one of the most remarkable passages in the entire book.”

“The famous declaration?”

“Precisely. 'I was no prophet, neither was I a prophet's son.'”

“In other words, he did not belong to a recognised prophetic guild.”

“Apparently not.”

“Instead he describes himself as a herdsman and a dresser of sycamore trees.”

“Quite so.”

“Although,” I added, “scholars continue to debate the exact meaning of these expressions.”

“As scholars invariably do,” replied Theophil dryly.

“Some picture Amos as a poor shepherd wandering the hills with a handful of sheep.”

“And others suggest that the Hebrew term may designate the owner of substantial flocks.”

“Which would make him a man of some means.”

“Possibly. The evidence is insufficient to permit certainty.”

“In other words,” I concluded, “we know less about Amos than many readers suppose.”

“Much less, Peter'le.”

I remained silent for a moment.

“Yet perhaps that is appropriate,” I concluded at long last.

“How so?” asked Theophil.

“The prophet himself seems anxious to direct attention away from his own person and towards his message.”

“A perceptive observation,” replied Theophil. “Amos does not cultivate his biography. He does not recount visions of his childhood, describe his emotions or defend his reputation. He simply speaks.”

“Which perhaps explains why his words have survived while so much else has disappeared.”

“Quite so, Peter’le. Many men desire to be remembered. Amos appears content to be forgotten, provided his warnings are not.”

“And yet,” I observed, “there remains something rather extraordinary about the whole affair.”

“What is that, Peter'le?”

“That God — assuming Amos' own claims to be true — chose neither a priest from Bethel nor a prophet from Samaria, but a man from another kingdom altogether.”

Theophil smiled: “An excellent point.”

“Perhaps,” I ventured, “there is a lesson in that.”

“Perhaps there is.”

“And what lesson would that be, Maestro?”

“That God occasionally prefers outsiders.”

“A disturbing thought,” I laughed.

“Especially for insiders,” replied Theophil.

“Very well,” I said. “We have now met the man. At last we may turn to his words.”

“Indeed,” answered Theophil. “For Amos himself would probably insist that the messenger matters far less than the message.”

“One further curiosity occurs to me, Maestro.”

“And what might that be, Peter'le?”

“His name.”

“Ah yes — Amos.”

“As far as I understand, the name derives from the Hebrew root meaning ‘to carry' or ‘to bear a burden.’”

“Quite so,” replied Theophil. “A singularly appropriate name for a prophet, since prophets are often burden-bearers. They carry messages which others would prefer not to hear.”

“I also notice something else,” I continued. “Many Hebrew names contain some reference to God — either El or the divine element represented by Yeho- or Jo-. Amos lacks both.”

“A perceptive observation, Peter'le.”

“Does that suggest humble origins?”

“One must be cautious,” answered Theophil. “Names are treacherous evidence. Their absence proves little. Nevertheless, it is perhaps significant that nothing in the prophet's name hints at priestly lineage, royal connections or distinguished ancestry.”

“In other words, even his name sounds ordinary.”

“Precisely. Amos appears before us not as Jeho-something or El-something, but simply as Amos.”

“Which accords rather well with the picture we already possess, Maestro.”

“Indeed. Everything about him conveys simplicity. No illustrious pedigree, no prophetic dynasty and no official position.”

“So perhaps even his name reinforces the lesson you mentioned earlier.”

“That God occasionally prefers outsiders?”

“Exactly, Maestro.”

“Or, perhaps,” added Theophil with a smile, “that He occasionally entrusts great burdens to men with very ordinary names.”

 

V. AMOS' THEOLOGICAL OUTLOOK

 

“Now at last, Maestro,” I said, “we have reached the prophecies themselves.”

“Not entirely, Peter'le,” replied Theophil.

“Another delay?”

“Only a brief one. Before examining individual passages, we ought first to ask how Amos himself understood God.”

“Is that not self-evident?”

“It isn’t,” answered Theophil. “Readers frequently assume that all biblical writers shared identical theological views. The reality is considerably more complex.”

“You mean that ideas evolved?”

“Precisely. Religious thought rarely remains static. Men inherit traditions, but they also reinterpret them.”

I reflected for a moment.

“In that case,” I observed after a brief reflection, “Amos represents a stage in that development?”

“I believe so, Peter'le.”

“How would you describe it?”

“Perhaps by comparison with an earlier figure,” suggested Theophil.

“Whom do you have in mind?”

“Jephthah, the Chieftain or Judge”

“That may surprise some readers, Maestro.”

“Why should it? Jephthah belonged to a world in which each nation was assumed to possess its own deity. Do you, Peter’le, recall his message to the Ammonites?”

“Indeed. He argued that the Ammonites should occupy whatever territory their god Chemosh had given them, while Israel possessed the land granted by the Lord.”

“Exactly. The argument presupposes a world populated by national gods. Nor was this outlook confined to Jephthah alone,” continued Theophil. “One encounters similar assumptions elsewhere in the biblical text.”

“You are referring to Chemosh again, Maestro?”

“Indeed. Even the Book of Numbers [21:29] contains the lament: ‘Woe to you, Moab! You are undone, O people of Chemosh.’ The writer speaks quite naturally of Moab as belonging to Chemosh.”

“Which suggests that the existence of national deities was taken for granted?”

“At the very least, Peter'le. It suggests that the biblical writers operated within a world in which peoples and gods were closely associated.”

“And the same picture appears outside the Bible?”

“Quite so. The Mesha Stele, erected by King Mesha of Moab, repeatedly attributes the fortunes of his kingdom to Chemosh. Victories and defeats alike are explained in religious terms.”

“So, Moab regarded Chemosh in much the same manner that Israel regarded the Lord?”

“Precisely. Such ideas were common throughout the Levant. Jephthah's argument therefore reflected assumptions that his contemporaries would have regarded as entirely reasonable.”

“In other words,” I observed, “the God of Israel was initially understood within a wider environment populated by national gods.”

“Exactly, Peter'le. Which makes the outlook of Amos particularly striking. His concern is no longer confined to one people alone. The Lord whom Amos proclaims judges Damascus, Gaza, Tyre, Edom, Ammon, Moab, Judah and Israel alike.”

“Thus, the horizon had expanded.”

“Very considerably,” replied Theophil. “The transition from national protector to universal judge was one of the most important developments in Israelite religious thought.”

“A national conception?”

“A rather crude expression, Peter'le, but essentially correct. The God of Israel appeared primarily as Israel's God.”

“And Amos moved beyond that?”

            “Very considerably.”

“In what sense?” I asked.

“Amos presents the Lord not merely as the God of Israel but as the supreme authority over the entire region. His concern extends beyond one people.”

“Which explains the famous oracles against the nations?”

“Precisely, Peterle.”

I opened the text. “Damascus, Gaza, Tyre, Edom, Ammon and Moab.”

“And Judah and Israel themselves,” added Theophil.

“I notice something curious, Maestro. These are all Israel's immediate neighbours.”

“Indeed. Amos displays no interest in India, China or Britain.”

“A regrettable omission,” I laughed.

“One cannot expect omniscience from eighth-century Judeans.”

“Fair enough. Yet another feature strikes me.”

“Which is?” Theophil asked.

“Most of the nations condemned had harmed Israel in one way or another.”

“Quite so. Damascus had brutalised Gilead, which was part of the Northern Kingdom of Israel East of the Jordan. Gaza and Tyre had trafficked in Israeli captives sold into slavery. Edom pursued his brother with the sword. Ammon and Moab were guilty of acts of extraordinary savagery.”

“Yet not all the accusations are political.”

“Exactly, Peter'le. That is what makes the passage so remarkable. Amos does not denounce these peoples because they worship the wrong gods. He condemns them because of cruelty and inhumanity.”

“In other words, moral conduct matters more than ritual allegiance.”

“A highly significant development.”

“I also notice the repeated formula: 'For three transgressions and for four.'”

“A Hebrew expression suggesting accumulation. The offences mentioned are not isolated lapses but the final straw.”

“So divine patience has limits?”

“Apparently so.”

“Yet there is another surprise, Maestro.”

“Which is?”

“Judah itself appears among the condemned nations and the accusation made against it  differs from the others.”

“Precisely. Whereas the surrounding peoples are condemned for acts of cruelty, Judah is reproached for rejecting the law of the Lord and failing to observe the covenant.”

“Which presupposes a special relationship.”

“Exactly, Peter’le. Greater privileges bring greater responsibilities.”

“And then comes Israel itself.”

“The longest indictment of all.”

“A remarkable sequence,” I observed. “The reader initially assumes that Amos is attacking Israel's enemies. One can almost imagine his audience nodding approvingly.”

“Until they suddenly discover that the principal target is themselves.”

“A highly effective rhetorical device.”

“Quite so,” replied Theophil. “The trap closes gradually.”

I remained silent for a moment. “Would it be fair to say, Maestro, that Amos introduced a universal moral dimension into religion?”

“One must avoid exaggeration,” answered Theophil. “He did not invent morality, nor was he the first to condemn injustice. But he certainly presents the God of Israel as a judge whose authority extends beyond Israel itself.”

“In other words, Yahweh had ceased to be merely a local deity.”

“Exactly, Peter'le. Amos' God governs nations, not merely tribes.”

“And perhaps that explains why his message still speaks to modern readers.”

“Quite possible,” replied Theophil. “Empires have vanished, kingdoms have disappeared and even the names of some nations have changed. Yet cruelty, oppression and injustice remain with us.”

“Which suggests that Amos' world is not entirely remote.”

“Indeed,” said Theophil quietly. “Human nature has altered rather less than Man  imagines.”

            Pausing before turning the issue, I advised: “Yet something still troubles me, Maestro.”

“Only one thing?” asked Theophil with a smile.

“Thus far we have spoken chiefly of external dangers –  Assyria, political realities and the fragility of prosperity. But Amos devoted comparatively little attention to foreign policy. His criticism was directed above all against Israel itself.”

“Quite so, Peter’le.”

“Which raises another question. Was Israel really so much worse than its neighbours?”

Theophil shrugged slightly: “Probably not. Human selfishness enjoys a wide geographical distribution.”

“Then why did Amos speak with such severity?”

“Because prophets are rarely appointed to reform foreigners. Amos did indeed pronounce judgement upon Damascus, Gaza, Tyre, Edom, Ammon and Moab. Yet his principal concern was Israel. One does not usually denounce distant nations with whom one has little connection. Amos addressed his own society.”

“In other words,” I said, “he applied stricter standards to his own people than to others.”

“Precisely. Israel claimed to stand in covenant with God. Privilege brings responsibility. Amos regarded social injustice, judicial corruption and the exploitation of the poor not merely as unfortunate social defects but as betrayals of obligations which Israel itself professed to accept.”

“So, his criticism was fundamentally moral rather than political?”

“Indeed. Military disasters interested Amos only because he regarded them as the consequences of moral failure. His concern was not imperial strategy but righteousness.”

“And prosperity itself was not the problem?”

“Not at all. Amos was no enemy of wealth. He objected to luxury purchased at the expense of the weak, to complacency disguised as piety and to religious observance divorced from justice.”

 I nodded. “So, the real target of Amos' criticism was hypocrisy.”

“A fair summary, Peter’le,” replied Theophil. “Amos did not condemn Israel because it was uniquely wicked. He condemned it because it ought to have known better.”

“To define the basic principle,” I thought it important to add, “Amos criticises social transgressions and prophecies that such transgressions will be penalised  by divinity.”

“That is the gist, Peter’le.”

 

 

 

 

VI. THE STRANGE REFERENCES TO POPULATION MOVEMENTS

 

As I was preparing to leave theology behind and turn to Amos' social criticisms, another curiosity arrested my attention.

“Tell me, Maestro,” I asked, “have you noticed how often Amos refers to population movements?”

Theophil smiled.

“A most unusual observation, Peter'le. Most readers pass over such verses without giving them a second thought.”

“Yet two passages strike me as rather extraordinary.”

“Which ones?”

“In the first chapter Amos announces the destruction of Damascus and declares that the people of Aram will be carried away to Kir.”

“Quite so,” replied Theophil. “Amos 1:5.”

“But much later, in the final chapter, Amos says something even stranger. He asks: ‘Did I not bring Israel out of Egypt, the Philistines from Caphtor and Aram from Kir?’”

“Indeed. Which means that Kir appears twice.”

“Exactly, Maestro. In one passage Kir is the place to which Aram will be exiled. In the other it is presented as the place from which Aram originally came.”

“A curious symmetry,” remarked Theophil. “The people return to the place from which they once emerged.”

“Do we know where Kir actually was?”

“Not with certainty. Scholars have proposed several locations, most of them somewhere to the east of Syria. None commands universal agreement.”

“Then Amos may have preserved some ancient tradition concerning the origin of the Arameans?”

“Possibly. Or he may simply have employed a tradition already familiar to his audience.”

“What surprises me,” I continued, “is the very idea of moving populations from one region to another. Most people associate such practices with the Assyrians.”

“And rightly so,” answered Theophil. “The Assyrians eventually transformed deportation into an instrument of imperial policy. Entire communities were uprooted and resettled elsewhere.”

“But Amos lived before that policy reached its full development.”

“Precisely, Peter'le. Which reminds us that forced migrations were not an Assyrian invention. Population transfers had occurred long before. Victorious rulers occasionally removed captives, settled conquered peoples elsewhere or compelled defeated populations to migrate.”

“Indeed,” I added, “some scholars go even further.”

“In what sense?” asked Theophil.

“They suggest that these deportations did not necessarily involve mere resettlement. Captives taken in war were frequently sold into slavery and dispersed among foreign populations.”

“A perfectly reasonable interpretation,” replied Theophil. “Ancient conquerors were seldom motivated by humanitarian considerations. The distinction between deportation and enslavement was often less clear than modern readers suppose.”

“So, when Amos refers to the removal of populations, he may occasionally have had both ideas in mind?”

“Possibly, Peter'le. To be uprooted from one's homeland and sold into bondage were often closely connected experiences.”

“Which would make such references even more tragic.”

“Quite so,” answered Theophil. “Forced migration and slavery have frequently travelled together throughout history.”

 

“In other words, Assyria systematised an older practice.”

“Exactly. What had previously been occasional became regular and deliberate.”

“So, these passing references in Amos may preserve memories of movements of peoples that preceded the great Assyrian deportations?”

“A reasonable conclusion.”

“And perhaps another lesson follows.”

“Which is?”

“That nations themselves are less permanent than they imagine. Peoples migrate, kingdoms disappear and boundaries change.”

“A lesson history teaches repeatedly,” replied Theophil. “Men tend to regard present arrangements as eternal. History rarely agrees.”

 

VII. THE DANGERS OF PROSPERITY

As I was preparing to leave theology behind and turn to the individual prophecies, another thought occurred to me.

“Something still troubles me, Maestro,” I said.

“Only one thing?” asked Theophil with a smile.

“Throughout our discussion one theme keeps recurring. Amos exercised his ministry during a period of prosperity, yet prosperity itself seems somehow connected with many of the abuses which he denounced.”

“A very ancient problem, Peter'le,” replied Theophil. “Men generally fear poverty and seek wealth. Amos understood that wealth possesses dangers of its own.”

“You mean corruption?”

“Among other things. Prosperity often produces complacency. Men who possess much are tempted to believe that they deserve everything they enjoy. They gradually cease to notice the sufferings of others.”

“Yet Amos was not advocating universal poverty.”

“Certainly not,” answered Theophil. “Nothing in the book suggests hostility towards wealth itself.”

“Then what disturbed him, Maestro?”

“The manner in which wealth had been acquired and the attitudes which accompanied it.”

“In other words, luxury purchased at the expense of others?”

“Precisely, Peter’le.”

I opened the book once again.

“The references are unmistakable,” I observed. “He speaks of those who sell the righteous for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals.”

“Quite so. Justice itself had become a commodity.”

“And elsewhere he describes houses adorned with ivory.”

“A vivid symbol of conspicuous wealth.”

“And winter houses together with summer houses.”

“Which suggests not mere comfort but abundance.”

“Yet abundance itself cannot be sinful.”

“Indeed not. Amos did not condemn success. He condemned indifference.”

“Perhaps, Maestro, that explains his famous denunciation of those who are at ease in Zion.”

“A very important passage,” replied Theophil. “Prosperity often persuades men that their present circumstances are permanent.”

“A dangerous illusion?”

“One against which history repeatedly warns us. Success encourages self-congratulation. Nations begin to imagine that favourable conditions will continue indefinitely.”

“Rather like the contemporaries of Jeroboam II.”

“Exactly. Military victories, economic expansion and political stability created an atmosphere of confidence. Few people saw any reason for self-examination.”

“And Amos shattered their complacency.”

“He attempted to do so.”

I reflected for a moment.

“Would it be fair to say, Maestro, that Amos regarded prosperity as a temptation?”

“A fair description, Peter’le. Poverty may generate desperation. Wealth may generate arrogance. Human nature possesses an extraordinary capacity for moral failure under almost any circumstances.”

“A discouraging observation.”

“A realistic one, Peter’le.  I have witnessed it repeatedly throughout history.”

“Then Amos was not attacking riches as such.”

“No. He objected to comfort purchased through exploitation and to prosperity that rendered men insensitive to the plight of others.”

“In other words, prosperity was not the disease but merely the environment in which the disease flourished.”

“An excellent formulation, Peter’le.”

I remained silent for a moment.

“And yet,” I finally remarked, “prosperity was not the only illusion from which Amos sought to awaken his contemporaries.”

“How so?” asked Theophil.

“Because many prosperous people also believed that religious observance itself guaranteed divine favour.”

“An important point.”

“In other words,” I said, “they imagined that piety could compensate for injustice.”

“Precisely, Peter’le.”

“And that, I suspect, brings us to one of the most disturbing features of the entire book.”

“Indeed,” replied Theophil quietly. “For Amos occasionally speaks with astonishing severity about religion itself.”

“A disturbing prospect.”

“Especially for religious people,” answered Theophil.

 

VIII. RELIGION AND MORAL RESPONSIBILITY

As I turned the pages once more, I recalled Theophil's final remark.

“You ended our last discussion with a rather alarming observation, Maestro.”

“Did I?” asked Theophil innocently.

“You suggested that Amos occasionally speaks severely about religion itself.”

“Not religion itself, Peter’le. Only religion that has forgotten its purpose.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was intended to.”

I consulted the text.

“The passages are certainly difficult to ignore. Amos speaks of sacrifices, festivals and solemn assemblies with almost startling severity.”

“He does.”

“Which seems extraordinary. After all, these institutions had not been invented by pagans.”

“Certainly not,” replied Theophil. “The people whom Amos criticised considered themselves highly religious.”

“In fact, they appear to have been remarkably diligent.”

“Indeed. They attended sanctuaries, offered sacrifices and observed festivals. From an external perspective, religion was flourishing.”

“Yet Amos appears unimpressed.”

“Very much so.”

“He tells us,” I quoted, “‘I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.’ Very strong language, Maestro.”

“A most disturbing declaration.”

“Especially because the speaker is God Himself.”

“Precisely, Peter’le.”

“For many people religion and divine approval are almost synonymous. One naturally assumes that God is pleased whenever men worship Him.”

“A dangerous assumption,” answered Theophil quietly.

“How so?”

“Because Amos insists that ritual by itself proves nothing. Men may perform every prescribed ceremony and yet remain morally corrupt.”

“In other words, religious observance can coexist with injustice.”

“History provides abundant evidence of that fact.”

“Indeed, many societies have combined elaborate religious systems with cruelty.”

“Haven’t they ever? Human beings possess an astonishing capacity to separate worship from conduct.”

“And Amos rejected such separation?”

“Completely.”

I continued reading out: “Actually, he says: ‘Even though you offer Me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them.’”

“A remarkable statement.”

“Especially when one remembers that sacrifices occupied a central position in ancient religion.”

“Exactly, Peter’le. Amos was attacking something his audience regarded as indispensable.”

“Which must have sounded almost scandalous.”

“No doubt.”

“Yet he was not advocating atheism.”

“Certainly not.”

“Nor was he proposing the abolition of religion.”

“Not at all.”

“Then what was his complaint?”

“That religion had become an end in itself.”

“In what sense?”

“People imagined that ceremonies could replace moral obligations.”

“Rather like substituting appearances for reality?”

“A useful analogy.”

I turned to the most famous passage: “‘Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.’”

“A magnificent sentence,” said Theophil quietly.

“Perhaps the most famous verse in the entire book.”

“With good reason.”

“It seems to summarise everything Amos wished to say.”

“I believe it does, Peter’le.”

“Justice before ritual?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then how would you formulate it?”

“Ritual should strengthen justice, not replace it.”

“A subtle distinction.”

“An important one.”

I remained silent for a moment.

“Curiously enough, Maestro, Amos does not appear particularly interested in theological subtleties. He says very little about metaphysics.”

“Indeed.”

“Nor does he concern himself with philosophical questions.”

“He doesn’t!”

“His attention remains fixed upon conduct.”

“It does, Peter’le. Amos belongs to that tradition which judges religion by its fruits rather than by its vocabulary.”

“Which perhaps explains why modern readers still understand him.”

“Quite possible. Most people may not follow abstract theology, but everyone understands fairness and injustice.”

“And perhaps that explains why Amos still sounds uncomfortable.”

“How so?”

“Because he leaves us with no convenient enemies. He constantly redirects attention towards ourselves.”

“A very fair conclusion,” replied Theophil.

I closed the book.

“So, the issue was never sacrifice, Maestro.”

“No.”

“Nor festivals.”

“No.”

“Nor religion itself.”

“Certainly not.”

“The issue was whether religion fulfilled its moral purpose.”

“Exactly, Peter’le.”

“And when it failed to do so?”

Theophil smiled sadly.

“Then Amos regarded even the most splendid ceremonies as little more than noise.”

 

IX. AMOS AND AMAZIAH

Having examined Amos' denunciations and warnings, I turned to one of the most personal episodes in the entire book.

“At last,” I remarked, “we encounter opposition.”

“An inevitable development, Peter'le,” replied Theophil. “Prophets rarely enjoy universal popularity.”

“What strikes me, however, is the manner in which the opposition begins.”

“How so?”

“After Amos predicts the downfall of Israel and even declares that Jeroboam himself will die by the sword, one might expect an immediate outburst of anger.”

“A reasonable expectation,” agreed Theophi.

“Yet Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, does not at first rebuke Amos at all.”

“Quite so,” answered Theophil. “His first reaction is remarkably restrained.”

“In fact, he reports the matter to the king.”

“Precisely. The sequence is important. Amaziah first informs Jeroboam that Amos has conspired against him and that the land is unable to bear his words.”

“Which sounds almost political rather than religious.”

“A perceptive observation, Peter’le. Amaziah presents Amos not as a blasphemer but as a danger to public order.”

“And only afterwards does he address Amos himself.”

“Indeed.”

I consulted the text.

“His words are surprisingly moderate. He says: ‘O seer, go, flee away to the land of Judah, eat bread there, and prophesy there; but never again prophesy at Bethel, for it is the king's sanctuary and the temple of the kingdom.’”

“A fascinating statement,” observed Theophil.

“In what respect?”

“Because Amaziah does not demand Amos' execution. Nor does he accuse him of false prophecy. He merely tells him to return home.”

“Almost as though he regarded prophets as professional men who could choose where to exercise their trade.”

“Exactly, Peter’le. To Amaziah, Amos appears to be one more travelling prophet seeking his livelihood.”

“Which explains Amos’ memorable reply: ‘I was no prophet, neither was I a prophet’s son.'”

“In other words,” I said, “Amos denies belonging to a prophetic guild.”

“Precisely. He insists that he had not chosen the profession. He had been occupied with his flocks and his sycamore trees when the Lord compelled him to speak.”

I reflected for a moment. “What I find particularly interesting, Maestro, is what Amaziah does not say.”

“And what is that?”

“He never accuses Amos of idolatry.”

“Quite so.”

“Nor does he claim that Amos has abandoned the God of Israel.”

“Correct.”

“Indeed, Amos himself does not attack Jeroboam because of idolatry.”

“A highly significant point,” replied Theophil. “Modern readers, influenced by the Books of Kings, sometimes assume that every conflict in Israel revolved around pagan worship. The Book of Amos presents a different picture.”

“In what sense, Maestro?”

“The prophet's accusations are directed chiefly against injustice, complacency and false security. His dispute with Amaziah concerns authority rather than theology.”

“That differs considerably from Jeremiah. Doesn’t it, Maestro?”

“It does! Jeremiah repeatedly confronted those who proclaimed reassuring messages in the name of the Lord. He denounced false prophets and condemned misplaced confidence in the Temple. His opponents often accused him of treason or impiety.”

“Whereas Amaziah simply tells Amos to go elsewhere.”

“Exactly. The exchange lacks the bitterness which characterises some of Jeremiah's experiences.”

“And the remarkable expression, ‘the king's sanctuary and the temple of the kingdom', perhaps reveals something else.”

“What do you have in mind, Peter'le?”

“That Bethel appears here less as a purely religious institution than as an organ of the state.”

“A very important observation,” replied Theophil. “Amaziah's first loyalty seems to be to the kingdom. The sanctuary exists for the nation, not the nation for the sanctuary.”

“Which perhaps explains why Amos’ prediction concerning Jeroboam alarmed him so greatly.”

“Quite so. Political stability and religious order had become closely intertwined.”

I closed the book. “In the end, Maestro, the conflict seems strangely modern.”

“How so?”

“Because institutions rarely welcome those who announce unpleasant truths.”

“Especially when prosperity persuades institutions that they are permanent,” observed Theophil with a smile.

And one final point on this aspect of the book, Maestro: what became of Amos after his expulsion from Bethel?”

“An excellent question, Peter'le. Unfortunately, the text declines to satisfy our curiosity. Further, we do not know whether Amaziah succeeded in silencing him. Amos disappears from history with remarkable suddenness.”

“Unlike Jeremiah,” I asked.

“Quite so. Jeremiah left behind imprisonments, court intrigues and exile. Amos leaves us only his words.”

“Then is it reasonable to suppose that he returned to Judah?”

“A perfectly reasonable supposition. Amaziah himself told him: ‘Go, flee away to the land of Judah and eat your bread there.’ Whether Amos obeyed the advice we cannot say. Yet a Judean prophet whose mission in Israel had become impossible would naturally have found refuge at home.”

“And did he continue to prophesy, Maestro?”

“Possibly. But the surviving book preserves no further encounters, no disciples and no biographical details. Amos appears almost determined to vanish behind his message.”

“And how about oracles recorded after the encounter with Amaziah?” I asked.

“Very little changes, Peter'le,” replied Theophil. “The remaining visions merely intensify the warnings already delivered.”

“So, the substance remains the same?”

“Indeed. Which leaves us with another question altogether.”

“And what question is that, Maestro?”

“Not what Amos said, but how the book itself reached its present form.”

“You are referring to consistency of style and the possiblity of editorial additions or re-phrasing?”

“Indeed: to style, composition and the possibility that later generations may have added their own touches to the prophet's original words.”

“In other words,” I said, “we must now turn from Amos the preacher to Amos the book.”

“Exactly, Peter'le. For texts, like buildings, sometimes reveal evidence of later renovations.”

 

X. STYLE, COMPOSITION AND POSSIBLE LATER ADDITIONS

 

“So now, Maestro,” I said, “we have finally arrived at the literary questions.”

“At last, Peter'le,” replied Theophil. “For prophets eventually become books, and books possess histories of their own.”

“What strikes me immediately about Amos,” I observed, “is his style.”

“A sensible starting point.”

“Compared with Isaiah, he appears remarkably direct.”

“Indeed. Amos wastes few words. He does not indulge in lengthy narratives, nor does he cultivate elaborate imagery. His language is forceful, concise and often unforgettable.”

“Almost abrupt.”

“Precisely. Amos resembles a man hammering nails. Each blow is intended to penetrate.”

“Which perhaps explains why so many of his phrases remain memorable.”

“Quite so. One does not easily forget: ‘Let justice roll down like waters,’ or ‘Prepare to meet thy God.’”

“I also notice something else, Maestro.”

“And what might that be?”

“The book itself appears remarkably coherent.”

“A point frequently overlooked,” replied Theophil. “Despite differences of subject matter, the same moral concerns recur throughout. Social injustice, complacency and false security form a continuous thread.”

“Which suggests a single mind?”

“Largely so. Most scholars agree that the core of the book derives from Amos himself, even if the precise wording may occasionally have been adjusted by later scribes.”

“Which would hardly be surprising.”

“Not at all. Ancient books were copied by hand for centuries. Explanatory comments, minor revisions and editorial arrangements are almost inevitable.”

“So, one need not assume that every sentence emerged directly from Amos’ lips?”

“A reasonable position, Peter'le. A prophet speaks; disciples preserve; later generations organise.”

“Rather like houses which acquire extensions.”

“Yet, Maestro, some passages have attracted particular attention, especially the conclusion.”

“The famous final verses?”

“Exactly. Throughout the book Amos seems almost relentless. Disaster is announced repeatedly. Yet suddenly we encounter promises of restoration.”

“Many readers have noticed the contrast,” replied Theophil.

“And among these promises appears the remarkable statement that the exiles will return and rebuild ruined cities. This sounds very different from the earlier tone.”

“Many scholars have reached the same conclusion, Peter’le. They suspect that these verses may have been added after the Babylonian Exile, when hopes of national restoration occupied Jewish thought.”

“In other words, later generations may have wished to ensure that judgement did not have the last word.”

“A fair summary.”

“And what of the curious statement that the people will never again be uprooted from their land?”

“An understandable hope for those who had experienced exile.”

“But perhaps less characteristic of Amos himself?”

“Possibly. One cannot prove the matter with certainty. Yet the language resembles the outlook of later periods more than the stern voice heard throughout most of the book.”

“So, the famous restoration passages may represent what editors hoped Amos ought to have said?”

“A little harsh, Peter'le. Let us merely say that faithful transmitters sometimes sought to supplement judgement with hope.”

“In other words, the house may have acquired a conservatory.”

“Exactly,” smiled Theophil. “And some visitors regard the extension as entirely harmonious, while others detect the join.”

“Yet even if such additions exist, they do not diminish Amos.”

“On the contrary. They testify to the reverence later generations felt towards him. Men do not preserve books they consider unimportant.”

“Which means that the Book of Amos before us is both the voice of one prophet and the product of centuries of transmission.”

“A very fair conclusion, Peter'le.”

“And perhaps,” I added, “that is true of much ancient literature.”

“Indeed,” replied Theophil. “Texts, like civilisations, possess histories.”

 

E P I L O G U E

As I closed the book, Theophil looked at me with amusement.

“Well, Peter'le,” he asked, “having spent so much time in the company of Amos, do you actually like him?”

“An unexpected question, Maestro.”

“Nevertheless, answer it.”

“Yes,” I replied after a brief pause. “I do.”

“Even though he seldom offers comfort?”

“Perhaps because he does not. Amos speaks plainly. He avoids unnecessary complications. He says what he means and leaves little room for ambiguity.”

“So, you admire his style?”

“Very much so. At my age I have developed a preference for clarity.”

“And his message?”

“That also. Human societies have changed enormously since the eighth century BCE, but exploitation, inequality and indifference have not disappeared. Amos’ concern for justice therefore remains surprisingly modern.”

“You believe he still speaks to our age?”

“I do. Not because I accept every detail uncritically, nor because I regard every verse as necessarily originating with the prophet himself, but because his central concern remains valid.”

“Which is?”

“That religion without morality becomes empty, prosperity without compassion becomes dangerous and power without justice eventually destroys itself.”

“A rather impressive summary, Peter’le.”

“Perhaps. But Amos himself expressed it better than I ever could.”

Theophil smiled: “Then your labour has not been wasted.”

“And Enoch?” he continued mischievously.

I looked uneasily at the large volume still lying on my desk.

“One project at a time, Maestro.”

“A wise decision,” replied Theophil.

 

 

 

 

 

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