Jonathan Stökl - Prophecy in the Ancient Near East. A Philological and Sociological Comparison

Prophecy in the Ancient Near East

Culture and History of the Ancient Near East Founding Editor

M.H.E. Weippert Editor-in-Chief

Thomas Schneider Editors

Eckart Frahm W. Randall Garr Baruch Halpern Theo P.J. van den Hout Irene J. Winter

VOLUME 56

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/chan

Prophecy in the Ancient Near East A Philological and Sociological Comparison

By

Jonathan Stökl

Leiden • boston 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Stökl, Jonathan, 1977–  Prophecy in the ancient Near East : a philological and sociological comparison / by Jonathan Stökl.   p. cm. — (Culture and history of the ancient Near East, ISSN 1566-2055 ; v. 56)  Revision of the author’s thesis (doctoral)—Oriental Institute, Oxford University, 2009.  Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and indexes.  ISBN 978-90-04-22992-1 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Prophecy—Early works to 1800. 2. Prophecies— Early works to 1800. 3. Forecasting—Religious aspects—Early works to 1800. I. Title.  BL503.S76 2012  202’.117—dc23 

2012005178

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, IPA, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.nl/brill-typeface. ISSN 1566-2055 ISBN 978 90 04 22992 1 (hardback) ISBN 978 90 04 22993 8 (e-book) Copyright 2012 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers and Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Contents Abbreviations .................................................................................................... Acknowledgements .........................................................................................

ix xv

Chapter One. Introduction .......................................................................... 1.1 On Comparing Prophets .................................................................. 1.2 Definition of Prophecy and Divination ....................................... 1.3 Prophecy and (Socio-) Anthropology .......................................... 1.4 Comparing Corpora .......................................................................... 1.4.1 Egypt ......................................................................................... 1.4.2 The Hittites ............................................................................. 1.4.3 Ugarit ........................................................................................ 1.4.4 The Aramaic Inscriptions ................................................... 1.4.4.1 The Deir ʿAlla Inscription ................................... 1.4.4.2 The Zakkur Inscription ........................................ 1.4.4.3 Ammon Citadel Inscription ............................... 1.4.4.4 Deir Rifa ................................................................... 1.4.5 Greece ....................................................................................... 1.5 Summary ..............................................................................................

1 5 7 11 14 14 16 18 19 19 21 22 22 23 25

Part ONE

Prophecy in Old Babylonian Sources Chapter Two. Introduction to Old Babylonian Prophecy ..................

29

Chapter Three. Old Babylonian Prophets ............................................... 3.1 The Professional (āpilum) ............................................................... 3.1.1 A Philological Discussion of the Term āpilum ............. 3.1.2 Social Role of the āpilum (‘spokesperson’) ................... 3.2 Lay-Prophets ........................................................................................ 3.2.1 Cultic Officials ........................................................................ 3.2.1.1 The muḫḫûm ........................................................... 3.2.1.2 The assinnu .............................................................. 3.2.1.3 The qammatum ...................................................... 3.2.2 Other Lay-Prophets ...............................................................

37 38 38 43 50 51 51 58 61 62

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contents

3.3 The nabû ............................................................................................. 3.4 Prophetic Groups ............................................................................. 3.5 The Gender of Prophecy ................................................................

63 64 67

Chapter Four. The Prophetic Message ..................................................... 4.1 The egerrûm ....................................................................................... 4.2 šuttum—Dream or Vision? ........................................................... 4.3 Hair and Hem ...................................................................................

71 78 79 81

Chapter Five. Further Aspects of Old Babylonian Prophecy ............ 5.1 The Deities of Prophecy ................................................................. 5.2 The Geographical Distribution .................................................... 5.3 The Temporal Distribution ........................................................... 5.4 The Workings of Prophecy ............................................................

87 87 88 90 91

Chapter Six. Conclusions .............................................................................

97

Part two

Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources Chapter Seven. Introduction to Neo-Assyrian Prophecy ................... 103 Chapter Eight. Neo-Assyrian Prophets ..................................................... 8.1 The raggintu ...................................................................................... 8.2 The maḫḫû and other (lay-)prophets ........................................ 8.3 The Gender of Prophecy ................................................................

111 111 118 121

Chapter Nine. The Message ......................................................................... 129 9.1 The Physical Shape of the Tablets .............................................. 129 9.2 Forms and Function of Prophetic Texts ................................... 131 Chapter Ten. Other Aspects of Neo-Assyrian Prophecy ..................... 10.1 Prophecy and the Cult ................................................................... 10.2 The Senders (Deities) of Prophecy ............................................. 10.3 The Geographic and Temporal Distribution ...........................

143 143 146 149

Chapter Eleven. Conclusions ...................................................................... 151



contents

vii

Part three

Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible Chapter Twelve. Introduction to Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible ..... 155 Chapter Thirteen. The Messengers ........................................................... 13.1 The ‫( נביא‬nābīʾ) .............................................................................. 13.1.1 The Etymology of ‫ נביא‬................................................... 13.1.1.1 The nabī at Ebla ............................................... 13.1.1.2 The nabī at Emar .............................................. 13.1.1.3 Conclusions of the Etymological Discussion ........................................................... 13.1.2 The nbʾ in the Lachish Letters ...................................... 13.1.3 The ‫ נביא‬in the Hebrew Bible ...................................... 13.1.3.1 Prophetic Groups ............................................. 13.1.3.2 Prophets in the Pentateuch .......................... 13.1.3.3 The Writing Prophets ..................................... 13.1.3.4 Female Prophets ............................................... 13.2 The ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬............................................................................................. 13.3 The ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬............................................................................................ 13.4 Comparison of the ‫נָ ִביא‬, the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and the ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬...................

157 157 158 159 161 166 167 171 173 176 178 186 192 196 199

Chapter Fourteen. Conclusions .................................................................. 201 Part four

Comparison and Conclusion Chapter Fifteen. Comparison of Old Babylonian, Neo-Assyrian  and Biblical Prophecy ................................................................................ 15.1 Prophetic Groups ............................................................................ 15.2 Cultic Prophecy ............................................................................... 15.3 Music and Prophecy ...................................................................... 15.4 Intercession ...................................................................................... 15.5 Female Prophets ............................................................................. 15.6 Transmitting Prophecy ................................................................. 15.7 Deities of Prophecy ........................................................................ 15.8 Being Sent .........................................................................................

205 207 209 211 215 216 217 220 221

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contents

Chapter Sixteen. Conclusions ..................................................................... 229 Bibliography ...................................................................................................... 233 Indices ................................................................................................................. 281

Abbreviations Most abbreviations follow the list of abbreviations found on the website of the Cuneiform Digital Library Initiative prepared by Dr. Jacob Dahl: http://cdli.ucla.edu/wiki/doku.php/abbreviations_for_assyriology. AB The Anchor Bible AbB Altbabylonische Briefe in Umschrift und Übersetzung ABD Anchor Bible Dictionary ADOG Abhandlungen der deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft AfO Archiv für Orientforschung AHw Wolfram von Soden, Akkadisches Handwörterbuch. Unter Benutzung des lexikalischen Nachlasses von Bruno Meissner (1868–1947) (3 vols; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1965–81). AJSL The American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures Ä&L Ägypten und Levante (Egypt and Levant) ANET James B. Pritchard, ed., Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (3rd ed.; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969). AnOr Analecta Orientalia AOAT Alter Orient und Altes Testament AoF Altorientalische Forschungen ARET Archivi reali di Ebla. Testi AARM Archives Royales de Mari AS Assyriological Studies ASJ Acta Sumerologica ATD Altes Testament Deutsch AuOr Aula Orientalis AuOrS Aula Orientalis. Supplementa BA Biblical Archaeologist BAR Biblical Archaeology Review BASOR Bulletin of the American School of Oriental Research BBR Bulletin of Biblical Research BCSMS Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies BETL Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium Bib Biblica BiOr Bibliotheca Orientalis BK.AT Biblischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament

x

abbreviations

BN Biblische Notizen BTB Biblical Theology Bulletin BThZ Berliner theologische Zeitschrift BWANT Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament BZ Biblische Zeitschrift BZAW Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft CAD Ignace J. Gelb et al., The Assyrian Dictionary of the University of Chicago (21 vols; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1956–2010). CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly CHANE Culture and History of the Ancient Near East CM Cuneiform Monographs CRRAI Comptes rendus de la Rencontre Assyriologique lnternationale CSMSJ Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies Journal CT Cuneiform Tablets from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum DCH David J. A. Clines (ed.), Dictionary of Classical Hebrew (8 vols; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 1993–2011). DSD Dead Sea Discoveries EI Eretz Israel ERC Édition Recherche sur les Civilisations FAT Forschungen zum Alten Testament FM Florilegium Marianum FRLANT Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testament Ges Wilhelm Gesenius, Uto Rüterswörden, Rudolf Meyer und Herbert Donner (eds), Hebräisches und aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das Alte Testament (18th ed.; Berlin: Springer Verlag, 1987– HALOT Ludwig Koehler, Walter Baumgartner, Walter Baumgartner and Johann Jakob Stamm (eds.), Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (translated under the supervision of M.E.J. Richardson; 5 vols; Leiden: Brill, 1994–2000). HANE/M History of the Ancient Near East HAT Handbuch zum Alten Testament HdO/HOS Handbuch der Orientalistik/Handbook of Oriental Studies hitp. Hitpaʿel HSM Harvard Semitic Monographs HSS Harvard Semitic Studies HThKAT Herders theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament



abbreviations

xi

HThR Harvard Theological Review HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual IBS Irish Biblical Studies ICC International Critical Commentary on the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments IEJ Israel Exploration Journal JAAR Journal of the American Academy of Religion JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society JANER Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions JANESCU Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia ­University JARG Jahrbuch für Anthropologie und Religionsgeschichte JCS Journal of Cuneiform Studies JESHO Journal of Economic and Social History of the Orient JHS Journal of Hebrew Scriptures JNES Journal of Near Eastern Studies JNSL Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages JPS Jewish Publication Society JQR Jewish Quarterly Review JSOT Journal of the Old Testament JSOTS Journal of the Old Testament. Supplement Series JSS Journal of Semitic Studies KAI Herbert Donner and W. Röllig, Kanaanäische und Aramäische Inschriften (2nd ed.; 3 vols; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1966–69 and 5th edition 2001, volume 1). KAT Kommentar zum Alten Testament LAPO Littératures anciennes du Proche-Orient LHBOTS Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies MARI MARI: Annales de Recherches Interdisciplinaires MDBP Matériaux pour le Dictionnaire de Babylonien de Paris MC Mesopotamian Civilizations MEE Materiali epigrafici di Ebla MSL Materialien zum Šumerischen Lexikon NABU Nouvelles Assyriologiques Brèves et Utilitaires NCBC New Century Bible Commentary NICOT New International Commentary on the Old Testament nif. nifʿal NThT Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift OBO Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis OECT Oxford Editions of Cuneiform Texts

xii

abbreviations

Or Orientalia OTL Old Testament Library OTS Oudtestamentische Studiën PEQ Palestine Exploration Quarterly PRAK text no. of text originally published in H. Genouillac, Fouilles françaises d’El-’Akhymer: premières recherches archéologiques à Kich (Paris: Champion, 1924–25). RA Revue d’Assyriologie et d’Archéologie Orientale RB Revue Biblique RE text no in G. Beckmann, Texts from the Vicinity of Emar in the Collection of Jonathan Rosen (Padova: Sargon) RGG Hans Dieter Betz et al. (eds.), Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart: Handwörterbuch für Theologie und Religionswissenschaft (4th ed.; 9 vols; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998–2007). RHR Revue de l’histoire des religions RivBibIt Rivista Biblica Italiana RIMA The Royal Inscriptions of the Neo-Assyrian Period RIME Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia. Early Periods RlA Erich Ebeling, Bruno Meisner et al. (eds.), Reallexikon der Assyriologie und vorderasiatischen Archäologie (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1928–). RQ Revue de Qumrân RSO Rivista degli studi orientali SAA State Archives of Assyria SAAB State Archives of Assyria. Bulletin SAAS State Archives of Assyria Studies SBLSymS Society of Biblical Literature. Symposium Series SBLWAW Society of Biblical Literature. Writings from the Ancient World SEÅ Svensk Exegetisk Årsbok SEL Studi epigrafici e linguistici sul Vicino Oriente antico Sem Semitica SEPOA Societé pour l’Étude du Proche-Orient Ancien SHCANE Studies on the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East SHANE Studies on the History of the Ancient Near East SJOT Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament SJSJ Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Judaism STDJ Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah StEb Studia Eblaiti TCL Textes cunéiforms du Louvre



abbreviations

xiii

TCS Texts from Cuneiform Sources TDOT Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament THAT Theologisches Handwörterbuch zum Alten Testament ThLZ Theologische Literaturzeitung ThR Theologische Rundschau ThWAT G. Johannes Botterweck, Helmer Ringgren et al. (eds.), Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament (10 vols; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1970-2000). ThZ Theologische Zeitschrift TRE Gerhard Krause, Gerhard Müller et al. (eds.), Theologische Realenzyklopädie (36 vols; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976–2007). TUAT Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments TUAT.NF Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments. Neue Folge UF Ugarit-Forschungen. Internationales Jahrbuch für die Altertumskunde Syrien-Palästinas VT Vetus Testamentum VT.S Vetus Testamentum. Supplements WAW 12 text number in Martti Nissinen, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East (SBLWAW 12, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003). WdF Wege der Forschung WdO Welt des Orients WiBiLex Das wissenschaftliche Bibellexikon im Internet [http://www .wibilex.de/] WMANT Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen ­Testament WVDOG Wissenschaftliche Veröffentlichungen der Deutschen OrientGesellschaft ZA Zeitschrift für Assyriologie und verwandte Gebiete ZAH Zeitschrift für Althebraistik ZAR Zeitschrift für altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft ZB.AT Zürcher Bibelkommentare zum Alten Testament ZDMG Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft ZDPV Zeitschrift des deutschen Palästinavereins ZThK Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Acknowledgements This is an edited version of my doctoral thesis submitted to the Oriental Institute, Oxford University. I would like to thank Thomas Schneider and the editors of this series for accepting the manuscript. I would also like to thank Jennifer Pavelko, acquisition editor at Brill, as well as Rachel Crofut who served as production editor. It is no secret that no book is written by one person alone. The same is true for me and I would like to thank all those who discussed the ideas in this book with me during my studies in Germany and the United Kingdom: John Barton, Kevin Cathcart, John Day, Matthias Köckert, Alison Salvesen, Stefan Schorch, Josef Tropper, Marc Van de Mieroop and particularly my supervisors Hugh Williamson and Stephanie Dalley. Special thanks are due to my friend Martti Nissinen, the doyen of ancient Near Eastern prophecy. Perhaps unbeknownst to him, his presentation at a workshop in Berlin in 2002, organised by M. Köckert, whose research student I was at the time, set me on my path in academia. Many friends and colleagues also helped refine my ideas in discussions and by reading parts or, indeed, all of the manuscript: Carly Crouch, Felicity Laurence, Madhavi Nevader, Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra, Richard Wistreich and Miranda Laurence. Others helped by keeping me company, eating, drinking and singing with me. I am grateful to them. Thanks are also due to the societies and research councils which supported my studies in Oxford financially over the years: the Arts and Humanities Research Council, the Nora Taylor Fund, the Pusey and Ellerton Fund, the Oriental Institute at the University of Oxford, the Panacea Society, Lady Margaret Hall and the Nordelbisch-Lutherische Kirche. It is needless to say that without their support my doctoral thesis could not have been written, and I thank them. The revisions in the manuscript were undertaken partly while I was the Naden Research Student in Theology at St. John’s College, Cambridge, and partly in my current position as a post-doctoral researcher at the ERC project ‘By the Rivers of Babylon: New Perspectives on Second Temple Judaism from Cuneiform Texts’. I am very grateful to the Master and Fellows of St. John’s College as well as to the principal investigator of the ‘Babylon’ project, Dr. Caroline Waerzeggers, for giving me the time to prepare the manuscript for publication.

xvi

acknowledgements

Prof. Nissinen once told me that scholarship is not about being right but about being ‘wrong’, so that future scholarship can improve their predecessors’ mistakes. In that spirit I hope that some of my ‘wrongs’ will inspire others to improve upon them in scholarly debate. As anybody who has finished a manuscript knows, the process at times requires the author to neglect family and friends. I hope that those who have had less than their fair share of my time will nonetheless celebrate the result with me. I am grateful for their generosity.

chapter one

Introduction Prophets, male and female, speak for a deity and are therefore often regarded as amongst those who are connected most intimately with the divine. In particular, through the so-called ‘religions of the book’, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, but also Zoroastrianism, Mandaeism, among the Bahá’í and many more, prophets have had a remarkable influence on history. The earliest sources for the study of prophecy come from the ancient Near East, here understood as the area between the Mediterranean and modern Iran. The time frame of the studied documents is from the middle of the third millennium BCE until the beginning of the Persian period at the end of the sixth century.1 The three corpora which I will be using as evidence for prophecy are the royal archives of Old Babylonian Mari (and some related texts from Chagar Bazar, Tuttul, Ešnunna and Uruk), the state (royal) archives of the Neo-Assyrian empire and the Hebrew Bible.2 In the nineteenth century, material from the Hebrew Bible was the only evidence available for the study of ancient Near Eastern prophecy, and based on it alone German scholarship in particular put forward the interpretation that prophets were powerful individuals, religious innovators and the founders of ‘ethical monotheism’.3 At the beginning of the twentieth century psychoanalysis, psychology and sociology made a first impression on the study of biblical prophecy, particularly through the concept of ecstasy.4 In spite of the prominence of cuneiform sources relating to the Hebrew Bible and events such as the Bibel-Babel controversy, Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts were mostly

 All years are to be understood as BCE unless otherwise specified. Proper names are given in their accepted spelling, apart from translations of ancient texts. 2  I will discuss the reasons for my choice of corpora in chapter 1.4. 3  E.g. Ewald (1840–41). Scholars were interested in individual prophets and their lives. Female prophets were not discussed by biblical scholars, with the notable exception of Jahnow (1914) and Löhr (1908: 40–42). 4  E.g. Hölscher (1914), Duhm (1916) and Jepsen (1934). 1

2

chapter one

ignored, even though they had been edited and translated at the time and were readily available.5 A marked shift occurred around the middle of the twentieth century. The emphasis was no longer exclusively on individual prophets but shifted to the phenomenon ‘prophecy’ more generally. Also, biblical scholars started noticing extra-biblical evidence, mainly inspired by the discovery and publication of the royal archives at Mari.6 In the 1950–60s the first studies comparing biblical and Mari prophecy appeared, most of which focussed on finding a proprium of biblical prophecy, that which (putatively) distinguishes biblical prophecy from other forms of prophecy.7 Like any other part of ancient life, the historical phenomenon that is prophecy is accessible to us only to the extent that we have (written) sources. Whereas most scholars from the end of the nineteenth century until the beginning of the final third of the twentieth century were confident in their abilities to reconstruct history, this confidence has subsequently waned, often replaced either by a denial of any possibility of the reconstruction of the history of pre-exilic Israel and Judah, or a return to almost pre-critical positivism; indeed, the study of history is sometimes abandoned altogether in favour of a purely literary approach. While I acknowledge the difficulties and frailties involved in the attempt at reconstructing history, I do believe that it is possible to present the results of an historical enquiry without claiming infallibility.8 In that sense, the historical debate becomes one of probabilities and possibilities, rather than

5  A notable exception is Gresmann (1914). For overviews of the process how NeoAssyrian (and to a lesser degree Mari) prophetic texts came to be used in biblical scholarship see Nissinen (1998). Early publications of Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts are Delattre (1889), Strong (1894) and Scheil (1897). For ‘drawings’ see Pinches (1891). It is interesting that also in Assyriology, the Neo-Assyrian prophecies did not play much of a role. It took until the Rencontre Assyriologique International in Strasbourg with the topic La divination en Mésopotamie ancienne et dans les régions voisines before prophecy was put on the Assyriological ‘map’ and even then it was mostly Mari prophecy. The proceedings of this conference were published in Wendel (1966); see especially the contributions by Dossin (1966), Finet (1966) and Nougayrol (1966). 6  Foreshadowing later developments are Guillaume (1938) and Haldar (1945). The first Mari oracle was published by Dossin (1948). For a short overview over the publication of the texts see the introduction to chapter 2. 7  Schmökel (1951), Malamat (1957), Westermann (1964) and Nötscher (1966). See also von Rad (1957 and 1958b). For a short overview of this process see Nissinen (2003a). 8  ‘The object of the historian’s quest is not what happened, but what is the most likely reconstruction of what happened, based on the available evidence.’ Tucker (1997: 145), my italics.



introduction

3

c­ ertainties.9 This is true both for traditional historical subjects such military or royal history, but also for social history and the history of ­prophecy. In this study I will reassess the results of comparative research on biblical and ancient Near Eastern prophecy, with an emphasis on the period after the publication of the comprehensive editions of the Mari texts by Jean-Marie Durand and the Neo-Assyrian texts by Simo Parpola.10 Some points of comparison were identified too quickly, such as the existence of prophetic bands in Mesopotamia and the awareness of being sent of Mesopotamian prophets. Other issues, such as the presence of oracles of salvation, mostly in the biblical and Neo-Assyrian corpus, but also in the Zakkur inscription, have justly been identified as a significant aspect in which royal prophecy corresponded in both areas. In order not to preclude my assessment of the issues, I initially analyse prophecy in each of the three corpora in its own right. Especially regarding Neo-Assyrian and Old-Babylonian prophecy, I set out with the assumption that they may have been different from one another, but over the time that I have studied the texts, I have come to the conclusion that the principles underlying the way prophecy worked in those two societies seem to have been similar, in spite of the fact that the nature of the sources is different. In Old Babylonian Mari, prophetic oracles are mostly reported as part of administrative letters and they give us a relatively direct image of prophecy at Mari, while most of the Neo-Assyrian oracles are not to be found in letters, but in redacted collections. The implication of this is that Neo-Assyrian prophecy may well be the better corpus for comparison with biblical prophecy, as both corpora present us with groups of redacted prophecies. The Old Babylonian documents from Mari may be closer to the prophetic event, and thus allow us a more immediate access to what prophecy may have looked like at Mari, but the time gap of over one millennium between it and the other two

   9  Leading to the somewhat bizarre debate between Kofoed (2007) and Thompson (2005). On p. 288, Kofoed argues that unless there is good reason not to believe a biblical text, it should be taken as historically accurate. Against an approach such as Kofoed’s, Soggin (1978: 47*) warned that ‘potest, ergo est has always been a poor argument in history and in court alike. Potest is nothing but the necessary condition—it does not constitute a sufficient condition. 10  Durand (1988) and Parpola (1997). Some Mari texts are to be found in individual studies in the series Florilegium marianum. Many more Neo-Assyrian texts are to be found in various volumes of the series State Archives of Assyria. See the relevant chapters for more bibliographic information.

4

chapter one

corpora, and the difference in the genre of the texts makes comparisons more difficult.11 In the discussions of the respective terms for prophet, I include a discussion of their etymologies, fully aware that etymology is not an accurate tool for determining the meaning of a word in a given language as James Barr demonstrated 40 years ago.12 For spoken languages, researchers can ask speakers to help with the precise current meaning of a term, but for ‘dead’ languages like Ugaritic, Akkadian or Biblical Hebrew, this is impossible. Etymology can only trace the history of a word and identify either lexical or semantic cognates in other languages.13 The actual meaning(s) of a word can deviate considerably from the ‘etymological’ meaning in any individual language.14 Although I start with the etymologies of each term, this is not to indicate that I think that ‘to recover the original meaning from which others were derived [is the] first task of the Hebraist.’15 Rather, I use etymology as an introductory step in the investigation of a given word.16 Additionally, particularly in the case of Hebrew ‫נביא‬, the etymological evidence has been cited as proof for far-reaching theories which need careful reassessment.17 In order not to preclude any interpretation simply on the basis of the translation, I will often use terms in the original language when discussing their functions and the way they are used in the texts, leaving Akkadian and Hebrew terms such as āpilum, raggintu and ‫( נָ ִביא‬nāḇīʾ) untranslated in the further discussion, after giving an initial translation.

11  This is not to say that the Old Babylonian prophetic texts are prophetic ipsissima verba, as van der Toorn (1998a) has shown conclusively. However, the oracles in the Old Babylonian letters have not undergone a process of literary redaction which was as ideological as those found in the Neo-Assyrian collections or in the Hebrew Bible. 12  Barr (1968), with further elaborations in Barr (1974). 13  For the importance of realizing this for the understanding of the Akkadian term nabī see the discussion in chapter 13.1.1. 14  E.g. Hebrew ‫( ָא ַמר‬ʾāmar, ‘to say’) with cognates in other languages, e.g. Ugaritic ʾmr in the Gt-stem (‘to regard’), in the N-Stem (‘to be seen’); for Hebrew see e.g. Wagner (1970) and for Ugaritic del Olmo Lete/Sanmartín (1996: 35) (English translation: del Olmo Lete/Sanmartín (2003: 71–72)). For English, Barr (1961: 107) gives the example of nice, which is etymologically related to Latin nescius (‘unaware, ignorant’). 15  Jacob (1958: 159). 16  ‘Important as it must be, one must doubt whether it is “the first task” ’, Barr (1961: 108). 17  See chapter 13.1.1; Fleming (1993a, 1993b, 1993c and 2004) and Huehnergard (1999).



introduction

5

1.1 On Comparing Prophets Comparing evidence from several cultures is a process that is potentially fraught with difficulties and methodological pitfalls. In the study of the ancient Near East, biblical scholars, Egyptologists, Assyriologists, Ugaritologists, Hittitologists and many others try to find ways to communicate with each other, all searching for comparative data to fill out the picture where incomplete records leave it blank, or because they are interested in comparative study for its own sake. Ultimately, comparing evidence from different cultures is a subjective enterprise, as the results of the comparison are partly dependent on the level of abstraction: the closer one looks, the more differences will appear. When we compare the forms of a phenomenon which occur in two or more different cultures, we assume that the phenomenon is somehow similar in these cultures, that there is something which makes it comparable. Choosing the right level of abstraction and appropriate perspective for the kind of comparison which is intended is thus of paramount importance.18 Thirty years ago, Shemaryahu Talmon suggested the terms ‘holistic’ and ‘atomistic’ for two sets of approaches to the biblical text and their interpretation.19 In his view, taking a text out of its current context and comparing it to non-biblical material before, or instead of, comparing it to its biblical context and to the Hebrew Bible in general, was ‘atomistic’ and to be avoided. Instead, he suggested progressing from an interpretation of a text in its current context to a comparison with other biblical material, and only then to a comparison with non-biblical material.20 Talmon’s approach rests on the tacit assumption that the biblical text forms a coherent whole. While from a literary perspective this assumption may be tenable, from an historical point of view the Hebrew Bible presents us with a heterogeneous picture and inner-biblical comparison can turn into just as much of a comparison of different periods and traditions as the comparison between different but contemporary cultures. The ‘holistic’ approach assumes that differences over time or space ‘within’

 Sasson (1998).  Talmon (1978) who himself adapted these terms from Phillips (1976: 2–4). 20  Similar to the Seven Rules of Hillel, e.g. Stemberger (1992: 27–30). 18

19

6

chapter one

a culture are less significant than differences ‘between’ cultures.21 However, boundaries between cultures are at least partly created by modern scholars, and if the last 200 years of critical scholarship have taught us one thing, then it is that the Hebrew Bible is not one monolithic block.22 The question ‘whose Hebrew Bible’ would have to be asked next: which canon is to be regarded as authoritative for an ‘holistic’ interpretation? What about 1 Enoch, the Book of Jubilees, and similar literature? Surely, ‘the historian of religion [. . .] accepts neither the boundaries of canon nor of community in constituting his intellectual domain’, because they do not necessarily reflect an accurate picture of historical reality.23 In the expression ‘ancient Near Eastern prophets’, the last word denotes the typological aspect. Prophet-like individuals from different cultures share a certain ‘prophet-likeness’. This is the common ground on which they are compared. Any results from such a typological comparison express matters which may be common to humanity in general.24 No genetic relationship can be established through a purely typological comparison, and I do not set out to write a pre-history of Israelite prophecy. This means, that what is ultimately at the centre of concern here are people—prophets—and through them the phenomenon ‘prophecy’. The texts that are used in this study are the evidence that is currently available for ancient prophecy. I am aware that this evidence is far from perfect and should not be taken at face value, but I believe that with the necessary care it is possible to approach the social realities which created these texts. The first part of the expression (‘ancient Near Eastern’) refers to an area in which different cultural groups share a relatively similar history and culture. Talmon introduced the term ‘historic stream’ to describe such an area.25 The common ground on which the comparison is based is an assumed similarity in the cultural development in these cultures, or a time in which the two (or more) cultures partake in the same development.

21  In this Talmon enlists the support of the anthropologist Goldschmidt (1966: 131) who writes that ‘there is always an element of falsification when we engage in institutional comparisons among distinct cultures.’ The question remains what constitutes a different culture. 22  Malul (1990: 46) criticizes this assumption among defenders of the ‘holistic’ approach. 23  Smith (1982: xi). See also Smith (1990). 24  Malul (1990: 13–19) and Barstad (2000: 5–7). 25  Talmon (1978).



introduction

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Within such an ‘historic stream’, the possibility of direct influence of one phenomenon on the other is possible. In spite of a long debate on comparative studies of religions, no one methodology has been proposed on which all or even most scholars agree.26 In response to this, Barstad postulates that no definite methodology is needed. Instead, he demands ‘craftsmanship and good judgement’, to which I would like to add scholarly self-awareness.27 What is proposed here, therefore, is firstly to assess prophecy as a phenomenon widespread in the ancient Near East, and then to consider the similarities and differences between prophecy as it appears in each of the ancient Near Eastern cultures.28 This approach should allow the material in each culture to be fully represented in its own right. The grand picture of prophecy in the ancient Near East, which I set out to paint, consists of a number of ‘close-ups’; this procedure allows both details and a general overview. As this implies, the objective of my study is not just to understand certain biblical material better than before, but also the phenomenon prophecy within the entire historic stream of the ancient Near East.29 Before we can proceed to the texts themselves it is necessary to define the phenomenon prophecy and the precise corpora which are being used. 1.2 Definition of Prophecy and Divination In recent studies on prophecy, magic and divination in the ancient world, scholars have argued that the three are not as distinct as previously thought.30 The term ‘prophet’ is sometimes (un)consciously considered to express only a value-judgement. This proposed lack of distinction is sometimes cited by scholars who use the term prophet for people who were 26  For some literature on comparative studies in the ancient Near East see e.g. Sandmel (1962), Evans/Hallo/White (1980), Hallo/Moyer/Perdue (1983), Hallo/Jones/ Mattingly (1990), Malul (1990) and Smith (1990). See also the papers of a conference in Strasbourg published in Bœspflug/Dunand (1997) and the essays in Numen 48 (2001) by Jensen, Saler, Paden, Martin and Segal. 27  Barstad (2000: 8). 28  In principle, each group for which we possess any evidence should be included in this study. However, for most societies we do not possess sufficient evidence to present any conclusions other than that prophecy existed. 29  Hallo (1980). 30  Starting with Cryer (1991). Similar views have also expressed by Grabbe (1995), Farber (1995) and others.

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not previously considered to be such and who do not necessarily serve as a deity’s mouthpiece.31 The decision whether something is legitimate ‘magic’ or illegitimate ‘witchcraft/sorcery’ is an emic value judgement, and the differences between the two concepts are cogent only from within a society’s internal value-system.32 Cryer, Frantz-Szabó and Gager, all in their own ways, argue that ‘the line between magic and religion is [. . .] obliterated’. But it does not follow from this that there is no distinction between prophets and magicians.33 Prophets and magicians do different things for different ends. One speaks for a deity, the other changes the physical environment.34 Crucially, this means that not every practitioner of magic is a prophet, nor is every prophet capable of practising magic, even if both should be understood as active in the same religio-magical continuum. It is a question not of value judgement, but of typical behaviour and social role. Similarly, the distinction between divination on the one hand and prophecy on the other has been seriously questioned.35 There can no longer be any doubt that ‘the social function of prophecy by and large has not been found to be different from that of divination.’36 However, even those who rightly criticize earlier understandings which distinguished sharply between prophecy and divination usually uphold some form of a difference between technical and intuitive forms of divination.37 Recently,  E.g. Bechmann (2003).  Bowen (1999). With similar implications see also Schmitt (2008) who argues that the Pentateuch does not ban magic as such, but instead bans illegitimate magic and forms of divination that do not rely on Yhwh. 33  The quotation is from Frantz-Szabó (1995: 2007). Cryer (1994: 91) and Gager (1992: 24). 34  For the ancient Near East overviews over magic and divination can be found in Borghouts (1995), Farber (1995), Frantz-Szabó (1995) and de Tarragon (1995). 35  E.g. van der Toorn (1987: 67–68), Ellis (1989: 144–146), Overholt (1989: 140–147), Barstad (1993b: 47–48), Grabbe (1995: 150–151), VanderKam (1995: 2083) and especially Cancik-Kirschbaum (2003), Kitz (2003: 22 n.1), Nissinen (2004 and 2010c) and Scurlock (2010). Pongratz-Leisten (1999) relies on the fact that technical divination and intuitive divination are both part of one system. 36  Nissinen (2004: 21). In the case of divination the logic that catastrophes could be averted by foreseeing and announcing them, has long been recognised. Schmidt (1998) and more recently Tiemeyer (2005) argue that the purpose of prophecy and divination was identical: future evil could be averted through repentance or ritual, which was initiated through prophesying doom. In a similar vein, Seeligmann (1978 and 2004) argues that the main purpose of prophecy in 1–2 Chronicles is to make the people repent. 37  When describing Neo-Assyrian prophecy Grabbe (1995: 91) writes: ‘They [the oracles in SAA 9] require no technical interpretation in the way that many divinatory methods would. Despite some objections to designating these prophecies, not to do so seems to apply an artificial definition; on the contrary, the label “prophecy” is quite appropriate (Nissinen: 221–22) [referring to Nissinen (1993)].’ 31

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Martti Nissinen has defended the distinction between inductive and noninductive forms of divination.38 This distinction between technical and intuitive divination is often attributed to Cicero, but goes back at least to the Greek philosopher Plato.39 Nissinen comments that the distinction between inductive and intuitive divination does not go so far that ‘no learned skills would have been required of a prophet’, referring to trance-inducing techniques, and as the anthropological record shows, many prophetic roles include such tranceinducing techniques.40 This may have been the case in the ancient Near East, as is reported in the Hebrew Bible (1 Kings 18) or outside (e.g. Lucian De dea Syria §43), but it is important to remain cautious, as the textual evidence is silent on this issue.41 The Old Babylonian/Neo-Assyrian title muḫḫûm/maḫḫû (‘ecstatic’) by its very meaning indicates ecstasy as a main descriptive factor, and individuals thus described are active as layprophets in the texts.42 The sources remain silent on the question whether ecstatic trances were achieved in order to receive prophetic messages or for their own sake. The muḫḫûm/maḫḫû is an ecstatic cult functionary with a close link to laments. This indicates that his/her trances were ­integrated in temple liturgies so that his/her prophetic activity may be

38  Nissinen (2004: 21–22 and 2010c). The term ‘inductive divination’ is usually understood to refer to forms of divination in which no skill is necessary in order to decipher a divine message, such as prophetic oracles, or clear dreams which do not need an interpretation. ‘Technical divination’, in contrast, refers to all forms of divination where some form of a sign needs interpreting, such as reading livers, tea-leaves, the way smoke rises, oil moves on water and many, many more. 39  In De divinatione 1.VI 11, Cicero writes Duo sunt enim divinandi genera, quorum alterum artis est, alterum naturae, Schäublin (1991: 16–17) (‘there are two kinds of divination, the one involving a technique, the other involving nature’, Wardle [2006: 49]). Plato discusses the same distinction, which may well not have corresponded to reality in ancient Greece, in his Phaedrus 244 b–e (Greek and English text in Rowe [1988: 56–57]). In a rather ‘fanciful essay in etymology’ (p. 169) Plato says that ‘the ancients’ referred to μανία (‘madness’) as μανική (‘of/referring to madness’) which in his time had been exchanged for μαντική (‘of or for a soothsayer’). Similarly, the older term οἰονοϊστική (Plato explains this term as referring to insight and history) has been replaced by οἰωνιστική (‘of or referring to an omen’). According to Flacelière (1965: 4–5), the term μαντική originally referred only to intuitive divination, and only later included inductive divination (οἰωνιστική, τεχνική). On the etymology of μάντις see Flower (2008: 22–24) and the literature cited there. Whatever Plato’s value-judgement on the two kinds of divination, it is clear that he describes two distinct forms of divination which correspond to Cicero’s categories of learned and natural. 40  Some of the evidence can be seen in Lewis (2003) and Overholt (1986). 41  Lightfoot (2003: 274–275). 42  See below in 3.2.1.1 and 8.2. The term ‘lay’ in lay-prophet is to indicate that a layprophet has a primary, non-prophetic role in society, but also happens to occasionally prophesy.

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incidental to his ecstatic role in the temple worship, as I will argue below. The muḫḫûm/maḫḫû is an ecstatic who happens to prophesy, rather than a prophet who happens to be an ecstatic. In the following, I will use the term ‘diviner’ as a category for people who receive messages from the divine, whether through technical or intuitive means. The term ‘technical diviner’ refers exclusively to non-intuitive diviners, such as haruspices; the term ‘intuitive diviner’ refers to a diviner such as a dreamer or a prophet, who receives his/her messages from a deity without there being any need for a (learned) skill in interpreting the messages. The term ‘prophet’ refers only to individuals who receive a divine message, the words of which are understandable without further analysis with a special skill (such as reading livers); the message also cannot be intended for them but for some other individual or group, be that the king or the entire people.43 Prophets should be understood as belonging to the category ‘diviner’, and within this category, to the subcategory ‘intuitive diviner’, as can be seen in the following diagram:

diviner

technical diviner

dream interpreter

augur 44

intuitive diviner

dreamer

prophet

While this terminology is still somewhat unusual outside the comparative research on prophecy in the ancient Near East, it has the advantage of expressing the inherent similarity between the social roles of various

43  For similar definitions see Weippert (1988: 12 and 2001b) and Nissinen (2004 and 2010c). I do not classify dreamers as prophets. Dreamers are intuitive diviners, but the deity does not speak through them, other than in a dream. The Old Babylonian texts show formal differences between the ways a prophetic message and a dream are told, Zgoll (2006: 168–176). 44  Other specialists of technical divination (e.g. haruspices, astrologers and others) would find their place on this side of the diagram. They are left out here purely for reasons of space and clarity.



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forms of diviners, while at the same time helping scholars not to confuse the two distinct subcategories of technical and intuitive divination.45 1.3 Prophecy and (Socio-) Anthropology Prophecy and other phenomena of ecstatic religions have long been a matter of interest not only for biblical and ancient Near Eastern scholars. Social anthropologists and medically trained scholars have been engaging with the subject for a considerable amount of time as well. Several stages can be discerned within the anthropological study of prophecy and related phenomena. In her recent book The Hammer and the Flute, Mary Keller distinguishes between three approaches to possession (prophecy is usually subsumed under possession by anthropologists):46 the ‘social scientific studies of possession’, a ‘second wave’ and a ‘religionist’ approach.47 In her first category, Keller includes the work of scholars who explain ecstatic religious phenomena with sociological models.48 Keller argues that this group of studies can be subdivided several times; there are case studies and there are attempts at giving a wider-ranging theoretical explanation for possessive cults. This theoretical approach itself is again subdivided: one kind of theory that looks for medical or psychological explanations, and the other which gives either an anthropological or a social-psychological explanation.49 In my view, the need for these subdivisions warrants distinguishing between more than three different ways of approaching possession. In Keller’s ‘second wave’ of possession studies, we find literary approaches to possessive religion, women’s histories, women studies and comparative medical approaches. In her view, the difference between the first wave and the second wave is that those scholars in the second ‘forefront agency and issues of representation.’ They are often influenced by feminist and postcolonial thought, and begin to accept the emic (a culture’s own) patterns of explanation as valid explanations.50 The importance of relying on emic data and patterns of explanation is also stressed by studies of the ‘­religionist’  See also Pongratz-Leisten (1999) and Nissinen (2010c).  Keller (2002) relies on Nair (1994) and Asad (1993 and 2000) for post-colonial theory and on Butler (1990 and 1993) for feminist theory. 47  Keller (2002: 24–53). 48  Oesterreich (1921), Bourguignon (1976) and Lewis (2003). 49  Both subdivisions were first suggested by Holm (1982). 50  Among others, Keller cites Braude (1989), Henderson (1990), Cooper (1991), Erndl (1997) and Bargen (1997). 45

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kind.51 Authors using this kind of approach employ religious arguments and reasoning, meaning that ­phenomena such as ecstasy and trance are not described as psychological or neurological phenomena.52 Keller criticizes I. M. Lewis’ seminal study Ecstatic Religion, in which he argued that often possessive religion gives women a voice in societies where they otherwise would not have the opportunity to express their opinions and desires, for not taking religious reasons into account.53 However, for the study of the ancient Near East and the Hebrew Bible, Lewis and Eliade are probably the most significant scholars with respect to the volume of scholarship they have inspired.54 In her own interpretation, Keller insists on two aspects: the agency of the possessing deity has to be taken into account in any interpretation of possessive religions, and with it the non-passive agentive role of the possessed bodies.55 In her view, purely sociological or ‘reductionist’ interpretations of possessive religion represent a form of modern academic neo-colonialism.56 Further, in an attempt to acknowledge the agency of possessed bodies she interprets the ability to become possessed as an active rather than an entirely passive role.57 From a western point of view,  E.g. Torrance (1994) and Sered (1994). Keller also includes Eliade (1964).  Anthropologists, sociologists and scholars from related disciplines are currently debating whether to use sociological and/or western medical reasons or ‘religious’ reasons, e.g. Slingerland (2008a, 2008b and 2008c) and Cho/Squier (2008a, 2008b and 2008c). I remain at a loss as to why both models (and others) cannot be used together to help explain social and religious phenomena. 53  Some of Keller’s criticism is not justified. Lewis (1983) also disagrees with the usage of purely scientific models. 54  E.g. Wilson (1979 and 1980), Overholt (1989) and Grabbe (1995, 2010 and forthc.). I am not aware of a book-length study of Old Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian prophecy which is decidedly anthropological, but some individual studies include anthropological points of view, such as Grabbe (2000). As will become apparent in my discussion on the assinnu at Mari, I do not agree with the idea by Huffmon (2004) that the assinnu is a shaman. On Shamanism see Eliade (1964) and Stutley (2003). 55  The term ‘body’ refers both to the person and to the physical body of the possessed as is current usage in feminist and post-colonial anthropology. 56  Keller relies on Said (2003). For the field of ancient Near Eastern Studies Holloway (2006) provides an interesting group of studies tackling related questions. Bahrani (2001, 2003 and 2008) is the most outspokenly ‘critical’ scholar within the wider field of Assyriology. 57  Agency is a term which is a battleground among modern anthropologists, philosophers and sociologists. Neither the Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy nor the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy offer definitions of ‘agent’ or ‘agency’. The former explains ‘moral agency’ but only inasmuch as it is different from ordinary agency. Normally, an agent is defined as a ‘subject who acts in the world with intent’. That means that an agent has to be a subject and act out of their own volition. A body who is entirely controlled by spirit or deity would not be considered an agent under this definition, and therefore be 51

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this creates something of an impasse: on the one hand Keller underlines the agency of the possessing deities, and on the other hand the agency of the possessed body. Her solution to this impasse is to use a concept which she calls ‘instrumental agency’. ‘Instrumental agency’ allows her to ascribe agency to a body which, in her understanding, does not act as a subject, because the possessing deity is the subject. By imposing her category of instrumental agency, Keller arguably commits the same mistake which she accuses the sociological school of making: she imposes a concept of agency onto cultures who themselves describe possessed bodies as ‘spiritually weak’ or ‘not vigilant’.58 Furthermore, the uncritical support for emic readings of religious—and other— phenomena has been seriously questioned by Susannah Heschel, who argues that this can lead to some very undesirable results.59 In examining ancient data, one of the major drawbacks of using anthropological theory, particularly more recent approaches, is that they require information which the ancient sources simply cannot provide. Akkadian does not have a word for the abstract term ‘prophecy’. While Biblical ָ ְ‫( נ‬neḇūʾā), to refer to a prophetic utterance, it Hebrew has a term, ‫בּואה‬ refers to an individual prophecy and not to prophecy as a phenomenon; there are no ancient Near Eastern texts which muse on the way in which prophecy works. Therefore, while I will use some anthropological comparison and vocabulary, I am reluctant to rely entirely on a methodology and theory which was developed for considerably younger data.60 I will speak of a deity acting through a prophet, thereby emphasising the deity’s agency. Also, I take an awareness of the categories of gender, imposed by modern and ancient authors, particularly when considering the roles of professional prophets and lay-prophets. The difference between professional and lay-prophecy is not that one (professional) is better than the other (lay). Instead, the distinction aims at recognising the emic distinction between the standing of various forms of divine-human ­communication.

unable to create history. Someone to whom a deity talks, however, and who then decides to hand on the divine message of their own accord, would be an agent. 58  Ong (1987: 207) cited in Keller (2002: 109). 59  Heschel (2004) uses the example of Nazi theologians who proclaimed Hitler as a second Christ-figure. 60  For a closer reading of Keller’s work with regard to the study of ancient Near Eastern prophecy see Stökl (2008 and 2011). More recently, Pritchard (2006) criticised Butler, Asad, Mahmood and Keller on their view of absolute agency, instead suggesting that like many other aspects, agency is relative, and that therefore an individual’s ‘agency’ needs to be compared to that of other individuals around them.

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A further issue is the relationship between ecstasy and prophecy. Often the two are regarded as but two sides of the same coin. However, this is not a given. There are other kinds of ecstatic functionaries listed in Mesopotamian texts, such as the zabbu, who are in no way connected to prophetic activity.61 The categories of ecstasy and prophecy overlap—ecstatics occasionally prophesy (e.g. the assinnu or muḫḫûm/maḫḫû)—but there are prophets who do not go into ecstasy and ecstatics who do not prophesy. This means that we have to be careful when examining our evidence; and we cannot even count on the fact that ‫ נביא‬will always mean ‘prophet’ in this sense, particularly not in earlier texts. 1.4 Comparing Corpora In the body of this study I analyse texts from Mari, the Neo-Assyrian imperial archives and the Hebrew Bible. In this section I discuss the reasons for not incorporating other material into this study. The reason for this lies mainly in the fact that no other corpora of texts contain more than one or two references to prophecy. Two corpora which I will also exclude from my further analysis are not mentioned here: Ebla and Emar. Both of these are discussed in chapter 13, since they have been brought up in the discussion of the etymology of Hebrew ‫נביא‬. 1.4.1 Egypt The one exception to the general trend that prophecy existed in most cultures in the ancient Near East seems to be Egypt. However, a number of texts have been suggested as examples of Egyptian prophetic texts:62 these include the Prophecy of Neferti, the admonitions of Ipu-Wer, the Divine Nominations of the Ethiopian King Aspelta, the Siheil-Stela, the Memphis and Karnak Stelae, the Instruction of Amen-Em-Het and the Wenamun travelogue.63

61  The fact that the zabbu is listed close to the maḫḫu and the assinnu in lexical lists is of less importance in this question. After all, so is the sarrum (‘criminal, thief, liar’), e.g. lú=ša; MSL 12 5.22: 23–37. 62  English translation of the texts can be found in Lichtheim (1973, 1976 and 1980). 63  On the Wenamun text see now Schipper (2005).



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I concur with most assessments that none of the above texts are prophetic. In the ‘prophecy’ of Neferti, no attempt is made to link the predictive message to a deity, and in the other texts apart from the Wenamun narrative, the deity speaks directly to the addressee, which again means that these texts do not operate on the concept of prophecy as understood here. These texts, therefore, should not be included in a study of the historical phenomenon ‘prophecy’ such as this one.64 The term often cited as the Egyptian word for prophet is ḥm nṭr. However, as recently pointed out by Liwak, it only acquires the meaning ‘prophet’ through Greek translations of demotic texts.65 The narrative about Wenamun’s travels to the Levant is often taken as attesting ecstatic prophecy in the Levant in the Early Iron Age. The text portrays the problems of Wenamun, a temple official of Amun-Re at Karnak, who was sent to Byblos in order to buy timber for a ceremonial barge. Almost everything which could go wrong goes wrong on Wenamun’s travels: the money for the purchase of the wood is stolen and a local king seems to put him under short-term arrest. His fate changes only when somebody referred to as ʿḏd ʿꝫ goes into an ecstatic trance. The term ʿḏd ʿꝫ, now commonly translated as ‘ecstatic’ because of its similarity to Aramaic ʿdd in the Zakkur inscription, only occurs here and in Pap. Berlin 10494.66 The fact that a Semitic term is used in Egyptian texts 64  Recently, some scholars have outspokenly supported the use of texts such as the prophecy of Neferti in the study of prophecy, partly because they are literary prophecy and thus comparable to much of the biblical material, see for example Grabbe (1995: 86–87), Liwak (2006) and Weeks (2010). The latter suggests fruitful alleys for research into literary prophecy in Israel and Egypt. However, if prophecy is understood as a system of the divine communicating to the human through another human, then the Egyptian texts, apart from the Wenamun narrative can no longer be included. Marlow (2007) has compared Isa 19: 5–10 to the Egyptian ‘prophetic’ texts, insisting that they be prophetic in the biblical sense of ‘a condemnation of the past and present administration’ (p. 233). There seems to be little in her study which would require the Egyptian texts to be prophetic, other than making a comparison somehow more valid if both sets of texts are ‘prophetic’. However, as shown above, the classification of these Egyptian texts as ‘prophetic’ is untenable. There is no reason that prophetic literature should be more influenced by prophetic Egyptian literature, rather than Egyptian wisdom literature, which means that comparisons between biblical prophetic books and for examples, the prophecy of Neferti are valid and interesting, in spite of the difference in genre between the two. A good example for a fruitful comparison in this sense can be found in Rohner (1997) who is looking for similarities between the prophecy of Neferti and later apocalyptic literature. 65  Liwak (2006: 61). 66  For an up-to-date discussion see Schipper (2005: 183–186). He states that the suggestion to take ʿḏd as a reflex Semitic ʿdd goes back to Ebach/Rüterswörden (1976). ­However, Ebach and Rüterswörden cite Herrmann (1965: 312 zu S. 55) who himself

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suggests that there was no Egyptian term to refer to this kind of specialist. It is possible that this narrative has aspects of colonial-style literature, in which the civilized official goes to the colonies and experiences a number of adventures. Most Egyptologists regard the text as a literary creation. Indeed, Lichtheim has called it ‘wholly fictitious’.67 But, as argued by Schipper, while the text itself might be later, it is not unlikely that it had some form of a kernel which may go back to a narrative from the time of Wenamun.68 Maybe more important, however, is the fact that outside the Wenamuntext, which is set in a non-Egyptian environment, the protagonists of Egyptian ‘prophetic’ texts do not even pretend to transmit a divine message to a human recipient. Either, the king receives the message himself, or, like in the story of Neferti, the protagonist knows the future out of his own ability, without any reliance on a deity. In sum, the scholarly consensus is correct that prophecy, in the form as defined above, did not exist in Egypt.69 1.4.2 The Hittites As with other cultures in the ancient Near East, the Hittites had an elaborate culture of technical divination.70 There is a term in Hittite, lú dingirlim-ni-an-za-ma (‘man of god’), which has created some excitement

indicates that the suggestion originates with Henri Cazelles. For some reason, Schipper does not cite Görg’s (1977) suggestion to derive ʿḏd from Semitic ḥzy (with Egyptian /ʿ/ as a reflex of Semitic /ḥ/). 67  Lichtheim (1976: 197). See also Sass (2002). 68  On the basis that a person called Wenamun is attested for the time of Ramesses XI, Schipper (2005: 328–333) speculates about an historical Wenamun and his mission to the Levant and some form of an oral narrative which may have served as the source for the literary unity that the text is, which was written at the time of Shoshenq I, as an expression of the ‘religiös-ideologische Anspruch[s], der real politisch erst noch eingeholt werden mußte’ (p. 331), namely that Amun (and thus Egypt) ruled over the Levant. 69  Schlichting (1982) and Blumenthal (1982) argue that prophecy existed in ancient Egypt, but see e.g. the assessments by Shupak (1989–90, 1990 and 2006), Gundlach (1991), Devauchelle (1994) and Lange (2006: 250–251). But see recently Hilber (2011). In my view, Hilber is retrojecting evidence from the Graeco-Roman period onto older evidence. Additionally, I am not sure his texts unequivocally refer to prophecy rather than some other form of divination. 70  For an overview of Hittite divination techniques see e.g. Frantz-Szabó (1995), Beal (2002b) and Haas (2008). See Beal (2002a) and Bawanypeck (2005) for further ­information. For Hittite message dreams see Mouton (2007: 30–54).



introduction

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as it may refer to a prophet.71 It occurs at least twice in Muršili’s II Second Plague Prayer and once his First Plague Prayer, but also elsewhere.72 In all attestations except those in the Second Plague Prayer, the context does not allow us to identify the role of this ‘man of god’. The first attestation in the Second Plague Prayer is mostly reconstructed based on the second attestations, as both are in identical expressions: ‘let me either see it in a dream, or let it be established through an oracle, or let a man of god declare it’.73 In his translation of the text, Beckman translates ‘man of god’ as ‘prophet’, pointing toward 1 Sam 28: 6 where the same order (dreams, oracles, prophets) is attested.74 Further, according to Ünal, the term šiuniyant, or more precisely the passive form of the related verb, is used to describe ecstatic cattle and other animals in legal texts.75 Thus, Beal’s assumption that the term refers to ‘an ecstatic prophet’ may well be correct. However, as he puts it: ‘Unfortunately no examples of their utterances survive.’76 Whichever form of divination the ‘man of god’ performed, it was an officially sanctioned form of divination. The fact that the expression ‘man of god’ is also attested in the form ‘man of the Storm-god’, who is active in some Middle Hittite rituals as a person/priest who introduces the king to the deity but who does not seem to perform divinatory functions, argues against understanding the ‘man of god’ as a prophet.77 Unless further textual material becomes available nothing more can be said about Hittite prophecy. Meanwhile it seems best not to draw too many conclusions from the elusive evidence. 71  According to García Trabazo (2002: 308–329) this would have been realized phonetically as antuḫšaš šiunii ̯anz. The first word, antuḫšaš, is a common word for ‘man’, as can be expected from the Sumerogram lú (‘man’), while the second, šiunii ̯anz or šiunii ̯ant, is translated in a recent Hittite dictionary as ‘extatic [sic] prophet, possessed by a deity’, Ünal (2007: 35–36, 640) subantuhša-/antuhha-/antuwahha- and šiuniyant. 72  For recent translations of the prayers into English see Beckman (1997) and Singer (2002: 58–61). A recent edition and translation into Spanish can be found in García Trabazo (2002: 308–329) For an evaluation of the text see Haas (2006: 255–259). Three copies of the second prayer are extant, A (KUB XIV 8), B (KUB XIV 11+650/u.) and C (KUB XIV 10+XXVI 86). The term ‘man of god’ is also attested in the first Plague Prayer A II: 20’. According to Ehelolf (1936–37: 177) the slightly different šiunan antuḫšaš in KBo III 1 II: 32–33 is ‘sachlich gewiß identisch mit dem lúdingirlim-ni-an-za.’ 73  The expression is only extant in version C IV: 10–12. 74  ‫יאם‬ ִ ‫אּורים ּגַ ם ַּבּנְ ִב‬ ִ ‫‘( ׃וַ ּיִ ְׁש ַאל ָׁשאּול ַּביהוה וְ לֹא ָענָ הּו יהוה ּגַ ם ַּב ֲחֹלמֹות ּגַ ם ָּב‬And Saul inquired of Yhwh, and Yhwh answered him neither through dreams, nor through Urim, nor through prophets’). 75  Ünal (2007: 639–640) sub šiuniyah-/šieuniyah-. 76  Beal (2004: 381). 77  Taggar-Cohen (2006: 248–250, 263–270).

18

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1.4.3 Ugarit Nicolas Wyatt has recently suggested that there is evidence for prophecy at Ugarit.78 The text which he identifies as a prophetic oracle is part of the Epic of Keret: El tells Keret to take a wife and then ‘prophesies’ that she will bear him seven sons and seven daughters.79 Wyatt cites Nissinen’s definition of prophecy which is followed here as well. However, what Wyatt does not take into account is that El does not go through an intermediary, instead talking directly to Keret. Thus, although El’s message to Keret is certainly portrayed as a divine message, it is not a prophecy, as that would have to be transmitted to the king by another person. Further, as Wyatt indicates by citing Parpola’s concern over the indiscriminate usage of the word ‘oracle’ for prophetic utterances as well as for the results of liver omens and other forms of technical divination, he is aware of the possibility that technical oracles can look remarkably similar to prophetic oracles.80 In spite of Wyatt’s careful literary analysis of the text, there is simply no way of being certain that this text is not the result of an elaborate (or elaborated-upon) liver omen or another form of technical divination.81 Wyatt also adduces a statement by Nissinen which is important for our present study: A definition of prophecy should not a priori exclude the literary products that emerged from the scribal interpretations of prophetic words. Rather, these should be considered secondary prolongation of the prophetic communication process.82

However, as just stated, there does not seem to be much of a difference between a fully-formulated omen report and a prophetic oracle. Thus, as we have evidence for omen activity from Ugarit, but no other evidence for prophecy, it is better to regard this text as a literary emulation of an omen report.83

 Wyatt (2007).  KTU 1.15 ii 17–iii 19, for a translation into English see Wyatt (2002: 208–212). 80  Parpola (1997: xiv). 81  See Lambert (2007) and Abusch, et al. (2008) for examples of literary and elaborate oracle questions and responses. 82  Nissinen (2004: 25). This caution is well expressed here and necessary if scholarship on prophecy intends to continue to use the majority of biblical texts. 83  For evidence of technical divination at Ugarit see Dietrich/Loretz (1990). 78

79



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There is also an attestation of the word maḫḫû in an Akkadian text from Ugarit, published by Nougayrol in Ugaritica 5: aḫūa kīma maḫḫû [d]amišunu râmkū My brothers bathe in their [b]lood like ecstatics.84

This line is part of a passage which closely resembles Ludlul bēl nēmeqi II: 114–120, which points to the shared Near Eastern literary tradition of this text, and the imagery for mourning used in it.85 There is no indication here that the brothers are likened to prophets, instead, they are described as being so full of grief that they resemble people who are not in control of their actions. Summing up, no evidence for prophecy from Ugarit has been found. Prophecy as a phenomenon may or may not have existed there. 1.4.4 The Aramaic Inscriptions There are three Aramaic texts which are often adduced in comparative studies of prophecy: the Deir ʿAlla text (KAI 312), the Ammon Citadel inscription (KAI 307) and the Zakkur inscription (KAI 202).86 All three texts attest that the concept of a deity communicating to the king via another human was known in the Iron Age Levant. However, they do not present us with a corpus. Instead, they are individual texts from three different states. Further, while the texts show that divination was alive and well—something which in itself is not at all surprising—they should not necessarily be read as evidence of intuitive divination in general or prophecy in particular. Recently, a potentially fourth text has been mentioned. A seal from Deir Rifa mentioning a Qn who is a ḥz.87 In the following I will present and assess the evidence for prophecy in the four texts. 1.4.4.1 The Deir ʿAlla Inscription This inscription was discovered in the excavations at Tell Deir ʿAlla in 1967, on multiple pieces of plaster which had fallen off the wall.88 ­Hoftijzer

 RS 25.460: 11’, Nougayrol, et al. (1968: 266–273, 435).  Lambert (1960: 46, 295). See now Annus/Lenzi (2010). 86  E.g. Weippert (1988), Lemaire (1997) and Margalit (1998). 87  I would like to thank Martti Nissinen for pointing me towards this seal. 88  On the archaeology see Franken (1976, 1991 and 1999). The bibliography on the inscription is vast, especially regarding the question of which language it is written in. The 84 85

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dates the inscription between 750 and 650, but the text itself is probably older as there is a distinct possibility that it was copied from a ­manuscript.89 Because it mentions the biblical character Balaam, the inscription has aroused substantial interest among biblical scholars. At the beginning of the text, Balaam is referred to as ʾš.ḥ[z]h.ʾlhn[.] (‘a man, s[e]er of the gods’).90 As the text was found scattered on the floor and having fallen off the wall, the reconstruction past the first combination remains largely guess-work. The first combination appears to be a message which Balaam has received from the sun-god Šamaš, or about something that she (sic!) will do.91 He goes on to say that a group of gods called the šaddayin gather and demand from Šamaš that she cease to be angry, so as not to destroy nature and create a major upheaval of the order of the world (i.e. create chaos). The description of this upheaval continues right to the end of the first combination.92 The second combination consists of various curses against a certain person or group of persons, reminiscent of ‘oracles against the nations’.93 On the basis of this text Nissinen, Blum and most recently Williamson have argued for the existence of prophecies of doom in ancient Near Eastern prophecy—and therefore also for the possibility of historical prophecies

editio princeps of the text was prepared by Hoftijzer/van der Kooij (1976). For ­substantial improvements see Caquot/Lemaire (1977), Weippert/Weippert (1982), Lemaire (1985), Levine (1985), Lemaire (1986) and especially Hackett (1984) and the contributions to Hoftijzer/van der Kooij (1991) and the edition in Donner/Röllig (2002: 76–77 [no. 312]); More recently see Puëch (2008) and Blum (2008a). Hoftijzer (1976) is a short popularised notice from the same year that Hoftijzer and van der Kooij published the texts. 89  Hoftijzer (1986: 138). Gros (1991) and Blum (2008b) date it to between 800 and 750. 90  The main narrative about Balaam in the Hebrew Bible, Numbers 22–24, does not ֵ contain of any title for him, but in the later narrative in Joshua 13 he is called a ‫קֹוסם‬ (‘soothsayer/diviner’). I am surprised that Puëch (2008: 43) thinks that ‘both traditions [Deir ʿAlla text and Hebrew Bible] have in common the presentation of this figure as a ḥozeh, a seer like the roʾeh in 1 Sam 9: 9.’ The only title he receives in the Hebrew Bible is, ֵ in Joshua 13. Over time the image of Balaam deteriorated and by the as just stated, ‫קֹוסם‬ rabbinic period, Balaam has turned into something of an arch-villain. This process already starts within the Hebrew Bible, as pointed out by Noort (2008). For the reception of the figure of Balaam in post-biblical traditions see Gros (1991) and the essays in van Kooten/ van Ruiten (2008). 91  Hoftijzer/van der Kooij (1976) read šgr in line 6. I follow Caquot/Lemaire (1977: 196–197) and Weippert (1991: 179–180). 92  Weippert/Weippert (1982) and Hoftijzer (1986). In Westermann’s terminology this is a typical ‘Unheilsansage’. 93  Weippert (1988: 301–302) argues that the text is so badly damaged here that any conclusions drawn from it have to be regarded as tentative.



introduction

21

of doom in ancient Israel and Judah.94 It undoubtedly paints a picture of a man foreseeing a negative future, but it most certainly should be regarded as a literary creation similar in genre to the Prophecy of Neferti. The argument that the story would portray only those images with which listeners might be able to identify, and that therefore the story reflects at least generally recognizable behaviour for a ḥzh, remains unconvincing to me. Surely, an ancient reader or listener could have been capable of some suspense of disbelief. In any case, because of its character as an announcement of chaos, this text also bears a certain resemblance to the prophecy of Neferti and the so-called Akkadian Prophecies, both of which are purely literary creations, the former of which is based on the concept that a man can predict the future without receiving the message from a deity beforehand.95 The Balaam narratives may well have been based on an amalgamation of such traditions in which an individual predicts doom with the tradition of prophetic narratives. The Deir ʿAlla inscription is an indication that the idea of prophecy existed during the first half of the first millennium in the Levant, which in the general picture of a widespread phenomenon is not surprising. The inscription supports the existence of a literary tradition about prophets of doom, which may also have existed in ‘real life’. However, this text alone cannot support such a conclusion. 1.4.4.2 The Zakkur Inscription This inscription, in which king Zakkur relates how he was saved when Bar Hadad II besieged Zakkur’s capital city, probably dates to the first decades of the eighth century.96 Zakkur writes that he prayed to BaʿalŠamen for rescue and was answered [b] yd ḥzyn wbyd ‘ddn (‘by seers and messengers’).97 The oracle itself is an oracle of salvation.98 Unlike the inscription from Deir ʿAlla, this text represents royal prophecy, as it refers to the life and politics of king Zakkur. It is, to use Weippert’s words: ‘ein ‘klassisches’ Erhörungs-und Beistandsorakel.’99  Nissinen (1996), Blum (2008b) and Williamson (forthc.).  For the texts see Blumenthal (1982) and Grayson/Lambert (1964).    96  Weippert (1988: 300).    97  For the meaning of the difficult ‘ddn cf. Ross (1970: 4–8). ‘ddn is the term which, according to Herrmann (1965: 312 zu S. 55), Cazelles had suggested to use as a parallel for ʿdd in Wenamun. Recently, Barstad (2003) has re-examined the history of research of the term.    98  For example the ‘fear-not’ formula in line 13 at the beginning of the quoted oracle. 99  Weippert (1988: 301). See also Zobel (1971) who compares the genre of Klagelieder (laments) and the oracle of salvation immediately following the supplication.    94    95

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chapter one

It is interesting to note that Zakkur prays and that the answer comes to him through ḥzyn and ‘ddn. In my view, this increases the likelihood that ḥzyn and ‘ddn were terms for prophets of some kind, as opposed to other divinatory specialists. The wording of the oracle which starts with ‘fear not’ is suggestive of an oracle of salvation common in Neo-Assyrian and biblical texts.100 We cannot entirely ignore the possibility that the oracle is the result of technical divination and couched in a language which is virtually indistinguishable from what we know as prophetic oracles. The fact that the divine answer is delivered through figures who are not said to be active in the consultation of the deity indicates that this text probably reports the results of a prophetic oracle. 1.4.4.3 Ammon Citadel Inscription The Ammon Citadel Inscription was found in 1961 but published only in 1969.101 It has received relatively little attention from scholars of ancient Near Eastern prophecy because the text is badly damaged so that it is not entirely clear whether the text should be understood as Milkom speaking directly, or somebody else (another deity?) telling the king about all the things Milkom has done for him. If the text is to be understood as Milkom’s words, there is no evidence which would indicate that it should be understood as prophecy. Like the Ugaritic text which Wyatt suggests to understand as prophecy, so also the Ammon Citadel Inscription is probably derived from a technical oracle.102 There is little to distinguish between the speech of a deity which is transmitted through a prophet and that which is deduced through technical means.103 It must remain open what kind of text this inscription represents, unless further parts of it are found which could potentially complete the picture. 1.4.4.4 Deir Rifa Recently, a new reading of seal UC 51354 from Deir Rifa in Egypt has been proposed by Gordon Hamilton, who reads the text as proto-Canaanite.104

100  See Weippert (1982 and 2001a), Merlo (2002), Nissinen (2003b) and Nissinen/Parpola (2004: 216–219). 101  Horn (1969). See also Cross (1969), Puëch/Rofé (1973) and especially Fulco (1978). Margalit (1998) dates the text to the ninth century. 102  Contra Sasson (1979). See my comments above on Wyatt (2007). 103  See the texts in Lambert (2007). 104  Hamilton (2009).



introduction

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Hamilton reading is lqn ḥz. If the reading is correct, his translation, ‘belonging to Qn, the seer’ is credible. Since the seal is completely isolated, it does not add any further information for the study of prophecy, as we do not know whether Qn, the ‘seer’ was a prophet or some other form of functionary. It is, therefore, best not to put too much weight on this seal unless further evidence is found. The clearest case for a prophetic oracle can be made for the Zakkur inscription. The Deir ʿAlla inscription is something akin to deJong Ellis’ ‘literary predictive texts’ and should thus be studied as literature which ‘wants’ to be read and understood as if it were a prophetic text.105 In the case of the Ammon Citadel inscription it is impossible to decide what kind of text it is. The four texts can be regarded as an indication that prophecy, or at least a concept of prophecy, existed in Iron Age Transjordan. Apart from this, nothing else can be said about Transjordan prophecy, as the sources are so few; the fact that the clearest example of the few available is in a royal inscription is in itself is not too surprising, as only a king or a person of similar rank could have erected an inscription which survived until today. 1.4.5 Greece The recent past has seen some development in the study of ancient Greek divination.106 Some scholars, such as Herbert Huffmon, Katell Berthelot, Martti Nissinen and Anselm Hagedorn, have compared the Delphic Pythia with the biblical prophet Deborah and with prophecy at Mari.107 Indeed, the usage of terms such as ‘oracular temples’ of Dagan in Tuttul and Terqa consciously attempts to challenge the scholarly consensus among classicists that the ancient Near East does not provide evidence for ‘established inspiration oracles like the Delphic and other Apolline establishments.’108 Huffmon is right to insist that no attempt should be made to look for a genetic connection between Greek and ancient Near Eastern oracular  Ellis (1989: 146–148).  Flower (2008). See also Johnston (2005 and 2008) and the other articles in Johnston/Struck (2005). 107  E.g. Huffmon (2007), Berthelot/Kupitz (2009), Nissinen (forthc.), and Hagedorn (forthc.). There is no evidence in favour of Huffmon’s suggestion that Mesopotamian prophets may not have been allowed to marry, just as the Pythia was not (pp. 452–453). 108  Fontenrose (1978: 229) cited by Huffmon (2007: 450). 105

106

24

chapter one

divination, however tempting it might be; instead, they should be read alongside each other and interesting parallels and differences noted as is being done in the work of Nissinen.109 Michael Flower has recently presented his study of the Seer in Ancient Greece.110 He presents the literary and historical evidence for prophecy in ancient Greece, allowing the inner logic of the material to stand in a way unusual among classicists.111 Greek ‘seers’ had a remit much wider than any ancient Near Eastern divinatory specialist, including ‘anything that a freelance religious expert might be expected to handle’.112 Flower regards this class of divinatory specialists as originating in ‘migrant charismatics [who] probably left the Near East for the relative freedom of employment in Greece’.113 However, divination is significantly less diversified in Greece when compared to the Near East. Apart from the Etruscan haruspices, most diviners seem to have worked without the omen lists which Mesopotamian diviners would have had at their disposal. This suggests a considerable amount of change during the cultural transfer from the Near Eastern diviner to the Greek seer.114 As mentioned above, the terminological distinction of technical and intuitive (or natural) divination can be found already in Plato’s Phaedrus.115 Flower seriously doubts whether such a theoretical distinction was reflected in real life in ancient Greece.116 Thus, the Pythia, who is often connected with intuitive divination, ‘may have used cleromancy.’117 Considering that divination in the Greek world was not as stratified and developed as it was in the ancient Near East, it is not surprising that for Greece, Flower comes to the conclusion that the distinction between intuitive and technical divination is misleading. In my view, this is due to the fact that there were no subcategories of different kinds of diviners, something that can be found in Mesopotamia, where the distinction

 Nissinen (forthc.). It is correct, however, that the technical aspects of Greek divination appear to be linked to Mesopotamia, see below. 110  Flower (2008). 111  I.e. he does not use the ‘reductionist’ approach otherwise common among scholars of Classical religion. 112  Flower (2008: 22). 113  Flower (2008: 29–37, citation p. 31) using Burkert’s (1992: 42) category of ‘migrant charismatic specialist’. 114  For the similarities and differences between Near Eastern and Greek astral divination see Rochberg (2010). 115  See n.39 on p. 9. 116  Flower (2008: 85–89). 117  Flower (2008: 86). 109



introduction

25

between technical and intuitive divination can be upheld as two subcategories within the field of divination in general.118 1.5 Summary In the preceding we have seen that prophecy is an integral part of the divinatory system in the ancient Near East.119 It was one of the ways through which kings and others had access to information from the divine sphere; information that was vital for them while carrying out their function as rulers.120 Unlike in the Greek world where no clear distinction can be made between the various forms of divination, however, the Near Eastern sources allow for a distinction between ‘intuitive’ forms of divination, such as prophecy, and ‘technical’ forms of divination, such as haruspicy. The study of recent socio-anthropological theory indicates the necessity of interacting with it on a conceptual level. However, the application of some results, such as Keller’s ‘instrumental agency’ onto our ancient data is fraught with difficulties and risks not giving their ‘otherness’ sufficient space. Having said that, classical socio-anthropological approaches are used in this study to explain how prophecy is integrated into the divinatory systems in the various societies in the ancient Near East. The overview over the available data for prophecy in the ancient Near East suggests a focus on Mari, the Neo-Assyrian Empire and the Hebrew Bible as the sources elsewhere are either too sparse to allow firm conclusions (Aramaic royal inscriptions) or as the material that is, at times, understood as prophetic, should be understood as being evidence of forms of technical divination. In many studies by biblical scholars, in which material on non-biblical prophecy is included, the purpose of doing a comparative study is often to find the pre-history of biblical prophecy.121 As Bonnet and Merlo write: 118  Ancient Near Eastern and Greek divination was different in many respects: ‘charisma was far more important in the cultural milieu of the Greek seer than book learning or technical expertise. In the ancient Near East, divination was a science to be mastered. In the Greek world, it was an art that found its expression in a performance to be staged. All ritual acts, of course, have a performative aspect, and one would not want to deny that Babylonian, Assyrian, and Etruscan diviners also “performed” the rituals of divination. What is at issue here is a matter of emphasis and degree in terms of culturally patterned behavior.’ Flower (2008: 243). 119  Nissinen (2010c). 120  Pongratz-Leisten (1999). 121  E.g. Nötscher (1966), Noort (1977) and Schmitt (1982).

26

chapter one When the specialists of the Old Testament look at Near Eastern prophecy, they often do it as a quest of the origins, of the so-called “historical roots”, in other words from a “genetic” point of view, trying to establish the “genealogy” of prophecy. The basic idea is that Biblical prophecy is practically the most accomplished expression of prophecy. The extra-Biblical ­documents, from Mesopotamia, Syria, Palestine, Anatolia, are not framed in their own context, but are considered only as parallels or “forerunners” of Biblical prophecy. The problem is only to understand how the different pieces of extra-Biblical evidence have flown together to the final product, which appears like the aim and the sum of a long cultural chain.122

I also agree with Bonnet and Merlo that the definition of prophecy should not rest on the Biblical text alone. Instead, our definition should aim to include the reality which lurks behind the text, as it should fit prophecy elsewhere where it occurred (and, in the eyes of some people, occurs). Further, as I will argue in the chapter on Neo-Assyrian prophecy, it is not only the biblical text which is the result of selecting and editing; the Neo-Assyrian prophecies represent a similar process, although unlike the Hebrew Bible it did not have centuries to develop.123 Having considered these preliminary thoughts, we can now look at the evidence for prophecy in Mari (and other Old Babylonian sites), the NeoAssyrian empire and the Hebrew Bible. After a thorough analysis of each of the three phenomena, I will compare them with each other in order to work out the differences between prophecy in the three cultures as well as point out the common aspects of prophecy in the ancient Near East.

 Bonnet/Merlo (2002: 77).  ‘[T]he prophetic literature of the Hebrew Bible is the result of centuries of selecting, editing, and interpreting, and can give only a partial and somewhat distorted view of the phenomenon’, Nissinen (2000d: 113). For the Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts as representing edited texts see also de Jong (2007). 122 123

Part One

Prophecy in Old Babylonian Sources

chapter two

Introduction to Old Babylonian Prophecy The first Old Babylonian prophetic text is a letter from Mari containing a prophetic oracle and was published in 1948.1 The basis for the study of Old Babylonian prophecy, particularly in Mari, is now formed by the editions and translations of the relevant texts, mainly prepared by JeanMarie Durand.2 The texts attest the existence of prophecy as far east as Ešnunna and Babylon and as far west as Aleppo; for the city-state of Mari itself they do so in some detail. For some reason the Mari texts captured the imagination of biblical scholars to a far greater extent than the NeoAssyrian texts, and several book-length studies appeared soon after the publication of the texts.3 Texts attesting prophecy have also been found in Uruk, Ešnunna and Kiš. Before approaching the analysis I will describe the available material: Lexical Lists – Five recensions of the Old Babylonian lexical list (roughly equivalent to a modern dictionary) lú=ša contain entries for the titles of the personnel involved in prophetic activity, and thus give us information on Sumerian equivalents and on which professions were seen as related: Lú A (MSL 12 5.22: 23–24, 32), Lú B (MSL 12 5.32: 26–27, 35),

1  That is the editio princeps, Dossin (1948). This text was re-edited by Durand as ARM 26 233. 2  Durand (1988) and Charpin (1988). Durand (1997b, 1998 and 2000) provides French translations. Three recent English translations are Roberts (2002), Nissinen (2003d) and Heimpel (2003). Some Letters are included in German translation in Dietrich (1986); Pientka-Hinz (2008) includes German translations of ARM 26 200 and FLP 1674 (two NeoAssyrian texts, SAA 9 8 and SAA 10 284, and an excerpt from the Neo-Babylonian ‘Astronomical Diaries’ are also translated; I would like to thank Dr. Pientka-Hinz for making a copy of her translations available to me before publication). An Italian translation is available in Cagni (1995). A chronological review of studies on Mari prophecy can be found in Ramlot (1972). 3  E.g. Ellermeier (1968), Noort (1977) and Schmitt (1982).

30

chapter two

Lú C3(MSL 12 5.42: 14), Lú D (MSL 12 5.62: 144, 147–148) and the monolingual recension Lú E’ (MSL 12 5.72: 12).4 Administrative Texts – In 1963 Edward Kingsbury published a list of supplies for a ritual at Larsa, which specifies that a muḫḫû should receive one sila of sesame oil in connection with that ritual.5 – A muḫḫûm is one of the witnesses in TCL 10 34, a contract from Larsa.6 – TCL 1 57 mentions a certain Aḫuwaqar who instead of a patronym has the title muḫḫûm.7 – In the list IM 50.852 from Tell ed-Dēr containing amounts of oil handed out to various people one of the recipients is a muḫḫûm.8 – RA 14 24 from Susa lists several individuals, including a Ribbiya who is described as an a-mu-ḫu-um (line r.4) which could be a local spelling of muḫḫûm as the normal meaning of amuḫḫum (‘city wall’) cannot apply.9 – ARM 9 22 is a list of clothes being given to several individuals including the āpilum Ili-andulli.10 – ARM 21 333 is another such list of provision of clothes to individuals including Irra-gāmil, muḫḫû of Nergal and Ea-maṣi, muḫḫû of Itūr-Mēr.11 – ARM 22 167 mentions a certain Ea-mudammiq among a list of Suteans and Šuḫalan, referred to as king of Qatna.12 – ARM 22 326 mentions Annu-tabni, muḫḫūtum of Annunītum as the recipient of two turbans.13 – ARM 23 446 is another list in which Irra-gāmil and Ea-maṣi are listed as recipients of clothes.14

   4  See Civil (1969: 158, 177, 194, 207, 212). WAW 12 120 includes only Lú A. Lexical lists represent ambiguous evidence as they often list terms which are not used in any other texts. It is not always clear in what way they represent Akkadian usage in texts that are not lexical lists.    5  Kingsbury (1963); not in Nissinen (2003d).    6  Jean (1926); not in Nissinen (2003d).    7  Thureau-Dangin (1910); not in Nissinen (2003d).    8  Edzard (1970: 134); not in Nissinen (2003d).    9  Scheil (1917); not in Nissinen (2003d). 10  Birot (1960: 11–12), WAW 12 54.   11  Durand (1983: 442–449), WAW 12 55. 12  Kupper (1983: 282–285), WAW 12 56. 13  Kupper (1983: 510–513), WAW 12 58. 14  Bardet (1984: 392–395), WAW 12 59.



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31

– ARM 25 15 is a list of provisions of silver and bronze lances including Ḫaya-sumu, king of Ilanṣūra and Qišatum, āpilum of Dagan.15 – ARM 25 142 is a very similar list mentioning a muḫḫûm of Dagan who receives silver in payment for an oracle to the king.16 – Frans van Koppen edited FM 6 45, a report which describes activities in the house of Sammetar after his fall from grace. According to van Koppen’s reconstruction, Irra-gāmil, who is known as a muḫḫûm of Nergal from ARM 21 333, is involved in these activities.17 – Excavations in Chagar Bazar recently yielded a number of cuneiform texts. On text no. 176 (CB 3357) Eḫlip-Addu, a muḫḫûm of Adad of Aleppo receives some beer.18 – M.18192 describes a muḫḫûm as a sukkal of Dagan and notes that he received a cover (mardatum) and blinkers.19 – T.82 ix 2–4 (unpublished) contains the record that Išḫi-Dagan, āpilum of Dagan, received one silver ring.20 – A.4676 (unpublished), apparently a list of expenditure, mentions Eamudammiq, a muḫḫûm of Ninḫursag.21 – M.11436 (unpublished) states that Lupaḫum, āpilum of Dagan received silver in return for his mission to Tuttul.22 – A.3796 (unpublished) notes that the selfsame Lupaḫum received a donkey from the booty of Idamaraṣ, a city to the north of Mari.23 – M.11299 (unpublished) is a list of expenses of silver to various individuals and the temple of Annunītum. It includes the name Šēlebum, and it is likely that this is the assinnu of that name.24 – In KTT 306 from Tuttul (Tall Biʿa) a muḫḫûm is listed as receiving sesame.25 – KTT 53 possibly mentions an āpilum.26

 Limet (1986: 5), WAW 12 60.  Limet (1986: 46–47), WAW 12 61.  17  See van Koppen (2002: 356–357), WAW 12 65.  18  Chagar Bazar III I 176: 5–7, Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007b: 106).  19  Durand (2008b). On the mardatum see the discussion in Durand (2009: 61–65). I would like to thank Martti Nissinen for pointing me towards this text. 20  Durand (1988: 380), WAW 12 63.  21  Durand (1988: 381), WAW 12 57. 22  Durand (1988: 396), WAW 12 62. 23  Durand (1988: 396–397), WAW 12 53. 24  Durand (1988: 399); not in Nissinen (2003d). 25  Krebernik (2001: 134–135), not in Nissinen (2003d). 26  Krebernik (2001: 55–56), not in Nissinen (2003d).  15

 16

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– In a recent synthesis on Mari, Durand mentions that an unpublished text (M.5529) three muḫḫātum are listed among the female population of Mari.27 Letters which Mention Prophetic Personnel – Durand and Marti suggested reading mu!-ḫi !-im in KTT 359: 4’’ (line numbering according to Krebernik).28 Oracles in Letters – ARM 26 195–223 are 30 prophetic letters of varying content and sent from various governors and members of the royal family to the king.29 – ARM 26 243 is a letter containing a reference to the recurring message of ecstatics of Dagan regarding the house of the former governor ­Sammetar.30 – ARM 26 371 is a letter by Yarim-Addu, the Mariote ambassador to Babylon, and reports the criticism an āpilum of Marduk levels against Ḫammurapi, king of Babylon.31 – ARM 26 414 is a letter by Yasim-El to the king, and among other matters it contains the report of a demand by Atamrum, an āpilum of Šamaš, for a scribe.32 – ARM 27 32 contains a letter by Zakira-Ḫammu in which he reports an incident to the king involving a number of ecstatics, the elders of Gaššum and some Yamutbaleans. As the tablet is broken at a number of important places the precise order of events is unclear.33 – In his edition of FM 3 152 Grégoire Ozan reconstructs a reference to five muḫḫû.34 – FM 6 1 (A.3760) is a letter edited only recently by Charpin. It contains the remnants of an oracle by an āpilum and was written during the rule of Yasmaḫ-Addu.35  Durand (2008a: 423).  Krebernik (2001: 151–152) and Durand/Marti (2004: 146); not in Nissinen (2003d). 29  Durand (1988: 421–452), Heimpel (2003: 250–263) and WAW 12 5–34. The number ARM 26 221 was given twice, so that one is called ARM 26 221 and the other ARM 26 221bis. 30  Durand (1988: 499–450), Heimpel (2003: 269–270) and WAW 12 46. 31  Charpin (1988: 177–179), Heimpel (2003: 325) and WAW 12 47. 32  Charpin (1988: 294–295), Heimpel (2003: 356) and WAW 12 48. 33  Birot (1993: 88–90), Heimpel (2003: 422) and WAW 12 49. 34  Ozan (1997: 303), WAW 12 50. 35  Charpin (2002: 33–36), WAW 12 3. 27

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– FM 7 38 (A.1968) is a letter written by Nūr-Sîn and it contains an oracle by Adad to Zimri-Lim transmitted by the āpilum Abiya, presumably in Aleppo. In the oracle Adad tells Zimri-Lim that he has given him the kingship, but can also take it away again.36 – FM 7 39 (A.1121+A.2731) is a report from Nūr-Sîn, Mariote ambassador in Aleppo, to his king, Zimri-Lim. It includes an oracle in which Adad of Kallassu claims that he raised Zimri-Lim and installed him on his throne in a way which is reminiscent of Mullissu and Issār of Arbela in Neo-Assyrian texts, especially SAA 9 7.37 Letters from Gods (and Similar Texts) – FLP 1674 and FLP 2064 are two texts from the temple of Kititum in Iščali. The represent oracles addressed directly to the king, without any of the normal introductions to be found in a letter. They are oracles of support for the king.38 – ARM 26 192 and 194 are letters from deities to Zimri-Lim. In ARM 26 192 Eštar of Ninet and Šamaš transmit messages while ARM 26 194 is the message of Šamaš transmitted by an āpilum of Šamaš.39 Literary Texts – The Epic of Zimri-Lim is as yet unpublished. Only small fragments are available thus far, including lines 137–142. In these lines Zimri-Lim, the epic’s eponymous hero, apparently sees an āpilum.40 – Stephanie Dalley has pointed out that the bilingual inscription C of Samsu-Iluna of Kiš (RIME 4.3.7.7: 63–79) contains an oracle of support for king Samsu-Iluna by Zababa and Eštar.41 – From Uruk there is the still unedited tablet W19.900. It contains an oracle by Nanaya to king Sîn-kašid, promising the wellbeing and growth of the kingdom.42  Durand (2002: 134–137), WAW 12 2.  Durand (2002: 137–140), WAW 12 1. 38  Ellis (1987a, 1987b and 1989), WAW 12 66–67. 39  For ARM 26 192 see Durand (1988: 413–415) Heimpel (2003: 248–249); it is not contained in Nissinen (2003d). For ARM 26 194 see Durand (1988: 417–419), Heimpel (2003: 249–250) and WAW 12 4. 40  Durand (1988: 393), WAW 12 64. 41  Dalley (2010). The text can be found in Frayne (1990: 386) but not in Nissinen (2003d). 42  A short note and a drawing can be found in van Dijk (1962: 61–62, pl 28), a translation and some philological notes are available in Biggs (1969: 604). For a dating to the 36 37

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Ritual Texts – The two texts FM 3 2–3 published by Durand and Charpin together contain the liturgy for one or two month-end rituals to Eštar at Mari;43 a group of muḫḫūtum and a single muḫḫûm are involved in this liturgy.44 Texts Not Included – ARM 26 224–240 are dream reports in letters from Mari. They have not been included in this study, precisely because they are dream-reports and as such do not fall under the rubric of prophecy in the strict sense (see section 4 in the introduction). Further, some of these texts are so badly damaged that very little of value can be taken from them. – ARM 26 191 is a letter from Zimri-Lim to the gods and therefore does not represent prophetic communication.45 – I share the evaluation by Wolfgang Heimpel that ARM 26 193 is not a meaningful text, but a ‘writing exercise of mostly unrelated signs, words and phrases.’46 – Like other texts, TCS 1 369 refers to a certain man who is a lumaḫḫum priest.47 As the title is spelled lúmaḫ-im it has been suggested that these priests are the same as the maḫḫû/muḫḫûm found in the Mari texts, but this is unlikely as shown by Johannes Renger.48 The Old Babylonian corpus of prophetic texts is not very extensive but considerably larger than the Neo-Assyrian corpus. A precise number is difficult to give, as the counting of attestations of texts is ambiguous. I estimate around 90 texts at the moment.49 19th ­century BCE see Sanati-Müller (1996). This text is not in Nissinen (2003d). Dalley (2010) discusses this text together with Bilingual C by Samsu-Iluna of Kiš. 43  The question whether the two texts attest to one ritual or two different ones is debated. 44  Durand/Guichard (1997), WAW 12 51–52. There is also LKU 51, a Neo-Babylonian list of cultic duties at the Eanna in Uruk which mentions a lúgub.ba in lines rev. 29–30, Beaulieu (2003: 373–378). Due to its dating to the Neo-Babylonian period, that text is outside the scope of this study. 45  Durand (1988: 413) and Heimpel (2003: 248). 46  Heimpel (2003: 249) and Durand (1988: 415–417). 47  Scheil (1927: 44) and Sollberger (1966: 90). 48  Renger (1969: 126–132). 49  For bibliographies on all matters Mari see Heintz/Bodi/Millot (1990) and the supplements: Heintz/Bodi/Millot (1992, 1993, 1994, 1996 and 1998) and Heintz (1995, 1997a and 2000). See Lion (2000) for an overview of the texts from the second half of the second millennium.



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In Jack Sasson’s assessment, scholarship on Mari prophecy has developed through three distinct stages:50 the first stage starts with Dossin’s publication of the correspondance féminine;51 the second is inaugurated with Durand’s (re-)edition of most of the texts in question;52 Sasson’s article itself constitutes the beginning of the third phase.53 On the basis of three criteria, Sasson separates three distinct categories in prophecy: the bearer of the message itself, the writer of the letter containing the message and the receiver of the letter. Each of these three operates in his or her own spatial and temporal context.54 According to Sasson, the first two phases of research focussed on the writer of the message (and on the message itself) which means that most studies so far centre on the vocabulary of prophecy, the deities involved, validation processes, symbolic actions and analyses of the literary forms of the messages.55 Instead, Sasson encourages the study of the reactions of the royal administration to the prophecies by ‘extrapolating from ensuing palace activities’, which, according to him, should lead to a deeper understanding of prophecy at Mari. Additional efforts are also required to examine the relationship of the prophets with the messengers of the divine messages to the king. While many studies on Mariote prophecy have been published since, the question that occupies most researchers continues to be how to understand the prophets themselves and whether or not comparative anthropological material can be helpful in elucidating the sparse source material.56 This indicates that fruitful research can and needs to

 Sasson (1994).  Copies of the cuneiform texts are to be found in Dossin (1967), commentary and translations in Dossin (1978). The first published translation of this particular corpus into a modern language is by Römer (1971). 52  Durand (1988). 53  ‘As of this writing, we are in the third phase of Mari prophecy studies’, Sasson (1994: 301). Interestingly, he quotes some articles preceding his, that already addressed some of the desiderata of his third phase, e.g. Lafont (1984), Charpin (1992) and Durand (1993). 54  The spatial aspect includes two questions: ‘in which country or city does the prophecy occur’, and ‘in the context of which building, etc. does the prophecy occur.’ 55  I subsume a number of Sasson’s categories ‘native vocabulary, characteristic vocabulary, idiom and titles’ in my ‘vocabulary of prophecy’. 56  An exhaustive bibliography would be too long here, and thus a few examples have to suffice: Durand (1997a and 1997c), Fleming (2004), Frahm (2006), Grabbe (2000), Huffmon (2000 and 2004), Nissinen (1996, 2000d and 2000e), Pongratz-Leisten (2003), Roberts (1997) and van der Toorn (1998a); Compare these with some studies that ­conform with Sasson’s suggestion: Charpin (1995) and Sasson (1995b). Charpin (2002) adopts something of middle way. 50 51

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be done on the messages themselves and on the evaluation of prophecy at Mari in general. I will, therefore, not strive to follow Sasson’s call, but rather, refocus on the prophets themselves (ch. 3). The discussion of the various prophetic types will be followed by discussions of various aspects of the messages themselves (ch. 4); short sections on the deities (5.1) and on the spatial (5.2) and temporal distributions (5.3) lead to a discussion of modern definitions and theories on Old Babylonian prophecy (5.4), followed by a conclusion (6). The section about the prophets themselves is by far the most extensive, as this is where my main concern lies.

chapter three

Old Babylonian Prophets In this chapter I discuss the various words used for both professional and lay-prophets in the Old Babylonian texts. As discussed in the introduction, I consider the distinction between lay-prophets and professional prophets to be helpful and will maintain it throughout my discussion. In my view this distinction neither includes a value judgement nor does it imply that professional prophets have necessarily more impact. My intention in using the distinction is to describe slightly different social roles.1 In Mari we find people whose primary social role is to prophecy. I will refer to these people, the āpilum, as ‘professional’ prophets. There are also other people, normal citizens of the city and temple personnel who occasionally prophesy; I will refer to these people as ‘lay-prophets’ since their primary role in society was not to prophesy but to perform other activities, such as perform a role in the cult of a deity or to be a servant of a richer citizen. As an ecstatic cult performer, the assinnu who in the past has been described as a professional rather than an incidental prophet belongs in this category. The same is true for the qammatum. The third specialist whom I include in this category is the muḫḫûm, who in most studies on Mari prophecy is classified as a professional prophet.2 On the basis of FM 3 2 and 3, the muḫḫûm is recognised here as a cult-official who goes into ecstatic trances in cultic settings, connected to laments.3 It is likely that it is during their cultic trances that they occasionally prophesied, but there is no indication that prophetic speech was the primary purpose of these trances. Understanding the muḫḫûm as a lay-prophet opens up new possibilities in the interpretation of prophecy in the ancient Near East. I will not consider the bārû (‘seer’) in this study, as, being a technical diviner, he is not involved in intuitive divination.

1  In my view this distinction allows us to understand the role of the muḫḫûm in Mari much better than if the āpilum and the muḫḫûm are not distinguished according to their different roles. For the opposite argument see e.g. Durand (2008a: 420–423, 441–451). 2  Huffmon (2004). 3  See Inanna C and LKU 51. For a discussion of these texts see below, chapter 3.2.1.1.

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Dominique Charpin wonders whether the distinction between technical and intuitive diviners is warranted by the sources or is a modern construction forced onto the data.4 As argued above in chapter 1.4, I uphold the distinction between intuitive and technical divination because of the difference in which the divine message is interpreted: in technical divination a learnable skill is needed in order to decode the message, where in intuitive divination the message is transmitted in relatively clear words. If any technical methods were used, they were used in order to get the medium into a state in which (s)he is receptive to divine messages.5 However, both technical and intuitive diviners represent means of communication with the realm of the divine and therefore it is not surprising that there are similarities between them. 3.1 The Professional (āpilum) There has been much discussion of the terminology employed for professional prophets, the āpilum.6 I will start this sub-section with a philological discussion of the term āpilum and then present the analysis of the social role of the āpilum in Mariote society. 3.1.1 A Philological Discussion of the Term āpilum The definition of the term āpilum is surprisingly uniform in most contemporary scholarship. The word is a G-participle of a root ʾpl. There are two roots of this formation in Akkadian: ʾpl I has the general meaning of ‘to answer, to reply’, whereas ʾpl II is ‘to be (too) late’, a meaning that does not fit the context of a functionary of a deity. Thus, āpilum should be connected to ʾpl I. Most scholars therefore interpret the title āpilum as ‘answerer’. Below, I will argue that the meaning ‘answerer’ is not satisfactory as no āpilum is ever shown as answering a question. Instead, I modify

 Charpin (1992: 21–22).  Contra van der Toorn (1998a: 59–60) who argues that the āpilum is an interpreter of signs. 6  The other title which has received much discussion as a professional prophet is the muḫḫûm. As I do not understand the muḫḫûm as a professional prophet, but instead as a cult ecstatic who occasionally prophesies. I discuss this specialist below in ch. 3.2.1.1.. 4 5



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van der Toorn’s suggestion to translate āpilum as ‘interpreter’ by suggesting ‘spokesperson’.7 The word āpilum is almost exclusively spelled phonetically. Thus, we find a-pí-lum, rarely spelled with the male determinative lú.8 However, there are some spellings of āpilum in which the /l/ and the following vowel are repeated, suggesting a form apillû.9 In the much younger lexical list Ḫar.gud = imru = ballu B VI: 135 the Sumerogram lúgub.ba is equated with Akkadian a-[p]il-lu-ú.10 We find another attestation of this spelling but in the genitive, a-pil-le-e, in the liver omen list CT 31 11: 18.11 The omen list Šumma ālu contains many omens starting with the protasis šumma ina āli maʾdu [kind of people] (‘If there are too many [kind of people]’) with varying apodoses announcing negative outcomes. There is one such entry with the spelling a.bilmeš (apillû) and the apodosis mādū sapaḫ āli (‘dispersal of the city’).12 While the exceptions may seem fewer in number in comparison with the attestations of the ‘normal’ spelling, we cannot ignore them. Particularly the equation of a-[p]il-lu-ú and lúgub.ba, which is normally read as muḫḫû, is noteworthy.13 There are two interpretations of these alternative spellings: either they represent the same word spelled differently, or they represent a different word altogether, meaning that we

   7  van der Toorn (1998a: 60) and Merlo (2004). See also Pettinato (1999: 327–329). Durand (2008a: 441 n.19) argues against the translation ‘interpreter’ as all diviners are ‘interpreters’ of divine messages.    8  The following forms are attested: nominative singular masculine: once a-pí-lu-um in ARM 26 208: 6; four times a-pí-lum in FM 7 38: 3, 17’, ARM 26 194: 2, ARM 26 223: 3’’ and two times damaged in ARM 26 194: 20, ARM 26 223: 5’ (ARM 26 223: 10’’ is not counted as it is entirely reconstructed); six times lúa-pí-lum in FM 7 39: 35, 42, 46, A. 3760: 6, ARM 26 199: 5, ARM 26 371: 9 and three damaged attestations, FM 7 39: 31, 60, ARM 26 414: 29; once p a-pí-lum in ARM 26 219: 5’ and once almost completely reconstructed in line 21’; once lú a-ap-lu-ú-um in ARM 26 209: 6 and once slightly damaged in line 14. Genitive singular masculine: once a-pí-lim in ARM 26 219: 23’. Nominative plural mascucline: once lú.meša-pí-lu in FM 7 39: 29. Nominative singular feminine: once fa-pí-il-tum in FM 7 39: 35 and once a-pí-il-tum in ARM 26 204: 4.    9  The CAD and AHw both have an entry for apillû. 10  Cf. Civil (1969: 226), there read a-[b]il-lu-ú = aš-ša-[ ]. This list is the updated version of Ḫar.r a  = ḫubullu; the bulk of both lists can be found in MSL 5–11.  11  Slightly out of the ordinary is the spelling a-pi-lu-˹u˺ in CT 18 5a: rev.10. It is only unusual inasmuch as it uses the pi sign instead of the bi sign. 12  Šumma ālu i: 114. A few lines before, lines 101–102 mentions too many lúgub.bameš and f gub.bameš, that is in Neo-Assyrian dialect maḫḫû (‘male ecstatics’) and maḫḫātum (‘female ecstatics’), as causing trouble for the city (nazāq āli), Freedman (1998: 32–35). 13  Cf. ḫar.gud, see above. Henshaw (1994: 298) links the Ur III personal name á-pil-latum to the Mari āpilum. In my view, it is better to understand the name as a hypochoristic form of Aplu-DN. Henshaw’s linking of the pilpillû to the āpilum is far-fetched.

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have āpilum for a prophet and apillû for an unknown type of diviner. The dictionaries have opted for the second explanation, an explanation which does not strike me as very likely. If we assume, as I do, that the two spellings refer to the same word, we have to explain why they exist. Either we take āpilu(m) as the basic form and apillû as the variant, or vice versa. In order to be able to address that question, we must first address yet another spelling: a.bilmeš. Commenting on Šumma ālu, Volker Haas refers to the a.bilmeš as ‘nicht identifizierbare apillû-Leute’.14 He is followed by Freedman in her edition: The general context of religious professions (see omens 109 and 112 and perhaps 111) make it tempting to read a.bil as a pseudo-Sumerogram for āpilu, a sort of diviner (see CAD A/2 170, “a cultic functionary”), but I know of no lexical support for such a reading.15

As a reaction to this statement, Charpin contends that [l]e dossier des prophètes-âpilum s’est bien nourri depuis le CAD A/2 (voir J.-M. Durand, ARM XXVI/1, p. 386–39). Il concerne avant tout Mari et d’autres sites syriens, mais pas seulement. La présence d’un âpilum de Marduk est attestée à Babylone à l’époque de Hammu-rabi (ARM XXVI/2, 371), et on a aussi des témoignages plus récents (cf. B. Lion, « Les mentions de “prophètes” dans la seconde moitié du IIe millénaire av. J.-C. » RA 94, 2000, p. 21–32): il me semble donc qu’il faut en effet voir ici la mention de prophètes-âpilû.16

In my view, both Freedman and Charpin are partly correct and partly mistaken. Freedman is correct in pointing out that there is indeed no lexical material that supports a direct equation between a.bilmeš and āpilum. Further, the spelling a.bil would result in a loanword apillû and that word is equated to lúgub.ba in Ḫar.gud, which suggests that the apillû was similar to a muḫḫûm—as is evidenced by the common equation lúgub.ba with muḫḫûm in Neo-Assyrian editions of lexical lists.17 In other words, the apillû is clearly a divinatory functionary and it is highly unlikely that there are two distinct divinatory functionaries with titles so similar as āpilum and apillû. Thus, Charpin’s contention that the a.bilmeš is indeed the same as āpilum, is likely to be correct.  Haas (1992: 40, 44).  Freedman (1998: 34–35, especially note ad lines 113–114). 16  Charpin (2006). 17  See e.g. Igituḫ short version 263, cf. Landsberger/Gurney (1957–58: 84) and several versions of Old Babylonian Lú, e.g. A 23–24=B 26–27=D 147–148, cf. Civil (1969: 158, 177, 207). 14 15



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We can now return to the discussion of whether āpilum or a.bil (apillû) is the original form of the word. If a.bil were the original form, we would expect to see more attestations of it and not only in omen lists. Also, interpreting a.bilmeš as an originally Sumerian word would require a meaningful interpretation of this term. This, however, seems impossible: a (‘water’), bil (‘to roast’), or reading ne (‘steaming’) instead of bil. This would leave us with somebody who makes water steam. As water is not mentioned in the context of any āpilum, this is not satisfactory. Alternatively, the word āpilum came first and the Sumerian spelling is a secondary pseudoetymology, an attempt to give the term more clout by providing a Sumerian ‘original’. This seems to be what CAD has in mind when pointing out that the spelling ú.bil.meš in the preceding line might have encouraged such a later interpretation.18 This understanding can be supported further when taking the different readings of the spelling a-pil-lu-ú into account. This spelling can be read as either a-pil-lu-ú or a-pi5-lu-ú as the ne-sign can be read as pil and as pi5, the latter reading resulting in the normal form āpilu(m).19 Exactly that spelling is attested in a bilingual lexical list from Ebla where the Sumerian eme.bala (‘interpreter, spokesperson’) is equated with four forms related to the Semitic root ʾpl:20 tá-tá-bí-lu = taʾtap(p)ilu(m) (text C, v. col VII: 2–3) a-pá-um = *ap(p)āʾum (text i, rev. col. V: 6–7) a-pá-lu-um = ap(p)ālum (text c, rev. col. III: 11–12) a-pi5-lu-um = āpilum (text A2, rev. col III: 7’–8’)21

This text has been known since 1980 but has largely been side-lined in the discussion on āpilum, in spite of the potential for this discussion.22 The context makes it abundantly clear that the Ebla terms are derived from  CAD A II, 169.  According to Borger (2004: 313 [NE 313]), the reading pi5 is also attested in Old Babylonian, contrary to von Soden/Röllig (1991: 22 [NE 122]), which only lists Old Akkadian with this reading. As far as I know the above reading has not been suggested for ḫar.gud and the other lexical lists before. 20  Pettinato (1982). This term is already attested in Pettinato/Biggs (1981a: testi 6–7, line 11), a text said to go as far back as the Fara period, ca. 2,600–2,500 BCE. A photo of text 6, TM.75.G.1488, is available in Pettinato/Biggs (1981b: tav.IV). 21  The text was reconstructed by Pettinato from all the 116 versions that he had access to, cf. Pettinato (1982: xxiii–xxix). 22  Fronzaroli (1980); some exceptions to the rule are Pettinato (1981b: 259, 275), Krebernik (1983: 7), Conti (1990: 94), Pettinato (1996: 6–8) emending his earlier views, Fronzaroli (1980), van der Toorn (1987), Merlo (2004) and most recently Durand (2008a: 441 n.19). 18

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the Semitic root ʾpl; a-ne-lu-um should therefore be read a-pi5-lu-um in the lexical lists and omen lists as well. The reading a-pil-lu-ú is probably a misreading that in turn gave rise to the pseudo-Sumerogram a.bil, which can thus be discarded as a (ancient) scholarly invention; in ḫar.gud and the other lists, a-pi5-lu-ú is the more precise reading. Another question that should be addressed is that of the translation of āpilum. As stated above, most scholars understand it as a G-participle of apālu resulting in a translation (‘answerer’).23 While this would be the straight-forward interpretation, it does not sit well with the fact that no āpilum is ever asked a question and thus never answers one. This was already noted by van der Toorn, Cagni and Nissinen.24 On the basis of TM.75.G.1488 Fronzaroli suggested translating ʾpl as ‘to interpret/translate’. Thus, taʾtap(p)ilu(m) is interpreted as a Dt nomen agentis (in the taptarrisum-pattern) and translated as ‘interpreter’.25 The first and second are either to be understood as infinitives, apā(l)u, or as parrās-forms, appā(l)u, denoting a profession.26 Without doubt the most interesting form is the fourth, āpilum, as it conforms to the term from Mari. In his recent study on Eblaite religion, Pietro Mander has argued that the āpilum should be understood as a priest ‘qui interprète les omina’.27 This means that he understands āpilum at Ebla as a 24th century BCE attestation of the prophetic title found at Mari, pushing our earliest attestation of prophets back to Ebla—but turning them into interpreters of omina. However, the term does not appear anywhere else in the extensive Ebla material. Therefore, I think it is more likely that the term did not carry any specific prophetic force at Ebla. Based on Fronzaroli’s initial suggestion to translate Mari āpilum as ‘ “portavoce” o “interprete” delle parole del dio’,28 Merlo translates āpilum as ‘interpreter’.29 In his opinion, there is one exception to this general

 Thus among others Durand (1988: 386), Huffmon (2000: 52) and Charpin (2002: 8).  Cagni (1995: 21), van der Toorn (1998a: 59–60) and Nissinen (2003d: 6). 25  Thus the reconstruction of the form by Conti (1990: 94). The form taptarrisum is derived from orgininal tuptarrisum under the influence of vowel harmony. For this translation cf. Kienast (1984: 228–229, 246) and Pettinato (1996: 8); cf. also Lambert (1987: 409). 26  GAG §55o 23, thus also Merlo (2004: 325). 27  Mander (2008: 106–107), pointing towards Pettinato (1999: 327–329). 28  Fronzaroli (1980: 95). 29  Merlo (2004: 326, 331–332). 23

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rule: the attestations from Nuzi.30 Here he suggests ‘spokesperson’ instead, as the word āpilum is followed by a personal and not a divine name.31 The two translations are very similar, but carry slightly different nuances. A ‘spokesperson’ is sent out by someone—in our case a deity—and works as their emissary. The ‘translator’ is more likely to work on behalf of the person who is receiving the message, which would most likely be the king, but could theoretically be anybody. The expression āpilum ša DN would suggest that ‘spokesperson’ is the more natural translation. Further, Durand’s argument that ‘tout devin est, par sa fonction, interprête, d’un message divin’ should be taken seriously.32 The common translation ‘answerer’ can now be abandoned in view of the Eblaite lexical list; the translation ‘spokesperson’ conforms better to the actions and role of the āpilum as portrayed in the texts available to us. 3.1.2 Social Role of the āpilum (‘spokesperson’) As far as I am aware, the āpilum is well attested only at Mari and there are few attestations of the term elsewhere.33 In this section I will present the evidence available for the social role of the āpilum (‘spokesperson’), from which I deduce that he is the only real professional prophet at Mari. With the label ‘professional prophet’ I do not intend to downplay the role of 30  The three texts are HSS 13 152: 14–19, HSS 14 149: 5–8 and HSS 14 215: 16. For the first see Pfeifer/Lacheman (1942: 25) (there a-pí-lì is transcribed a-pí-ši); for the other two see Lacheman (1950: pl. 71, 89). Independently of whether the āpilum attested there is to be connected with a prophetic role, the text does not give further indication on the role of the āpilum, as they are provision-lists, Lion (2000: 23–24). A term āpilum is also attested on the tablet KAR 460: 16 from Aššur. The tablet is a fragment of an omen series but preserves only the apodoses. The line in question is: lugal i+na šà é.gal-šu a-pí-la nu tuk (‘a king will not have an āpilum in his palace’; the standard translation has ‘anyone who gain says’ for āpilum here). It is possible that this text is to be connected to prophecy, but it is not as certain as argued by Nissinen (2003d: 9). On the basis of this text, Gafney (2008: 54) argues that ‘[t]he notion of the apiltu as a dissenter suggests that her counsel was regularly perceived to be in opposition to that of the monarch.’ The text is the apodosis of an omen, meaning that its content will come true in case a certain feature is found in the liver of the sacrificial animal, according to the general form: if [feature], then the king will not have an āpilum in his palace. However, even if this text was not an apodosis in an omen series, Gafney’s argument would not work. Either āpilum means ‘prophet’; in that case the king will not have a prophet in his palace, or āpilum means ‘gainsayer’ and the king will not have any gainsayer in his palace; it cannot mean both at the same time. 31  Merlo (2004: 332 n.26), cf. CAD A III, sub āpilu B, 170; see also Mayer (1978: 140–141). 32  Durand (2008a: 441 n.19). 33  See n.30 on this page

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other prophetically gifted people at Mari, who are not professional prophets. The distinction aims at the slightly differing social roles which different specialists performed. Other religious specialists, such as the muḫḫûm and the assinnu occasionally prophesied, but their main functions were related to ecstatic performances in the cult. The messages originating from an āpilum are usually better constructed than those by lay-prophets. Further, as far as the evidence shows, only an āpilum could send a letter to the king himself.34 There are also several letters in which āpilū (pl.) are portrayed as delivering a written message.35 This could be due to an accident of preservation, but it also fits with the interpretation of the āpilum as a royal prophet. Other prophets were not as integrated in the royal administration and therefore did not write to the king directly.36 Durand describes the āpilum as seeking out prophetic messages, an active approach, while other (lay-)prophets receive them passively. From this, Durand deduces that the āpilum had to use triggering mechanisms in order to induce states of trance.37 According to Durand, many texts show that the āpilum takes the initiative into his/her own hands. Durand explicitly claims that an āpilum would provoke his trances in order to receive more specific information than the divine ‘yes’ or ‘no’ that had been acquired by hepatoscopy.38 In sum, one could express Durand’s position by saying that the āpilum is a special agent in the divinatory service.39 Durand’s reasoning works on the assumption that the divine messages of an āpilum were available on demand. But there is no textual evidence for this, including for more precise interpretation of the results of hepatoscopy, and in view of that it is better to allow for the possibility that the āpilum spoke only when his deity required him to do so.

34  ARM 26 194. 1[a-n]a z[i]-im-ri-l[i-im q]í-[bí-ma] 2[u]m-ma a-pí-lum [š]a d[ut]u-ma (‘1[T]o Zimri-L[im s]p[eak]: 2[T]hus (says) the āpilum [o]f Šamaš’). Note that the beginning of this letter does not conform to the usual protocol. There is no indication of the position of the sender in relation to the king (i.e. ìr-ka-a-ma or similar). The normal opening—ana bēlīya—is absent as well. It is by no means certain whether the āpilum mentioned here is the same as Atamrum in ARM 26 414. 35  E.g. the just mentioned ARM 26 199 and also ARM 26 208. 36  ‘So the only real professional prophet, official spokesman of the divinity, seems to me to be the āpilum’, Charpin (1992: 22). 37  Durand (1988: 386, 1995: 322–323 and 2008a: 410–424, 433–492). 38  Durand (1988: 386 and 2000: 77). 39  Durand (1988: 388–389 and 1995: 326–327).



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DeJong Ellis asks: (1) What is the mode through which the divine communicates? Is it elicited or provoked, or spontaneous? If both, can a pattern be discerned? (2) What cultic personnel is involved? What can we say about their specific functions? Is there a correlation between such answers as we currently have for these topics?40

She agrees with Moran that an āpilum receives his oracles in a ritual context. This raises an important question for the study and assessment of prophecy and the understanding of eliciting or provoking oracles as opposed to receiving them in non-provoked inspiration. Durand, Moran and deJong Ellis agree that wherever the āpilum is, he receives his messages in a cultic context but not always in the same temple: It is not clear in the Mari texts whether even the non-provoked inspirational message was experienced completely at random intervals, or whether it was part of a cultic ritual.41

If the oracle is received in a state of trance that is induced by a ritual is it to be regarded as a spontaneous or a provoked oracle? I believe that the oracle itself is still spontaneous, as not every induced trance will bring an oracle. Further, no āpilum ever claims to be ‘sent’ by a deity.42 The question, whether or not Durand is correct in his interpretation that the āpilum was entrusted with searching for divine messages must remain open, as the evidence is simply not decisive on this point. There is only one text, ARM 26 199, a letter by Sammetar to Zimri-Lim, which alludes to the possibility that an āpilum could be sent out in order to enquire the will of the gods but it is by no means clear what is happening. Sammetar, the governor of Terqa, a cult-centre of Dagan, writes that Lupaḫum came to him after a journey. After the usual introduction the text continues:

 Ellis (1987b: 255).  Ellis (1987b: 255). 42  It is important to note in this context that we have to carefully distinguish between the self-consciousness of being sent, and of sending others, contra Nissinen (1991: 135) who groups ‘zahlreiche [!] Sendungserklärungen und Weitergabe- bzw. Schreibbefeh­ ler’ together, when indicating that Mariote prophets commonly regarded themselves as being sent. 40 41

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chapter three Lupaḫum, a spokesperson of Dagan, 6came to me from Tuttul. 7This is the message43 which my lord 8had commanded (to) him 7in Saggaratum, 8(saying) thus: ‘Entrust44 me to Dagan of Terqa!’ This message 10he brought. And they answered (apālu) him (saying) thus: ‘11Wherever you are to go, well-being will always encou[nt]er you! Battering-ram 13and [t]ower [w]ill be given to you. 14They wil[l] walk beside you, they will come to assist you!’ 15 This message 16they answered him 15in Tuttul. 16 And 17on his arrival 16from Tuttul 17I sent him to Dēr. 18He brought bolts to Dērītum. 19Earlier he had brought a šernum-container,45 (saying) thus: ‘20The šernum-container is not in order and water 21flows out.46 Mend47 the šernumcontainer!’ 22 Now he brought rivets. 23And this was written, 24(saying) thus: ‘Hopefully 25you will not trust 24in the peace-making 25of the king of Ešnunna and 26 become negligent! 27Your guard 28has to be stronger 27than before.’ 29 And he spoke to me, (saying) thus: ‘30Hop[ef]ully the king will not 32swear 31 a treaty with the king of [Eš]nunna 30without asking a god. 32As before 33 when the Yaminites came down and 34stayed 33in Saggaratum; 34(when) I spoke to the king, I (said) thus:48 ‘35Do not ally yourself with the Yaminites! I will drive the shepherds of their herds into the Ḫubur49 and the river will 5

43  The accusative is slightly awkward, but this can be resolved by interpreting it as a proleptic accusative under the influence of uwaʾ ʾerušu. 44  Cum Heimpel (2003: 253–254) who understands this expression as following the pattern paqādum PN1 (accusative) ana PN2. The suffix represents the accusative and Dagan is the second ‘person’. Sasson (1995b) translates ‘investigate for me (the oracles) before Dagan’, but this rests on translating ana Dagan (‘to Dagan’) as ‘before Dagan’. Nissinen (2003d: 30) translates ‘To Dagan of Terqa entrust me!’ but qualifies this, saying that ‘[i]n concrete terms, this probably means investigating oracles’, thereby indirectly preserving Durand’s translations of piqdanni as ‘[f]ais la contre-épreuve’, cf. Durand (1988: 427–428). 45  All we know about this vessel is that it is made of wood, cf. the spellings listed in CAD Š II sub šernu: gišše-er-nu. 46  I thank Stephanie Dalley for the suggestion to read izubbū (‘flow away’) and not iṣuppū (‘soak’). 47  Even if the imperative is feminine here, it is hardly likely that anyone would address the goddess Dērītum in this tone. I agree with Heimpel (2003: 253) suggesting that these words were probably addressed to a female cult-official in the first place. 48  It is not entirely clear where to divide the two sentences. Heimpel (2003: 253) has the temporal clause ‘as some time ago, when [. . .] Saggaratum.’ as part of the preceding sentence, thereby implying that earlier the king did not check with any god. In the above division I follow Durand (1988: 427) who compares the actual reaction of the goddess in both instances and not the possible parallel reaction of the king. 49  Cum Charpin (2002: 25) followed by Nissinen (2003d: 31–32) who interpret this as a pun on the river Ḫabur and the underworld river Ḫubur. It might also include a further play on words with the canal close to Mari that is sometimes called Ḫubur. That would explain why íd has a phonetic complement ta implying the reading nārta, which usually means either canal or little river. Durand (1988: 427–428) reads ḫuburrê qinnātišunu and translates ‘Je les (r)enverrai 36au milieu du dispersement de leurs nids [. . .].’ I follow Charpin (2002: 25) also in the interpretation of re’e qinnātišunu: ‘L’explication de re-e



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finish them for you!’ 38[N]ow, 39he must not swear a tr[eaty] 38without having a[s]ked a g[o]d!’ 40T[hi]s is the message Lupaḫum told to me.

In my view, the course of events is as follows: Zimri-Lim either directly or indirectly orders Lupaḫum, an āpilum (‘spokesperson’) of Dagan of Terqa, to ‘entrust’ him (the king) to Dagan of Terqa. This took place in Saggaratum. Lupaḫum then goes to the shrine of Dagan of Terqa in Tuttul (!) and fulfils the king’s command (‘he brought it there’, line 10). The text goes on that ‘they’, i.e. some people at the shrine, responded with a Heilsorakel (lines 11–14). When Lupaḫum comes back to Saggaratum, probably in order to report that he had fulfilled the kings command, but also in order to convey the oracle, Sammetar sends him on to Dēr, to the temple of Dēritum, a local manifestation of Eštar. There is only one reason that could indicate that the two matters are related: Sammetar does not use the typical catch-phrase šanītam (‘secondly’).50 However, there is equally no indication that the two episodes are linked. The fact that Lupaḫum had brought a šernum-vessel to Dēr before could indicate that Lupaḫum’s duties at Dēr and at Tuttul were unrelated and are only included in the same letter because of their temporal proximity. With regard to the characterization of an āpilum as being sent out in order to elicit oracles, both stories can be taken independently as evidence. In the first episode, Lupaḫum goes to Tuttul and entrusts ZimriLim to Dagan of Terqa. There are only three alternatives how to interpret the ‘entrusting’: either Zimri-Lim wants a message from himself to be brought to Dagan of Terqa (at Tuttul) but confidentially, or Zimri-Lim wants Lupaḫum to check whether there is an oracle for him at Dagan’s temple at Tuttul,51 or Zimri-Lim wants Lupaḫum to put him, presumably in the form of a statuette, under the protection of Dagan of Terqa.52 It is paramount not to force the evidence. At the same time, the third possibility appears to be the most likely. In this case Lupaḫum’s mission to Tuttul would initially be unrelated to divination and the divine oracles which he brings back are coincidence. However if the first alternative is the correct interpretation, Lupaḫum went out to seek an answer to some confidential question. The answer he brings back is positive and affirmatory

qí-na-ti-šu-nu vient de J.-M. Durand.’ I have to admit, however, that I cannot find convincing evidence for this translation of qinnātišunu. 50  Similar to Rabbinic ‫אחר‬ ‫דבר‬. 51  This is only possible when translating with Durand (1988: 427–428). 52  This seems to be what Heimpel (2003: 253–254) has in mind.

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to Zimri-Lim as a military leader. However, it is possible that the divine oracle was not a reaction to whatever Lupaḫum did and merely coincided with his stay at Tuttul. The second alternative is slightly different. Lupaḫum twice goes to Dēr. Each time he carries an object to Dēritum, the goddess of Dēr. Each time a message accompanies the object, either inscribed on it, or in an accompanying letter.53 It is not clear who says what in this episode. My reconstruction is the following: Lupaḫum goes to Dēr a first time with a short message (lines 20–21). After his return from Tuttul he is again sent to Dēr and brings a second message (lines 24–28). Then he returns to Sammetar and tells him an oracle (lines 30–39). I assume that the oracle is a message from Dēritum. However, as Sammetar says that he, Lupaḫum, spoke those lines we do not know the gender of the sender of the message itself. Dēritum seems a safe assumption. The question is, whether the message is a reaction to the two objects and the messages connected to them, or whether it is a mere coincidence that Lupaḫum returned with a second oracle. While there is no obvious connection between the message that came in conjunction with the šernum-vessel and the oracle, the message on the bolt and the oracle are closely linked in content. The oracle could be interpreted as an answer to this message. It is also interesting that the deity demands that no action be taken without consulting ‘a god’ first. This is then picked up in the subsequent version of the ‘beneath the straw water runs’-oracle, here reported as pronounced by a qammatum of Dagan. This means that both Dagan and Dēritum demand that action not be taken without previously consulting a deity—something that, according to the report, had just been done through Lupaḫum. In short, it seems more likely than not that in these two episodes, Lupaḫum was indeed sent out to receive responses to messages to Dagan and to Dēritum.54 However, this text remains the only indication we have of this practice and the translation of āpilum with ‘spokesperson’ still remains better than ‘answerer’. When assessing where prophecies occur, temples feature frequently. However, an individual āpilum has a relationship with a specific deity,  The introductions of the messages are in lines 19 and 23 respectively.  See now also Chagar Bazar 176, which attests to a muḫḫûm of Adad of Aleppo at Chagar Bazar. On the interpretation of that aspect of the text see Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007a: 316–318). 53

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not with a specific temple. As the āpilū were sent out on missions they were more mobile, if only in order to travel to other temples. We have no reports that, like the bārû, he would be sent to accompany military expeditions.55 Administrative documents outlining items that are given to individuals of either class mention both in similar ways. Some distinction could be made inasmuch as some of the materials which are given out to an āpilum can be seen to be part of the equipment for their journey to and from sanctuaries: in A.3796 a donkey is given to Lupaḫum and in ARM 25 15 the āpilum Qišatum is given two bronze lances.56 However, other documents ascribe garments, silver rings and other items as ­remuneration.57 Thus, we arrive at the conclusion that the āpilum was a court official, directly responsible to the king and at times sent out on missions to retrieve answers to queries to the gods at remote temples. In contrast, each of the cultic professionals acting prophetically appears to have been linked to one temple and one deity and thus bound to one place, not linked primarily to the king but to the temple.58 In spite of my characterisation of the āpilum as a royal agent with special links to the divine,59 I am not aware of a single text which proves that they would use technical means to induce trances.60 In this respect ARM 26 207 has been cited as giving evidence for the usage of an intoxicating liquid. The reading of this text is controversial and I will offer my own translation of the relevant passage: Regarding the plan for a war 4on which my lord will be going, 6I gave (something)61 to drink 5to a male and a female so that I may question (them) 4about signs.62 The oracle 7for my lord is extremely good. 8Likewise,

3

55  Durand (1988: 394 and 1995: 330–331). This is one of the passages that were changed somewhat in the translation of Durand’s introduction from French into Spanish. 56  These are votive weapons, see e.g. Charpin (1987) and Radner/Kroll (2006). 57  E.g. ARM 9 22, ARM 21 333, ARM 22 167, ARM 22 326, ARM 23 446 and ARM 25 142. 58  Sharp distinctions between temple and the royal court are difficult to make as the two institutions were so interlinked. 59  I follow Durand (1988: 388–389 and 1995: 326–327). 60  Contra Durand (2008a: 421). 61  This ‘something’ cannot be specified as the text is rather elliptical. 62  Butler (1998: 153–154) follows Finet (1982: 48–49) who in turn follows Dossin (1978: 24) in reading maḫ. Finet interprets this as an ideogram for muḫḫûm and thus translates ‘I have asked for omens from the male and female ecstatic(s)’. Sasson (1994: 308) is followed by Heimpel (2003: 257) in translating šaqûm with a double accusative: ‘I gave (a) male and (a) female the signs to drink.’ In their view, the word ittātum takes on a metonymic meaning as a potion which permits the one who drinks it to see signs, or as

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chapter three I ­questioned 9the male and the female 8with regard to Išme-Dagan: 10the oracle about him 11is not good.

10

Finet and Durand interpret this passage as reflecting the use of alcoholic beverages to induce trance.63 Wilcke, however, argues that this letter does not support the idea of an induced trance but rather ‘eine gezielte Volksbefragung (Meinungsforschung)’.64 The drink is potentially still alcohol, not in order to achieve trance but to loosen the tongues of a man and a woman, in order to ask them about a their view on a war situation. We do not possess any indication as to how or indeed whether an āpilum would enter into a state of trance. The verbs used in conjunction with the āpilum are tebûm (‘to rise’), alākum (with a ventive suffix ‘to come’) and qabû(m) (‘to speak’). No trance-like activity can be gleaned directly from the description of their activities. 3.2 Lay-Prophets In this section I will discuss the evidence available for prophetic activity by a number of cult officials as well as ‘normal’ citizens and servants. Their primary function is not to prophesy; they are professionals only with regard to their every-day function. Even in the case of cult officials who occasionally prophesy, it does not follow that their prophetic activity is more than incidental, an activity which they perform at times, but which is not part of their core activity as cult-officials. Similarly, other layprophets also have professions. These professions are usually not given in the sources, and they do not locate them in the vicinity of the deity. For that reason, I will present the evidence in two subcategories: ‘cultic officials’ (3.2.1), which I will discuss first and ‘other lay-prophets (3.2.2).

actually containing the signs itself. In the translation by Durand (1982: 43–44) ittātum is taken as metonymic for the diviners who are then specified in apposition as a male and a female. I follow Wilcke (1983) in his translation, taking ittātum to mean ‘(ominous) signs’. Contra Gafney (2008: 205 n.16), the man and woman whom queen Šibtu questioned are not portrayed as an āpilum and an āpiltum here, even though the verb apālu (‘to answer’) is used. 63  Finet (1982) and Durand (1982: 44); Durand (2008a: 421) has recently re-iterated his opinion. 64  Wilcke (1983).



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3.2.1 Cultic Officials The sources at Mari attest several ecstatic cultic officials as prophesying. This means that people who are related to the cult of a deity could and would at times prophesy. They are not classified as professional prophets here as they do not seem to have a professional role in prophecy. The sources attest to three different cult officials in this way: the muḫḫûm is most frequent among the three, while the qammatum and the assinnu are attested less frequently. The assinnu is known from other sources and their role in the cult seems to have been related to war-like Annunītum.65 The muḫḫûm is known from other sites and other periods, but he only occurs in a cultic setting in the Eštar-rituals (FM 3 2 and 3) from Mari, the prayer Inanna C, the Neo-Assyrian Marduk Ordeal (SAA 3 34–35) and the Neo-Babylonian text LKU 51. Most of these support a connection to lamenting. The qammatum only occurs in three texts from Mari.66 In Durand’s view, both the assinnu and qammatum are diviners who appear to be acting in a prophetic way.67 As with the āpilum above, I will first discuss the etymology of the word muḫḫûm. As the muḫḫûm is also attested elsewhere in the cuneiform record and as I am giving a different emphasis to the interpretation of the social role that the muḫḫûm played in Old Babylonian societies, more space will be dedicated to the discussion of the muḫḫûm than to the other two cult officials, the assinnu and the qammatum. 3.2.1.1 The muḫḫûm The muḫḫûm is probably the best known among the three cult-officials who are active in the prophetic texts from Mari. The etymological discussion will show that ‘ecstatic’ is an apt translation and description of the term muḫḫûm.68

 Zsolnay (forthc.).  OECT 15 133: i 9 attests a Bāša, qa-mu-tum of Šamaš, Dalley (2005), potentially another attestation. 67  Two (male) assinnū, Šēlebum and Ili-ḫaznaya and one (female) qammatum without name appear in our texts so far. In Durand (1995: 332) a typographical error has caused the misspelling of Šēlebum as ‘Šelibtum’. 68  Contra Gafney (2008: 56–58) who regards the term as pejorative. 65

66

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The Etymology of the muḫḫûm The term muḫḫûm can be spelled syllabically, or logographically as lú gub.ba (‘the standing one’).69 The word is a pussû-pattern, the equivalent of purrus for ‘third weak’ roots (GAG §54m.). This pattern is used to denote the verbal adjective of the D-stem, often used for illnesses and bodily defects (GAG §55n). The term muḫḫûm is attested over a wide range in time and space. It appears in the protasis of omen texts and widely in administrative contexts (usually provision lists) and is usually understood as referring to some kind of diviner.70 Instead I want to suggest that a muḫḫûm was an ecstatic cult officials like an assinnu or zabbu. We will return to this point later. It is necessary to investigate the verbal root mḫʾ. To the best of my knowledge, forms of maḫû (‘to rave’) are mostly spelled syllabically. In a medical treatise the word occurs in a context in which it is clear that it expresses some form of corporeal harm.71 In CT 41 28: rev.6, a commentary on Šumma ālu, maḫû is equated with šegû, a verb used to describe the behaviour of a rabid dog and elsewhere also with Sumerian è;72 one Akkadian equivalent of è is (w)āṣû(m) (‘go out’), which gives a very strong indication that the meaning of maḫû in the G-stem (‘to rave/become frenzied’) as given in CAD is indeed correct.73 CAD also notes a second verb maḫû, for which it does not give a clear meaning. However the given meaning ‘to rave/be in ecstasy’ fits all texts I am aware of. In view of the

 The Akkadian equivalents to lúgub.ba in lexical lists seem to be ecstatics and intuitive diviners of various kinds. Note also the close similarity between the compound logogram lú gub.ba = muḫḫûm and lúgub(.ba).igi = manzaz pāni (‘courtier’), cf. Labat/MalbranLabat (1995: 117 [no.206]). According to the lexical lists, other spellings include lúní.su.ub, lú al.è.dè, lúal.e11.dè, lúal.e11.du6+du.dè. 70  Syllabically: Labat (1951: 4: 30). Logographically e.g. Köcher/Oppenheim (1957–58: 77 [K.8927: 10]), Boissier (1894: 211 r.12) and Gadd (1925: 4: 81). The word muḫḫûm has recently been found to be attested both at Chagar Bazar and at Tuttul. At Chagar Bazar it is attested in text no. 176, Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007b: 106, pl.71). Krebernik (2001: 134–135, pl 41) identified the word in KTT 306 from Tuttul. In their extensive review of the Tuttul material Durand/Marti (2004: 146) suggested reading KTT 359: rev.4’’ (in Krebernik’s counting) [a-na lú] mu!-ḫi!-im [. . .]. The traces on Krebernik’s drawing do not align well with that reading. 71  Labat (1951: 134: 34 and 178: 14): takalti libbišu ikkalšu u libbašu ma-ḫu (‘his stomach hurts him and his insides are in spasm’). The reference in CAD M that Ludlul bēl nēmeqi II: 21–22, Lambert (1960: 38, 289), puts im-ḫu-ú and ka-ba-tum (‘to be(come) heavy/burdensome’) in parallel is incorrect. While the two verbs occur in subsequent lines, they are not used in parallel there, as Lambert makes quite clear. 72  è \\ šēgû; è \\ maḫ-ḫu-ú. 73  The N-stem (namḫû) has inchoative character (‘to go into a rave/to become frenzied’). See also Wu (2001: 40). 69



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fact that FM 3 2 and 3 refer to the actions of the muḫḫûm in cultic context as ‘raving’, I follow the clear and common translation of muḫḫûm as ‘the one who raves/is ecstatic’.74 The Social Role of the muḫḫûm In his 1973 Religions of the Ancient Near East, Ringgren described Mari as part of the ‘border territories’:75 [S]eers of an ecstatic type, maḫḫû [are mainly attested in] the border territories to the west (Mari, Asia Minor and at a late date in Assyria, possibly under Aramaean influence). They were of low social status and associated with witchcraft.76

The only specialists who, according to Ringgren, escaped this rule were the prophets of Eštar.77 Scholarship in the last 30 years has changed this evaluation considerably. While the status of the muḫḫûm in Mariote society is still considered to be probably fairly low, he is no longer ‘associated with witchcraft’. As has been noticed since early on in the research on Mari prophecy, the outer appearance of a muḫḫûm appears to be out of the ordinary. The hair of two muḫḫû is described as etqum (‘fleece’/‘fur’).78 However, Sumu-ḫadu, governor of Mari under Yasmaḫ-Addu and early in the time of Zimri-Lim, uses this term to refer to his own hair.79 This shows that whatever an etqum-hairstyle looked like, it did not preclude a career up to very high levels in the royal administration. The next piece of evidence for the ecstatic character of the muḫḫûm is often seen in the episode in which a muḫḫûm is reported to have devoured

74  Nissinen (2010d) translates muḫḫû with ‘prophet’ throughout, thereby blurring the distinctions between the cult ectatic muḫḫû and the professional prophet āpilum drawn in this study. Scheftelowitz (1905: 168–171) and Streck (1916: II: 121 n.7) suggested understanding maḫḫû as the basis for Persian magu and Greek μάγος, citing Zimmern in Schrader (1902–03: 590 n.5). However, Zimmern is very careful to indicate that this suggestion is very tentative indeed, and as Nötscher (1966: 233–234) has shown, ultimately to be rejected. According to Pettinato apud Mander (2008: 107), má-ḫu at Ebla is to be connected with the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm as well. Mander reports Pettinato’s views and points out that elsewhere at Ebla má-ḫu means merchant. 75  Ringgren (1973: 95–99). 76  Ringgren (1973: 95). No such link can be shown in the primary literature. 77  Ringgren (1973: 95). 78  E.g. in ARM 26 215: 23–24 etqam ša qaqqadišu u sissiktašu (‘fur of his head and his hem’) replaces the more common šartam u sissiktam (‘hair and hem’). 79  He sends the hair and hem to Zimri-Lim: etqam ša qaqqadiya u sissikt[ī] ṣubātī ana ṣēr bēliya uštābilam, cf. ARM 26 182.

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what is probably a living lamb.80 While this could certainly be the action of a slightly deranged personality, it could equally well be regarded as a symbolic action. This is particularly the case, when seen in conjunction with the words spoken by the muḫḫûm in question: [. . .] 8ša Zi[mri-Lim] 9akkal ištēn puḫ[ādam. . .]81 10lūkul ištēn puḫād[am addin]šumma 11balṭussuma [in]a [p]ān abullim 12[ī]kulšu 13u šībūtim 14ina pān abullim 15ša Saggarātim 16upaḫḫirma 17kīam iqbi umma šūma 18 ukultum iššakkan 19ana lānē rugumma 20asakkam literrū 21awīl ša rīsam ippušu 22ina ālim lišēṣû 23u ana šalām bēlika Zi[mri-Lim] 24ištēn ṣubātam tulabbašanni 7

[. . .] 8of Zi[mri-Lim] 9I will eat. One la[mb. . .] 10I may eat.’ [I gave] him one lam[b.] 11It was alive and 12[he] ate it 11in front of the gate. 16 I assembled 13the elders 14in front of the gate 15of Saggaratum. 17This he spoke, he (said) thus: ‘18 A ‘devouring’ will occur! 19Demand from the cities 20that they return the asakkum! 21(Any) man who commits an act of violence82 22you must evict from the city! 23 For the well-being of your lord Zi[mrī-Lim] 24you shall clothe me with a garment!’ ‘7

10

This oracle is based on word play with the root ʾkl which appears four times within this text, denoting both the devouring of the lamb and the threatened plague.83 The interpretation of the devouring of the lamb as either a symbolic or magical act is, therefore, more likely than its interpretation as a random act committed in frenzy but the two interpretations do not necessarily exclude each other.

 ARM 26 206.  Durand (1988: 434) restores lines 7–9 as follows: 7um-ma šu-ú-ma w[u-di mi-nam] 8ša Zi-[im-ri-lim] 9a-ka-al 1si[la4 i-di-in-m]a. In his translation of these lines, Nissinen (2003d: 38) parses the verb form upaḫḫir as a third person singular rather than a first person singular as I do above. Morphologically, both interpretations are possible. I think it is more likely that the elders would follow the command of the governour rather than the commands of a muḫḫûm. 82  Durand (1988: 434–435) translates the expression awīl ša rīsam ippušu as ‘celui qui s’est livré à une action violente’, referring to a NB attestation ri-i/is-sa lû îpuš, cf. Lipšur Litany type I: 82, Reiner (1956: 136). In her notes, Reiner quotes the list Malku=šarru I: 103, in which both râsu and rāsabu are equated with dâku (ri-is-ba-tu = di-ik-tu), cf. Weidner (1941–44: pl. 7 II: 10). The verb râsu appears in Old Babylonian as well as in NB and the noun is only attested once in NB and here. Although there is some uncertainty as to its meaning, Durand’s interpretation is convincing. Heimpel (2003: 256) leaves the word untranslated. 83  The word for plague in Akkadian, ukultum, is derived from the root ʾkl (‘to eat’) and can also refer to ‘fodder’ or ‘food’. Malamat (1991: 136–137) and Astour (1992) picked up on this in the early 1990s. A connection via assonance to the verb ekēlum (‘be(come) dark’, in the D-stem ‘to darken’) is also possible. The allusions are not mutually exclusive. 80 81



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Charpin claims that the muḫḫûm does not speak (qabû) but shouts (šasûm).84 But the verb is not strongly attested in the Mari prophetic texts: ARM 26 202: 16 attests a muḫḫūtum shouting incessantly (ši[t]assâm). On the basis of Charpin’s assumption Durand concludes that the muḫḫûm was socially marginalised.85 Durand asserts that it is precisely for the ‘natural’ trance that the muḫḫûm is appreciated and that the ‘muhhûm peut vivre en bande ou être solitaire’, which attracts the attention of biblical scholars.86 However, no textual evidence is given to support this claim. I tend towards regarding the muḫḫûm as less central than the āpilum, but by no means as marginal. If the king himself is willing to interact with them, indeed have them take part in the monthly Ritual of Eštar (FM 3 2 and 3), it seems likely that they were part of the central establishment.87 When taking into account that the most common logographic spelling of muḫḫûm is lúgub.ba (‘the standing one), it is surprising that the verb tebûm (‘rise’) is rare in the context of a muḫḫûm in Old Babylonian texts. The only time it occurs with a muḫḫûm as subject is during a sacrifice.88 The muḫḫûm seems to have been of a lower status than the āpilum. Not a single example of a muḫḫûm writing to the king directly exists today. This could be due to an accident of preservation, but it fits with the interpretation of the muḫḫûm as someone who dictates his message orally to the king’s administration and entrusts his divine message into their hands. In Durand’s view this can be explained by looking at the different ways the relationship with the divine worked in each case: the āpilum had a close relationship with a deity, not with the temple, while the muḫḫûm was bound to a temple, which he was not supposed to leave. There is, however, no text which would give any indication that the muḫḫûm was not supposed to leave the temple. The recent finds at Chagar Bazar include a list which specifies that a muḫḫûm of Adad of Aleppo is given large amounts of beer can be interpreted in two ways: either the muḫḫûm is from Aleppo and was sent to Chagar Bazar, or he was a muḫḫûm of Adad of Aleppo who was active in Chagar Bazar. As Lacambre and Millet Albà, the editors of the text note,  Charpin (1992: 22 and 2002: 8).  Durand (2000: 77). This fits in well with Lewis’ (2003) understanding of prophecy which was transferred into biblical scholarship by Wilson (1980). 86  Durand (1988: 387). For the quote see Durand (1995: 326 and 2000: 76). 87  Cf. also the figure of Ezekiel whose symbolic actions are easily on par with this incident and he is not marginal but central. 88  ARM 216 215, cf. Durand (1995: 324). It does, however, occur in the context of the āpilum, e.g. FM 6 1, ARM 26 195 and 204. 84 85

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most of the text in the dossier of which this text is one list rations of beer given to people who were ‘gens en déplacement vers ou depuis Chagar Bazar (messagers étrangers, fonctionnaires du royaume de Haute Mésopotamie, etc.)’ which suggests that the muḫḫûm was among these displaced people and not from Chagar Bazar.89 It is not sure, however, that he is from Aleppo either. He could have been a muḫḫûm of Adad of Aleppo who had been displaced from a temple of Adad of Aleppo anywhere in Mesopotamia. If he was from Aleppo, this would indicate that contrary to what used to be held as a given, muḫḫû (pl.) could leave the temples of their deities.90 When assessing where prophecies occur, temples are often mentioned. However, the muḫḫûm has a relationship with a specific deity, not with a specific temple, but at the same time it does not follow that he had a ‘vagabond’ life-style. In Durand’s view, a connection with a temple could explain why a muḫḫûm always needs a scribal intermediary: he was not supposed to leave the temple precincts. However, in view of Chagar Bazar 176 it is more difficult to uphold this interpretation. The muḫḫû appears to have been linked one deity and was thus linked primarily to temple administration and only secondarily to the king. How close the link to the temple was remains unclear, but the muḫḫûm is documented as taking part in is the Ritual of Eštar (FM 3 2 and 3). In this ritual the action of a muḫḫûm is described with a form of the verb maḫû (‘to rave’).91 Additionally, all surviving texts in which a muḫḫûm appears, describe him as delivering a perfectly understandable messages, apparently not needing a translator.92 In one of the two texts for the Eštar ritual, two alternatives are described depending on the actions of a muḫḫûm: either he raves, in which case the musicians are required

89  Chagar Bazar 176, Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007b: 176). For the quote see Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007a: 316–317). 90  Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007a: 317) suggest that the presence of this muḫḫûm is probably related to the wider political scene. The political influence of a king and the religious and political influence of the national deity often appear related: Yarim-Lim’s influence as king of one of the major powers in the Old Babylonian period might have enabled Adad of Aleppo to make demands of kings and individuals who are not close to Aleppo. For such behaviour see FM 7 39 where Nūr-Sîn reports that Adad of Aleppo demanded certain properties from Zimri-Lim. This behaviour of Adad of Aleppo was possibly related to a desire of this deity to be of universalistic importance, Durand (2002: 1–29) and Charpin (2002: 31). 91  FM 3 2 and 3. 92  Contra Durand (1988: 388 and 1995: 325–326).



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to sing a certain lament, or he remains in equilibrium (i.e. does not go into ecstasy) and the musicians are sent away.93 The other text, FM 3 3, is almost entirely destroyed in the relevant passage. What we know is that a group of (female) muḫḫātum is described as active. The muḫḫûm also appears in Inanna C, a prayer associated with Enḫeduanna. In line 88–90 of this text a number of cultic officials are mentioned who ‘exhaust themselves with weeping and grief ’.94 I now point to two later texts: the first of these is the ritual to Dumuzi and Ištar.95 In this text male and female zabbu and maḫḫû are supplied with kurummatu bread in a part of the ritual which is to ward off evil influences on the patient. The Neo-Babylonian texts LKU 51 contains some of the cultic duties at the Eanna with a focus on musical performers. What is preserved of lines 29–30 on the reverse is identical and reads: [xxx] ‘the muḫḫû (lúgub.ba) circumambulates with(?) her, carries the water basin (and) proceeds [xxx]’.96 Here, again, we see the muḫḫûm active in the cult, but without any indication of prophetic activity. I suggest that the behaviour described in these texts should be regarded as the ‘normal’ behaviour which defines the role of the muḫḫûm, and if that is done they become associated with lamentation and the dead rather than with prophecy. Not surprisingly, the verb maḫû is used, elsewhere associated with ecstatic behaviour. I suggest the verb maḫû and therefore also the role muḫḫûm should be understood as that of an ecstatic who is active in the cult of Ištar. In that they have ecstatic cultic role, the muḫḫûm and the assinnu (and possibly the qammatum) are comparable, and it may not be too surprising to see that ecstatic cult-functionaries also prophesy. Their prophetic role, however, is secondary to their ecstatic function, which defines their social and cultic role in Mariote society.

93  FM 3 2 col ii: 21’–27’. This text and its ‘sister’ text FM 3 3 have sometimes been cited in support of the thesis that music and prophecy are linked functionally at Mari. Evidently, FM 3 2 does not show the use of music to induce (prophetic) trances. Further, the translation of the two verbforms of maḫû (‘to rave’) as ‘to prophesy’ is unwarranted. It is translated thus by some commentators—and only in this context. It seems better to translate as ‘to rave’ as is the normal meaning of the verb. 94  ETCSL 4.07.3: 88–90. The muḫḫû is spelled lúal.éd.dè rather than lúgub.ba here. 95  Farber (1987) = WAW 12 118. 96  Beaulieu (2003: 373–378). In this part of the ritual, a kettledrum is played at the end of each day. There is no direct connection between the muḫḫûm and the playing of ­instruments.

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3.2.1.2 The assinnu The assinnu is a relatively well attested cult-official and often appears connected to the kurgarrû, and both seem to have performed dances and music at times in an ecstatic fashion.97 In younger texts they occasionally show ambiguous gender roles, but this aspect is absent in older texts.98 In the Mari letters two assinnū appear, both of them linked to the cult of Annunītum.99 If Durand’s view of the assinnu were correct, they would be a form of emasculated cult-performer who ‘responds with joy’ to the singing of the kurgarrû.100 It does not seem at all unlikely that such an individual would experience trances.101 The question is whether the form of trance they experienced can justifiably be called ‘prophetic’.102 Further, recent studies of the assinnu by Julia Assante and Ilona Zsolnay have shown that there is no evidence in favour of emasculation, and even the ‘third-gender’ role performed by assinnu seems to be a later phenomenon.103 I will address both question in inverse order. It has often been argued that the assinnu in general displayed an ambiguous gender behavious. This question arises with the famous quote from the Erra-Epos:

97  The assinnu is not a prophetic or divinatory title as is sometimes claimed, e.g. Barstad (2005: 28), but describes a cult official of Ištar. See now the important essay by Zsolnay (forthc.).    98  E.g. CAD K sub kurgarrû and CAD A II sub assinnu.    99  ARM 26 197, 212 and 213. In the entire cuneiform record there are no other texts connecting prophecy and the assinnu. Nonetheless, Assante (2009) regards the assinnu as a prophet. 100  CAD and K.3438a + 9912,9: yarurūtu usaḫḫurū. Durand (1988: 395, 1995: 332 and 2008a: 451–452) points out that earlier translation of assinnu as ‘eunuch’ is untenable, as the ša rêšî and the assinnu appear at the same time and have clearly distinguishable roles. See also the following comment in CAD R, p. 296: ‘the title ša/šūt rēši referring to soldiers and workmen in OAkk. and Mari does not designate eunuchs. The evidence from later texts does not demand a meaning eunuch. A few references, including the MA harem edicts (see ša rēš šarri), show that those serving as courtiers or household personnel could in some instances at least be eunuchs.’ In favour of the interpretation as eunuch see Oppenheim (1950: 135 n.1). Against it, see, e.g., CAD A II, 341. and Renger (1969: 192–193). 101  Durand (1988: 395–396 and 1995: 332–333). 102  Recently it has even been claimed that the assinnu is a Mesopotamian phenotype of the shaman, Huffmon (2004). Maul (1992) had cautiously suggested this 12 years earlier. 103  Assante (2009) and Zsolnay (forthc.). Assante quotes evidence pointing toward the children of assinnū.



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kurgarrî (m)issinnī ša ana šupluḫ nišī Ištar zikrūssunu utēru ana sin[ništi] the kurgarrû (and) assinnu whom Ištar had changed from men into women to show the people piety.104

What is to be envisaged when Ištar turns men who were assinnū and kurgarrû into women? While there is evidence for potentially homosexual acts in connection to the assinnu, this is by no means pervasive.105 The list Malku=šarru I 135 attests the feminine form, assinnatu.106 If assinnu were emasculated men, what is an assinnatu, who in that text is equated to entum (‘high priestess’)? In the lexical list ḫar-gud B: 133 the assinnu is equated with the sinnišānu, which is commonly translated as ‘one who is like a female.107 If von Soden were correct we would in no uncertain terms be presented with with men—and possibly women—who did not follow the ‘normal’ gender models in their society. Julia Assante, however, has recently suggested to translate the term as ‘that specific female’.108 In Ištar’s Descent into the Underworld their mythical counterparts are able to enter the underworld.109 In his interpretation of the social position of the kurgarrû and assinnu, Maul draws on Ereškigal’s curse, Die Brote der “Saatpflüge (gišapinmeš) der Stadt” seien deine Kost 105aus den Abwasserröhren der Stadt (sollst du) dein Getränk (nehmen), 106der Schatten der Mauer sei dein Aufenthaltsort, 107die Türschwelle sei dein Sitzplatz, 108 der Betrunkene und der Durstige mögen deine Wange schlagen!110 104

He interprets the ‘plough of the city’ as the penis of the kerb crawlers of antiquity and the ‘wastewater’ as urine. He takes these terms to describe the reality of the assinnu’s live.111  Erra iv: 55–56, Cagni (1969: 110 and 1970: 26). Cf. also the Hellenistic ‘Fête d’Ištar’ AO. 7439+: rev.25’, Lackenbacher (1977) and Linssen (2004: 238–244). Issinnu is a variant of assinnu, CAD A II, p. 341. 105  CT 39 45: 32. 106  Kilmer (1963: 427); Western Semitic ugbabtum is equated with Akkadian entum in line 134 and with assinnatum in line 135. 107  MSL 12 6.22: 133, Civil (1969: 226) and AHw. 108  Assante (2009: 34 n.38). 109  Thus the interpretation by Maul (1992: 161–162). 110  The Akkadian is, 104aklī (ninda.meš) gišepinnēt (apinmeš) āli (uru) lu a-kal-ka 105 dugḫaba-na-at āli (uru) lu ma-al-ti-it-ka 106ṣilli (gissu) dūri (bàd) lu-ú man-zu-zu-ka 107as-kup-pa-tu lu mu-ša-bu-ú-ka 108šak-ru ù ṣa-mu-ú lim-ḫa-ṣu le-et-ka, cf. Borger (2006: 101 [Nin 104–108]). For (quite different) English translations see Dalley (1997a) and Foster (2005: 503). 111  In view of the current discussion about the existence on cult prostitution in general, it seems unlikely that the assinnu is a male cult prostitute, as suggested by Maul 104

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Yet, assinnū were clearly not without power; as we have seen, they were able to transgress the borders between the world of the living and the underworld, where they could presumably communicate with the dead. This was due to their supernatural existence as they were understood as having been created directly by the gods. Last but not least, they possessed the ‘water of life’ and ‘herb of life’ which with Ea/Enki had provided them. As indicated above, this has led Maul and Huffmon to assume that the assinnū were shamans.112 Shamans share the ability to travel to different planes of being and have a connection to the world of the dead, as well as the ability to induce states of trance and ecstasy;113 also, transgendered identity is fairly typical for shamanism.114 However, there are several reasons that speak against an identification of assinnū with shamans. Groneberg describes clearly how transgendered identity is, at least in cultic settings, nothing unusual and by no means limited to the assinnu. All participants of certain rituals to Ištar swapped clothing and other gendered items.115 This ambiguous gender performance of the assinnu is confined to the first millennium—where the assinnu is no longer linked to prophecy; conversely, in Mari, the only place where two assinnū are attested as prophesying, there is no evidence of ambiguous gender behaviour.116 Based on careful study of the available texts, Ilona Zsolnay has recently interpreted the assinnu as a warrior cult official of Annunītum, the ‘Sovereign of Battle’.117 This does not mean that at least in first millennium Mesopotamia the assinnu did not perform a non-standardized gender role, this is (1992). See Assante (1998, 2003, 2007 and 2009), Bird (1997), Budin (2008), Gruber (1983, 1986, 1988 and 2005) and Zsolnay (forthc.). 112  Maul (1992: 163–164) and Huffmon (2004). 113  Probably both with the water and the herbs of life. Whether or not their groaning is also part of a trance-inducing technique, as suggested by Maul (1992: 165) has to remain uncertain. It is certainly possible. 114  E.g. the Basir Shamans from southern Borneo as described in Eliade (1964: 352–353). The link between the underworld and the assinnu remains strong: See Ištar-Louvre II 16: ˹šasi˺ assinnummi ebbi nilim šakin iqqabbir (‘the assinnum shouts “be pure! lie down!” When he “puts in place” he is buried’). In respect to their ability to cross the barrier between the living and the dead I am inclined to agree with Groneberg’s tentative suggestion to read nišī instead of nilim. In that case the line would translate ‘the assinnum shouts “be pure!” He [the assinnum] puts the people down and buries [them]’, cf. Groneberg (1997b: 26–27, 47–48 n.118, 120); the cry ebbi ‘be pure’ could well be understood as part of a burial rite, and who better to carry out such rites and be in contact with the dead but one who is not affected negatively by them, such as the assinnu. 115  Groneberg (1997a). 116  See also Stökl (forthc.-a). 117  Zsolnay (forthc.).



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a far cry from being a eunuch or sexually (self-)mutilated. With Zsolnay and Assante, I therefore regard the assinnu as a cult official who’s cultic performance is related to the war-like aspects of their patron-deity Ištar. With Zsolnay but against Assante, I regard this ‘war-game’ aspect as the primary function, rather than the coincidental aspect of prophecy; after all, prophecy and assinnū are only attested together at Mari and at no other point in the cuneiform record. 3.2.1.3 The qammatum Among the professional titles at Mari there is the mysterious word qammatum. The term is only attested at Mari and nowhere else.118 Within the Mari text it is attested three times. In none of the three texts much information on the qammatum is given so that not much more can be said about her than that the term qammatum seems to refer to a cult-official who is connected to prophecy. The etymology and meaning of the word qammatum itself is not unambiguous. On the basis of ARM 10 80=ARM 26 197, the word had at first been read míqa-ba!-tum, since in Old Babylonian the ba and the ma are very similar;119 ARM 26 197 and ARM 26 199 allow for readings, qa-ma-tum and qa-ba-tum. The reading qabbatum is tempting as it could be connected to the verb qabû (‘to speak’) and possibly also to the cult official qabba’u, as tentatively proposed by Renger.120 However, if we accept the restoration [ša fqa]-am-ma-[tim] in ARM 26 203: 12’, a text not available to Römer, the reading qabbatum is excluded as am cannot be read ab.121 Thus, contrary to the reading of the lemma in CAD and AHw, the reading as qammatum as opposed to qabbatum is virtually certain and any connections with the verb qabû (‘to speak’) are thus untenable.122 118  OECT 15 133: i 9 might witness the same title in a different spelling. That texts attests to a Bāša, qa-mu-tum of Šamaš, Dalley (2005). 119  Römer (1971: 21). 120  Renger (1969: 219 n.1044). 121  This ‘newly’ established reading has not yet reached all quarters of the scholarly community; some scholars still read qabbatum instead of qammatum. Thus, Behrens (2002: 363) relying on Schmitt (1982: 107–108) and Malamat (1987: 38, 47), offers both as possible readings; cf. also CAD Q, p. 2. Henshaw (1994: 291) even claims that qabbātum [sic!] is the new reading, citing qamātum [sic!] as the former reading. He is followed in this by Gafney (2008). Sadly, also newer dictionary articles still use the reading qabbātum, see Wilson (2005: 7430). 122  Durand (1988: 396) also reads qammatum, but argues that the ma itself is a clear ma and cannot be read as a ba. He also connects the qammatum to the kezertum, a woman who is known for her special hairstyle. Sometimes the qabbaḫu is cited in connection with

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Having established the correct reading, we thus are limited to the roots qʾm, qmm and qmʾ.123 The nominal form is either a passat(um) or a parsat(um), both common ways of forming nouns in Akkadian from bi-consonantal roots;124 if the former, the verbal root is qamāmu (‘to dress hair’).125 The CDA links the term qammatum to the West-Semitic verb qwm (‘to rise’, intransitive: ‘to stand up’). A derivation from the verb qamû (‘to burn’) may also be possible. As the qammatum is probably linked to the cult, a connection with burning and fire does seem possible.126 Durand suggested deriving qammatum from the verb qamāmum and regarding it as a reference to an especially wild hairstyle.127 Most commentators have mentioned that the qammatum’s hairstyle is referred to as etqum (‘fur/shock of hair’). However, this hairstyle was not limited to her but, as attested by ARM 26 215, was also worn by a muḫḫûm. On the basis of this and due to the complete absence of the qammatum from the rest of the cuneiform record it is possible to speculate that it is used here as a way to refer to a muḫḫātum with a particularly wild hairstyle. In any case, as there is no further information available about this woman it is impossible to be certain what her everyday role entailed.128 3.2.2 Other Lay-Prophets In this section I will briefly present the evidence for lay-prophets at Mari, who are not at the same time cult functionaries. Excluding dream reports as a slightly different form of intuitive divination, and excluding all texts which are broken and thus do not allow for an identification only two texts remain: ARM 26 210, 214. In the first Kibri-Dagan reports that a woman whom he describes as the ‘spouse of a free man’ came to him claiming to the qabbatum, cf. Henshaw (1994: 291). This title seems to denote some kind of police officer, cf. Goetze (1965: 215). For references cf. AbB 2 65: 25, 33, AbB 2 71: 5, 14, cf. Frankena (1966: 38–39, 42–43) and Smith College, MA, tablet no. 240: 38, cf. Goetze (1965: 212). 123  According to CDA The root qʾm appears only as qmm in Akkadian. Theoretically a root qmt would also be possible, but it does not exist either. 124  For parsatum as a nominal form of a root with a vowel as the last consonant (verba ultimae infirmae) following the paradigm of tri-consonantal roots, cf. GAG §55g. 125  CAD Q sub qamāmum. 126  Thus CAD Q sub qabbatum and Renger (1969: 219). 127  Durand (1988: 396 and 1995: 333–334). The verb qamāmum is referenced only in jB lexical texts which are more than 1000 years younger than the texts in which the qammatum occurs. 128  The suggestion by Huffmon (2000: 50) to understand the title as a personal name seems unlikely.



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be sent by Dagan in order to warn Zimri-Lim about the Babylonians and their intentions. In the second, queen Šibtu reports that Aḫum the priest of Annunītum had come to her with a report about ‘Aḫatum, a servant girl of Dagan-malik’, who went into trance, with the consequence that the goddess spoke through the servant girl. In both cases, the prophetic identity of the speaker is confirmed. In the first the claim to be sent by Dagan fulfils that function, while in the second text the first person speech in Annunītum’s stead has a similar effect. The main conclusion to be drawn from these texts is that lay-women could and did prophesy at Mari. When they did, their ‘real’ profession does not seem to have been of much importance to the writer of the report: both letters only list that the women have a male person on whom they depend. It is curious, however, to see that both texts show lay-women prophesying. Apparently lay-men did not prophesy. 3.3 The nabû As indicated by the asterisk, the singular *nabû is not attested in connection with divination anywhere in the cuneiform record. So far, the plural nabī occurs once each in thirteenth century BCE Emar and eighteenth century BCE Mari.129 Probably because of the fact that both attestations are etymologically linked to the Hebrew ‫( נָ ִביא‬nābīʾ), many scholars have suggested to understand the term as referring to prophets.130 I am convinced that the assonance of the Akkadian plural nabī to the Hebrew singular ‫ נביא‬has a role to play; as far as I am aware the Akkadian singular nabû has never been associated with prophecy, Hebrew or otherwise.131 I will keep my comments here to a minimum as I discuss both the Emar and the Mari attestation in the chapter on the etymology of ‫נביא‬.

129  ARM 26 216: 5 attests the lúna-bi-imeš for Mari. Emar 387: 11 (version F) has [i-na u4–m] i ina é lú.mešna-bi-i ú-[x-x]-x, Arnaud (1986: 385–386). 130  Thus Durand (1988: 377–378), Fleming (1993a, 1993b, 1993c), Heintz (1997c: 198– 202) and Nissinen (2003d: 51 n.b). According to Nissinen, Huehnergard (1999) takes a sceptical view as to the etymological comparability of these terms. However, Huehnergard is not sceptical on the comparability, he merely points out that this attestation does not support an active interpretation of the Hebrew term. 131  On nabû see Pomponio (1998–2001) and Seidl (1998–2001).

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Tebī-gērišu writes to Zimri-Lim that he gathered the nabī of the Ḫaneans in order to get a têrtum (‘omen’) for the wellbeing of Zimri-Lim.132 As Sasson has pointed out, têrtum is a technical term which normally belongs into the realm of the technical diviner, such as the bārû (‘seer’).133 Those, who want to uphold the connection between ‫ נביא‬and the Mari (and Emar) nabī, would therefore have to see the predecessors of the Hebrew prophets in technical diviners, rather than in intuitive prophets. My research on the usage of the term ‫ נביא‬the Hebrew Bible leads me to believe that such a link to technical divination may have existed well into the monarchic period. As the object of this chapter is Mari prophecy and not Mari divination, I will not discuss the nabī any further here.134 3.4 Prophetic Groups Recently, Huffmon has collected the texts which have been used to argue for the existence of prophetic groups at Mari.135 Prophetic groups are here understood as prophets who act as a group, rather than individual prophets. The evidence cited by Huffmon is, however, by no means unequivocal in its support for the existence of prophetic groups. The first text Huffmon cites is ARM 26 227, which contains a dreamreport of a woman who in her dream saw two muḫḫû, Ḫadnu-El and Iddin-kubi, presenting an oracle to a certain Abba.136 The woman explicitly describes the two as ‘alive’, which suggests that they had died in real life. The text describes a dream-reality and not real life, and two muḫḫû hardly make a group. To reconstruct prophetic groups or even guilds based on this text seems stretching the evidence too far.

132  ARM 26 216: 8–9: 8têrtam ana šalām bēliy[a] 9ušēpiš (‘9I caused (them) to make 8an omen for the well-being of m[y] lord’). 133  Sasson (1994: 311 n.42). But cf. FM 7 39: 13 where têrtum appears to refers to a prophetic oracle—unless we should understand that letter as presenting the results of some form of technical divination as well. 134  See Charpin (2002: 19). See further comments on the nabī in chapter 13.1. 135  Huffmon (2000). Indeed, Huffmon (1976b: 698) already regarded the plural āpilū in FM 7 39: 29 (then referred by the text’s museum number A.1121: 24) as an indication that groups of prophets were active in Mari. See also Durand (2008a: 444) and Nissinen (2008a). 136  The oracle which they transmit is somewhat mysterious. They exhort Abba to talk to her still-born babies (?) in order to ask them for a good harvest for Zimri-Lim.



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The second text which Huffmon adduces is FM 3 152.137 This text is badly damaged and only a few readable lines survive.138 Line five reads: 5 l[ú. . .]-ḫu-u ša dim Five [. . .]ḫū of Addu

Ozan, the editor of the text, reconstructed as follows: 5 l[ú.meš mu-uḫ]-ḫu-u ša dim139

It is possible that the text should be read differently here, as the space in the break is too small to fit half a lú, a meš, a mu and an aḫ (read with the value uḫ).140 A further text which could be adduced for the existence for prophetic groups is FM 3 3, the second of the two Mari Eštar ritual texts. The problem with that text is that the part in which the muḫḫātum (feminine plural of muḫḫûm) are mentioned is heavily damaged. The other Mari Eštar ritual text, FM 3 2, mentions one (male) muḫḫûm in a parallel section which is slightly better preserved. FM 3 3 col iii: 4’–10’ reads: inūma ana me[ḫertīša] 5’mārū īter[bū] 6’muḫḫātum ū[l . . .]141 7’u mārē nā[rī . . .] 8’inūm[a muḫḫātum] 9’ista[qqalū] . . .

4’

When 5’the (young?) musicians have ente[red] 4’bef[ore her (Eštar)] 6’(and when?) the female ecstatics do no[t . . .] 7’and the mus[icians . . .]. 8’Whe[n the female ecstatics] 9’remain in equi[librium] . . .

4’

The parallel text, FM 3 2 col ii: 21’–23’, uses the expression ana maḫḫêm ūl ireddû (‘he does not proceed to rave’): šumma ina rēš war[ḫim] 22’m[u]ḫḫûm ištaqqa[lma] 23’an[a] maḫḫê[m] ūl i[reddû]. . .

21’

If at the end of the mon[th] 22’the e[c]static is in equilibrium 23’(and) does not p[roceed] int[o] tranc[e]. . .

21’

Based on the fact that in FM 3 2 the order is first ištaqqa[lma] (‘he remains in equilibrium’, from the root šql) and then an[a] maḫḫê[m] ūl i[reddû], it  Ozan (1997: 303).  Lines 1–4 read 1a-na be-lí-ya 2qí-bí-ma 3um-ma ˹ma˺-na-ta-an 4ìr-[ka-a]-ma (‘To my lord speak, thus (says) Manatan, [your] servant’). 139  Ozan’s drawing is not entirely clear on the traces of the lú going into the lacuna. 140  Any number of reconstructions is possible here as the context does not narrow down the semantic field of the lost word. 141  This reading is based on the suggestions by Ziegler (2007: 64 n.225). 137

138

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may be possible to suggest reconstructing a form of maḫû (‘to rave’) at the end of FM 3 3 col iii: 6’. If that were the case, the muḫḫātum were probably expected to rave—just as the male muḫḫû either raved or remained in equilibrium.142 In other words, there is evidence for a group of ecstatics active during the Eštar ritual at Old Babylonian Mari.143 This does not, however, mean that the muḫḫātum necessarily function as prophets here. Indeed, FM 3 2 states that the alternative is between raving and equilibrium, not between prophesying and being silent. To be clear then, I do not deny that groups of muḫḫātum existed at Mari, but they appear in groups when their primary function as cult officials is central. The next text Huffmon cites is ARM 26 216, well known from the attestation of the nabī (masculine oblique plural of nabû). As Huffmon acknowledges, the Mari nabī appear in the context of technical divination.144 If the Mari nabī and the groups of ‫ נביאים‬are similar in function, the groups of ‫ נביאים‬may have to be regarded as groups of technical diviners as well. This would fit with the view supported here that the meaning of term ‫ נביא‬underwent a change from a technical diviner in the royal period to a prophet in the time afterwards. In that case, the title which is later used for the writing prophets would at their own times have referred to technical diviners. The last text adduced by Huffmon is ARM 27 32, in which the ‘elders of Gaššum’, a town in the western Idamaraṣ, are reported to have caught four Yamutbaleans.145 As the passage is broken, it remains unclear whether the muḫḫû (pl.) of the goddess Amu of Ḫubšalum who are mentioned in this context are to be identified as the elders of Gaššum.146 Indeed, the information that muḫḫû are involved does not seem to play a role as the

142  It is important in this context to insist on the meaning ‘to rave’ for maḫû instead of Durand/Guichard’s (1997: 58) suggestion to understand it as ‘to prophesy’. They translate the expression an[a] maḫḫê[m] ūl i[reddū] in FM 3 2 col ii: 23’ as ‘qu’il ne convienne pas à vaticiner’ (‘if he does not give oracles/prophesy’) and the verb-form im[maḫḫima] in line 26’ as ‘[s]’il vaticine’ (‘if he prophesies’), in which they are followed by Nissinen (2003d: 81). However, there is no reason to assume that the root mḫʾ means anything except ‘to rave’ in this context. 143  Contra Huffmon (2000: 64) who states that there are no ecstatic groups in NeoAssyrian or Old Babylonian texts. 144  It would also be possible to regard the nabī as leaders of the Ḫanean tribe, much in the same way that Ḫammurapi and Samsu-iluna are referred to (in the singular) as nabû, cf. CAD N. 145  Birot (1993: 88–89). 146  Theoretically, the Yamutbaleans could be referred to as muḫḫû here and not the elders of Gaššum.



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story unfolds.147 In any case, the behaviour of the muḫḫû in this report does not show any prophetic traits. Naturally, not everything a prophet does must be prophetic, but it is at least as likely that the muḫḫû in this text are a group of ecstatics. This would be interesting as it would give us information on travelling muḫḫû.148 However, in the absence of further evidence it is probably better not to read too much into this text, as the fact that the people are muḫḫû does not seem to have any bearing on the events that are reported. While the presence of a group of muḫḫātum can be shown, there is no indication that these women—or their male counterparts—were professional prophets, rather than ecstatic cult officials who occasionally prophesied. There is, thus, no evidence for the existence of prophetic groups in the Old Babylonian period. Instead, we have groups of cult ecstatics— whatever their ecstasy consisted of during the Eštar ritual. It may well have had been similar to the nature of Eštar as a warrior as appears to have been the case with the assinnu as recently suggested by Zsolnay who suggests that the assinnu performed frenzied sword-dances as an expression of their worship of the warlike Ištar.149 3.5 The Gender of Prophecy The question of gender has become one of the predominant questions in the study of ecstatic religion in literature and (modern) history.150 However, in the study of ancient Near Eastern prophecy the category has not been much drawn upon.151 Using Lewis’ work on ecstatic religion as the interpretative key for the sociological aspect of Hebrew Bible prophecy, Wilson introduced the distinction between ‘central’ and ‘peripheral’ and the corresponding tendencies of male ecstatics being more

147  It also remains unclear whether the elders of Gaššum beat the Yamutbaleans or the Yamutbaleans beat the elders of Gaššum. The second alternative seems less likely, but remains possible. 148  Regarding this see Chagar Bazar 176 and the editors comments, Lacambre/Millet Albà (2007a: 316–318). 149  Zsolnay (forthc.). 150  E.g. Keller (2002). 151  Stökl (2008, 2010 and 2011). Pongratz-Leisten (2006) focusses on Neo-Assyrian female prophets.

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c­ ommon in central, and female (and marginalized men) more common in peripheral cults.152 The muḫḫûm and āpilum are among the few religion-related professions for which both male and female forms exist. Normally, temple positions appear to have been gender-specific.153 This can be read to signify that deities were regarded as capable of choosing their mediums regardless of their gender implying that unlike other divinatory professions, e.g. the bārû, the muḫḫûm was almost certainly a profession for which one could not train.154 Of the seven named individual muḫḫû at Mari five are male and two female.155 If we add those texts in which unnamed muḫḫûm are mentioned, this ratio is weighted even further toward male muḫḫû but it is hard to say on account of the groups. The difference in number between the many āpilū and the one āpiltum can be explained using Lewis’ categories of marginal and central.156 The āpilum had more access to the king, and they were thus more central than lay-prophets.157 As expected in a patriarchal society, there are more male than female āpilum. I would like to suggest a slightly modified explanation for the data: considering most court-officials at Mari were male, it should come as no surprise that this is equally true for the āpilum as well. Thus, an explanation for the prevalence of male āpilū as opposed to the one female āpiltum should not be sought in their assumed character as ecstatics but rather as officials in the administration of a mainly patriarchal society.158 The test-case is constituted by the muḫḫûm. The gender distribution overall is relatively even—and as we have seen above, they are also of some importance in the monthly rituals to Eštar. They are attached to temples and deities that were as important as those to which the āpilum was attached; thus Lewis’ explanation of central vs. marginal does not apply here. I offer

 Lewis (2003) and Wilson (1980).  Fleming (2004: 51). As Fleming notes there are exceptions, like singers and ­musicians. 154  We have no indication as to whether the āpilum had to train. However the prestige connected with it suggests that this is a strong possibility. 155  The (female) muḫḫātum are Annu-tabni (ARM 22 326) and Ḫubatum (ARM 26 200 and probably 201), while the muḫḫû (pl.) are Ea-mudammiq (ARM 22 167 and Durand [1988: 381]), Ḫadnu-El and Iddin-kubi (ARM 26 227) and Irra-gamil and Ea-maṣi (ARM 21 333 and 23 446). 156  Lewis (2003). 157  As evidenced by e.g. ARM 26 194. 158  For a succinct description of the position of women in Mesopotamian societies, cf. Stol (1995) and the literature cited by him. 152 153



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a tentative explanation for this on the grounds that the muḫḫûm had a position attainable through divine inspiration, and Old Babylonian deities were not sexist when choosing their ecstatics. The āpilum, on the other hand, was not only chosen by the deity, but also by the royal administrations which had a gender bias. There is one more interesting question regarding gender—almost all prophetic texts written in the city of Mari itself are written by women and report oracles from female deities.159 In Sasson’s explanation most men of standing had left the capital and most male deities with them, leaving a predominantly female population with a predominantly female group of deities. If this were indeed the case, we would be faced with a very unusual event: the formal centre of power, the capital, would be abandoned by those in power and handed over to those who were in a lower social position. However, this reasoning rests on the assumption that women worship female gods and men male gods. All indications seem to suggest that this assumption does not apply in the ancient Near East.

 This was first noticed by Sasson (1994).

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The Prophetic Message In this chapter I discuss further aspects of Old Babylonian prophecy such as the relationship between prophets and those who transmit their messages to the court, and the related question of the content and form of the messages as they are written down, and which relation this written form may have had to the oral message. The āpilum and all other prophetic figures we know of seek out officials to relay to the king the divine messages which they have received; they do not relay them themselves.1 This has to be taken with some care as our evidence might distort the picture: our evidence is, perforce, written evidence, and does not preserve evidence of direct oral communication with the king.2 The question arises whether this means that we do not have access to the prophets’ ipsissima verba. In Durand’s opinion this access is given: the sender of A.3912 = ARM 26 198 apologises for the rather vulgar language saying that it reflects word for word what Šēlebum had said to her.3 Durand argues that the sender felt compelled to copy Šēlebum’s tirade verbatim and that this implies that she is under orders to do so.4 Several times, witnesses are used to attest that the letter portrays the divine message accurately.5 This is not done to protect the diviner, but the person who sends the letter. However, the diviner himself is in grave danger as well, if he decides not to transmit the divine message to somebody who could write a tablet to the king: not transmitting oracles is paramount to breaking an oath sworn to the king.6

 Durand (1988: 381–383 and 1995: 315–318).  Durand (1988: 381). 3  According to Durand (1988: 425), ARM 26 198: 1’’ reads [a-n]a pí še-le-bu-um i[q-bé-em aš-ṭú-ur] (‘[I wrote accord]ing to the ‘words’ Šēlebum s[poke to me]’). The vulgar passage is 12’ [. . .] ù a-na-[ku ma-di-iš] 13’ze-e ù ši-na-ti wa-[aš-ba-ku] (‘And I 13’l[ive] 12’[in a lot of] 13’ shit and piss.’). This is an allusion to Ereškigal’s curse. 4  Durand (1988: 425 and 2008a: 438) conjectures that the high priestess Inibšina is the author. This is by no means certain but the identity of the speaker is of no real importance here. 5  E.g. FM 7 39: 60–61: 60 [a]n-ni-tam lúa-[pí-lum ša] diškur be-el ḫa-la-abki 61 igi a-[b]u-ḫalim iq-bé-e-em (‘60[T]his is what the ā[pilum of ] Adad of Aleppo 61spoke to me in the presence of A[b]u-ḫalim’). 6  Cf. M.13091, so-called ‘protocol des devins’, Durand (1988: 13–15). 1

2

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Van der Toorn added an important, if self-evident, aspect to the discussion: prophecy is a mode of communication: At the same time, however, the written report is just one link in the chain of transmission; it is, in a sense, accidental to the whole process.7

His statement clearly shows how careful we have to be when assessing the evidence as it represents only a small window on prophecy in Mari. In his opinion, what we see of the oral process prophecy is but a scribal echo of the spoken words. This opens the possibility that the so-called letters from the gods and the letters from Iščali are texts written by āpilū (‘spokespeople’).8 If this were so, these texts represent the very beginnings of scribal rather than oral prophecy. Compared to short memos sent by governmental officials and even members of the royal family, these texts are written in a much more sophisticated style; ARM 26 194 is a case in point. The style suggests an author who had the appropriate level of knowledge and learning, and it is tempting to point to the āpilum simply because he appears to be working under the direct orders of the king, as I have shown above.9 What about the authority of prophecy? In spite of the insistent message not to agree to a peace-treaty with Ešnunna, Zimri-Lim agrees to precisely such a treaty.10 The entire incident is very interesting and has been interpreted as very telling of the way prophecy operated in Mari. Charpin and Sasson have interpreted two and three texts, respectively, as reports of the same oracle because they are connected through the catchphrase šapal tibnim mû illakū (‘under the straw water runs’).11 Comparing the texts in which this phrase is cited they find important information. Charpin suggests that the two versions of the qammatum’s oracle show that great care is necessary when interpreting prophetic material: either the different messengers of the oracle added their own interpretation to the oracle, or the qammatum varied her message depending on the

 Van der Toorn (1998a: 56).  ARM 26 192, 26 194 and FLP 1674. From an emic point of view, these texts were probably regarded as letters written by a deity using of the hand of a human medium.    9  As the text collected in Lambert (2007) and Abusch, et al. (2008) show, (technical) oracle questions and answers could be elaborate in style and even be similar to a prophetic oracle. 10  On this event see Anbar (2007).   11  Charpin (1992: 22–25) takes ARM 26 197 and 199 as relating to the same incident. Sasson (1994: 305–306), adds ARM 26 202.    7

   8



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messenger whom she had chosen, Inibšina or Sammetar.12 Sasson opts for the first interpretation. Moran concludes that self-interest is often a discernable factor in the oracles. With regard to honesty he cites E.R. Dodds on Greek religion: We cannot see into the minds of the Delphic priesthood, but to ascribe such manipulations in general to conscious and cynical fraud is, I suspect, to oversimplify the picture. Anyone familiar with the history of modern spiritualism will realise how effective cognitive dissonance can be overcome in perfectly good faith by convinced believers.13

In other words, authenticity and invention of divine messages are not necessarily mutually exclusive.14 As noted by Durand, the style of the letters portraying the prophecies varies immensely.15 While some are lax in their style, others quote myths and proverbs. Šēlebum’s claim in ARM 26 198 that he lives in faeces should probably be read as an allusion to Ereškigal’s curse in the Descent of Ištar.16 Moshe Anbar interprets the peculiar spelling ḫu-bu-ur-re-e in the oracle in ARM 26 199: 33–37 as referring to the noise of humanity in Atra-ḫasis.17 Further, if one is to follow my suggestion for a new reading of ARM 26 200: 7–10 that oracle would mention a rising wind and its wings

 Charpin (1992: 24).  Dodds (1951: 74). For the theory of Cognitive Dissonance see Festinger (1957) and Cooper (2007); for biblical literature see Carroll (1979). 14  Moran (1969: 18–19). 15  Durand (1988: 405–407 and 1995: 356–360). 16  See further n.341. ARM 26 199 and 200. 17  Anbar (1993b). Further, I tentatively suggest a new reading in ARM 26 200: 9. Durand (1988: 429–430) reads ù 2 ta-ak-ka-[ti-šu] interpreting takkum as a variant of tikkum ‘neck’. Nissinen (2003d: 33) mentions the possibility to restore 2 ta-ak-ka-[pi-šu] ‘its two holes’. Even though takkapu does acquire a meaning ‘Vogelnest’ it does so only in late Babylonian, cf. AHw. While the dual is not very productive in Akkadian (GAG §61c) it is notable that both suggested reconstructions combine the number 2 with plural nouns. For that reason I read a instead of 2. There is no noun in the dictionaries starting with atakka[. . .]. If, then, atakka[. . .] cannot be interpreted as a noun, the ù at the beginning is either misread or has to be read with a different value. Dossin (1952: 70, 135) suggests that ša is a possible reading of ù. Bottéro/Finet (1954: 46) suggests labelling this Ša17. Labat/Malbran-Labat (1995: 455) give it a new index number resulting in Ša19. Borger (2004: 521) quotes von Soden/Röllig (1991: 264) and rejects this value altogether. However, ASy4 does not discuss any Old Babylonian use of ù with the reading šan but only OAkk use which is consequently rejected by von Soden and Röllig. Assuming however that ša is a possible reading of ù and that ta is a mistake for na, anakka[. . .] can be interpreted as a verb in the 1st pers. sing. cs. In that case we should expect a verb in the G-durative with the root letters being √n.k.? and vowel-class (a/a) which is attested in Old Babylonian; nakāsu suggests itself and has a meaning which fits the context. 12 13

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which Annunītum will cut: “A wind 8will rise 7against the la[nd]! 8And with regard to its wings, 9which I will cli[p], 10I will hold them to account!” Far from being an innocuous literary pursuit the analysis of the styles of the messages shows that the prophetic messages that survived the millennia are ‘jamais «innocente[s]».’ The fact that trained scribes put them into sometimes elaborate writing shows that these prophecies are all strongly influenced by a culture which had already had active creators and transmitters of literature for centuries.18 This raises the related question whether a geographic origin for prophecy can be identified in the available sources.19 When looking at the tablets one notes immediately that the senders of these letters did not necessarily consider the prophecies as something so special that they needed a separate tablet.20 They were often mixed with other mundane news that the official wanted to convey to the king.21 Durand claims that officials were obliged to transmit prophetic messages to the king.22 He bases this argument on FM 7 39, a letter by Nūr-Sîn in which he claims to have had orders to report any prophecies to the king. For Durand’s interpretation to work, this order would have to be universal. Nissinen agrees with Durand’s interpretation but adds that prophecies were inherently regarded as significant enough to be reported to the king [. . .] especially when they dealt with important political matters or presented cultic demands.23

It is not certain, however, whether such a universal order existed, or whether all kinds of prophecy were regarded as equally important. If the order was as universal as Durand claims, why does Nūr-Sîn stress it so much? It is possible that he feared that someone might accuse him of not following these orders, or that he was afraid because of the potentially negative implications of his message. I think it is more likely that he had been given a special order to transmit prophetic messages from Yamḫad to king Zimri-Lim, and that he feared that the recurrent ­challenging  Ellis (1987b).  Durand (1988: 407–408 and 1995: 360); Heintz (1971b: 550) expressed hope that the research into the Mari archives would get us ever closer the cradle of prophecy. 20  On the basis of ARM 26 196: 11–12, a letter sent by Šamaš-naṣir to Zimri-Lim who was on campaign, Durand deduces that prophetic activity was by no means an everyday ­occurrence. 21  E.g. ARM 26 199, 219, 221bis. 22  See also M.13091 the ‘protocole des devins’, cf. Durand (1988: 13–15). According to Durand, it was an oath sworn by all diviners that obligated them to transmit any oracles, visions, omens, etc. whether favourable or not to the king. 23  Nissinen (2003d: 16). 18

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­ essages that he picked up and dutifully relayed to his overlord might m reflect badly on him. The two tablets from the temple of Kititum in Iščali in Ešnunna, which appear to record oracles by the local manifestation of Ištar24 to king Ibalpî-Ēl II of Ešnunna, start out with an address strikingly different from most Mari letters: 1

lugal i-ba-al-pi-el 2um-ma dki-ti-tum-ma

1

King Ibal-pî-Ēl! 2Thus (speaks) Kititum.

It is interesting to see that there is no form of introduction such as ana Ibal-pî-Ēl bēliya qibīma (‘to Ibal-pî-Ēl, my lord, speak’); we only have the words of the deity itself.25 Pongratz-Leisten wonders why this letter was written musing that it could well have been the written version of a Heilsorakel at the beginning of Ibal-pî-Ēl’s reign.26 As she points out, this would make this letter very similar indeed to the succession oracles of Sargonid times.27 In the evidence available to us, none of the prophets ever come to the king directly, instead always going through an intermediary, whether by choice or by law.28 Once, in ARM 26 194, an āpilum of Šamaš sends a letter directly to the king. If my interpretation of the āpilum as a court prophet is correct this letter reads as the ancient equivalent of a confidential report. That there is no evidence of a prophet coming to the king directly is linked to the nature of the evidence itself—when a prophet went to see the king directly, no written record would have been kept.29 Whether or not this means that divine messages were copied on to the tablets verbatim is a related but different question. I do not think that the prophecies as we have them are verbatim, but they are probably fairly close; the more important consideration is that divine messages could potentially contain information that the king might want to control, and 24  FLP 1674 and FLP 2064 cf. Ellis (1987b and 1989). For the identification of Kititum with Ištar see Ellis (1987b). 25  This fact convinced Pongratz-Leisten (1999) to classify this letter together with Durand’s ‘Échange de lettres avec les dieux’ (Untergruppe (IIa) in her terminology), e.g. ARM 26 192–194. 26  Ellis (1987b) had already drawn the same conclusion based on the central theme of the throne: ‘thrones are mentioned in the formulas of first regnal years of many Ešnunna kings’. 27  Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 204). 28  Durand (1988: 381–383 and 1995: 315–318). 29  Charpin (2002: 17–18). There is no reason not to believe that such direct communication did take place.

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therein lies their importance. The fact that a deity boasts about having put Zimri-Lim on the throne implies that he could remove him from the throne just as easily; oracles containing such messages must have been potentially dangerous to the king.30 In the past, some scholars have interpreted the expression ‘DN išpuranni (“DN sent me”)’, which occurs in ARM 26 210, 220 and 221 to mean that prophets at Mari were aware of ‘being sent’ by their deities.31 However, among the Mari letters containing prophetic messages only three have this expression, while none of the other letters mentions anything to this effect. On the other hand, most of the prophetic texts are written in the first person, that is, as if they transmitted divine speech directly. But this does not necessarily imply that the prophets thought of themselves as having a mission. In one of the cases, ARM 26 210, a woman without any professional title is described as having come to Kibri-Dagan. Her claim that Dagan sent her is best explained in that this would have been the only way that she could convince the governor to write a letter to the king. After all, she would not have had any apparent connection to the cult of Dagan. ARM 26 221: 6, the line in which the profession of the woman, who is portrayed as speaking in the letter, would have been stated is completely erased. She is probably a lay-prophet, as no professional prophet ever claims to having been sent; the same is true also for other cult officials who occasionally act as mediums. As mentioned above, Durand argues that prophecy was not an everyday occurrence. However, the text on which he relies is largely restored by him. The remains of lines eleven and twelve of ARM 26 196 read: 11

[iš]-tu u4-[mi-i]m ša-tu mi-im-ma 12[. . .]-mé

11

[Si]nce that d[a]y, whatever 12[. . .]

It is only through restoring ten (!) signs in the lacuna in line 12 that Durand arrives at this reading:

30  See e.g. (whether historically accurate or not) the overthrow of the Omrides by Jehu as narrated in 2 Kings 9–10 and the Neo-Assyrian letter by Nabû-rēḫtu-uṣur in which writes about a woman, described as a servant of Bēl-aḫu-uṣur, prophesying in the name of the deity Nusku, SAA 10 174. See e.g. Pongratz-Leisten (2006) and the chapter on Neo­Assyrian prophecy below. 31  E.g. Noort (1977).



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[iš]-tu u4-[mi-i]m ša-tu mi-im-ma 12[i-na É dingir-lim ú-ul eš-te-em]-mé

11 11

Depuis ce jour là, 12je n’ai 11rien 12entendu dans le temple du Dieu. . .32

It is not impossible that Durand’s restoration is correct but the opposite is equally possible.33 This becomes even clearer when we compare Durand’s restorations and translations to those by Sasson: Ever since that moment, whatever 12[I heard [in] God’s temple, I have sent it to my Lord. . .]34

11

By leaving out two of Durand’s ten restored signs in line twelve—ú-ul— the meaning of the sentence is turned around. Maybe prophetic messages occurred more frequently than the remaining letters suggest. Some official seems to have been positively harassed by a muḫḫûm of Dagan which led him to write to his king.35 Regarding the ‘foreign’ prophecies reported in the material from Mari, we notice a certain power differential. From Aleppo we do not hear any messages that only concern Yarim-Lim; on the contrary. The messages from Aleppo are clearly orders from the gods of Aleppo to ZimriLim.36 The oracle from Babylon that makes its way into the royal Mariote archives does not carry such a message to the Mariote king.37 This difference between the Mariote and the Babylonian prophecies’ content might be purely accidental, as the numbers we possess from both places are so low. In my view, another explanation can be brought to the fore. There is a power-differential between Aleppo and Babylon, particularly with regard to their relationship and influence in Mari: Adad (of Aleppo) is the god of Zimri-Lim’s father-in-law and overlord, his abu (‘father’) in the diplomatic language of the time, whereas Ḫammurapi of Babylon was an aḫu (‘brother’), a king regarded as having equal power and standing.38 I propose that it was possible for the deity of an overlord to make demands on other kings who were dependent on the overlord. Etiquette or simple religio-political power-relations prevented this from happening either

 Durand (1988: 422–423).  Note that Heimpel (2003: 250) does not translate this line. 34  Sasson (1995a: 287–288); my line-numbers. 35  ARM 26 221bis and Durand (1995: 342–343). 36  FM 7 39. 37  ARM 26 371. 38  For the terminology of power-relations between the various kings at this time, see the famous text A.482: 20–27, Dossin (1938: 116–117). 32 33

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in the opposite direction, or among the gods of kings and countries of a vaguely equal standing. 4.1 The egerrûm The importance of the term i/egerrûm stems from the fact that it has been taken as a technical term for ‘prophetic oracle’ at Mari. That is presumably why Durand devotes a fairly lengthy discussion to the term. Taking ARM 26 212 as his starting point, he suggests two different but contemporary understandings of egerrûm at Mari: 1) person A speaks about person B to person C and hopes that C will transmit the message to the king (B); Durand calls this ‘discours-egerrû’; 2) or person A speaks to person B with a message concerning the king that he has received from a deity. The two are similar inasmuch as they stand for an act of communication between two people, one of whom is expected to transmit the message to the king.39 Because of the context of egerrûm in ARM 26 212, Wilcke disagrees with this interpretation. He argues that this letter represents ‘eine gezielte Volksbefragung (Meinungsforschung)’,40 and is nothing to do with divinatory communication. In his opinion, egerrûm does not usually refer to oracles but to other forms of communication.41 An interesting difference between Durand’s position and that of Dalley is that the former considers the egerrûm to be ‘un “discours sollicité” ’ while Dalley argues that ‘it seems often to have been an unprovoked word that could be interpreted as significant.’42 Durand’s interpretation of a solicited oracle suggests that there might be a form of prophecy in Mari in which oracles were solicited. However, no evidence for this can be found in the texts.  Durand (1988: 385, 1995: 320–322 and 2008a: 439–441) and Nissinen (2003d: 41 n.c).  Cf. Wilcke (1983). 41  Wilcke (1969: 213 n.494). He argues that no gods are mentioned and further, that “diesem Vorgang alles Zufällige fehlt.” In his opinion these two conditions would need to be fulfilled in order for egerrûm to refer to prophecy. In my view, his argument does not hold here, as he is comparing the usage of a Sumerian term in the Sumerian Lugalbanda epos with the usage of an Akkadianised form of the word in the Mari archives. Whatever the exact meaning of the term is in Sumerian, its meaning at Mari could be different. 42  Durand (1988: 385) and Dalley (1984: 121). On the expression egerrâm dummuqum, which is at the basis of Dalley’s argument and which occurs e.g. in ARM 10 38 (=LAPO 18 1195) and ARM 10 42+ (=LAPO 18 1197) see Durand (2000: 393 n.b). In both texts, the expression seems to refer to intercession by Erišti-Aya for Zimri-Lim. 39

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In sum, it seems that there is serious doubt over the interpretation of egerrûm as a technical term for prophetic oracle at Mari. The semantic range of egerrûm as it can be found in the dictionaries includes virtually everything that is an ‘utterance’.43 4.2 šuttum—Dream or Vision? The question of whether or not dreams and visions are the same thing, and whether either of them is a form of prophecy, and how to distinguish between them has occupied scholars since the beginning of the study of prophecy at Mari.44 In his study of ancient Near Eastern Religion, Ringgren dryly comments: ‘dreams and direct revelations appear to alternate.’45 Recently Annette Zgoll has been able to show a distinction between dreams and visions based on philological reasons.46 Nissinen distinguishes between dreams and vision inasmuch as a dream can easily be ignored if it is not remembered—something that would have happened fairly frequently. Dreams are also not always clear and need interpretation. While he distinguishes between dreams and visions in this way, he admits that it is not clear whether the term šuttum exclusively refers to dreams or if it also includes visions. Commenting on the selection of letters made for his recent translation, Nissinen admits a certain ambiguity: The latter [i.e. dreams] can be seen and reported by prophets, but it is not always easy to distinguish prophecies from dreams and visions seen by people other than prophets.47

It is interesting to look at the numbers: as we saw with prophetic oracles, professional prophets far outnumber lay-prophets. In the case of dreams, the exact opposite is the case. According to the evidence available to us, not a single āpilum has a dream. Among those who had dreams there

 See CAD and CDA.  The first ‘prophetic’ letter from Mari contains a dream rather than a straightforward oracle, ARM 26 233, cf. Dossin (1948). 45  Ringgren (1973: 96). Nakata (1982), however, suggested distinguishing sharply between the two. 46  Zgoll (2006). While she agrees that incubation happened in Ancient Mesopotamia, she is cautious about Durand’s (1988: 471) suggestion that ‘touch’ was involved, cf. Zgoll (2002: 98 n.112). 47  Nissinen (2003d: 14). 43

44

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are six men and six women who are identified by name. Four men and one woman whose names are not preserved also had significant dreams. Mariotes seem to have distinguished quite rigorously between prophecy and dreams; for the former, they had professional prophets, while nonprofessional prophets could also receive a divine message if a deity so wished. Dreams use different vocabulary from verbal messages and are thus to be regarded as a distinct class of texts. This distinction does not exclude the possibility that a professional prophet may have occasionally had a significant dream, just like anyone else could. While both dreams and visions are distinct from prophecy, there still is the problem of how to distinguish between visions and dreams. Butler offers several different categories of dreams, under which visions could be grouped: there are ‘prognostic dreams’, with the subgroups of the clear ‘message dreams’, the somewhat coded ‘symbolic-message dreams’ and the completely coded ‘dream omens’; then there are ‘clairvoyant dreams’ and ‘diagnostic dreams’.48 Zgoll’s recent study of Mesopotamian dreams does not follow these distinctions, concentrating instead on the vocabulary used in the Mesopotamian texts themselves. She carefully analyses the form of those texts that she has identified as dreams and comes to the conclusion that the form of Mari dreams is as follows: announcement (šuttam iṭṭul/īmur); citation formula (umma + pers. pronoun); opening formula (ina šuttīya); the dream itself; dream conclusion formula (not obligatory).49 All but one dream fit into this classification; her MARI5 (=ARM 26 236) does not mention šuttum (‘dream’), it simply mentions that Kakkalidi īmur (‘saw’) in the temple of Itūr-Mēr.50 There are two possible explanations for this: either Šibtu, the sender of the letter, forgot to mention that this was a dream or it means that this text is of a different genre. The ubiquity of šuttum elsewhere in the corpus suggests to me that the latter is the right explanation. Furthermore this ties in nicely with the result in the Hebrew Bible, which uses the verbs ‫( ַל ֲחלֹום‬laḫalom; ‘to dream’) and ‫( ִל ְראֹות‬lirʾot; ‘to see’) to distinguish between dream and vision. Visions and dreams are indeed very similar but leaving out of the word ‘dream’ marks the difference between them. To be sure, prophecy and dreaming are both intuitive kinds of divination and it is not surprising,  Butler (1998).  Zgoll (2006: 159–169). 50  Zgoll (2006: 164); see pp. 549–553 for a catalog of Akkadian dreams and p. 552 for material from Mari. 48

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therefore, that they are very similar. However, Zgoll’s philological analysis shows distinctions between visions and dreams. And there is no reason to believe that prophecy and dreaming were regarded as identical. Indeed, none of the Mari prophets ever claims to have had a dream. In my view, however, the issue is one of unclear definitions. Many scholars use a very wide definition of ‘prophecy’ more akin to my ‘intuitive divination’.51 I maintain, however, that the linguistic differences warrant a subdivision of intuitive divination into prophecy and dreaming. 4.3 Hair and Hem The importance of garments and of hair in legal and magical contexts is well attested.52 The first to make coherent arguments about the significance of transmitting ‘hair and hem’ to the king in the context of prophetic letters were Finet and Moran.53 Moran cites the then consensus that ‘hair and hem’ were used to assert the ‘identity and bona fides’ of the prophet and goes on to argue that the common reference to ‘hair and hem’ of the prophet is an indication that they not only identified the prophet, but also ‘guarantee[d] his veracity’, that is, not that the message itself is true, but that the prophet is speaking the truth.54 Moran finds that generally ‘hair and hem’ are only handed over in the case of publicly announced oracles, not if the message was relayed privately. Whether or not ‘hair and hem’ was collected, is independent of the professional status of the medium.55 Moran allows for three exceptions to this observation: ARM 26 237 and ‘Lods and A.2925’.56 Regarding ARM 26 237, Moran argues that ARM 26 201 refers to the same incident. Heimpel, following Durand, regards ARM 26 201 as ‘Bahdi-Lim’s cover letter for ARM 26 200’, thereby

 E.g. Barstad (2005: 22–26).  See generally Malul (1988) and now Scheyhing (1999). There are only nine (or ten) prophetic texts in which some form of ‘hair and hem’ are taken and sent to the king: ARM 26 198: 2’’–4’’, 200: 21–24, 203: 11’–13’, 204: 16–21, 213: 23–27, 214: 19–28, 215: 22–25, 217: 29–31 and 219: 22’–24’. ARM 26 201 is to be connected with ARM 26 200 and reflects the same incident. I will therefore not count it as an independent text. ARM 26 226: 14–18, 229: 14–21, 233: 53–54, 234: 11’–15’ and 237: 29–33 are dream reports. 53  Finet (1969) and Moran (1969: 19–20). 54  Dalley/Walker/Hawkins (1976: 65). Malul (1988: 292–298) cites Moran (1969: 19) as supporting this view as well. 55  Moran (1969: 19–20). 56  Moran refers to A.1121 as ‘Lods’, as it was published by Lods (1950); Moran gives a wrong text number, A.2925 instead of A.2731. 51

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disagreeing with Moran here.57 ‘Lods and A.[2731]’ were joined by Durand and thus count as only one exception.58 Moran offers two reasons why the treatment in this case was different: this text states explicitly that Nūr-Sîn has written to Zimri-Lim five times already. If ‘hair and hem’ had been sent, this would presumably have happened the first time if at all—due to the legal implications of sending ‘hair and hem’ of any individual, it would be peculiar if they were sent across the border from Yamḫad to Mari. Quoting ARM 26 204 and 239, Moran points to the fact that ‘hair and hem’ were not the only means employed to check up on prophet and prophecy. Hepatoscopy and extispicy were employed as well,59 which is shown by the expression têrtam šūpušum (‘to have an omen taken’). From these two texts and from the expression, Hereby, I 17give you my 16hair 17and my fringe. 18Let them declare ‘clean’!60

16

in ARM 10 81(=ARM 26 204), he concludes that a process of technical, ‘scientific’, control of the intuitive art was widely available and practised, but equally that it was not a necessary step.61 Finet, on the other hand, used the social standing of the prophet to explain why some prophets sent ‘hair and hem’ while others did not—the higher their standing, the less likely they were to be obliged to send ‘hair and hem’.62 In his review of ARM 6, Noth interprets the taking of hair and hem as a magical act, but not to enable the checking of the message; instead it represents ‘seizing a person’ which means that spells could be cast on that person.63 This view was popular in the study of the Hebrew Bible at the

 Heimpel (2003: 255); Durand (1988: 430).  Lafont (1984: 7). 59  ARM 26 229 was published after Moran’s study. In it, augury/ornithomancy is attested in double-checking a dream of a woman called Ayala—and yet hair and hem were sent nonetheless. 60  Verses 16–18 read: 16anumma šārtī 17u sissiktī addinakkim 18lizakkû. My translation is ‘16Herewith 17I give you my 16hair 17and my fringe—18may they be clear!’ Nominally, ‘hair and hem’ cannot be the subjects of lizakkû, which would have to be lizakkê (←lizakkiā) at Mari if šārtī u sissiktī, both feminine, were the subjects. But the usage of feminine subjects with masculine verbal forms is certainly possible. However, I suggest understanding elided têrētu (‘liver omens’) as the subject of lizakkū. Moran’s translation, ‘declare clean’, would require either a verbum dicendi or at least a D-stem. The G-stem either refers to the state of ‘being clean’ or the process of ‘becoming clean’, not, however, ‘declaring clean’. 61  Moran (1969: 22–25). 62  Finet (1969: 118). Dalley augments Finet’s argument by saying that the hem was used in place of a seal impression, cf. Dalley (1984: 132). 63  Noth (1956: 328). 57

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time, and the motif of hair, as in Samson’s story, was taken to be magic.64 This was critiqued by Malamat and Craghan who followed the Assyriological discussion and pointed critically to Finet and positively to Moran.65 Malul brings in a new element, arguing that far from being just the hem of a garment, sissiktu (and sikku) referred to a specific kind of garment that was handed over to the authorities in situations that had very negative connotations for the person who had to give up their sissiktu or sikku.66 Further, all the terms he identifies as being used in similar contexts refer to parts of the body, particularly parts of the lower torso and the genitals.67 What Malul does not take into account in his arguments are references to a sissiktu on tablets on which we find an impression of a hem.68 According to Durand, all that we find are occurrences where the message, the prophecy, is double-checked, not whether the diviner him- or herself was lying or speaking in good faith.69 This stands in stark contrast to the opinions held by Moran and Dalley, who regard the test as checking the prophet. A few years later, Durand took his argument a step further; he argues that the way we approach this question betrays a modern bias: the ancients did not send hair and hem as a magical ritual against the prophet but so that the divine will could be checked.70 Charpin sides with Durand’s earlier argumentation and interprets the sending of hair and hem as a means to enable hepatoscopic ‘testing’ of the prophecy, in order to get confirmation, rather than checking the prophet. According to him, this means that not only are prophecies used to expound on hepatoscopic answers, but prophecy might even advise the king to enquire of the gods using hepatoscopy.71 This latter interpretation leads Charpin to claim that it is possible that technical divination and inductive prophecy might be closer to each other than often thought.72  E.g. Nötscher (1966: 183). See also Noort (1977: 82–87).  Craghan (1974: 54–55); Malamat (1998c) critiques the previous theories (cf. esp. p. 84 n.2) only to come to the conclusion that the evidence base is too small. 66  Cf. the concise version of his argument Malul (1986) and the longer one Malul (1988). 67  Malul (1986: 27–29). 68  E.g. ARM 8 32, Dalley (1984: 132). 69  This does not contradict Durand (1988: 381 and 1995: 318) where Durand speaks about prophecies by non-professionals. 70  Durand (1997c: 120–121). 71  According to Charpin (1992: 29–30) it is the standard view that prophecy could be used to elaborate on the results of hepatoscopy and vice versa. The text adduced by Charpin for the latter case is A. 1968, first published in Durand (1993: 43–45). This interpretation is based on Anbar (1993a). 72  Charpin (1992: 30). 64 65

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Finet’s argument that social standing is the decisive factor in the sending of ‘hair and hem’, loses its force in the light of ARM 26 237, in which the queen-mother Addu-dūri reports a dream of hers and an oracle by a muḫḫūtum in the temple of Annunītum. The ‘hair and hem’ which she sent is not the muḫḫūtum’s hair but Addu-dūri’s own (since the divinatory oracle which will be double-checked is her dream, not the muḫḫūtum’s oracle): anumm[a] šārtī 30u si[ss]iktī 31a[nāku] aknukamma 32ana ṣēr bēliya 33ušābilam

29

No[w], 31I m[yself] seal 29my hair 30and my h[e]m 31and 33I send it 32to my lord.

29

The very high status of queen-mother Addu-dūri excludes Finet’s interpretation.73 Esther Hamori has recently analysed the checking of dreams and oracles by the means of ‘hair and hem’.74 Her convincing analysis shows that the gender of the diviner/medium makes a significant ­difference—women are far more likely to send ‘hair and hem’ than their male ­counterparts. Moran’s view that the sending, or non-sending, of ‘hair and hem’ in the prophetic context depends on whether a prophecy was given in public has to be regarded carefully as well. Of the ten examples available to us five reflect unequivocally public messages,75 three reflect oracles given in a private context,76 and two are ambiguous in nature.77 Moran was able to explain that in ARM 26 237 no ‘hair and hem’ is being sent for the muḫḫūtum who speaks in the temple, by arguing that the same incident is recounted in ARM 26 201, but there remain the three cases mentioned above: in the first, Šēlebum comes to somebody who is not specified and gives an oracle in rather drastic language (ARM 26 198); in the second, princess Inibšina relays the words of the āpiltum Innibana who had come to her (ARM 26 204); and the third is a letter purportedly sent by the Mariote ambassador to Aleppo, Itur-Asdu, which mentions a woman giving an oracle that is reminiscent of those transmitted by Nūr-Sîn, also from Aleppo (ARM 26 217).

 For the figure of Addu-dūri cf. Ziegler (1999).  Hamori (forthc.-c). 75  ARM 26 200: 21–24, (201: 14–17), 213: 23–27, 214: 19–28, 215: 22–25 and 219: 22’–24’. 76  ARM 26 198: 2’’–4’’, 204: 16–21 and 217: 29–31. 77  ARM 26 203 is ambiguous as to where the oracle was proclaimed. ARM 26 219 reflects a dream by Ayala, an otherwise unknown woman. The double-checking through bird-­divination and the hair and hem surely refer to the dream itself, not to either of the women in the dream. 73

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The first of these three oracles could also be read as having happened in the temple of Annunītum, as that is where Šēlebum is usually to be found. Sadly, the beginning of this text has not survived. However, the verb-form illikamma (‘he came to me’) makes it clear that the oracle was not public. The second text relays a message received in relative privacy; a public audience is not even so much as alluded to. The last of these three texts presents us with an interesting case. I follow Guichard’s identification of Itur-Asdu as the sender of ARM 26 217 on the basis of the hand-writing.78 Itur-Asdu was the Mariote ambassador at the court of Yarim-Lim, king of Yamḫad. If the incident happened in Yamḫad and if he sent ‘hair and hem’ of a female Yamḫadi prophet to the Mariote king, he must have done so with the permission of Yarim-Lim. If sending the ‘hair and hem’ across the border was possible, why did Nūr-Sîn not do so? In neither case is any permission or lack thereof mentioned in the letter itself. Moran’s theory that public oracles needed double-checking whereas private ones do not, is therefore untenable. Thus, the following picture emerges: there is a difference between how dreams and oracles are treated. Dreams are much more subject to a ‘hair and hem’-check, and in their case neither a public-private nor a high-low social status dichotomy can explain the evidence. Having said this, most significant dreams are dreamt by socially high-powered individuals.79 If we compare those dreams in which ‘hair and hem’ are mentioned and correlate them with those that mention some form of double-checking of the dream, the following picture emerges: Of the 19 Mari-dreams, only five mention ‘hair and hem’:80 ARM 26 226, 229, 233, 234 and 237. Of these, the latter two just note that hair and hem are sent. Of the remaining three, one, ARM 26 233, mentions that the person who had the dream, a certain Malik-Dagan, was ták-lu (‘trustworthy’), and that because of this, Itur-Asdu did not include Malik-Dagan’s hair and hem. The first two, ARM 26 226 and 229, demand that the king check the dreams.81 In both  Guichard in Charpin (2002: 12 n.51).  For Zgoll (2006) social status has a role to play. Zgoll mentions that dreams in general are either dreamt or sent by an individual of high standing. That the royal archive contains letters sent mainly by people from the upper classes is probably due to the fact that the archives are royal archives. 80  Zgoll (2006) also lists twenty texts, including ARM 26 82, 142 and 224–240. She has ARM 26 234 and 237 twice each as both include two dreams. She also includes Dagannaḫmi’s dream edited by Wilcke (1986). However, she identifies Mari5 (=ARM 26 236) as a vision. In my view this takes this text into a different if related category. 81  ARM 26 226 reads 17[w]ārkat šuttim 18[š]āti liprus (‘may he [Zimri-Līm] check the dream’), while ARM 26 229 reads 20bēlī warkassa 21liprus (‘may my lord check it/her [the dream]’). 78

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cases, the expression is warkat+suffix parāsu (‘to investigate someone’) and either a genitive-suffix third singular feminine (ARM 26 229) or the word šuttim (ARM 26 226) governed by warkat. Because of the parallel expressions, we must assume that the suffix, while it could theoretically refer to the woman who dreams, refers to the dream instead, as we can say for sure in the case of ARM 26 226. Thus, we assume that at least in the case of dreams, the person of the dreamer was of no concern regarding a cross-check.82 In sum, it is likely that Charpin’s interpretation is correct, that not the person, but the message was tested in the ritual which involved ‘hair and hem’. I suggest that not the truthfulness or content of the message was tested, but whether the prophecy or the dream was indeed a prophecy or a significant dream containing a message from the gods.

82  Indeed, in ARM 26 81 Asqudum writes that he had checked whether a man had a significant dream. While it is not unlikely that prophecies were double-checked in a similar manner there are no texts which explicitly say so contra such statements in e.g. Reiner (1995: 74).

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Further Aspects of Old Babylonian Prophecy 5.1 The Deities of Prophecy It is curious that the deity who communicates through prophecy does not directly feature in Ramlot’s and Sasson’s segmentation of possible research into prophecy at Mari. It is only a sub-segment of the category ‘writer of the message’. At first glance, one might assume that the deities involved in prophetic communication wood be scrutinised more, particularly in view of the importance of the agency of the deities involved, as opposed to the agency of their human messengers. Durand points out that not only are prophetic deities major deities, but they speak in situations of crisis for Zimri-Lim and his kingdom: several prophecies warn the king not to enter into an alliance with Ešnunna.1 It is with interest that we note that at this early stage of research into prophecy at Mari, it was already pointed out that the prophets there were not always in agreement with the authorities and sometimes even disagreed sharply.2 However, the king had the final say in whatever was to be done and he could act against prophecies. One more thing pointed out by Durand is the position of power of the deities of prophecy: pride of place goes to the different hypostases of Dagan, followed by Addu/Adad, Dēritum, Annunītum, Eštar of Ninet, Marduk, Zababa and even Šamaš—all of them main gods in the respective cities, which indicates that prophecy as it was found in royal archives in the Old Babylonian period originated from the highest echelon of the pantheon.3 As the higher deities were responsible for cities, states and the king, this is not too surprising and it is possible to speculate that that gods of lesser standing sent prophecies regarding more domestic affairs.

 Interestingly, this does not seem to have prevented Zimri-Lim from doing exactly that in 1770 BCE, cf. Charpin (2004: 206). 2  Durand (1988: 400 and 2000: 76). Lacambre (1993) dates Ibal-pî-Ēl’s capture of Rapiqum and the renewed beginning of open warfare with Mari to ZL 3. Opinion differs somewhat as to the exact year. Charpin (2004: 196) follows Lacambre. Heimpel (2003: 45–51) dates the beginning of hostilities to one year earlier. 3  Durand (1988: 401–402 and 1995: 350–351). 1

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The first to make much of the geographical distribution of the Mari prophecies was Moran. He suggested that the messages from outside Mari are different in their character and content from those from within Mari itself: prophets from the provinces appear to have been more concerned with cultic matters, while the prophets in the capital were relating messages pertaining to the political situation.4 Charpin groups the prophecies according to their provenance: from within the kingdom of Mari on the one hand and on the other from Yamḫad, Andarig and Babylon.5 Like Charpin, Sasson devotes almost an entire article to the geographical distribution of prophecy.6 He combines Moran’s and Charpin’s approach by using both their categories. Following Moran he differentiates between prophecies from Mari (category A) and from other places (categories B and C). Following Charpin, he distinguishes between prophecies from within the kingdom of Mari, but not Mari itself (category B) and from foreign cities (category C) in the latter group. In his section A), containing texts from Mari itself, he observes the fact that the majority of prophets are female and transmit messages from female deities.7 He correlates this with a development in the palace: adducing Durand, Sasson suggests that parallel to the male depopulation of the centre there was a depopulation of male deities, leaving the queen and her entourage to worship the female deities of the pantheon in the palace.8 With regard to his category B), Sasson warns that his conclusions are preliminary as the textual evidence and thus the social environment of the prophets in some of the locales is not yet published.9 The first observation he makes is that there are hardly any women involved in the sending of the prophetic letters in this category. This is mirrored by the fact that there are equally few female deities involved.10 The last category  Moran (1969: 17–18).  Charpin (1992: 27–30).  6  Sasson (1994).  7  Sasson (1994: 302–308). Sasson includes 25 texts, all from ARM 26 in this category: 82, 195, 197–205, 207–208, 211–214, 222, 226–227, 231, 233, 236–238.  8  Durand (1987). See above.  9  Sasson (1994: 308–312). In this category we find 23 texts, 22 from ARM 26 (142, 196, 206, 209–210, 215–216, 218–221b, 223–225, 229–230, 232, 234–235, 243, 246) and a text owned by an unknown collector published by Wilcke (1986). 10  This category also includes ARM 26 216, the letter that mentions the lúna-bi-imeš which has caused so much excitement among Biblical scholars. Sasson (1994: 311 n.42) concurs  4  5



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C) encompasses the very interesting texts by Nūr-Sîn and the report by Yarim-Addu, Zimri-Lim’s envoy to the court of Ḫammurapi of Babylon, showing us that prophecy was alive there as well, and that deities could claim authority over kings in foreign lands.11 Durand also remarks on the different locations of the prophetic texts. He claims that most prophecies occurred within the temples of the respective deities. He notices that the names of the cities in which these temples were reads like a list of important religious centres in upper Mesopotamia and Syria: Tuttul, Aleppo, Terqa, Dēr and the temple of Annunītum in Mari. A theory widely accepted is that prophets were situated at temples.12 Van der Toorn goes as far as to claim that all prophets are temple prophets, even if they are not necessarily all employed there and a close connection between many of the oracles and various temples does come out in the texts.13 Nothing much can be made of the non-existence of ration texts from temples giving evidence of provision for prophets—we do not possess any such texts and thus cannot base any argument on the lack of this kind of text. When looking at the provision texts from the royal archives, we find a number of texts mentioning provisions for the āpilum as well as other specialists, also including the muḫḫûm. We can, however, tentatively support our previous findings that the āpilum is a court official. Amongst the three prophets who receive silver rings as payment, there are two āpilū and one muḫḫûm, in the case of whom a reason is mentioned as to why he receives the silver ring. No such reason is given in the case of Išḫi-Dagan, the first āpilum, whereas Lupaḫum receives it for going to Tuttul, presumably as a mixture of pay and allowance.14 On an international scale, we can see that the institution of prophecy in the Old Babylonian period was widespread. Thus, Durand closes his introduction pointing out that it is also attested as far away from the Mediterranean coast as Ešnunna, Babylon and even Uruk. This does with Durand that this is probably Amorite for āpilū. I come to a different conclusion, see 13.1.1. 11  Sasson (1994: 312–316). In this category we find only nine texts: FM 7 38–39, ARM 26 192, 194, 217, 239–240, 371 and ARM 27 32. 12  E.g. van der Toorn (1998a). 13  Fleming (2004: 53–55) and van der Toorn (1998a: 58). 14  The texts in question are T.82 for the āpilum Išḫi-Dagan, M.11436 for Lupaḫum and ARM 25 142 for a nameless muḫḫûm.

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not sit well with the alleged Western Semitic origin of intuitive prophecy. Assertions about the curious lack of evidence for prophecy during the reign of Samsī-Addu, on the one hand, and the relative abundance of such material, particularly for the time of Zimri-Lim, on the other, has also been interpreted in the light of a alleged Western origin of prophecy. Supposedly, the ‘occidental’ rulers Yaḫdun-Lim and Zimri-Lim were more prone to prophecy than the ‘oriental’ family of Samsī-Addu.15 The idea that prophecy has a western origin has come under attack from two sides: some conservative biblical scholars denied such a western origin, as that might give rise to a possible genetic and phenomenological link between Old Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian prophecy on the one hand with Biblical prophecy on the other.16 On the other side, there are Assyriologists who regard the evidence, including the material from Iščali from the kingdom of Ešnunna far to the east, as indicating that a Western origin is difficult to uphold. In 1987 de Jong Ellis argued persuasively against the (still) common view that prophecy is different from visionary and dream experiences, which were widespread and almost omnipresent in the ancient Near East since early times: our lack of evidence has simply led us to assume this, meaning that prophecy-like phenomena are native to Mesopotamia.17 Charpin turns this argument around: we have no proof that prophecy is not western in origin, therefore we might have underestimated the “ ‘amorritisation’ de la Mésopotamie.”18 On balance, it appears unwise to reconstruct a Western origin of a phenomenon as widespread as prophecy, especially when we see that the oldest available evidence comes from Uruk, Ešnunna and Mari. 5.3 The Temporal Distribution As argued above in the section on geographical distribution, until fairly recently it was assumed that the prophetic letters came exclusively from the time of Yaḫdun-Lim and Zimri-Lim, and that therefore none came 15  But cf. the two letters FM 6 1–2 dated to the time of Yasmaḫ-Addu in Charpin (2002). 16  E.g. Millard (1985: 134) argues that the “textes dits ‘prophetiques’ ” [my emphasis] cannot be used to argue for a western influence on Mesopotamian prophecy. 17  Ellis (1987b: 257). 18  Charpin (1992: 30). In note 37 he also refers to the possibility that Marduk’s combat against Tiamat might be based on the combat of the weather-god against the sea, e.g. Baʿal against Yam, cf. Durand (1993) and Bordreuil/Pardee (1993).



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from the time when Yasmaḫ-Addu and his father were in power in Mari. But Charpin, Durand and Guichard have identified several examples of prophecy or references to prophecy during the interregnum, which means that it is impossible to assume that Samsī-Addu and his sons disregarded this means of communication with the divine world. Conversely, even while there is some evidence for prophecy during the interregnum, the material does not abound. Why is the material so much scarcer?19 What did the ‘ecstatics’ (muḫḫû) and ‘spokespeople’ (āpilū) do during this time? Did they simply cease to exist? Adducing ARM 26 243, a text in which a muḫḫûm of Dagan warns about the collapsing house of Sammetar, Charpin suggests that they carried on with their normal activity to warn their contemporaries of potential misfortunes.20 As these are usually less directly relevant to the king, they do not feel the need to write to him, and thus we lack the evidence for their activity.21 As we have seen, in times of crisis more prophecies were reported. This could partly be caused by the fact that in these times the king would have been away from his palace in Mari relatively frequently. Messages which would normally have reached him orally now would have to be transmitted by his governors and other officials. Adducing comparative material we can see that deities manifest themselves much more strongly in times of crisis,22 which corresponds to the pattern that we see at Mari: there are mild rebukes but mostly the oracles seem to contain encouragement and promises of divine protection for king Zimri-Lim. 5.4 The Workings of Prophecy As discussed in the introduction (1.2), the definitions of prophecy in different academic subjects differ vastly and are adapted to the context in which prophecy is studied.23 In this section I will present some of the views of how prophecy worked in the ancient Near East. As has been noted by Frahm, a methodological difficulty lies in the fact that so far no Akkadian  This is under the caveat that the dating of the tablets is correct.  Charpin (1992: 27). 21  This is an argument at from silence. 22  One might think of African mediums that were involved in the many wars of independence in the last century, cf. e.g. Keller (2002). 23  Cf. e.g. the introduction by Lewis (2003) who is taken up (albeit in an earlier edition) by Wilson (1979 and 1980). Cf. also the various contributions in Nissinen (2000c), Wilson (2004) and Nissinen (2004). 19

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word for the abstract term ‘prophecy’ has been identified. This seems to indicate that throughout the history of prophecy in cuneiform sources, no abstract concept of prophecy was conceived.24 While there was certainly no clearly-defined concept of ‘prophecy’ in ancient times, modern scholars have repeatedly attempted to define prophecy and perforce must do so when studying it. When the lack of an ancient term is kept in mind, a necessarily open definition can be helpful for our understanding of a phenomenon that appears in many different guises throughout history and yet shows a remarkable uniformity. In the discussion about the definition of biblical prophecy much has been made of the prophets’ consciousness of being sent. In the same vein, Durand starts his introduction to the Mari prophets by pointing out that in many cases a form of šapārum (‘to send’) is employed in the relevant texts.25 In his opinion [c]ette notion de « messager » est perceptible même lorsque le terme de šapârum n’est pas explicitement employé.26

This shows that at least in the mind of one of the most important scholars of Mari prophecy there are close links with biblical prophecy.27 Durand does not show conscious knowledge of the fact that there is a debate among anthropologists about whether prophetic activity is necessarily ecstatic or whether ecstasy is experienced only by some prophets.28 He assumes ecstasy to be part of prophecy and further assumes that this ecstasy could be attained inductively. He follows Finet who first interpreted ARM 10 4 (= ARM 26 207) as showing signs of drink-induced ecstasy.29 Durand adds ARM 10 6 (= ARM 26 212) as another case.30

 Frahm (2006).  As noted above, not a single professional prophet claims to be sent by a deity. 26  Durand (1988: 377–380). Similar sentiments can be found in Durand (1995: 315–318). 27  But cf. the criticism by Sasson (1998) levelled against scholars of the Hebrew Bible of fairly wild interpretations of Mari prophecy within for a of discussion of biblical scholarship, and also his criticism of assyriologists who make equally wild assertions about biblical texts in contexts which do not include many biblical scholars. 28  See in 1.2 in the Introduction. 29  Dossin (1978: 252). Finet (1982) elaborated on it. Since then this has become the standard interpretation of this passage, e.g. Sasson (1994: 308) and Butler (1998: 153–154). See also my interpretation of that text above. 30  For induced prophecy in Mari, cf. Durand (1982: 447–450, 1988: 392–394, 1995: 328– 330 and 2008a). Durand also cites ARM 26 208. I have to admit that I fail to see where that text offers any evidence for induced prophecy, unless of course one restores and translates as Durand (2000: 319–321) does. He suggests restoring line 4’ as a-šar m[u-ú i-ba-aš-šu] (‘where there [is] w[ater]’). While this is a possible restoration, there is no indication in the 24 25



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Moran also touches on the subject of the mental state of the prophets. He argues that the mere existence of prophecies in their readily understandable form allows us to draw the conclusion that they were not in ‘extreme forms of mantic frenzy’, because we have no indication of further intermediaries such as the Delphic προφήται. From this he ventures that it is possible that the verb namḫû acquired a secondary meaning ‘to become beside oneself’, similar to the Greek ἔκστασις that gave rise to the English term ‘ecstasy’. He deems the question of whether other forms of ecstasy were part of either lay-people’s prophecies or of professional behaviour, as unanswerable with the evidence available in his time.31 Durand also comments on the ‘kinds’ of prophecy found at Mari: there are several examples of the category oracles against the nations, of Heilsorakel and conditional Heilsorakel and of various kinds of complaints and admonitions.32 It is important to note, however, that while there is criticism of the king’s action (or lack thereof), we do not find (conditional) oracles of doom for the ruling class.33 Such oracles are only pronounced against foreign groups. The informational structure of prophecy can thus be summed up as follows: the prophets receive their messages and convey them to the king through a system set up to help the king not to commit any religious crimes by ignoring the will of the gods. At the same time the gods ask for information—a ṭēmšu gamrum (‘full report’)—to be brought to them.34 This structure is strikingly similar to what can be found in Sargonid Assyria. Because it is so closely linked to the king, both forms of prophecy as we find it require the existence of a king. Durand argues that this can be summed up as: no king equals no prophecy.35 There appears to be a link between this and the curious expression ūmūšu qerbū (‘his days are close’).36 Both stem from the loyalty of the royal deity to the royal house. Durand extrapolates that slightly later this close relationship will allow Addu who is the raison d’être of most dynasties context that this should be the reading of the line; compare the more careful translation in Heimpel (2003: 258–259). It might be of some importance that neither the āpilum nor the muḫḫûm is mentioned in this context. 31  Moran (1969: 25–29). 32  Durand (1988: 404–405 and 1995: 354–356) and Barstad (2006: 30–47). 33  With the two conditional forms, I paraphrase Durand’s ‘Si tu fais telle chose, je ferai ta fortune’ and ‘si tu ne fais pas telle chose, je causerai ta perte’, Durand (1988: 410). 34  ARM 26 233. 35  Durand (1988: 410–411 and 1995: 363–365). 36  ARM 26 212, in Durand’s translation. Heintz (1971a) even sees the biblical ‘Day of YHWH’ prefigured in this. Note also the links to expressions linked to the end of pregnancy.

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in Syria, to take over from ’El the position of supreme power within the various panthea.37 The most interesting aspect of Durand’s introduction is contained in the last four pages, in which he draws all his information together and compares it to the evaluations of prophecy elsewhere, particularly Israel and Judah. Any separation between suggested categories, such as nomadic prophets versus those of an agrarian society, or those of an itinerant ‘holy man’ who is connected to groups of prophets versus the ‘ecstatic’ who lives in the city and awaits commissioning, is denied here.38 In Mari we simply find the muḫḫûm (‘ecstatic’) and the āpilum (‘spokesperson’); the only distinction between them appears to be that one, the ‘spokesperson’ has no other functions but to prophesy while the ‘ecstatic’ is an ecstatic cult-official, who, like other similar specialists, reports divine messages whenever he receives them.39 Durand argues that a ‘parallel humanity’ evolved which existed between the human and the divine worlds and provided a link between the two. He claims that ‘les contemporains de Zimri-Lim pensaient que le contact avec le monde super-humain se faisait de façon privilégiée par le moyen de l’infra-humain et de l’anormalité.’40 In spite of his close description and impressive interpretation of prophecy at Mari, Durand does not really present us with a clear-cut definition of prophecy. He leaves this task to others. Charpin defines prophecy as ‘the delivery of a divine message in human language.’41 This very cautious and wide definition is probably due to the lack of evidence. But it also serves

37  Durand (1995: 365–368). One can see this already in ARM 1 3, which reasons that Yaḫdun-Lim’s dynasty loses control of Mari because of the ‘sins of the king’. Zimri-Lim receives his dynasty’s renewed kingship from the hand of Adad, cf. FM 7 39 in which Adad of Ḫalab and Adad of Kallassu, both Aleppine manifestations of Adad, claim to have enthroned him. This goes hand in hand with a development away from deities searching for riches towards deities who pose moral demands on ‘their’ kings. Durand cites FM 7 8, a letter from Yarim-Lim to Zimri-Lim about the extradition of a number of fugitives who sought refuge in Yamḫad. In this astounding document, Yarim-Lim tells Zimri-Lim that he will not be able to extradite any foreign kings who have sought asylum in Yamḫad because Adad told him not to (lines 26–30). 38  Petersen (1981). Durand cites Fohrer (1969: 222–228). However, the content of Fohrer’s exposition is not given justice here. He would agree with Durand that both the muḫḫûm and the āpilum are part of his second class, situated at a cult-centre. It is the holy-man, seer or kahin whom he sees rooted in the nomad environment. For his view on the kahin see pp. 223–224, for his second type—he suggests using the word ‘Nabi’—see pp. 224–228. 39  Durand (1988: 408). 40  Durand (1988: 409). 41  Charpin (1992: 21).



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a different purpose: he implicitly excludes symbolic or prophetic acts and follows Nakata in distinguishing between prophecy and vision/dream.42 Nakata argues for a careful classification of the prophecies with respect to a number of parameters. He argues for the need to distinguish between dreams/visions and prophecies in the strict sense.43 His main point is that prophecies are received by professional personnel while dreams/visions are reported by lay-people. The other arguments are: Firstly, in the case of prophecies, the divine sender of the message is either mentioned explicitly or can be identified with great certainty. Secondly, with the exception of Kibri-Dagan, all reports of prophecies quote the divine speech directly, while in dream-reports they are quoted as part of the speech of the dreamer. Thirdly, relying on Oppenheim he claims that dreams are a common Mesopotamian phenomenon while prophecy is a distinctly Western phenomenon. Fourthly, in prophecy reports patterns can be discerned, while this is not possible for dream-reports. Finally, the matter of prophecies was always public, while this is not necessarily true for dreamreports. Within the group of prophecies, Nakata finds three basic types, which he calls a) the ‘Shibtu type’: ina bīt DN PN (+Professional title (ProfN)) immaḫi/u (‘in the temple of DN PN, the ProfN raved’) combined either with umma DN (‘thus (says) DN’) or with kīʾam iqbi ummāmi (‘this he spoke (saying) thus’); b) the ‘Addu-dūri type’: ProfN ina bīt DN itbēma (. . .) ummāmi (‘a ProfN rose in the temple of DN (. . .) and (said) thus’); and c) the ‘Kibri-Dagan type’: ProfN . . . illikamma (awatam kīʾam) iqbêm (‘a ProfN . . . came to me. He spoke (this word)’). In his opinion, the difference between tebûm (‘to rise’) and namḫûm (‘to start to rave’) can be explained as a matter of stylistic choice. Moran determines that the reports of public prophecies generally keep to the following order: (1) identification of the prophet either by profession and/or name; (2) place of prophecy (with some exceptions); (3) verb itbe (‘he rose’) in case of professionals and immaḫi/u for lay-prophets; (4) direct quotation marker; (5) direct quotation.44 Nissinen is most interested in the definition of prophecy and what implications differing definitions have on the materials selected and on their treatment and evaluation.45 In his introduction to Prophets and Prophecy  Charpin (2002: 8–9 n.15).  Nakata (1982: 143–144). 44  Moran (1969: 24–26). 45  See also Nissinen (2000d, 2003d, 2004 and 2010c). 42 43

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in the Ancient Near East he defines any ‘human transmission of allegedly divine messages’, as ‘prophecy’, which he goes on to qualify somewhat by saying that ‘prophecy clearly belongs to the non-inductive kind.’46 This concentration on the communicative aspect necessarily means that other aspects, such as social conditions, personal qualities of the diviner and techniques involved, are no longer at the centre of the investigation. In their stead, a fourfold division of prophecy into the divine sender, the message, the intermediary and the recipient(s) arises. Nissinen demands that ‘[t]hese four components should be transparent in any written source to be identified as a specimen of prophecy.’47

46  He gives the example that a dreamer would be to an astrologer like a prophet to an inductive diviner. He cites an impressive array of scholars for this approach to prophecy concentrating on the communicative aspects of this phenomenon: Overholt (1989), Huffmon (1992), Barstad (1993b), Weippert (1997) and Petersen (2000). Nissinen (2003d: 6) reminds us ‘there is no infallible definition’. 47  Nissinen (2003d: 2).

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Conclusions Summing up the part on Old Babylonian prophecy, a number of important aspects should be highlighted. First of all, the translation of āpilum as ‘spokesperson’ picks up a suggestion by Fronzaroli and Merlo. It is important to insist on this translation as better than ‘respondent’ as no āpilum can ever be shown to respond to any question, be it from the divine or human spheres; they do, however, often speak for a deity and are thus that deity’s spokesperson. Further, there is an important difference to be made between professional prophets and other people who occasionally prophesy. This distinction allows us to realise that the muḫḫûm, the assinnu and probably the qammatum are ecstatic cult officials and not professional prophets.1 Prime of place among them goes to the muḫḫûm who in most previous study has been understood as a professional prophet.2 But like the assinnu who is known as an ecstatic cult official elsewhere, an ecstatic role in the cult is entirely compatible with the role the muḫḫûm performs in the Eštarritual and better explains why they are said to ‘rave’ (maḫû) and not to ‘speak’ (qabû) there. The qammatum should probably be regarded in this category. She only appears in three texts in Mari and nowhere else in the entire cuneiform record, but she pronounces an oracle (ARM 26 197 and 199) remarkably similar to that of a muḫḫûm (ARM 26 202).3 Although the reading of the word qammatum has been established beyond reasonable doubt, a clear interpretation of the title and her role still escapes us. Only new textual evidence could allow a better understanding of her function. The interpretation of the assinnu as a shaman should be abandoned as well.4 1  It is lamentable that the recent edition of the Encyclopedia of Religion claims that the muḫḫûm is ‘not connected with recognized sanctuaries’ while the āpilum is connected to such a recognised sanctuary, Sheppard/Herbrechtsmeier (2005: 7424), which is exactly the opposite of the situation depicted in the sources. 2  But see the remarks in Charpin (1992) already pointing in the direction developed here. 3  But cf. n.118. 4  This suggestion was made by Huffmon (2004). Huffmon’s (2007: 453) suggestion to regard the muḫḫûm, the āpilum and the assinnu as restricted in their choice of partner

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That leaves the āpilum as the only professional prophet. It was his role to transmit divine messages from the deity whom he served to the king, to whom he was responsible. The āpilum is being sent around the kingdom collecting divine oracles, which they either transmit via a governor or even directly in the form of a letter from a deity to the king, e.g. ARM 26 192 and 194.5 It must remain unclear whether they had at their disposal some method that could either encourage possession, or some other form of immanent contact with the divine, such as techniques to induce trances. The texts simply do not give any indications. Further, Zgoll’s distinction between dreams and visions should be accepted as the best interpretation of the available data. The fact that it sits comfortably both with other Mesopotamian and West-Semitic material further underlines its validity. Therefore, texts which mention the word šuttum (‘dream’) are to be regarded as dreams, and only if a scene is described that does not mention this word is it possible that the text reports a vision. One route of enquiry supporting the above evidence is an attempt to look at the genders of those people involved in the prophetic process. It becomes clear that while the roles of the āpilum and the muḫḫûm are attested both in male and in female form, a difference with regard to gender is immediately apparent: among the muḫḫûm numbers for each gender is more even than among the āpilum, who are almost exclusively male. Male mediums are also more prevalent among lay-prophets. Only when looking at dreams do women, usually members of the royal household, start to feature more prominently in Mari. Nothing can be said regarding the question how Mariote and other Old Babylonian societies evaluated prophecy, and the gods’ actions through their mediums. As much as we would like to, the sources are mute and do not allow us to compare our material directly to 20th century ecstatic religion in the form in which it can be found so prevalent in Africa, South East Asia and to some extent also in South America. The writers of our sources were simply not interested whether or not a prophet was ‘pounced

similar to the restrictions imposed on the nadītu rests on the comparison with the Delphic Pythia. As there is no cuneiform evidence for such restrictions it should be dropped. 5  Even if the physical shape of ARM 26 192 itself is that of a letter, the possibility cannot be entirely excluded, that it represents something akin to the Neo-Assyrian Sammeltafeln, gathering several oracles on one tablet. With the identification of RIME 4.3.7.7: 63–79 as an oracle it is possible that we can now show a similar progression between oracle report, gathering and use in literary text as in Neo-Assyrian prophecy.



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upon’ or politely asked by the deity to allow it to make use of their body for a while, or indeed whether the mediums themselves initiated the contact with the divine world, as we know from some shamanistic traditions. Thus modern theoretical approaches are not in and of themselves helpful—the questions that they ask can simply not be answered, but the attention increasingly paid to gender as an important factor has improved our understanding of the texts. A further point is the notion of ‘being sent’. As pointed out above, the entire question depends on categories used for the study of the Hebrew Bible.6 And at first glance, it is striking that there are individuals in both corpora who claim to be sent by their deity. However, there are only three cases at Mari in which a prophet claims to have been sent out of around fifty prophetic texts, indicating that the Mariote prophets in general and professional prophets did not regard themselves as being sent.7 Because the muḫḫûm, the assinnu and the qammatum are cult officials, the texts which mention them have been taken to provide evidence for cultic prophecy at Mari.8 However, when we realise that these terms describe three ecstatic cult officials rather than prophets, there is no evidence for cult prophecy in the Old Babylonian period. Further, while these three classes of cult officials occasionally prophesy, there is little indication that they did so during rituals, unless the verb namḫû (‘to go into ecstasy’) is forced into the translation ‘to prophesy’. As there is no indication that this special meaning is warranted in FM 3 2 and 3, this step should not be taken. In turn, this has an impact on research on prophecy in the Hebrew Bible and ancient Israel as an important extra-biblical source corroborating the supposed existence of cultic prophecy in Israel cannot be adduced any longer. Similarly, the causal relationship between music and prophecy cannot be found to have existed in Old Babylonian sources.9 The realisation that the muḫḫûm is not a prophet by profession and that they prophesy only occasionally also has ramification for the identification of the so-called prophetic groups in Old Babylonian sources. While both the feminine and the masculine plurals of āpil(t)um occurs once each

6  It was introduced into the discussion by Hebrew Bible scholars, e.g. Noth (1957: 237–238). 7  ARM 26 210: 11, ARM 220: 19 and ARM 221: 13. ARM 26 212: 10 may be a fourth example—the text is too damaged to determine with any certainty. I think it is more likely that the the object of šapāru (‘to send’) is an object and the addressee the king or Šiptu. 8  E.g. Barstad (2005: 28–30). 9  See chapters 16.1 and 16.2.

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to make a general statement, they are not attested in a group anywhere. There is a group of muḫḫūtum attested in the Ritual of Eštar, but as the muḫḫûm are ecstatic cult officials rather than professional prophets, there is no text which gives evidence for the existence of prophetic groups in the Old Babylonian period. These conclusions showcase the importance of the realization that the muḫḫûm does not perform a prophetic role as previously thought but that they are ecstatic cult officials, who occasionally prophesy.

Part two

Prophecy in Neo-Assyrian Sources

chapter seven

Introduction to Neo-Assyrian Prophecy Whereas the prophetic texts from Mari made an immediate impact on scholarship both in Assyriology and other ancient Near Eastern subjects, for a long time the Neo-Assyrian prophecies were treated like the proverbial step-child.1 After a vigorous start in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the study of Neo-Assyrian prophecy entered into a prolonged state of scholarly hibernation.2 In 1889, Delattre wondered why these texts ‘should have attracted so little attention up to the present day’, something that was rectified only a century later.3 The prophetic texts include various genres: oracle reports in letters, single oracles, tablets collecting several oracles, royal inscriptions, ritual texts and various lists.4 Several lists of prophetic texts have been published as well as entire books consisting of the texts themselves. No such list, however, is complete.5 The following is the most complete that I am aware of.

1  See Weippert (1985: 56 and 2001a: 32–33), Parpola (1997: xiii–xiv) and de Jong (2007: 25–28). 2  With the notable exceptions of Gresmann (1914), Langdon (1914: 146), Guillaume (1938: 48), Schmökel (1951) and Herrmann (1965: 58–59). Early publications are Banks (1898), Bezold (1889–99: 261), Craig (1895: pl. 22–27) (including the corrections in Craig (1897: ix–x)), Harper (1913: no. 1280), Klauber (1914), Langdon (1914: 138–145, pl. II–IV), Martin (1903: 88–101), Pinches (1891: 61) and Strong (1894: 627–645). 3  Delattre (1889). 4  SAA 3 23, the ‘Epic Text Mourning the Death of a King’ will not be included below, as it is a literary creation which includes an oracle written by the author of the ‘epic text’, rather than pretending to go back to ‘history’. Nissinen (2003d) also does not include it. The matter is similar with SAA 3 47, entitled ‘A letter from Ninurta to an Assyrian King’. The ‘Epical Text Mourning the Death of a King’ has 5’[x x x x x] ú-ka-lu a-ki maḫ-ḫe-e idm[u-mu] (‘5’[. . . . .] holding [. . .], wailed like an ecstatic’), Livingstone (1989: 52). In a similar way a Middle Babylonian Akkadian text from Ugarit (RS 25.460: 11’, see Introduction 1.4.3) reads aḫu-ú-a ki-ma maḫ-ḫe-e[d]a-mi-šu-nu ra-am-ku (‘my brothers bathing in their blood like ecstatics’), Nougayrol, et al. (1968: 267). Nissinen (2003d: 184) translates this as ‘prophets’, while Nougayrol, et al. (1968: 269) is more cautious and translates ‘possédés’, leaving the possibility open that the reference here is not to prophecy but to some other kind of possessed behaviour, also pointing to an episode in Esarhaddon’s Prism Ass A i 41, Borger (1956: 42): 4lar-ka-a-nu aḫḫêmeš-ia im-ma-ḫu-ma (‘afterwards my brothers raved’). 5  There are Parpola (1997), which gives all purely oracular texts known, and Nissinen (1998), which gives much of the non-oracular material. Nissinen (2003d) gathers the materials from these two. In his recent study, de Jong (2007: 175–179), lists some texts that

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Oracles in Letters − SAA 10 24 reports to the king that during the attempt to return (the statue of) Bēl to Babylon, one or two servants who were involved in the process transmitted a prophetic message from Bēl and Ṣarpanitu.6 − SAA 10 109 contains the quotation of a divine message in lines 14’–15’ that Esarhaddon will rebuild Babylon and the temple Esagila. As elsewhere with this kind of quotation it is difficult to determine whether the oracle was received through prophecy or other forms of divination. In the same letter the writer, the astrologer Bēl-ušezib, complains that king Esarhaddon was summoning prophets (raggimu and raggintu) in his stead.7 − SAA 10 111 is a letter by the astrologer Bēl-ušezib, which contains a short oracle at the end. It is not clear which kind of divination lies behind it, but considering that Bēl-ušezib is an astrologer, it is likely that he read this message in the stars. This short oracle is a good example of how those oracles which originate from technical divination are hard to distinguish from prophecies.8 − In SAA 10 284 the exorcist Nabû-nadin-šumi cites a short oracle from Ištar of Nineveh and Ištar of Arbela which announces that all traitors will be ‘rooted out from Assyria.’9 − In the letter SAA 10 174, the chief haruspex Marduk-šumu-uṣur writes to Assurbanipal, presumably shortly after his accession to the throne, praising him and citing an oracle that occurred during the coronation that he (Assurbanipal) shall conquer the world.10 − SAA 10 294, a letter by the scholar Urad-gula to his king, contains a reference that he went to see a raggimu.11

cannot be found in Nissinen’s publication. Some of these are used as evidence by other authors, see e.g. the Tammuz ritual in Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 91). My list is the most complete that I am aware of, but it will hopefully be outdated by new finds. A recent German translation of SAA 9 8 and SAA 10 284 can be found in Pientka-Hinz (2008).  6  Parpola (1993: 19) not in Nissinen (2003d).  7  Parpola (1993: 86–88) and WAW 12 105.  8  Parpola (1993: 89–90) and WAW 12 106.  9  Parpola (1993: 220–221) and WAW 12 107. 10  Parpola (1993: 136–137) not in Nissinen (2003d). 11  Parpola (1993: 231–234) and WAW 12 108. Parpola argued that the raggimu in that text was unable to help Urad-gula because he did not have a diglu (‘vision, ability to see’). On the issue see de Jong (2007: 292–294).



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− Mār-Issār, a royal agent in Babylon, writes a letter (SAA 10 352) to Esarhaddon regarding a substitute-king ritual. In this context he quotes an oracle of a prophet who is explicitly referred to as a raggintu, which is a rare occasion in the Neo-Assyrian prophetic material.12 − In SAA 13 37 a certain Adad-aḫu-iddina writes to the king in order to ask whether a raggintu should be taking a throne to Babylon, where she had previously also taken the king’s cloths, all presumably in the context of the substitute king ritual.13 − SAA 13 139 is a curious letter by Aššur-ḫamatuʾa in which he reports a prophetic oracle in which Marduk speaks in the first person. This letter or note does not have an introduction which is why Parpola and Nissinen suggest that it might be a quick note containing the words of a prophetic message.14 − Nabû-rēšī-išši writes a letter to Esarhaddon regarding some sacrifices in SAA 13 144. At the end of the badly damaged letter, he reports a prophetic oracle in which a deity remands the restitution of something in return for announced abundance.15 − SAA 13 148 is the fragment of a report that a šelutu (‘votaress’) had given an oracle.16 − SAA 16 59, 60 and 61 all preserve various oracles in connection with the conspiracy of an official called Sasî.17 These include the mention of an oracle announced by a female slave in favour of Sasî and against Esarhaddon. − A letter published by Mattila in 1987 contains a short oracle of support for Assurbanipal.18 − The physical shape of SAA 9 10 and 11 suggests that they are probably letters. However, they are too fragmentary to be entirely certain of it. In SAA 9 10: s.2 we find the word raggintu.19

 Parpola (1993: 288–289) and WAW 12 109.  Cole/Machinist (1998: 38–39) and WAW 12 111. 14  For the letter see Cole/Machinist (1998: 111), WAW 12 112 and most recently Nissinen/Parpola (2004). 15  Cole/Machinist (1998: 116–117) and WAW 12 113. 16  Cole/Machinist (1998: 119) and WAW 12 114. 17  Luukko/Buylaere (2002: 52–57) and WAW 12 115–117. For a reconstruction of Sasî based on Nissinen’s (1998: 144–150) assumption that the references all refer to the same person see now Frahm (2010: 120–126). 18  Mattila (1987). This text is not included in WAW 12. 19  Parpola (1997: 42–43); de Jong (2007: 172) points to the fact that Parpola included both texts in his copies of letters, CT 53 219 and 946, Parpola (1979: pl. 66, 210). 12 13

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Single Oracles − SAA 9 5 contains one textual unit, which has been described as a ‘literary derivative of prophecy’.20 Independently of how redacted and elaborated-upon the text on this tablet is, it contains one oracle.21 − Similarly, SAA 9 6 contains a single prophetic oracle by Ištar of Arbela and probably assured the king of her assistance. The text is badly damaged which makes the analysis rather ambiguous.22 − SAA 9 7 contains either one short (lines 3–11) and one long oracle (lines 12–rev.11) or a single oracle single oracle spanning virtually the entirety of the tablet. The oracles are typical expressions of divine protection and support for the royal house, here in the person of the crown-prince Assurbanipal.23 − SAA 9 8 is a short oracle against Elam, announcing their destruction.24 Tablets Collecting Several Oracles (‘Sammeltafeln’) − Many of the texts in SAA 9 are on so-called Sammeltafeln: SAA 9 1 1–10 and SAA 9 2 1–6.25 Most of the oracles are spoken by different prophets. It is noteworthy that in the text as it survives, not a single title connected to prophecy is mentioned in either of the two collections. Parpola also qualifies SAA 9 3 1–5 as an oracle collection, and in the sense that several oracles are collected on the tablet he is correct. However, they have a very different quality from the first two collections and seem to reflect parts of the texts for a ritual. − SAA 9 4 may or may not be an example of another Sammeltafel. The preserved parts of the oracle are reminiscent of the oracles in SAA 9 1–2, but the table is too damaged to be able to make a certain judgement.26

 De Jong (2007: 174–175).  Parpola (1997: 34) and WAW 12 90. 22  Parpola (1997: 35) and WAW 12 91. 23  Parpola (1997: 38–39) and WAW 12 92. 24  Parpola (1997: 40) and WAW 12 93. 25  Parpola (1997: 4–19) and WAW 12 68–83. 26  Parpola (1997: 30) and WAW 12 89. 20 21



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Royal Inscriptions − Both Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal cite oracles in their royal inscriptions. They consist of promises of military and dynastic success, but also that the gods are communicating through prophetic messages.27 − I also include Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty, SAA 2 6 here.28 In lines 116–117, prophetic messages are mentioned as one way of gaining information which is to be transmitted to the king, in the same way as information gained from the king’s family members. − Recently, de Jong suggested adding the votive inscription to Marduk to the corpus of prophetic texts as it mentions šipri ilūtika (‘messages of your gods’).29 The text contains a short message which announces the defeat of the enemy.30 Ritual Texts − Both versions of the Marduk Ordeal, SAA 3 34 and 35, lines 28 and 31 respectively, mention that a maḫḫû is walking in front of the (statue of a form of Ištar referred to as) Lady of Babylon.31 − SAA 9 3 1–5, classified by Parpola as a collective tablet, may well preserve texts which were put on the tablet for easy access during a ritual. The text is to be divided in two different parts, SAA 9 3 1–3 and 4–5.32 − The Ritual of Ištar and Dumuzi demands that bread be made ready for male and female zabbū and maḫḫû.33

27  The relevant passages from Esarhaddon’s inscriptions are Ass A i 31–ii 26, Nin A i 61–62, Nin A ii 6, Borger (1956: 1–6, 39–45), see now the new edition in Leichty (2011: 9–26, 119–129). Assurbanipal left considerably more material: see Prism C i: 73–76, Prism T ii 7–24 (=Prism C I 53–66), Prism B v 15–vi 16 (=Prism C vi 125–131), Prism A vi 113– 118 (=F vi 4–7=T v 19–26=TTaf.1 iv 21–28), Prism A iii 4–7 (=partial F ii 38=partial B ii 82–83= partial C iv 91–92), Borger (1996). Most of these texts are included in WAW 12 97–101. Not included are Prism C i: 73–76 and Prism A vi 113–118. 28  Watanabe (1987: 72–72, 148–149), Parpola/Watanabe (1988: 33) and WAW 12 102. 29  De Jong (2007: 290). 30  Borger (1996: 202). The text is not included in Nissinen (2003d). 31  Livingstone (1989: 84, 88) and WAW 12 103. 32  Parpola (1997: 22–27) and WAW 12 84–88. On this text see also Weippert (2002). 33  Farber 1977 II A: 31, Farber (1977: 129, 140–141) and WAW 12 118.

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Provision Texts − SAA 12 69, a list of expenditures from the Aššur temple in Aššur specifies in line 29 that for a ritual called ‘divine council’ (ukkin dingir. meš-ni), 1 homer and 5 litres of barley was made available for the maḫḫāte (feminine plural of maḫḫû).34 − SAA 7 9 is a list of lodgings. Line rev. 23 mentions a raggimu called Quqî in the company of some military personnel.35 − In ZTT 25, recently published by Parpola, a maḫḫu (lúgub.ba) receives the immense amount of six minas of copper. An augur and a temple are also listed in this text as receiving one mina of copper each.36 Omen Lists − The omen list Šumma ālu mentions the lúgub.ba.meš (maḫḫû), the f gub.ba.meš (maḫḫāte) and the a.bil.meš (apillû=āpilum).37 − The omen list Šumma izbu mentions maḫḫiātum (feminine plural of maḫḫû) in a protasis (protasis: if X; apodosis: then Y).38 − A commentary on the omen list Šumma izbu mentions the term maḫḫû in the masculine singular and the feminine plural (maḫḫiātum).39 Lexical Lists − The lexical list Erim-ḫuš includes an entry in which maḫḫû is equated with lúgub.ba.ra and lúan.dib.ba.ra.40 − The short version of the lexical list Igituḫ, line 263 equates the lúgub. ba with the maḫḫû.41 − Both the canonical and the short Neo-Assyrian recension of lú=ša equate lú gub.ba with maḫḫû (lines 117 and 213 respectively). The canonical  Kataja/Whiting (1995: 74) and WAW 12 110.  Fales/Postgate (1992: 18) and WAW 12 104. 36  Parpola (2008: 98–99). Another text in this collection, ZTT 19, a badly broken tablet has a line finishing in lúgub, Parpola (2008: 83–84). Parpola’s skill in reading anything on this tablet is impressive, but even he has to admit that his readings are ‘partly conjectural’. 37  Lines 101–102 and 114, Freedman (1998: 32–35). On the āpilum see my discussion in 3.1. 38  Šumma izbu XI: 7, cf. Leichty (1970: 131). 39  K 1913, Leichty (1970: 230–231) and WAW 12 128. 40  MSL 17 III, Cavigneaux/Güterbock/Roth (1985: 51). This text is not included in Nissinen (2003d). 41  Landsberger/Gurney (1957–58). 34 35



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list also equates maḫḫû with lúní.su.ub and lúal.è.dè and maḫḫûtu with al.è.dè (lines 116, 118–119).42 − Lines 134, 135 and 147 respectively of Version B of the lexical list Ḫar. gud, itself related to the list lú=ša, equate šabru (‘dream interpreter’) with raggimu (‘prophet’), āpilu (‘interpreter/prophet’) with lúgub. ba (normally read as ‘maḫḫû’ [‘ecstatic’]) and eššebu (‘ecstatic’) with maḫḫû (‘ecstatic’).43 f

After the earlier flurry of activity among Assyriologists in the late 19th century, the baton was taken up by Deller and Parpola in the 1960s, whose ‘preliminary work [. . .] has left few traces in the published record’, but which led to first contributions by Weippert, Dietrich and Huffmon in the 1970s.44 The renewed interest in the texts culminated in an edition of the oracular texts by Parpola, a selection of other Neo-Assyrian texts containing references to prophecy by Nissinen and a number of studies on individual aspects in recent years.45 When Parpola’s much needed and eagerly awaited re-edition of the oracular texts appeared, it elicited a number of unusually long reviews.46 Unlike the usual format of the series State Archives of Assyria, Parpola’s volume boasts a lengthy introduction, which includes his (re-)construction of the religious context in which the prophecies were uttered and collected.47 In his view, Judaism, Christianity, Zoroastrianism, Platonic philosophy and more are prefigured in and based upon the Neo-Assyrian understanding of the nature of (the) god(s).48

42  For the text of the canonical version see MSL 12 4.222, Civil (1969: 115–143, especially 132), WAW 12 125; for the short recension see MSL 12 4.212, Civil (1969: 93–110, especially 102), WAW 12 124. 43  MSL 12 6.2, Civil (1969: 226); see also WAW 12 126. 44  Nissinen (1998: 3 n.6), Weippert (1972), Dietrich (1973), Huffmon (1976a and 1976b). 45  Parpola (1997) and Nissinen (1998). Among the more important individual studies are Weippert (1981, 1985, 1988 and 1997), van der Toorn (1987), Huffmon (1992) and the many contributions by Nissinen. See also Villard (2001) and the studies in Nissinen (2000c). Most recently see de Jong (2007). 46  In order of increasing length: Postgate (2002), Frahm (2000–01), Kwasman (2001), Cooper (2000) and Weippert (2002). 47  A simple comparison of the number of pages is very telling: the introduction contains 121 pages, the edition of the actual texts 43 and an additional 41 pages of indices and appendices. The numbers include title pages and a number of pictures. 48  Parpola (1997: xviii-xliv).

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A cautionary note is in order here; the Neo-Assyrian prophetic corpus is relatively small. Parpola’s edition consists of ten tablets, containing some 29 oracles. To these we can add the texts mentioned above. Even together, all these texts constitute a small corpus and all results drawn from such a corpus are necessarily preliminary.

chapter eight

Neo-Assyrian Prophets In this section I analyse the titles raggintu and maḫḫû.1 The evidence for either term is so limited that I will not offer an analysis as detailed as with the Old Babylonian material. I do, however, assume that the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû, like his Old Babylonian counterpart, was a cult ecstatic in the first place, and that his occasional prophetic role was incidental to the cultic role. When identifying Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts, we stumble over the additional problem that more often than not the profession of prophetic figures is not specified in Neo-Assyrian texts. Even though the majority of prophets in SAA 9 are not given the title raggintu, it seems likely that they should be understood as such. 8.1 The raggintu The main Neo-Assyrian term for prophet is raggintu, a term which is exclusive to Neo-Assyrian texts. This peculiar fact has been the basis of a theory by Parpola, who regards the Neo-Assyrian raggintu as identical to the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû and Old Babylonian muḫḫûm.2 Before returning to that theory, however, I will present and discuss the philological evidence for raggintu. The consensus is that the noun raggintu is a Neo-Assyrian dialect form of the G-participle of the verb ragāmu with doubling of the second radical and the subsequent shortening of the preceding vowel.3 According to CAD, the standard meanings of ragāmu are ‘to call, to call out’, ‘to prophecy’, ‘to summon, convoke’, and ‘to lodge a claim, to sue, to bring a legal complaint, to claim something by lawsuit’. Taking the nature of prophecy 1  The word raggintu is a feminine form. The masculine equivalent is raggimu; maḫḫû is a masculine form and the feminine equivalent is maḫḫûtu. As the masculine raggimu is not nearly as well attested as the feminine raggintu, I will use the feminine form when referring to both genders. The maḫḫû is more frequently attested in the masculine form, and I will use the masculine form throughout to refer to maḫḫû (plural) of either gender. 2  Parpola (1997: xlv–lxxix). 3  Parpola (1997: cii n.212).

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as public, often the first meaning (‘to shout’) is suggested, as the image of a prophet is that she will stand in the temple or the gate and shout her deity’s message to the general public.4 In a display of circular reasoning, this is then used to prove that Neo-Assyrian prophecy was public in nature. When looking at the anthropological phenomenon ‘prophecy’, I concur with Parpola that more often than not it is indeed public in nature. Having very little evidence to go on for the Sitz im Leben of prophecy in the Neo-Assyrian empire, it is impossible to prove whether it was situated in the public sphere or not, but based on anthropological parallels, as well as both biblical and Old Babylonian evidence, it is likely that Neo-Assyrian prophecy was public as well. The masculine singular, raggimu, is attested in the Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon (SAA 2 6: 116), a list of sleeping quarters for official personnel (SAA 7 9: 23), and a letter by Urad-Gula to Assurbanipal (SAA 10 294: 31). The lexical list Ḫar-gud equates the šabrû, normally translated as ‘interpreter of dreams’, with raggimu.5 It also occurs in one of the oracles collected by Parpola, SAA 9 3.5 iv: 31. Parpola reads:6 [ la-da-gíl-di]ngir! ˹lú.ra˺-gi-mu

31 m

which Nissinen consequently transcribes as:7 [Lā-dāgil-i]li raggimu

31

Having collated the tablet at the British Museum in London I can read only: [. . .]x ˹lúra˺-gi-mu

31

[. . .] raggimu

31

While it is probable that the name of a prophet was mentioned here, it is impossible to be certain which prophet this might be. Further, contrary to Parpola’s statement, not even the reading of the last element of the prophet’s name is certain. The last possible case of the attestation of the masculine singular, raggimu, is in SAA 9 6: e.10, where Parpola restores the entire term on the

4  Parpola (1997: xlv and notes 215 and 217). More recently this has been taken on by Villard (2001: 64) and Nissinen (2003d: 7). 5  MSL 12 6.2: 134. According to Civil (1969: 225–226) the tablet is slightly damaged here: ra-gi-[mu], and not undamaged as indicated in Nissinen (2003d: 188). 6  Parpola (1997: 27). 7  Nissinen (2003d: 124).



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basis of SAA 9 3.5 iv: 31, the text just mentioned.8 Nissinen adds the observation that the verb ragāmu is used relatively frequently in this text.9 In fact, it appears twice, in r.6 and probably also in r.12. As the text is very fragmentary, it seems impossible to construct a coherent text. The masculine plural, raggimānu, is attested only once in a letter by Bēl-ušezib to Esarhaddon, together with raggimātu (feminine plural).10 In this letter Bēl-ušezib mentions raggimu ū raggintu (‘male and female prophets’)—in his view, less qualified individuals who had been called to assist the king in his decision making process in his stead. Unusually, Bēl-ušezib does not simply use the masculine plural to refer to women and men alike, as is common practice in most Semitic languages, instead employing both the masculine and feminine plural. The feminine singular, raggintu, is attested only in a letter from MārIssār to Esarhaddon and in a letter from Adad-aḫu-iddina to Esarhaddon, in which the raggintu Mullissu-abu-uṣri is mentioned.11 There is also SAA 9 7: 1 which attests to the raggintu Mullissu-kabtat writing to the king herself, either directly or possibly with the help of a scribe.12 This last text is significant as it is one of only two definite attestations of raggintu within the corpus of oracles (SAA 9). We know that the raggintu was a prophet. Which position she occupied in Neo-Assyrian society is much less clear. From a number of NeoAssyrian letters we can infer some information. The raggintu must have been of relatively high standing as SAA 13 37: 7 shows a raggintu prophesying in the temple after she had brought some of the king’s vestments to Babylonia.13 As it is highly unlikely that she would have done so without the explicit consent of the king, she must have been commanded to do so. In fact, this behaviour is reminiscent of that of the āpilum Lupaḫum, who is sent on a mission to Dēr and Tuttul. Let us now turn to Parpola’s theory that the Neo-Assyrian raggintu and the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm fulfil the same functions and that the term raggintu has replaced the older term in all but literary contexts, where

 Parpola (1997: 35).  Nissinen (2003d: 126 n.a). 10  SAA 10 109: 9.  11  SAA 10 352: e.23-r.4. and SAA 13 37: 7-r.9. 12  Whether the training for a raggintu encompassed composing and writing letters to the king must remain an open question as our data does not give us further information on the question. 13  This text should probably read together with SAA 16 59–61 and the substitute king ritual reported in SAA 10 352.  8

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maḫḫû is used.14 Parpola wonders whether this change of terminology reflects a change in the social role between Middle and Neo-Assyrian times.15 Nissinen, in turn, regards the maḫḫû as the formal version of the more colloquial form raggintu.16 There is one attestation of fgub.ba in the corpus of prophetic oracles from Nineveh in SAA 9 10: s.2. Parpola’s reading of this logogram as raggintu is contested by de Jong. In Parpola’s view all other oracles are spoken by raggintu-prophets and not a single maḫḫûtu is attested elsewhere in the oracles. On that basis, he argues that fgub.ba has to be read as raggintu here. This fits his understanding well that the role of the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm is now fulfilled by the raggintu. In contrast, de Jong reasons that the word maḫḫû is attested in Neo-Assyrian and that since a plurality of prophetic figures is attested in Neo-Assyrian, there is no reason to read the logogram as raggintu in an effort to economise on the number of prophetic titles. As there is nothing that would militate against the normal reading of fgub.ba,17 I follow de Jong and read maḫḫûtu, which gives us a total of 20 attestations of the word in Neo-Assyrian, fourteen forms being masculine and six feminine.18 More to the point, there is an attestation of raggimu and maḫḫû in the very same clause of Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty: lū ina pî 117 lúraggime lúmaḫḫe mār šā’ilē ile (var. ilāne).19

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if it [the message which the person who swears the oath agrees to transmit to the king] is in the mouth of 117raggimu-prophets, or maḫḫû-ecstatics, or ‘askers of the god’. . . .

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 Parpola (1997: xlv–lxxix).  Parpola (1997: ciii n.229) states that while the verb maḫû is mostly employed with negative connotations, all occurrences are “obvious literary allusions to Enuma eliš IV: 8 maḫḫûtiš īteme (‘[Tiamat] went crazy/out of her mind’) and can thus not be taken to indicate that the verb has taken on only negative connotations. Further, there is no Aramaic cognate of raggimu, which could be adduced to support Parpola’s view. 16  Nissinen (1991: 228). 17  Old Babylonian lú=ša A (MSL 12 5.22): 23–24, 23 lúgub.ba=mu-uḫ-ḫu-um 24 f.lúgub.ba=muḫu-t[um] and Old Babylonian lú=ša B (MSL 12 5.32): 26–27, 26[lú]gub.ba=mu-ḫ[u]-ú-um 27 f.lú [ ]gub.ba=mu-úḫ-ḫu-tum, Civil (1969: 158, 177). Parpola (1997: ciii n.228) acknowledges this evidence but does include it in his interpretation. This reading was still prevalent in Neo-Babylonian Nippur. The vocalism with an /a/ in the first syllable seems to have crossed the dialect boundaries into Babylonian, cf Nippur IV 122: 29, Cole (1996: 254–256). 18  I am counting the occurrence in the long recension of lú=ša as only one attestation. 19  Watanabe (1987: 72, 148–149). 14 15



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According to Parpola, raggimu and maḫḫû are synonymous here.20 If that were the case, logically, the šā’ilu should also be synonymous with both of them. Furthermore, in that case the following groups mentioned in the previous lines should also be synonymous: Firstly, aḫu (‘brother’), aḫi abi (‘uncle’) and mār aḫi abi (‘cousin’); Secondly, qinnu (‘family’) and zar’i bēt abīšu (‘the descendants of the house of his father’); and finally aḫu (‘brother’), mar’u (‘son’) and martu (‘daughter’). In my view it makes more sense to see each of these groups as different examples of a related kind. Most of the above are different classes of relatives, people from whom one would be likely to hear rumours. The last group are diviners, a class which often spawns rumours. This attestation of raggimu and maḫḫû in the same text should—even if it is the only text that does so—also argue against Nissinen’s understanding of the two terms originating in two different levels of language. Parpola also argues that the raggintu is an ecstatic prophet, giving the equation of the raggimu to the šabrû (‘seer/visionary’) on the one hand, and that of the maḫḫû to the lallaru (‘wailer’) and zabbu (‘frenzied person’), on the other.21 However, as pointed out by de Jong, ‘there are no indications that the raggimu delivered oracles in an ecstatic state.’22 Arguably, the texts which are closest to a prophetic oracle are letters which report these oracles to the king. Surely some redaction took place in the writing of the letter, but probably less than when they were copied and later incorporated into larger texts and collections. I will therefore present here an overview of the prophetic letters. Most of them are addressed to Esarhaddon, with only a few addressed to Assurbanipal. Some texts report oracles to the king, others quote from them to make a point and some use them almost as royal epithets. In this last group we find ABL 839, in which the sender of the text quotes a short oracle from Nabû and Marduk announcing Esarhaddon’s rule over the ‘entire earth’.23 This oracle is used almost as a proof-text for the following advice to appoint a member of the royal family to be governor over Elam.

 Parpola (1997: xlvi).  Parpola (1997: xlvi). 22  De Jong (2001: 30). Assuming that de Jong’s and my analysis is correct that maḫḫû and raggimu are two terms that refer to two different specialists. 23  This letter to Assurbanipal contains material about the military dispute between the Neo-Assyrian empire and Elam; see Mattila (1987). 20 21

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Bēl-ušezib not only complains that the raggimānu and raggimātu are being preferred at the king’s side, but reminds the king that he was responsible for promulgating the ‘omen of the kingship of my lord, the crown prince Esarhaddon’, saying that he had played an important role in transmitting a prophetic message during the uncertain times before Esarhaddon ascended to the throne.24 In a second letter, Bēl-ušezib quotes an oracle from Bēl.25 Another letter to Assurbanipal, this one sent by his chief haruspex Marduk-šumu-uṣur, quotes an oracle to Esarhaddon, which was addressed to him in a Sîn temple in Harran. In the eyes of Marduk-šumu-uṣur, this oracle to Esarhaddon is valid also for Assurbanipal on his campaign against Egypt.26 A similar situation in which the writer of a letter claims knowledge of a divine oracle can also be found in further texts: a letter from Nabû-nadinšumi to Esarhaddon contains almost the same oracle but attributes it to a different deity;27 a further example can be found in SAA 10 111, the famous letter from Nabû-rēḫtu-uṣur.28 We finally find it also in another letter by Nabû-rēḫtu-uṣur to Esarhaddon, in which he employs prophetic oracles almost as ‘scriptural proof’ for his arguments twice in the same letter.29 The purpose of quoting an oracle in a letter by Nabû-rēšī-išši remains as unclear as the identity and profession of the original speaker of the oracle.30 Similarly, we do not know much about the identity of the original speaker of a divine message contained in a letter from Aššur-ḫamātuʾa to Assurbanipal.31 This extraordinary letter starts directly with an oracle by Bēl: [anāku] Bēl (‘[I am] Bēl’). Only on the reverse do we find Aššurhamātuʾa speaking to the king himself. However, there is no information 24  SAA 10 109: 13’-15’. It is interesting that the word used for ‘omen’ in this letter is ittu ‘sign’, which is often used to describe omina rather than prophetic utterances. 25  SAA 10 111: 23–26. 26  SAA 10 174: 14. Nissinen (2003d) does not include this text. In his earlier study, Nissinen (1998: 123) offers a translation and short discussion. It must remain open whether the oracle that Marduk-šumu-uṣur ‘cites’ is a literary invention or adaptation, or corresponds to an oracle to which he had access. 27  SAA 10 284: 4–8. 28  SAA 16 59: 9–11. It is interesting that very similar oracles are once attributed to Issār of Nineveh and Issār of Arbela by one writer, and to Nikkal by another. 29  SAA 16 60: 5–9. The partial duplicate of SAA 16 60, SAA 16 61 contains the quote from SAA 16 60: 5–9 in lines 4–7. 30  SAA 13 144: rev.7–e.1 31  SAA 13 139. Because of the damaged state of the tablet it is impossible to give any indications as to where the oracle finished. All we can say is that it started in line 1 of the obverse.



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as to who is speaking these words. All this information is missing in the lost part of the tablet. Similarly, a tiny fragment of a letter probably sent to Esarhaddon contains a message to the king, probably by a form of Ištar, but it is too small for us to glean any further information.32 One of the most fascinating texts we possess is SAA 3 47. It claims to be written by someone who has been ‘sent’ to deliver Ninurta’s message to the prince. The obverse contains what seems to be an oracle by Ninurta to a royal figure, while the reverse seems to point towards Assurbanipal as the writer of the text.33 While it is uncertain whether they were spoken by professional or non-professional prophets, all of these texts are quoted as if they were known material which scholars like Bēl-ušezib could use to back up their argument or to please their lord. Two texts show that lay-prophecy existed also in the Neo-Assyrian empire. Both texts are letters and they contain reports to Esarhaddon: SAA 10 24 and SAA 16 59. The first is a letter sent by Issār-šumu-ēreš, Adad-šumu-uṣur and Marduk-šākin-šumi to Esarhaddon, which contains a most bizarre episode: two servants, Nergal-šallim and Bēl-erība, intervene in the return of the statue of Bēl to Babylon. One of them, presumably Bēl-erība, says that Bēl and his consort Ṣarpanitu have ‘sent’ him.34 To my knowledge, this is one of only two Neo-Assyrian texts in which a prophetic figure claims to be ‘sent’ by a deity—or as here, by two deities.35 The second text is that of the female servant of Bēl-aḫu-uṣur.36 The amtu (‘female slave/servant’) whose prophetic activity is reported by Nabûrēḫtu-uṣur in one of his letters to Esarhaddon is said to have prophesied in the name of Nusku in favour of the rival contender to the throne, Sasî.37 We do not find out the woman’s name or even hear her own voice. In  SAA 13 148.  For a discussion of Assurbanipal as scribe see Livingstone (2007), who does not mention this text. For Nougayrol (1939: 33–34) the addressee of this letter is Assurnasirpal, Grayson (1983: 146–147) does not identify the addressee, but agrees with Nougayrol that it is a king. For the colophon see Hunger (1968). 34  The slight ambiguity in this text is rooted in that Nergal-šallim is said to have helped Bēl-eriba mount a horse and that then, some guardsmen arrested ‘him’. Nergal-šallim is, grammatically, the subject of the sentence and should therefore be the noun to which ‘him’ refers. However, Bēl-eriba’s name is much closer to the pronominal suffix so that it seems more likely that the pronominal suffix refers to him. 35  SAA 10 24: 7–11. Nissinen (2003d) does not include this text. In Nissinen (1998: 123) he cites this text once in a different context. The other text is the text mentioned just above, SAA 3 47. 36  SAA 16 59, WAW 12 115. 37  Recently, Pongratz-Leisten (2006: 19) has interpreted this situation in the light of social power: the prophecy critical of the king is spoken by a slave girl and the deity for 32 33

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spite of the low social rank which Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur grants her, he admonishes his king to perform an extispicy on her account, presumably because he regards the woman’s prophecy as inherently powerful, so that its possible effects must be investigated further by such a ritual.38 The existence of records of a lay-prophet critical of the royal family gives us further indication not only that lay-prophets existed, but also that they could make demands which call the legitimacy of the king himself into question. Here, however, some doubt crops up regarding the way in which Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur refers to the woman as a slave-girl. Is she merely referred to as a slave-girl because she speaks positively for a different contender for the throne and thus does not deserve the title prophet in the eyes of Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur, or was she truly a slave? In the absence of further evidence, these questions must remain unanswered. What we can say is that the criticised party did not regard her as a real prophet, and therefore could probably claim that her words were not truly the words of the god Nusku supporting Sasî, but rather invented by the party that supported the idea of Sasî becoming the king. 8.2 The maḫḫû and other (lay-)prophets The word maḫḫû is the Neo-Assyrian dialect form of Old Babylonian muḫḫû(m), a passû form of the root mḫʾ (‘to rave’) with the regular NeoAssyrian Ablaut of the first /u/-vowel to an /a/.39 Whereas in the Mari evidence the term muḫḫûm is fairly common, the same cannot be said about it in the Neo-Assyrian archives. It appears four times in the compound expression šipir maḫḫê (‘prophecy/prophetic message’) in royal inscriptions of both Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal indicating that the function of the maḫḫû was that of a messenger.40 Outside this compound construction, the term maḫḫû is attested only sparsely. The masculine singular form, maḫḫû can be found in the

whom she speaks is second-rate. On Nusku see Streck (1998–2001). On Sasî see Nissinen (1998: 144–150) and Frahm (2010: 120–126). 38 7’   . . . dullu šarru[. . .] 8’ina muḫḫīša lēpušu. 39  The passû is itself the equivalent of the parrus for biconsontantal roots with a vowel after the second consonant, cf. GAG §54m and §55n. For a discussion of the etymology and meaning of Old Babylonian muḫḫûm see chapter 2. 40  Nissinen (1998), Borger (1956: 2–3 [Ass A §2: 2 ii 12] and 42–44 [Nin A-F §27: 45 ii 6]) and Borger (1996: 104 [B v 95, C vi 127] and 141 [T ii 16, C i 61]).



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Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon,41 both versions of the so-called Marduk Ordeal,42 the lexical lists,43 the commentary on the omen list Šumma izbu,44 and in the so-called ‘Epical Text Mourning the Death of a King’.45 The masculine plural, maḫḫē is attested in the ritual of Ištar and Dumuzi,46 and in Šumma ālu.47 Spelled syllabically, the feminine form, maḫḫûtu, is attested only in the long recension of lú=ša,48 whereas the plural, maḫḫāte can be found in the list of expenditures from the Aššur temple in Aššur,49 the ritual of Ištar and Dumuzi,50 Šumma izbu,51 and in the commentary to Šumma izbu.52 It appears that the role of the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm was fulfilled by the maḫḫû in Neo-Assyrian times.53 At first glance, this is hardly a surprising result. However, since Parpola’s edition of the prophetic oracles his view that the raggintu continues the role of the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm has been very influential. But as de Jong has shown, the necessary precondition for Parpola’s interpretation, namely the reading of fgub.ba as raggintu is unwarranted. Further, the little that we can glimpse of the role of the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû seems to be consistent with that of the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm, the cult ecstatic who at times prophesied. It is commonly thought that there is very little evidence for lay-prophecy in the Neo-Assyrian Empire. Usually, only the slave-girl of Bēl-aḫu-uṣur is mentioned as a case of lay-prophecy. However, in the majority of cases  SAA 2 6: 117. This text was first published by Wiseman (1958). The text was reedited first by Borger (1961) and Borger (1964). The most recent editions are Parpola/ Watanabe (1988) and, independently of the Helsinki State Archives of Assyria project, Watanabe (1987). Reiner (1969), Borger (1983: 160–176) and Liverani (1995) also comment on it. 42  SAA 3 34–35. This text was first published by Zimmern (1918: 2–20). There is also the editions by von Soden (1955) and Frymer-Kensky (1982). 43  The short recension and the canonical recension of lú=ša and the related list Ḫar. gud, cf. MSL 12 4.212: 213, MSL 12 4.222: 116–118 and MSL 12 6.2: 147. For the texts see Civil (1969: 102–103, 132, 225–226). 44  K 1913: 365e, for a copy see Meek (1920: 120). Leichty (1970: 230–231) includes a reference to the commentary in his edition of Šumma izbu. 45  SAA 3 23: 5’. 46  Farber 1977 II A: 32, cf. Farber (1977: 129, 140–141). 47  Freedman (1998: 32–35). 48  MSL 12 4.222: 119, Civil (1969: 132). 49  SAA 12 69: 29. 50  Farber 1977 II A: 31, Farber (1977: 129, 140–141). 51  Šumma izbu xi: 7, Leichty (1970: 131). 52  K 1913: 365d, Leichty (1970: 230–231). 53  See the discussion of Parpola’s suggestion to read lúgub.ba as raggimu instead of the normal reading muḫḫûm in section 8.1 above. 41

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among the royal prophecies no social role is specified. As the text of the oracles collected in SAA 9 stands, prophetic titles are only rarely mentioned. It is, therefore, necessary to argue why the royal oracles and their speakers are regarded as professional prophets in this study. Of the 29 oracles in SAA 9, only three texts feature prophetic titles: SAA 9 3.5 iv: 31, SAA 9 7: 1 and SAA 9 10: l.s.2. Of these three, only two mention a name together with the title: in SAA 9 7: 1 Mullissu-kabtat is referred to as a raggintu.54 The other case can be found in SAA 9 10: l.s.1, where the title fgub.ba, (=maḫḫûtu), is employed probably to refer to Dunnašaāmur, a prophet who also appears in SAA 9: 9, but without any title there.55 Whether the raggimu in SAA 9 3.5 is Lā-dāgil-ili, as reconstructed by Parpola and followed by most interpreters since, or a different raggimu must remain open, as we have not sufficient evidence for such an identification. Parpola restores the prophetic title raggimu in SAA 9 6: e.11, which according to him reads: [x p] ˹d˺lál-kam-eš ˹lú˺[ra-gi-mu x x x x]56

As Parpola states, the reading of the name Tašmetu-ēreš is certain. Because of the rarity of prophetic titles in the royal oracles, the decision to reconstruct raggimu has to be questioned. An alternative option would be to reconstruct gub.ba in the lacuna or a different profession altogether. In order to strengthen his case for the reconstruction of raggimu here, Parpola refers to SAA 9 3.5  iv: 31 which he reads as: [pla‑da-gíl‑di]ngir! ˹lúra˺-gi-mu57

However, even this example cannot convince that raggimu is the best reconstruction for the lacuna in SAA 9 6: e.11; it remains a reconstruction and as such it should not carry too much weight when interpreting the passage. As we have just seen, Parpola reconstructs Lā-dāgil-ili’s name in SAA 9 3.5 iv: 31, which is followed by the prophetic title raggimu. Weippert questions Parpola’s interpretation of the nature of this text as a collection

 The line in question reads [f]dnin.líl-kab-ta-at fra-gi-in-tú, Parpola (1997: 38).  Parpola (1997: 41–42) mentions that her name can also be read as ‘Sinqiša-āmur’, in which case she would be identical with the prophet of SAA 9 1.2. Weippert (2002: 34) suggests the reading ‘Dunqaša-āmur’ as a third option. 56  My reading of this line is [šá?p]˹d˺lál-kam-eš ˹lú˺[. . .]. 57  I read only [. . .]x ˹lúra˺-gi-mu. While it is possible and even probable that the name of a prophet was mentioned here, we cannot be sure whose name it is. 54 55



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of prophecies and defines its genre as two ‘Vertragsritual[e]’.58 Parpola gives three reasons for his own reconstruction: (1) the dingir is virtually certain and there is only one name in the corpus which has it, that of Lā-dāgil-ili. (2) Lā-dāgil-ili was of ‘prominent stature’, something Parpola deems as ‘compatible with the importance of the text.’ (3) There are affinities between the texts of SAA 9 3 and SAA 9 1.10 and SAA 9 2.3. The first argument is not, in my opinion, very strong, as we could be meeting a prophet as yet unknown. The second argument is somewhat circular in nature, as the ‘prominent stature’ of Lā-dāgil-ili is connected to the oracles contained in SAA 9 3. The third argument is far stronger, as word-choice and the kind of imagery chosen are indeed similar. Whether this requires that Lā-dāgil-ili is the prophet who authored SAA 9 3 is a different question. It is certainly a possibility. 8.3 The Gender of Prophecy In the introduction to his magisterial edition of the Neo-Assyrian prophecies, Parpola writes that ‘[t]o achieve the union [with Ištar], one had to emulate the Goddess, particularly her sufferings and agony’ and that among other things a devotee could do so by ‘turning [him]self into a eunuch in a frenzied act of self-mutilation.’59 He sees this reflected in the status of the assinnu who is attested as cross dressing in Neo-Assyrian texts.60 Parpola already links the involvement of the Old Babylonian assinnu to this cross dressing behaviour and goes on to claim that gender ambiguity was an integral part of Neo-Assyrian prophecy.61 He further adduces three cases in which he sees gender ambiguity reflected in the

58  Weippert (2002: 18). See further below in the section on the literary form of the prophetic texts. 59  Parpola (1997: xxxiv). As I have discussed in the introduction, I will not use gender theory in the historical and phenomenological interpretation of the Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts as that would transcend the boundaries of this study. As far as I am aware, there is not a single study on ancient Near Eastern prophecy that does use gender theory in the strict sense. While the evidence is sparse it may well prove very interesting to write such a thesis. 60  Parpola (1997: xcii, n.119 and xcvi n.138–139). Parpola also links this perceived androgyny to gnosis and (Christian) asceticism. His interpretation of Neo-Assyrian religion with the use of Jewish and Christian sources has been criticised by Cooper (2000) and Frahm (2000–01). 61  In this he is followed by Huffmon (2004) who spells Parpola’s idea out in slightly more detail. On the role of the assinnu see Zsolnay (forthc.).

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Neo-Assyrian prophetic record itself, as there are three cases in which the gender of the prophet is debated: Bāia, Ilūssa-āmur and Issār-lā-tašīaṭ.62 The evidence for gender ambiguity is itself rather ambiguous and much depends on the at times arbitrary decision of the reader.63 The name Bāia itself is ambiguous as both men and women can have it. The same Bāia is probably attested in SAA 9 1.4 and in the expression ‘[servant of] Ištar of Ḫuzirina’ in STT 406: r. 10.64 Both times her gender is demonstrated by the female gender determinative munus. In a third text, SAA 9 2.2, Parpola reconstructs almost her entire name: [ta* pi-i mí.baia]-˹a˺; only parts of the last a are visible. His reconstruction is based mainly on the similarity of the content of this oracle and SAA 9 1.4. Both texts, SAA 9 1.4 and SAA 9 2.2, have the male gentilic arbaʾīlāya (‘son of Arbela’) for the female person. According to Weippert, scribal error lies at the base of the incongruence of grammatical genus of the name and the adjective in SAA 9 1.4.65 Another possibility is to see this incongruence as evidence for gender ambiguity.66 Ilūssa-āmur is attested in two texts, SAA 9 1.5: 5’ and KAV 121: 5.67 Both times, her name is spelled with the female gender determinative munus. Parpola reads the gentilic in SAA 9 1.5: 6’ urušà-uru-a!-[a]: in normalised Akkadian this would be rendered as libbālā[ya] (‘the (male) Aššuri[te]’). However, Weippert argues that there is enough space at the end of the line to fit in an additional ud as this sign is relatively small. This would result in a reading urušà-uru-a[-a-tú] (libbāla[yyatu]).68 The space is even large enough to fit in urušà-uru-a!-[i-tú] (libbāla[yyītu]), a feminine form of

62  For these three see Nissinen/Perroudon (1999) and Nissinen (2000a and 2000b). See also http://homepage.univie.ac.at/heather.baker/pnaupdates.html for updates to the prosopography. 63  The current consensus is very much that gender ambiguity is a central part of ancient Near Eastern prophecy, see e.g. Parpola (1997: xxxiv), Huffmon (2004: 246), Teppo (2008) and Nissinen (forthc.). For a challenge to this consensus that goes further than the analysis here, see Stökl (forthc.-a). 64  Gurney (1955), Gurney/Finkelstein (1957). 65  Weippert (2002: 34). 66  Kathleen McCaffrey gave a very convincing paper on the ḫarimtu as not only an independent woman, but as biologically female women, who perform warrior rituals in the cult of Annunītum and perform male gender role outside the cult as well. She argues that in cases of either real or apparent gender ambiguity as here, we should interpret this as indicating people whose gender roles do not correspond to their biological sex; see also McCarter (1984). 67  For KAV 120 cf. Schroeder (1920: 83). 68  Weippert (2002: 33).



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the gentilic (‘the (female) Aššurite’).69 So far the feminine gentilic attested in Neo-Assyrian is -ītu, which would suggest a form libbālītu.70 If the reading of the a before the break is correct—and I agree with it—and if there is no scribal error, the gentilic is probably masculine. This indicates that, like Bāia, the woman Ilūssa-āmur is also attested with a masculine gentilic. The most hotly debated case is that of Issār-lā-tašīaṭ. Her name is only attested in SAA 9 1.1 and there has been some debate as to what is on the tablet itself. According to Parpola, the scribe started writing munus (the female determinative) and then superimposed a diš (the masculine determinative or Personenkeil) and a dingir (determinative for the divine).71 According to Edzard, Issār-lā-tašīaṭ is a masculine name as the female form of that name would have been *Issār-lā-taššiṭṭī.72 The tablet itself shows a very deep vertical wedge, which might be taken as a diš overwriting the beginning of a munus. The upper small diagonal is clearly visible and traces of the lower one as well. The following horizontal wedge is either missing or coincides with the first horizontal wedge of the dingir. This is why Parpola regards the vertical wedge as a diš correcting a munus. Parpola’s interpretation that this spelling shows that the scribe was uncertain about Issār-lā-tašīaṭ’s name would be hard to imagine, since the name itself would make the scribe realise that the person using it was male and since the tablet is an archival copy, and the scribe would not be able to see whether the person performed a ‘third gender’. Weippert’s solution that scribal error lies at the basis of this confusion is more convincing than cross-gender dress and/or behaviour. As readers of these texts, we therefore have to decide whether we think that the two (biological) women, Bāia and Ilūssa-āmur performed masculine gender-roles on the basis of these two texts. It is a possibility, but since Akkadian is a Semitic language and since the default gender in Semitic languages is masculine, I think it more likely that Bāia and Ilūssaāmur were simply female prophets.

 GAG3 §56p. Huehnergard (2005: 40–41) uses the term denominative adjective.  Hämeen-Anttila (2000). The specific word is not attested in the Neo-Assyrian corpus. 71  Parpola (1997: 5). His collation, p. 83, shows ambiguous traces. 72  See Edzard (1962: 126). 69 70

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It is often asserted that in the Neo-Assyrian empire, prophecy was predominately a female occupation.73 This statement is then often contrasted with statements about corpora such as the Hebrew Bible. While there can be no doubt that there are more women among the Neo-Assyrian prophets more can and needs to be said about it. Since it is likely that Bāia and Ilūssa-āmur are female and since it is not unlikely that Issār-lātašīaṭ is male we can look at the texts and assess any instances of gender differences with regard to roles the various prophets played. A glance at the few texts that allow us some certainty in our interpretations, those that mention prophetic titles, shows that no consistent difference can be demonstrated between the ways in which male and female prophets are depicted. The term raggintu is only attested four times, in SAA 9 7, SAA 10 352, SAA 13 37 and SAA 10 109.74 The first, SAA 9 7, shows a raggintu with the name Mullissu-kabtat, who spoke a lengthy oracle by the deity Mullissu addressed to Assurbanipal, containing mostly references to various wars, but in a short section at the end a small ‘paragraph’ containing ‘motherly’ language. The second text, SAA 10 352, refers to the episode in which Damqî, the son of a high official in the city of Akkad, Babylon, becomes the substitute king for Esarhaddon and Šamaš-šumu-ukin: as is part of that procedure, he is ritually killed. A raggintu is part of that procedure as she pronounces Damqî king: šarrūti tanašši ‘you will take over the kingship!’75 The third text reports that Mullissu-abu-uṣri the raggintu had taken the king’s clothes to Akkad, possibly for the same events as SAA 10 352.76 Again, we find a raggintu involved in royal activities. She is also said to have prophesied (tartug[u]m) in the temple, which is often seen as an indication that prophecy was intimately connected to the temple.77 Since the Assyrian king understood himself as a priest and was often given the title in inscriptions, the interplay between temple and court should not surprise us.

 E.g. Pongratz-Leisten (2006).  As demonstrated by de Jong (2001: 30) (see above) there is no need to change the normal reading of fgub.ba into raggintu rather than the normal maḫḫûtu, as suggested by Parpola (1997: xlvi). Therefore, I count SAA 9 10 not as an attestation of raggintu but of maḫḫûtu. 75  SAA 10 352: 25. 76  This interpretation goes back to von Soden (1956: 102) and Landsberger (1965: 347 n.89). More recently see Nissinen (1998: 79–80). Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 91) seems more careful with regard to this question. 77  See above and e.g. Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 91). 73

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There is a fourth text mentioning raggintu, SAA 10 109, together with their male counterparts. In this text Bēl-ušezib complains that these figures, instead of him, have been called into the king’s presence. Presumably, Bēl-ušezib was complaining that although as an astrologer he was a qualified governmental adviser the king did not consult him but prophets in his stead. Not many plurals are attested of any kind of prophetic professional. To my knowledge this is the only attestation each of both the masculine and feminine plural. It is interesting that Bēl-ušezib did not use the masculine plural to encompass both male and female prophets. Bēl-ušezib most probably uses both plurals here in order to emphasize that everybody had been asked to give their advice but him. The term raggimu is attested a further three times: SAA 9 3.5, SAA 7 9 and SAA 10 294; possibly it should be reconstructed in SAA 9 6. On the basis of SAA 9 3.5 iv: 31–35, one of the other texts which attests to the word raggimu, Parpola suggested restoring raggimu in SAA 9 6: e.12. The text in SAA 9 3.5 reads [. . .]x ˹lúra˺-gi-mu 32[. . .]a?-a 33[. . .] d15 34[. . .]-lu-ni 35??[. . .].78

31 31

[. . .] the raggimu 32[. . .] 33[. . .] Issār 34[. . .]lūni 35[. . .]

The relevant text in SAA 9 6 reads [šá? p]˹d˺lál-kam-eš mu(-u)-ni]79

e.11

e.11

[ra-gi-mu . . .]

˹lú˺

[ina š]à

e.12

límmu.dingir ir-t[u-gu-

uru

[of? ]Tašmetu-ēreš, the [raggimu . . .] e.12[in] Arbela he p[rophesied].

The lú suggests that a professional title of sorts follows, the question is which. Nissinen’s reason for restoring raggimu is different, inasmuch as he relies on the multiple use of the verb ragāmu in the preceding oracle.80 More important than the two attestations of ragāmu in this oracle is the general context, which starts with the name of Issār of Arbela and then has direct speech. This suggests that this text reports direct divine speech and thus the existence of a professional prophet appears the most likely possibility. Neither of the two texts gives us much of an understanding as to the role of the raggimu, especially in the way it differs from that of a raggintu. 78  Parpola (1997: 27) restores these lines as 31[mla‑da-gíl‑di]ngir! ˹lúra˺-gi-mu 32[urulÍmmu. dingir]-˹a-a˺ 33[x x x x x x] d15 34[x x x x x x]-lu-ni 35[ir-tu-gu-um] (blank). 79  The restorations follow Weippert (2002: 47) tentative suggestions. Parpola (1997: 35) assumes four missing signs at the end of line e.11 and restores line e.12 as ir-t[u-gu-um 0]. Nissinen (2003d: 126) restores these two lines as e.11[raggimu annītu] e.12irt[ugum]. 80  Nissinen (2003d: 126).

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One of the other two texts, SAA 7 9, is an administrative document listing sleeping quarters for officials and mentions the raggimu Quqî. In Pongratz-Leisten’s view, this text proves that the accommodation of the raggintu was centralised.81 She is less convinced that this text also indicates that raggintu were situated at the court. To Nissinen this text shows that the raggintu might have belonged to the military entourage of the king, possibly even during campaigns.82 In my view, this text indicates that the raggintu can be seen in connection with the royal court. As that view seems to be corroborated by most other texts that allow us any understanding of the raggintu’s position in Neo-Assyrian society, I maintain that the most likely place where the raggintu was based was the royal court. The last text is the famous letter SAA 10 294 by Urad-Gula to Assurbanipal, in which the aging exorcist tells his king about the problem that he does not have children and that he has no one to support him in his old age.83 One of the steps he takes is to go and consult a raggimu. As already pointed out above, de Jong makes good sense of this episode: [. . . si]g5? la-a a-mur-ma aḫ-ḫur ù di-ig-lu un-ta-aṭ- ṭi

r.32

I did not see [happiness] thereafter and my eyesight is diminishing.84

He admits that this has the disadvantage that we do not know which role the raggimu plays in this text. However, it might well be the case that Urad-Gula visited the raggimu earlier and that his eyesight is diminishing now. The latter makes much sense in the context of the exorcist growing old and losing some of his skills. This text represents the only text in which a raggimu is linked to a non-royal person. This could indicate that the raggintu was able to work independently, almost ‘free-lance’. Alternatively, the royal entourage presents us with an obvious place where Urad-Gula

 Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 91).  E.g. Nissinen (2000d: 103). 83  The text portrays this as the fault of his wife and of rituals to change this not being effective. The reality might well have been different, but, like in the western world, patriarchal societies are extremely careful to blame women for infertility rather than men. 84  Thus de Jong (2007: 292–294). In contrast, Parpola (1993: 234) reads r.31. . . lÚ.raag-gi-mu 32[as-sa-’a-al ? si]g5?la-a a-mur ma-aḫ-ḫur ù di-ig-lu un-ta-aṭ- ṭi ‘[I turned to] a prophet (but) did not find [any hop]e, he was adverse and did not see much.’ Line rev.32 is problematic in any case. Parpola’s maḫḫur is unusual, to say the least. De Jong’s use of enclitic -ma is not very common either, but there is at least another example in line 23 ú-sal-lim-ma. De Jong’s interpretation of aḫḫur as ‘thereafter’ may be too influenced by Hebrew, since it’s normal meaning is ‘else, in addition’, which fits the context well. 81

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could have approached him, considering that he would also have been part of that entourage. I am not aware of a text in which a raggintu reports a message that is not directed towards the king or, like here, is approached by another specialist. However, considering the small amount of textual data available to us, we should be open to new evidence as it is found and subsequently added to the scholarly debate. With the data available to us, I maintain that there no apparent gender differential between female and male raggintu. However, it is also possible that due to the sometimes random way in which some tablets survive and others do not, further finds will require that the picture painted here be emended.

chapter nine

The Message In this section I will discuss the prophetic texts and the messages contained in them, rather than the prophets and deities. In this I will focus on the physical shape of the tablets and the genres of the texts. The question of literary genre is of special interest for the final chapter, in which I compare Old Babylonian, Neo-Assyrian and Israelite and Judean prophecy, as the plurality of form will become very apparent. It is of course clear that difference in form does not preclude any sort of influence one way or the other. 9.1 The Physical Shape of the Tablets Parpola’s edition of the Neo-Assyrian prophetic oracles includes a discussion of the physical parameters of the texts. It appears that that no two tablets published in SAA 9 were written by the same hand.1 SAA 9 9, a very neatly written tablet, appears to have been written by the same scribe who wrote SAA 3 13, which is important in the qualification of this text as a neat copy, potentially for archival purposes.2 Parpola also discusses the shape of the tablets coming to the conclusion that there are two basic shapes which correspond to two different kinds of text on the tablet:3 ṭuppu and the uʾiltu.4 The ṭuppu is a vertical tablet which contains more than one oracle, written in several columns. It is used for archival copies which gather material from various smaller tablets together on one larger one.5 The ‘landscape’ uʾiltu, on the other hand, contain notes and reports; texts that were intended for immediate  Parpola (1997: lii–lxii).  Nissinen (2000e: 248). 3  For this question in general and not confined to prophetic texts, cf. Veenhof (1986: 14–15) and more specifically for Neo-Assyrian archives Radner (1995). 4  Parpola (1997: lii–lxii)..Literally, ṭuppu means ‘tablet’. 5  Treaties, recipes, lists of treasures and similar texts were also written on the ṭuppu, cf. Parpola (1997: lii, esp. n.277). 1

2

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use. Based on these observations, Parpola classifies the texts in his edition as follows: SAA 9 1–4, 9–11 are written on ṭuppu-tablets, whereas SAA 9 5–8 are written on uʾiltu-tablets. Parpola admits that tablets SAA 9 9–11 present a problem to his classification, as SAA 9 9 contains a single oracle only. While Parpola does not explicitly say so, SAA 9 10–11 are very fragmentary and therefore their shape is difficult to discern. Earlier, Parpola included them in his edition of Neo-Assyrian letters in CT 53, indicating that they could have been letters.6 Normally, the ṭuppu-type tablets contain text in second-hand use, while the uʾiltu text are in primary use. However, SAA 9 9 and SAA 9 1–4 are all ṭuppu-shaped, even though SAA 9 9 contains only one oracle, while SAA 9 1–4 contain several oracles each. This makes it considerably harder to maintain the connection of content and form, especially if, as de Jong argues, SAA 9 9 ‘certainly is a library copy, which presents a prophetic oracle in a literary, elaborated form.’7 The format of the uʾiltu normally indicates an astronomical report.8 Parpola’s historical reconstruction of the archival process that prophecies were first written down on a single report tablet and after a while copied on to one of the larger tablets containing more than one oracle is somewhat weakened by this. In contrast, de Jong proposes that prophecies reached the central administration through letters or in reports.9 These received oracles could then be copied either on a tablet collecting several originally independent oracles (SAA 9 1, 2, 4) or on a smaller tablet (SAA 9 7, 8). It seems more likely to assume a situation more akin to Mari, where prophetic oracles were reported to the king in letters if the king was not at the place where the oracle occurred. The similarity with Mari also lies in the fact that we cannot claim in any case to possess the ipsissima verba of any oracle, as the process of prophetic communication is first and foremost an oral process.10 Oracles are always written down after they were announced, which means that any written evidence for the oral phenomenon prophecy is necessarily secondary in nature.11 In my opinion, variation

 SAA 9 10 is CT 53 946 and SAA 9 11 is CT 53 219, see Parpola (1979).  See de Jong (2007: 172).  8  Radner (1995: 72–73); for examples see CAD U 52–54.  9  Cf. de Jong (2007: 172). As letters, reporting prophetic oracles, de Jong cites SAA 9 10–11, SAA 10 24, 352, SAA 13 37, 139, 144, 148 and SAA 16 59; as reports he mentions SAA 9 6. 10  Nissinen (2000e: 239). 11  For Old Babylonian times see van der Toorn (2000).  6  7



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of the address of individual oracles in the collections does not present us with sufficient evidence to argue that these texts mirror accurately the words of the prophets’ oracles.12 The only example for an oracle report which de Jong allows is SAA 9 6. This tablet, however, is quite damaged and might well have contained more information beyond the oracle with which it starts. One fragmentary tablet is too little evidence on which to base a theory which includes reports of prophetic oracles. However, if we only allow for letters to report prophetic oracles to the king, we cannot on that basis argue that SAA 9 6 must have been a letter. That would be to complete the ‘logical circle’. Other than the prophetic Sammeltafeln and individual oracles, we find reports of prophecies in letters. Further attestation of prophecy, often in a general way, can be found on royal inscriptions and in Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty, all official texts written and composed by the royal administration for a variety of purposes. The general shape of these texts does not allow us to glean any further information on Neo-Assyrian prophecy. In sum, we can say very little about the physical shape of the tablets which record prophecies in relation to the nature and the purpose of the text which they contain. As shown above, Parpola’s fairly neat distinction between reports and archival copies cannot be upheld.13 All we can say is that we have at least two shapes, horizontal and vertical tablets. 9.2 Forms and Function of Prophetic Texts As we have just seen, we cannot establish a correlation between physical shape and content of the prophetic texts. If we had several hundred texts, then a few texts which do not fit a general model could be seen as exceptions. However, as we have so few examples, any model suggested has to be able to explain most available texts. Parpola’s model for the prophetic texts does not do so and thus should be abandoned. An aspect which has great implications for the study of prophecy in general, and that of ancient prophecies in particular, is the quality of the sources in their relation to the phenomenon itself. As with the Mari prophecies, the question arises as to whether the Neo-Assyrian prophecies collected in SAA 9 are themselves verbatim copies of prophetic oracles,

 Contra de Jong (2007: 398–399).  Cf. also de Jong (2007: 171–172).

12 13

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or whether they were created by scribes. This process of scribal creation could take several shapes: either they were written on the basis of prophetic oracles, or they were invented. Obviously, it remains ultimately impossible to listen to the words that the prophets themselves uttered. The image we can draw is that with which the ancient scribes provide us, including some possible corrections in those cases where we recognize some of the changes which a scribe made. The fact that in SAA 9 1–2 the prophetic oracles are ascribed to specific prophets should not fool us into assuming that these texts contain verbatim records of prophetic oracles.14 The way that the communication between prophet and king worked, and whether and how writing played a part in this process, is important not only in itself, but also as this process might give us an indication as to whether a similar process led to the production of the prophetic books in the Hebrew Bible.15 Often the Sammeltafeln have been taken as the main form of Neo-Assyrian re-writing of prophetic oracles; a bit like one of the possible steps between the individual oracle and the full-blown prophetic books in the Hebrew Bible as consisting of similar collections of oracles.16 Whereas Cancik-Kirschbaum has argued that these collections represent anthologies of previous oracles for use in later compositions, de Jong maintains that their value as texts far exceeds that of an anthology.17 He adds that it is unlikely that their purpose was to provide a reservoir of oracles for royal inscriptions, as there does not appear to be any textual relationship between the three collections and the royal inscriptions which we possess.18 Thus, he regards these collections as compositions in their own right, in which the texts have transcended their original historical setting.19 There is no doubt that we do not possess a single example of any of the oracles collected on SAA 9 1–2, 4 being used in a different text, be it a letter or a royal inscription. It is equally true that through the (f)act of being written down on such a tablet, the individual oracles had transcended their original setting. However, the first point is an argument from silence and, thus, weak. The second argument is tautological. It is true that the

 Nissinen (2005) and van der Toorn (1998a and 2004) contra Millard (1985).  Nissinen (2000e: 254) and similarly Weippert (2002: 35). 16  Nissinen (2003d: 101). 17  Cancik-Kirschbaum (2003: 42) and de Jong (2007: 358). 18  I agree with de Jong that only SAA 9 1–2 and 4 are real collections of oracles and that SAA 9 3 represents a different kind of text. On this question cf. also Weippert (2002: 17). 19  De Jong follows Schart (1995: 92) and Nissinen (2000e: 254). 14 15



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individual prophecies acquire a quality which lets them escape their original setting in time and space. However, whether this is in order to serve as a kind of textual ‘quarry’ for other compositions, as argued by CancikKirschbaum, or as compositions in their own right, as argued by Schart, Nissinen and de Jong, cannot be decided. Possibly, both interpretations are correct and it is precisely the quality of having shed their original contexts which would make it attractive to keep an oracle in order to have it available as a source for later use in a different context or composition. As de Jong points out, the collections of oracles are not the only form of evidence that we possess which points to the secondary use of prophetic oracles.20 We have letters which make use of prophetic oracles to support a point, others are used in royal inscriptions, and as de Jong demonstrates, we can also detect literary activity in the oracles themselves.21 The form of the literary ‘prophecies’, such as the Marduk prophecy, is derived from the form of divinatory reports (including prophetic oracles and omen reports), and thus represent a further stage in the development from prophetic oracle to ‘prophetic’ literature.22 As I have shown above, several letters contain prophetic oracles, not as reports, but to support a certain argument or point that the author of the letter wishes to make. This means that prophetic oracles were regarded as imbued with an authority not restricted to the original setting and the original circumstances in which the prophetic oracle was uttered. Most of the letters which use this rhetorical technique are addressed to Esarhaddon, which is not very surprising, as most of the letters mentioning prophecy are addressed to him. There are two addressed to Assurbanipal which have survived.23 The letters to Esarhaddon are the

 De Jong (2007: 395–437).  De Jong (2007: 404–412). 22  On the Neo-Assyrian ‘literary predictive texts’, a category suggested by Ellis (1989: 146–148), see Nissinen (2003c). 23  ABL 839 and SAA 10 174. In my view, the editor and all later interpreters have misinterpreted this letter as addressed to Assurbanipal but also to Aššur. The first three lines read: 1a-na lugal en lugalmeš en-ia an.šár den.lil [dingirmeš] 2[ša] ina pi-i-šú el-li la mušpi-li [x x x x] 31-lim mu.an.nameša-na lugal en-ia ti.la [iq-bu-u-ni]. Parpola translates this as: ‘To the king, lord of kings, my lord, and Aššur, the highest [god] [who] by his holy and unchangeable command [. . . has ordered] a thousand years of life for the king, my lord: your servant Marduk-šumu-uṣur.’ I find it more likely that Aššur is not addressed in the letter, but Esarhaddon is portrayed as one to whom Aššur has given 1000 years of life. 20 21

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two letters by Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur,24 two letters by Bēl-ušezib,25 and one letter by the scholar Nabû-nadin-šumi.26 It is interesting to note that in most of these seven texts, the situation is one of military activity, either against traitors and other contenders to the throne, or against a foreign enemy. The one exception is SAA 10 109, one of the letters by Bēl-ušezib. In this letter he quotes an oracle which announces that Esarhaddon will restore Esangila, Babylon’s central temple complex. As it was the role of the king to restore this temple, this oracle in reality announces that Esarhaddon would become king. Bēl-ušezib reports that he had announced this oracle to the mother of the king and to the exorcist Dadâ in the chaotic times after Sennacherib’s death. Bēl-ušezib’s purpose in this is clearly to point out to the king that he had acted in the king’s interest when it was not yet clear who would become king. It is interesting that this oracle is mirrored by a few passages in Assurbanipal’s prisms.27 The way prophetic oracles are used in these letters shows clearly that their divine origin imbued them with considerable authority. The authors of the letters presumably wanted to make use of this authority in order to strengthen their own views. This means that, while it remained relatively rare, the use of prophetic material in a discussion was an accepted (and persuasive) strategy even able to convince the king.28 It is not only Sîn’s oracle to Assurbanipal that is similar to this basic structure found in letters: the same is true also for other passages from Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions. As far as I am aware, there are three references to prophecy in Esarhaddon’s royal inscriptions29 and six in Assurbanipal’s annals.30 Of these nine texts, four mention prophecy only

 SAA 16 59 and SAA 16 60.  SAA 10 109 and SAA 10 111. 26  SAA 10 284. In his discussion of this phenomenon, de Jong (2007: 399–402) identifies the same texts. 27  E.g. Prism C i 73–76, Borger (1996: 142, 207), a prophecy by Sîn. 28  This strategy is not dissimilar to the way that religious experts through the ages have adduced parts of the sacred scriptures of their religions in order to prove their point. 29  The references in Esarhaddon’s inscriptions are Ass. A ii 12, Borger (1956: 2) and WAW 12 98, Nin A i 59–62, Borger (1956: 43) and Nin A ii 6, Borger (1956: 45), both WAW 12 97. 30  The references in Assurbanipal’s prisms are 1) Prism T ii 9–17 (Prism C I 55–62), Borger (1996: 140–141, 206) WAW 12 99; 2) Prism B v 46–49 (Prism C vi 45–48), Borger (1996: 100, 225) and WAW 12 101; 3) Prism B v 93–99 (Prism C 125–131), Borger (1996: 104, 225) and WAW 12 101; 4) Prism A iii 4–7 (Prism A iii 4–7 is a much enlarged version of Prism F ii 38, Prism B ii 82–83 and Prism C iv 91–92), Borger (1996: 35, 221) and WAW 12 100. The fifth and sixth locus are not in Nissinen (2003d). In case of the first text, Prism A vi 113–118 (Prism F vi 4–7, Prism T v 19–26 and TTaf.1 iv 21–28), Borger (1996: 24 25



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in the expression šipir maḫḫê (literally: ‘message of the maḫḫû’ or ‘message of raving’) denoting a means of receiving divine messages.31 A similar strategy is also used in Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty, where prophets (raggimu) and ecstatics (maḫḫû) are numbered among possible sources of information about traitors and contenders for the throne.32 The fact that the strategy of referring to prophecy in such a general way is employed is an indication that it was seen as an accepted means of gathering information. As this information was potentially gained directly from deities, it must have been a powerful propaganda tool. Its usefulness and power would have been limited by the fact that royal inscriptions would not have been a method of communicating with the ordinary public, as reading was most probably a skill limited to scribes, other scholars, royalty and administrators. The other five attestations of prophecy in royal inscriptions use it in a slightly different way. Twice, there is a reference to words of deities which they had spoken long ago and which came true in Assurbanipal’s actions. The first case refers to Nanâ’s return from Elam to Eanna in Uruk. This episode can be found in Prism A vi 113–118 and parallels.33 As pointed out above, Nissinen does not include this text in his latest collection of prophetic texts, arguing that ‘the writer, instead of prophecy, had something similar to that genre in mind.’34 While that is a possibility, the question is difficult to decide as it rests on an argument from silence. In this case, the silence is that we have no older report of this oracle. The function it fulfils in this context is independent of whether it was a literary creation, a literary adaptation or a ‘genuine’ prophecy. An indication that it was indeed a literary creation, or at least adapted for its current context, can be seen in the fact that there are two slightly different versions of the text. Prisms A,T and probably also TTaf.1 attribute the oracle to the gods, as the verb in A vi 117 reads iqbû (‘they spoke’), while in Prism F the verb is in

57–58, 242), Nissinen (1998: 41) argues that this passage is a literary composition. The sixth attestation, Prism C I 74–76 (Prism T ii 31–34), Borger (1996: 142, 207), has so far only been identified as an ‘old prophecy’ by Tadmor (1983: 50). 31  Nin A ii 6, Ass. A ii 12, Prism T ii 9–17 (Prism C I 55–62) and Prism B v 93–99 (Prism C 125–131). 32  The treaty makes reference to raggimū (plural) (lúra-gi-me) and maḫḫû (plural) lú ( maḫ-ḫe-e), cf. SAA 2 6 116–117 and Watanabe (1987: 72, 148–149). 33  The parallels are Prism F vi 4–7, Prism T v 19–26 and TTaf.1 iv 21–28, cf. Borger (1996: 57–58, 242). 34  Nissinen (1998: 41); de Jong (2007: 403) also interprets it as an ex eventu prophecy.

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the third singular feminine (either Aramaicizing or in poetic Babylonian) taqbû (‘she spoke’). The second text of this kind is Prism C i 73–76, where a very similar oracle is attributed to Sîn, who is reported to have ordered Assurbanipal to restore Ehulhul, Sîn’s temple in Harran. The elements of the story are similar: an old oracle to restore a temple is being fulfilled by Assurbanipal who grasps the hands of the deity, upon which the deity moves into the restored temple. Both texts follow a similar structure, which suggests that a convention existed as to how these things had to happen. As far as I know, no other royal inscription or building inscription confirms this image, which leads me to assume that Assurbanipal was innovatively adapting the function of prophecy to legitimize his re-building programme and, beyond that, of his kingship too.35 Of the remaining texts, two are from Assurbanipal’s and one from Esarhaddon’s royal inscriptions: 1) Nin A i 59–62,36 2) Prism B v 46–49,37 and 3) Prism A iii 4–7.38 All three cases reflect situations of war or war-like conflict. It is extremely interesting that Nin A and Prism B are very similar. In both cases, Ištar reacts to the king’s prayer and promises support.39 The third text contains an oracle of Ištar against Aḫšēri, the Mannean king, but only on the relatively late Prism A. The parallel text in Prisms F, B and C report the death of Aḫšēri, but do not contain Ištar’s prophecy. De Jong adds a text to the discussion of Neo-Assyrian prophecy that had previously not been adduced, a votive inscription to Marduk by Assurbanipal.40 This text cites an oracle by Marduk to Assurbanipal in which the deity reassures the king that the succession in a vassalkingdom took place in a way favourable to Assurbanipal, and that he, Marduk, would help the successor, who was presumably also loyal to Assurbanipal. The king reacts by praising Marduk, in a phrase reminiscent of oracles from SAA 9.41 35  In his very interesting article on self-quotation in prophetic oracles, Weippert (1997) deals mainly with the Neo-Assyrian prophetic Sammeltafeln and SAA 9 3. On templebuilding commission see Boda/Novotny (2010). 36  Borger (1956: 43). 37  A parallel text is in Prism C vi 45–48, Borger (1996: 100, 225). 38  Borger (1996: 35–221). 39  For this structure in the Zakkur Inscription see Zobel (1971). According to Weippert (1997: 158–160) SAA 9 3 has to be understood according to this form as well. 40  In German the text is referred to as the ‘Weihinschrift an Marduk’, Borger (1996: 201–203). 41  The seven oracles from SAA 9 which admonish the king to praise the deity who gave the oracle are SAA 9 1.3, 1.4, 1.10, 2.3, 2.6, 5 and 9.



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These texts present us with a form in which the oracles have either been composed for their contexts, or adapted by scribes from pre-existing oracles to fit their current contexts. There are no good indicators that allow a distinction between these two kinds of oracle in individual cases, but it is safe to assume that some texts were adapted and others composed. They certainly give an indication that the literary genre ‘prophetic oracle’, was developing from an oral performance into literary genre, which took its cues from oral performance, but which could be produced independently of it. The question of where the beginnings of this process lie must remain unanswered for the time being. It is highly unlikely that they are to be found in the Neo-Assyrian Empire during the seventh century BCE, as we find such literary creation of prophecy in the much earlier Egyptian ‘prophecy’ of Neferti.42 Similar in nature are also the so-called literary prophecies, the Marduk prophecy,43 the Šulgi prophecy,44 the Uruk prophecy,45 the so-called ‘Dynastic Prophecy’,46 and a passage of the Erra Epos.47 In the later Neo-Babylonian chronicles and prophecies we have two kinds of text which take the literary genre considerably further, even touching the apocalyptic genre.48 Interesting in a different way are the literary embellishments that can be found in some of the Sammeltafeln and other texts.49 De Jong distinguishes between ‘Oracles that received Literary Elaboration’ and ‘Literary Derivatives of Prophecy’ before dealing with ‘Literary Predictions’. To my mind, the distinction between the first two categories is not always easy to uphold. Thus, he qualifies SAA 3 47 as part of the first category, but SAA 3 13 as part of the second, presumably because he thinks that

42  The consensus view now dates this text in the fourth dynasty, roughly around the 20th century BCE. It is usually classified as an ex eventu ‘prophecy’, a text written after the events it purports to foretell, e.g. Weeks (2010). 43  Borger (1971). For the historicity of the triple exile of Marduk’s statue and the question as to how many statues of Marduk there were, Dalley (1997b). 44  Borger (1971). 45  The text was first presented to the Sixth World Congress of Jewish Studies 1973, published as Kaufman (1977). The first published edition is Hunger/Kaufman (1975). For differing historical interpretations see Goldstein (1988) and Beaulieu (1993). 46  Grayson (1975: 24–37). In his discussion of this text de Jong (2007: 428–433) points out that the literary trope of the ‘ideal king’ is used in this text as well as in the Marduk, the Šulgi and the Uruk prophecies and also in some biblical texts such as Jer 23: 5–6; Zech 6: 12–13; Isa 9: 1–6; 11: 1–5 and 32: 1–2. That there are common elements and differences in the way that the topos is employed is to be expected. 47  See Cagni (1969, 1970 and 1977). 48  Grayson (1983), Sachs/Hunger (1996) and Nissinen (2002a). 49  For this section cf. the ground-breaking work of de Jong (2007: 404–420).

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the text attributed to the deity in SAA 3 47 could have been a performed oracle, whereas he is more sceptical about SAA 3 13. Especially as SAA 3 47 contains a colophon pointing towards Assurbanipal as author, it would fit equally well with de Jong’s second category, ‘Literary Derivatives of Prophecy’. The only way de Jong’s categories can be upheld is to classify as an ‘Oracle that received Literary Elaboration’ exclusively those texts which contain only an (elaborated) oracle and possibly a colophon. Thus, we have at least SAA 9 5 and 9 in this first category.50 There are five letters containing oracular language which belong in the second category: SAA 3 13 and SAA 3 44–47. The four letters SAA 3 44–47 are classified as ‘letters from God’ by Pongratz-Leisten and Livingstone, as they are very similar in form to the ‘lettres des dieux’ found at Mari.51 De Jong makes a subtle distinction and identifies them as ‘compositions of divine words’, presumably because they do not necessarily follow the letter format.52 The difference in classification does not have much bearing on our question, as these texts were composed in imitation of the gods’ voices. To decide whether these texts are completely composed, as de Jong suggests for SAA 3 44–46, or whether they have a kind of Urzelle in an oracle, as de Jong proposes for SAA 3 47, would require a dedicated study. A further level of complication could be found in the theoretical possibility that even the Urzelle itself might have been composed without recourse to an orally performed oracle. One text or group of texts needs special attention here. It is the rather peculiar SAA 9 3. Parpola called it a ‘covenant tablet’ and adduced it as a text in which one can see that Ištar and Aššur are identical.53 Parpola’s understanding of this tablet has been criticised rather sharply by Weippert and de Jong.54 Their main point of criticism is that in his interpretation of the text, Parpola virtually ignores a double ruling between 3.3 and 3.4.55 50  Further research into the literary quality of the individual oracles collected in SAA 9 is necessary to determine which of them are to be classified as literary creations or adaptations. 51  Livingstone (1989: xxx) and Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 230–260). The Mari letters are ARM 26 192–194. FLP 1674, the prophetic text from Iščali, is also similar to these, Ellis (1987b and 1989). 52  Cf. de Jong (2007: 413–420). For the understanding of SAA 3 44, de Jong makes some important observations on the formal structure and some readings. 53  Parpola (1997: xx). For the quote see Parpola (1997: lxiii–lxiv). 54  Weippert (2002: 15–19) and de Jong (2007: 408–412). 55  Cf. de Jong (2007: 408 n.199) citing Parpola (1997: lxiv) ‘we do not know what it stood for’.



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Single rulings in a text normally indicate different sections within a text, but double rulings indicate two different texts. Further, Parpola’s identification of Ištar as the speaker of the first two oracles has no foundation in the text. Taking the double ruling after 3.3 seriously, the only speaking deity that is mentioned in 3.1–3 is Aššur. It is Aššur who was portrayed as the author of these texts. However, final certainty escapes us as the colophon of 3.1 is so fragmentary. Weippert and de Jong point toward the colophon of 3.3 to explain the character of 3.1–3 as a text for an adê-ceremony. Because no prophet is mentioned as having spoken the oracles, de Jong understands the text as a literary composition, rather than a collection of prophetic oracles.56 While the text in its current form is certainly not just a compilation of oracular material, it is possible that it adapts pre-existing prophetic oracles adjusting them for their current context. The one point in which Parpola and Weippert agree with each other is in the understanding of this text as an adê-ceremony, as stated in the colophon of 3.3.57 This agreement is, as stated above, limited by the fact that Weippert correctly regards the two lines after 3.3 as a separation of the two compositions, while Parpola thinks that the two following oracles, 3.4–5, also refer to the adê. It is interesting that so far, the prophetic involvement in the covenant between a deity and the king—regardless of whether the texts correspond to any real oracles or whether they are literary creations—has not been emphasized more strongly.58 De Jong understands this tablet not as an adê of Aššur, but as an adê ‘sworn to, and guarded by, Aššur.’59 He points towards SAA 2 6, which shows that this same expression, ṭuppi adê anniu ša DN (‘this adê-tablet of DN’), can refer to the deities protecting the oath.60 The two texts after the double ruling, 3.4 and 3.5, can be attributed to Issār of Arbela, as indicated by the first lines of both 3.4 and 3.5: ‘word of Issār of Arbela’.61 3.4 reports an adê-ceremony under the auspices of Ištar  Cf. de Jong (2007: 408).  Line 27 reads 27dub-pi a-de-e an-ni-u šá daš-šur (‘this adê-tablet of Aššur’). For other adê texts cf. e.g. Watanabe (1987) and for the equivalent in Northwest Semitic treaties cf. Noth (1966). 58  The topos of the covenant is taken up strongly in the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible, especially in Jer 31: 31–37; 32: 40; 33: 20–25; 34: 8–18 and 50: 5. 59  Cf. de Jong (2007: 411 n.211). 60  De Jong refers to Watanabe (1987: 10–23). The important passage is SAA 2 6: 397– 409. 61  The first line of SAA 9 3.4 col ii 33 and the first line of SAA 9 3.5 col iii 15’ are identical and read a-bat d15 šá urulÍmmu.dingir. 56 57

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of Arbela, formulated in a divine first person (Ištar). The text does not read like an oracle, however: col iii 1’–5’ reports on Ištar’s actions in a ritual setting in the third person. This part could either belong to the description of a ritual, or go back to the description of a dream or a dream-vision.62 As with the first unit, Parpola understands this text as describing a covenant between the gods and the king, this time in the shape of the covenant meal.63 As Weippert has pointed out, however, the description of the meal and the actions after the meal fit much better with vassals (and other servants) of the king than with deities.64 The second text of that unit, 3.5, is formally the closest to some of the Mari texts, making demands on the king to provide for the cults of the deities.65 The current context of 3.4 and 3.5 suggests that the first is a prelude to the second, or at least describes a scene that precedes the second. The colophon at the end of the tablet is so fragmented that no text can be established. The only thing that is certain is that a raggimu is mentioned.66 This is probably meant to indicate that a specific raggimu was portrayed as having spoken at least the second text. Whether that means that the preceding oracle was wholly or partially transmitted through this prophet, or whether his name was part of the literary creation, cannot be decided on the basis of the remaining text. De Jong argues that the text is too long and contains too many descriptive passages to be an oracle without literary embellishment.67 De Jong’s description of this oracle as atypically long is certainly correct. This leads me to the assumption that the mentioned raggimu was deliberately mentioned as a source for the text, either because the text went back to an oracle by him, or because the author of the new text wanted to give the impression that this was the case.68

62  The imagery used, that of a woman offering a jug and pouring a drink, fits well into a ritual. In its current form it does not sound like a prophetic oracle. Contrary to the opinion of de Jong (2007: 412–413), that possibility cannot be excluded completely either. 63  Parpola (1997: xix–xxiv). 64  Weippert (2002: 18–19). 65  Cf. e.g. FM 7 39. 66  Parpola (1997: 27) restores the name Lā-dāgil-ili on the grounds that its content is very similar to SAA 9 1.10. 67  Cf. de Jong (2007: 412). 68  If my tentative hypothesis is correct that this text is similar to a hymnal, the raggimu might have been involved in two different rituals in which he was supposed to speak the five texts. The first three were part of the first ritual and the second two were part of the second ritual context. I have to stress, however, that there is little evidence on which to base this hypothesis.



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The results of this section are not easily summarized. What we can see, however, is that the Neo-Assyrian sources for prophecy show us a variety of ways in which prophecy was used. This includes the fact that oracles themselves did not have to remain static; in the event of their being used again, they were most probably adjusted to their new contexts. Further, entirely new prophecies could be composed either using existing oracles as an inspiration, or mirroring them only in form, so that they would be recognizable as prophecies. As de Jong has demonstrated, this is a characteristic trait of prophecy and prophetic literature of the eight and seventh centuries BCE.69 More research into elucidating the growth of Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts promises to be fruitful. This literary process, which is an important aspect of Neo-Assyrian prophetic literature in itself, also has implications for the literary history of the Hebrew Bible.70

 Cf. de Jong (2007: 357–442).  For this see also e.g. Nissinen (2000e and 2005) and van der Toorn (2004), who concentrate more on the transition from spoken to written word, and then from written to cited words. Such research would have to include an attempt to go behind the sources realizing their different nature and backgrounds, however methodologically problematic that is, to devise tools by which to detect scribal activity even in short and seemingly ‘original’ oracles. 69 70

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Other Aspects of Neo-Assyrian Prophecy 10.1 Prophecy and the Cult Twenty years ago, Weippert suggested reading Neo-Assyrian prophecy as strongly linked to the cult. In this he was followed by Parpola and Nissinen.1 De Jong clearly lists the various direct connections: the maḫḫû is linked to other cult functionaries of Ištar through lexical lists,2 both maḫḫû and maḫḫûtu are among other cult personnel as recipients of food from an Ištar temple,3 and they are linked to rituals.4 In his recent book on cult prophecy in the book of Psalms, Hilber rehearses the arguments by Parpola, Nissinen and Pongratz-Leisten for Neo-Assyrian cult prophecy and uses that as a template for his reconstruction of Israelite cult-prophecy, which, according to him, left its traces in the Psalms.5 The view that connects Neo-Assyrian prophecy and Neo-Assyrian cult seems a virtual consensus. Thus, Pongratz-Leisten writes that Zusammenfassend läßt sich als wesentliche Ergebnis festhalten, dass entgegen bisheriger Darstellungen es sich bei der Orakelpraxis sowohl in Mari wie auch in Assyrien nicht nur um Prophetien als “intuitive Gottesoffenbarung” handelt, sondern daß sie ihren festen Platz am Tempel hatte und auf diese Weise das Orakel auf Anfrage eingeholt werden konnte.6

1  Weippert (1988: 303–304), Nissinen (1991: 228) and Parpola (1997: xlvii). In his discussion of the matter, Parpola also mentions Weippert (1981: 74–75) and Weippert (1985: 55) as arguing this point. However, there Weippert simply expounds that the majority of oracles goes back to Ištar of Arbela and that there are very few other deities who appear in them. 2  MSL 12 102: 213, 132: 116–118, 158: 23–24; CT 38 4 81–82. 3  VS 19, 1 col. I 37–39, a middle Assyrian text from Kar-Tukultu-Ninurta, Freydank (1974). 4  Tammuz ritual, see Farber (1977: 140, line 31)/Farber (1974: 68–69, line 31). For a drawing cf. Falkenstein (1931: no. 51 [pl 17]) and the Marduk-Ordeal, SAA 3 34: 28//35: 31. Parpola also lists the various attestations in the previous three footnotes 241–244. 5  Hilber (2005a: 54–64). 6  Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 91).

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De Jong suggests a connection to the cult as well, writing that ‘[t]he close connection between the cult of Ištar of Arbela and the phenomenon of Assyrian prophecy has been rightly stressed.’7 However, this is only partly correct. Firstly, apart from PongratzLeisten, none of the writers seems to differentiate between the temple and the cult.8 This is surprising; not everything that happened at a temple automatically had something to do with the cult, especially as temples were also administrative centres. Further, the connection of the raggintu to the cult is rather tenuous. SAA 10 352 reports that Mullissu-abu-uṣri who had previously brought the king’s clothes to Babylon, presumably for a substitute king ritual, possibly the one in which Damqî and his wife lost their lives.9 Mullissu-abu-uṣri raggintu 8ša kuzippī ša šarri 9ana māt Akkadî tūbilūni [ina] bīt ili tartug[u]m 11[ma] kussiu issu bīt [il]i. . . .

7

10

Mullissu-abu-uṣri, the raggintu, 8who 9had brought 8the clothes of the king to the land of Akkad10 10prophes[i]ed [in] the temple: 11‘the throne from the te[mp]le . . .’ 7

9

This text shows that a raggintu could be active in a temple, and that she was involved in transporting material that was needed for a ritual. In that specific sense, Mullissu-abu-uṣri was indeed involved in the cult— and that is how de Jong understands this text. However, while Mullissuabu-uṣri is involved with temple business, by carrying the king’s clothes to Babylon, she does not fulfil any function within the cult proper. Instead, she carried the clothes to Babylon in preparation for the cultic act; she may have been chosen to carry the king’s clothes because she was situated at the royal court and thus had access to the king. In any case, it would probably have been the king who chose the carrier of his clothes to Akkad, and in that case we have to regard her as acting as a royal agent. In the context of cult, the maḫḫû is mentioned in a ritual text, a provision list relating to the Aššur temple at Aššur and in the so-called Marduk  See de Jong (2007: 295).  The argument that the many female prophets from Arbela are connected to the temple there also does not take serious the distinction I am making here. I do not want to remove the raggintu from the temple, but I want to argue for a distinction between their real link to the temple and their alleged link to the temple cult.  9  As is reported by Mār-Issār in SAA 10 352. 10  Cole/Machinist (1998: 38) translate it as ‘Babylonia’, as that is what is meant by it. Nissinen (2003d: 167) suggests that the city of Akkad itself is the most likely candidate for the substitute king ritual, as the events are described in SAA 10 352.  7

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ordeal (both versions).11 These texts link the maḫḫû not only to the temple, but also to the cult activity itself, which takes place within it. The sources are relatively terse regarding the maḫḫû’s specific duties in the cult.12 SAA 3 34 gives some details. Lines 28–29 read: ‘The ecstatic who goes before the Lady of Babylon is a bringer of news; he goes toward her weeping: “They are taking him to the river ordeal!” She sends (him) away, saying: “My brother, my brother!” [. . .]’ On the one hand the text is well in line with my interpretation of the muḫḫûm in the Mari texts as a cult official linked to lamentation. However, this text uses the term mupassir.13 Like its Hebrew cognate it is connected with good news and while it is used to mean ‘messenger’ it is also a D-participle of the verb, which means ‘to praise, to bring good news’. Further, the maḫḫû goes on to give news to the ‘Lady of Babylon’ in front of whom he is walking that ‘they are taking him [Marduk] to the river ordeal!’ Little prophetic ability seems to be necessary for this. Indeed, I wonder whether the verb bussuru with its positive connotation is not used here for dramatic and ironic effect, since the message is far from positive. There are no texts which would link the maḫḫû to music either in the cult or outside of it. Indeed, we do not know what they did in the cult— they might have prophesied but they could equally well have physically embodied the awesome power of the deity. The textual data available simply do not allow us to make a decision here. This has ramifications insofar as it becomes more difficult to use Neo-Assyrian prophecy as a direct phenomenological parallel for the reconstruction of possible cultprophecy in Israel and Judah.14 In other words, the analysis of the maḫḫû in Neo-Assyrian times depends on the interpreting scholar’s point of view. If, as is the consensus, the maḫḫû is understood as a prophet, then they are indeed a class of cult prophets. If they are, as I understand them, cult ecstatics such as the zabbu, then their prophetic role is only incidental to their cultic role. Therefore I do not understand them as cult prophets. In summary, we can say that the maḫḫû was relatively closely linked to the temple and also to the cult. The raggintu is linked to the temple,

 Farber 1977 IIA, SAA 3 34–35, SAA 12 69.  Thus also Hilber (2005a: 62). 13  This term is cognate to the Hebrew verb ‫לבשׂר‬, a D-stem, and thus directly equivalent to bussuru. 14  Contra Hilber (2005a: 74–75 and 2005b). 11

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but the connection to the temple worship and cult seems to be only incidental. No link between cultic activity and the raggintu can be found in the sources. 10.2 The Senders (Deities) of Prophecy The discussion of the deities of Neo-Assyrian prophecy has been characterised by an extraordinary sense of agreement on most issues and by a strong disagreement on one particular issue. No scholar questions the importance of Ištar of Arbela for Neo-Assyrian prophecy. Indeed, the majority of the oracles available in the collections originate from prophets speaking for some form of Ištar.15 The evidence for this is overwhelming.16 The forms of Ištar and other female deities mentioned in the texts are: Banītu, Bēlet-Babili, Bēlet Kidmuri, Issār of Arbela,17 Issār of Nineveh, Mullissu,18 Nanâ,19 Nikkal, Urkittu and Ṣarpanitu;20 the male deities are: Aššur, Bēl,21 Marduk, Nabû, Nergal, Ninurta, Nusku, Sîn and Šamaš.22 This  E.g. Weippert (1981: 74–75) and Parpola (1997: xlvii–xlviii).  Of the roughly 50 texts which mention the gender of prophecy, about 35 are portrayed as the words of female deities and about 18 those of male deities. Some texts mention more than one deity and mention deities of different genders. 17  Also referred to as Bēlet Arbela. 18  According to Porter (2004: 42) Mullissu refers to Ištar in her function as wife of Aššur. It is used for Ištar of Arbela, Ištar of Aššur and most often for Ištar of Nineveh. On the reading of nin.líl as Mullissu and not Ninlil, cf. Parpola (1980: 174). 19  It is not entirely certain whether Nanâ was an independent deity or a form of Ištar by the first millennium, Azarpay (1976). 20  It remains debated how people in the Neo-Assyrian period conceived of their deities, whether all forms of Ištar were regarded as one and the same deity or whether they were distinct, or something in between. While Ištar and Inanna had merged by the NeoAssyrian period, other forms of Ištar appear to have remained distinct, see Porter (2004). I presume that the possibility of understanding the spelling iš-tar to refer to any female deity makes it very likely indeed that various forms of Ištar were separate female deities. Huffmon (2000: 58) asserts that Mullissu and Ištar of Arbela were regarded as the same deity, arguing that ‘[t]he two are identified in SAA 9 2.4 ii 30, “The word of Ištar of Arbela, the word of Queen Mullissu,” and the two also are linked in SAA 9 5,7 (“. . . his mother is Mullissu . . . his [dry] nurse is the Lady of Arbela,” r. 6) and 9.’ Huffmon’s second citations is slightly unclear. The text which refers to Mullissu as Esarhaddon’s mother and to Bēlet Arbela as his nurse-maid is SAA 9 7:20, where the two deities are both represented as protective deities of Esarhaddon, not as identical: 20mā ša Mullissu ummašuni lā tapallaḫ ša Bēlet Arba’ilī tārīssuni lā tapallaḫ (‘20(You) whose mother is Mullissu, fear not! (You) whose nurse-maid is the Lady of Arbela, fear not!’). These texts represent the two deities as cooperating in their support of Esarhaddon. 21  Usually this probably referred to Marduk. However, such an equation cannot be made with certainty at all times. 22  While the text in SAA 9 3.2 is supposed to be placed before the statue of Bēl Tarbaṣi, it seems to be more likely that the oracle itself was attributed to Aššur rather than Bēl 15

16



other aspects of neo-assyrian prophecy

147

list shows that while the various forms of Ištar are the most represented deities, other deities are involved in the prophetic process in the NeoAssyrian empire as well. When focussing on the texts collected in SAA 9, Parpola’s understanding that most oracles originate from Ištar seems justified.23 However, if we include other texts referring to prophetic activity in the Neo-Assyrian empire, this picture is replaced by much larger variety. Parpola’s interpretation of Neo-Assyrian religion as fundamentally monotheistic intensifies the debate. In Parpola’s view, all Neo-Assyrian deities were understood as essentially personifications of the same deity.24 So far, Parpola’s suggestion has not been accepted by the majority of scholars and judging by the responses it is not likely to become so.25 The number of scholars within the field of Assyriology who accept Parpola’s theory remains small.26 Porter proves clearly that the tākultu-texts, themselves Middle Assyrian, but extensively used in the Neo-Assyrian period, as well as other texts, such as hymns, refer to two distinct forms of Ištar, which in turn indicates a polytheistic world view.27 Her main argument is that the Neo-Assyrian concept of an ilu (‘god’) and our understanding of the word ‘god’ are essentially different, in that the concept of an ilu allowed the Assyrians more freedom to regard their deities as sometimes anthropomorphic, sometimes zoomorphic, sometimes as a stone, as well as other possible manifestations.28 Thus, the boundaries of ancient deities seem to have been ‘fuzzier’ than we would like them to be; at times two deities could be entirely different, and at others they could be similar or even the same. This does not, however, lead to a strictly monotheistic understanding. While it is potentially possible that some intellectuals had conceived of an idea of the divine as a singular entity of which the individual deities were hypostases rather than independent deities—and I am hesitant to accept even that—it is unlikely that this conceptualisation of deities as the divine would have been shared by more than a handful of people. It is,

Tarbaṣi, who was a minor god and whose statue was placed at the entrance to Aššur’s temple Ešarra. 23  E.g. ‘the Assyrian oracles are called words of Ištar/Mullissu’, Parpola (1997: xlvii). 24  E.g. Parpola (1997: xxi–xxxi and 2000). 25  E.g. Porter (2000), Cooper (2000: especially 440) and Weippert (2002: 9–13). 26  E.g. Nissinen (2003d: 99–100) and Baumann (2006). Pongratz-Leisten (2003) also cautiously adopts the possibility of Assyrian monotheism. 27  Porter (2000 and 2004). 28  Porter (2000: 243–248). On this issue see also Stökl (forthc.–b).

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therefore extremely unlikely that Neo-Assyrian prophets understood their function as occurring within a monotheistic religion. In his seminal study on ecstatic religion, I. M. Lewis stated that there are basically two different kinds of religions and cults, and that there are two different forms of ecstatic religion: the form situated at the central cult, which supports the current order and ruling class, and the form situated in marginal cults, which can run counter to the centralised form.29 All of the sources of Neo-Assyrian prophecy are from royal archives, or texts kept by the upper classes which tend to be close to the central cult. The state deities are best represented among those deities who talk through prophetic oracles: various forms of Ištar, Marduk, Šamaš, Aššur, Sîn, Ninurta and Nergal. There is one exception to this: the deity Nusku, who speaks in support of Sasî, a contender to the throne of Esarhaddon through the ‘slave-woman of Bēl-aḫu-uṣur’.30 According to PongratzLeisten, this incident should be regarded as showing that prophecy which is inherently critical towards the king can only be spoken by a low status human—a slave—on behalf of a low status god, Nusku.31 Taking up Pongratz-Leisten’s suggestion, I propose to read this prophecy in the light of Lewis’ theory, according to which we should expect prophecies in favour of a contender to the throne to originate from relatively marginal cults or situations. Pongratz-Leisten understands prophecy in general as part of the ‘Herrschaftswissen’ of Mesopotamian rulers, together with other forms of divination.32 Her presentation of the evidence for her theory is convincing. However, in view of the episode just cited, her view has to be modified slightly: prophecy is a means of gathering information that can be used for ruling and propaganda, but it can also be used by a contender to the throne. Further, the evidence for the phenomenon of Neo-Assyrian prophecy comes exclusively from royal sources, rather than marginal sources, where prophecy might have a destabilizing function. This means that the stabilizing kind of prophecy is over-represented in our sources and in the analysis.

 Lewis (2003).  SAA 16 59. Nusku is a son of Nikkal who is mentioned in the same letter as giving an oracle in favour of the king. 31  Pongratz-Leisten (2006: 19). Whether or not Nusku was actually a low status deity remains a different question. 32  Pongratz-Leisten (1999). 29 30



other aspects of neo-assyrian prophecy

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10.3 The Geographic and Temporal Distribution Not much can be said about the geographical and temporal distribution of prophecy in the Neo-Assyrian sources. We know that most of the prophecies are reported to have come from Arbela, Aššur, Kalḫu and the otherwise unknown village Dāra-aḫuya. However, the entire corpus itself as we have it was probably written in Nineveh itself. This is partly due to the coincidence of preservation and the finding of texts. Similarly, the only two kings who are mentioned in the archives are Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal. It is to be assumed that other rulers had prophets at their disposal and used them to gather information from the divine sphere and that prophets also spoke divine messages to rulers who did not record their messages as often as these two kings. Among other things, this is suggested by the continued existence of the Old Babylonian word muḫḫûm in its Neo-Assyrian guise as maḫḫû. It is possible that these two kings felt a special need to justify their succession to the throne, something that could easily be understood with Esarhaddon who only acceded to the Neo-Assyrian throne after a civil war following the assassination of his father Sennacherib which was possibly done on his orders.33 Whether or not this was the case, Esarhaddon used prophecy extensively in order to have his rule justified by the gods.

33  For a more thorough analysis of the question see de Jong (2007: 251–253). Parpola’s (1980) reconstruction of SAA 18 100 (ABL 10 91) must remain speculative and his theory hinges entirely on this text. See Dalley (2006) for a critical assessment of Parpola’s problematic reconstructions and Dalley (2007: 37–45) for an alternative account. See See Tadmor/Landsberger/Parpola (1989) and more recently Weaver (2004) for an interpretation of the ‘sin of Sargon’ being an expression used by Esarhaddon to refer to his father Sennacherib’s actions against Babylon.

chapter eleven

Conclusions The two major issues that we have approached in this chapter are the position of the raggintu and the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû, and that of the scribal process of transmission of oracular texts. The second is a complicated issue for which the space and scope of a comparative study such as this one is not large enough. What we can say, however, is that most likely we do not possess a single Neo-Assyrian prophetic oracle as uttered by a deity through a prophet in its original form. Instead, we have evidence of a literary process that begins with a scribe writing down an oracle which is then incorporated into a letter, in a similar way to the Mari letters which contain prophetic oracles in the midst of other messages that an official wished to send to the king. Letters most likely present us with the second step in the transmission process. Whether individual prophecies were kept centrally on individual tablets or Sammeltafeln cannot be shown. As asserted by Nissinen, it seems that this is indeed the more likely alternative; these Sammeltafeln would then have been repositories of texts and quarries for future compositions.1 However, these Sammeltafeln are also compositions in their own right.2 They not only provide a new context for individual texts, but they also provide a potential context for being copied together or in an amalgamated form.3 With regard to the non-oracular material on Neo-Assyrian prophecy, Nissinen rightly points out that it presents us with a perspective on how prophecy was seen by non-prophets at their own time. They represent the views of those who lived in a society in which prophecy was practised and honoured. Further, the non-oracular texts represent several opaquely delineated stages of literary development of prophetic literature, from the report of an oracle in a letter down to texts such as the Šulgi, Marduk, Uruk and Dynastic prophecies.

 Nissinen (2003d: 135) and Cancik-Kirschbaum (2003: 42).  Schart (1995: 92), Nissinen (2000e: 254) and de Jong (2007: 395–397). 3  See also ARM 26 192 which may be an earlier version of such a Sammeltafel. 1

2

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Our research into the various prophetic professions has shown a number of things: first of all, Parpola’s view that the terms raggintu and (NeoAssyrian) maḫḫû are two words to denote the same people in different linguistic registers, the raggintu as the everyday word, and the maḫḫû as the more literary term, cannot be upheld.4 Linked to that, the raggintu by no means displaces the Old Babylonian muḫḫû. It is, indeed much more likely that the word raggintu refers to a prophetic position more akin to that of the Old Babylonian āpilum; āpilum and raggintu are closely related to the royalty, whereas the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû shares the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm’s propensity to appear in cultic contexts so that we can safely use the normal reading maḫḫûtu for fgub.ba in SAA 9 10. A second and important point is that there is absolutely no evidence of genital self-mutilation in Neo-Assyrian prophecy. While it is possible that Bāia’s, Ilussa-āmur’s and Issār-lā-tašiyāṭ’s gender was ambiguous, there is no indication that gender ambiguity was represented more strongly among prophets than among other parts of society. The Neo-Assyrian concept of how prophecy operated still escapes our grasp. We do not know whether the Assyrians conceived of their deities speaking directly through their prophets’ mouths, or whether the gods first talked to the prophets, who then went on to talk to the addressee of the divine message. But we do know that they, as their Old Babylonian counterparts counted on the ability of deities to speak through professional prophets and lay-people, particularly but by no means exclusively in the context of royal succession/accession.

 Parpola (1997: xlv–lxxix).

4

Part three

Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible

chapter twelve

Introduction to Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible Much ink has been spilled interpreting the various roles and functions of prophecy and prophets in ancient Israel and Judah. In the last 150 years, there have been several marked shifts in the perception of prophecy in the Hebrew Bible. In this chapter I will present the different religious specialists and lay-people (non-specialists) who according to the Hebrew Bible were involved in prophecy in Israel and Judah. Concepts of ‘prophecy’ change over the course of time and location. I will limit myself here to the time before, during and just after the Babylonian Exile. This is mainly in order to stay close to the concepts of prophecy as they reflect historical reality in the Hebrew Bible until the early post-exilic period. Setting the limit approximately at the end of the exile is useful as the nature of what was considered ‘prophecy’ changed considerably after this period.1 Sections on female prophets, cult prophecy and a conclusion will bring this chapter to a close.2 I will not discuss all Hebrew terms used in the context of divination and magic, but will concentrate on those which denote a prophetic function.3

1  For a study of prophecy as it was understood in the Roman period, judging by the Dead Sea Scrolls, see Jassen (2007: 127–142), Nissinen (2008b and 2010c) and Brooke (2006 and 2008). For post-exilic prophecy in the Hebrew Bible see Barton (1986). Two recent collections of essays are helpful in understanding how prophecy developed into and then as scribal activity: Ben Zvi/Floyd (2000) and Floyd/Haak (2006). Rendtorff (2008) announced that he will address the question in which way Haggai and Habakkuk are ‘prophets’ when compared to prophets such as Jeremiah, highlighting the differences. Barstad (2007) has come to the opposite result. 2  The purpose of this chapter is to present my results and to position them within the current state of research. For the sake of brevity I will not extensively present earlier material. For a history of research on prophecy in the Hebrew Bible see Blenkinsopp (1996: 9–39), Koch (1996), Jeremias (2003) and Wilson (2005). 3  For discussions of all terms for magicians and diviners in the Hebrew Bible see the dictionaries and Jeffers (1996). As to her footnotes Jeffers’ book has to be read with caution: in a significant number of cases the numbers of the footnotes do not match the footnotes below. Regarding the terms ‘magic’ and ‘divination’ see section 1.2 in the Introduction and Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 5–7, 11–16). In the following I will only be concerned with divination. Even if some divinatory disciplines, like hepatoscopy, have technical aspects, their efficacy depends on the gods’ answers, rather than on the manipulation of the physical

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Thus, I will discuss only ‫( נָ ִביא‬nābīʾ), ‫( חֹזֶ ה‬ḥōze) and ‫( ר ֶֹאה‬rōʾe).4 Contrary ִ ‫ִאיׁש ( ָה) ֱא‬ to a common trend in biblical studies, I do not regard ‫ֹלהים‬ 5 (ʾīš [hā]’ělohīm) as a prophetic title. The evidence shows that this term is not a professional title but denotes a close relationship between a human and a deity.6 Like the previous chapters, this chapter is organised around the various titles that are used in connection with prophecy. I have included the discussion of the Emar material here rather than in section 1.4 where I list the texts that I exclude from the further study, because the Emar texts have been adduced in the discussion of the etymology of the Hebrew term ‫נביא‬. While the etymology of a word cannot give us its meaning, the etymology of the ‫ נביא‬has been discussed extensively and therefore cannot be ignored, especially as the use of the Emar material has to be questioned.

world. Similar sentiments had already been voiced by Cryer (1991 and 1994: 91–95, 243– 250) and Grabbe (1995: 127–141). For comprehensive bibliographies of prophecy in biblical studies, cf. Fohrer (1951, 1952a, 1952b, 1962a, 1962b, 1962c, 1975a, 1975b, 1976), Koch (1996: 495–499) and the entries on individual prophetic figures in RGG3&4. 4  In the following I will not repeat the transcriptions of Hebrew terms, unless it is the first time that they are being introduced, or unless they appear in a heading. 5  Thus also Blenkinsopp (1996: 28) who defines the ‫ איׁש (ה)אלהים‬as someone who was ‘perceived to dispose of preternatural and dangerous power.’ Hölscher (1914: 127 n.2) speculates that ‫ איׁש (ה)אלהים‬might reflect an earlier term for a person closely linked to the divine and/or demonic sphere. Hallevy (1958) regards the pre-exilic ‫איׁש (ה)אלהים‬ as a divine messenger, thus fulfilling Weippert’s definition of a prophet. In his view the post-exilic ‫ איׁש (ה)אלהים‬is no longer a prophet but someone with a close connection to the deity. Petersen (1981: 40–50) takes the ‫ איׁש (ה)אלהים‬as the peripheral counterpart of the central ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. As will become clear below, I disagree with Petersen on both accounts. Jassen (2007: 106–121) has recently shown how the title developed into a ‘prophetic’ title at Qumran, in a somewhat ‘fuzzier’ sense, similar to the way other prophetic titles are used there. 6  Bratsiotis (1970), Holstein (1977), Uffenheimer (1999: 20–21), Lehnart (2003: 131–132).

chapter thirteen

The Messengers In this section, I describe the various terms used for prophets in the Hebrew Bible. Like in the ancient Near Eastern material, there are a number of different titles that are used to refer to prophetic roles. As discussed in the introduction, the study of ancient prophecy faces the difficulty that the term ‘prophet’ is often used both as a translation of the relevant terms in the ancient languages (which need not always refer to the social role ‘prophet’) but it is also used also to describe a socio-religious role.1 As in the previous chapters, I distinguish between people who are given a professional prophetic title and those who happen to prophesy. In recent studies on Hebrew prophecy, the existence of so-called ‘lay-prophecy’ has been questioned.2 However, the texts show evidence of prophets, such as Amos, who may well not have been perceived by their contemporaries as prophets in the professional sense, but who prophesied. It is for those people that I will use the term ‘lay-prophet’.3 13.1 The ‫( נביא‬nābīʾ) James Barr is justly famous for his insistence that etymological information does not provide firm evidence for the meaning of any word.4 Only  See the Introduction for more discussion, cf. also Wilson (1980: 21–28), Petersen (2000) and recently Nissinen (2004). 2  Cf. de Jong (2007: 327–328) and Gafney (2008: 69). 3  Chronicles knows of five lay-prophets: Amasai, the chief of the captains (1 Chr 12: 19), Azariah, the son of Oded (2 Chr 15: 1), Jahaziel, son of the Levite Zechariah (2 Chr 20: 14), Zechariah, son of Jehoiada the priest (2 Chr 24: 20) and the pharaoh Neco (2 Chr 35). As shown by Schniedewind (1995: 74–126), inspiration formulae are used for them as they do not bear a prophetic title and thus the divine authority of their message needs affirmation. 4  Barr (1968). Schniedewind (1995: 32–33 esp. n.7) doubts the usefulness of etymological data for determining the function of the various kinds of prophets in the Hebrew Bible. His dislike for etymological studies seems to include a dislike of the names of the authors of the debate in Biblische Notizen in the 1980s: in real life his ‘H. Mueller’ is Hans-Peter Müller and ‘G. Manfred’ is Manfred Görg. Walter Müller is not mentioned at all. The relevant articles are: Görg (1982, 1983, 1985 and 1986), Müller (1985) and Müller (1986). 1

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context can achieve that. While that is undoubtedly the case, there are good reasons to discuss the etymology of the Hebrew term ‫נביא‬: etymology can tell us about the history of a word and its connections to related words in other languages. More importantly, however, it is necessary to re-assess some of the claims made about the etymological data for ‫נביא‬. Particularly, texts from Ebla and Emar have been construed as providing evidence for prophecy in those places. I will first discuss the morphology and etymology of ‫ נביא‬and then usage of the word in epigraphic Hebrew and the Hebrew Bible. 13.1.1 The Etymology of ‫נביא‬ The word ‫( נביא‬nābīʾ) is a qātīl-pattern of the root ‫נבא‬.5 Proto-Semitic qatīl appears in the qātīl-pattern in Hebrew and is normally passive.6 Fleming has argued that in the case of ‫נביא‬, however, this form should be understood as possessing an active sense.7 As shown by Huehnergard, this is highly unlikely, as the qātīl-pattern almost always denotes a passive (or ‘patiens’) sense.8 We shall return to Fleming’s comparative evidence below. 5  This root is the form in which it appears in Biblical Hebrew. In comparative Semitics, the root is normally given as √nby, √nbi, or most commonly √nbʾ. However, the last radical was most likely the vowel /i/, cf. Müller (1984b: 143–144). While this is accepted today, other derivations were suggested in the past, cf. Walker (1961) and Görg (1982, 1983, 1985 and 1986) who suggested derivations from Egyptian. Walker linked ‫ נביא‬to Egyptian n-b i-3-w, which can be translated as ‘(God-)honoured one’. The sound changes involved, however, make this derivation unlikely, cf. Barr (1968: 102). Görg suggested another term, nb3, which is found in medical texts and means ‘to rave, to be excited’, cf. Erman/Grapow (1926–31: II, p. 43), Ebbell (1938: 25–26), Grapow/Erichsen (1940–55: II, p. 346) and von Deines/Westendorf (1961–62: I, p. 455). Neither suggestion has been accepted, as the etymological connections to cognates in other Semitic languages promise better results. Many years before, Gesenius (1839: 838a) had suggested deriving ‫ נביא‬from the root √nbʿ (‘to bubble up’). Kuenen (1877: 42–45) also seems to derive from this root, but does not mention it. Jeffers (1996: 82) quotes Kuenen and ‘reconstructs’ a root √nby with the meaning ‘to bubble up’. This derivation is unlikely as it would require an ‫( ע‬ʿ) to change into an ‫( א‬ʾ), Jeremias (1976: 7) and Müller (1984b: 147). 6  Fox (2003: 192–193). For a critical discussion of the methodological problems in the reconstruction of proto-languages cf. Edzard (1998). The qātīl-pattern is often referred to as the qātîl-pattern by Hebraists to indicate the plene spelling. Since the circumflex tends to represent a contracted vowel, I have represented the long /i/ with the more common /ī/. 7  Fleming (1993a, 1993b and 1993c). 8  Huehnergard (1999) and Fox (2003: 192–193). In an article on terms for temple personnel, Fleming (2004: 61–64) replies to Huehnergard’s arguments. However, he remains wedded to the idea that lú.mešna-bi-i must denote prophets.



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The verb occurs in the nif. and hitp. and is best explained as denominative.9 In the past, scholars have interpreted the nif. and the hitp. to have different meanings: nif. ‘to prophecy’ and hitp. ‘to act as a prophet, to act ecstatically’.10 However, it has become clear that the evidence does not support such a neat division.11 Therefore, a meaning such as ‘to act like a prophet/ecstatic’ is equally valid for both stems. The root nbʾ is a common Semitic root. It appears in Akkadian, Eblaite, Emarite, Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, Ethiopic and Old South Arabic.12 In most of these languages, it appears in verbal and nominal usages. 13.1.1.1 The nabī at Ebla In Akkadian the verb nabû(m) II (‘to name, to nominate, to decree’) is attested from Old Akkadian onwards and is particularly common in names.13 The Standard Akkadian adjective nabû(m) I (‘called, authorized [person]’) is also widely attested, particularly as an honorific title for Mesopotamian kings such as Ḫammurapi and Samsu-iluna.14 The discovery of the verb nabû(m) in a bilingual lexical list in Ebla as an equivalent to Sumerian pà(d) (‘to find/to call’) is often cited as the oldest attestation of the cognate.15 However, it is the verb which is cited here, not the adjective. As the verb is common this find is not surprising especially in a standard lexical list. At Ebla the verb also occurs in non-lexical texts,

9  Huehnergard (1999: 91) and Müller (1984b: 143). The noun spread to a number of other Semitic languages presumably influenced by the Hebrew Bible. Thus, in Arabic, the verb in the Vth stem is derived from the noun, cf. Müller (1984b: 146). 10  E.g. Jepsen (1934: 5–11). See most recently Adam (2009) who argues in favour of the old distinction again. 11  E.g. Gafney (2008: 35–47). 12  The root also appears in personal names in Punic and Ugaritic, cf. Müller (1984b: 144–145). The interpretation of Ugaritic nbʿm as a contracted form of nbʾ ʿm—nabaʾ ʿammu (‘Ammu has called’)—is far from certain and therefore it is also uncertain whether the root occurs in Ugaritic at all, cf. Gröndahl (1967: 17). 13  Cf. CAD and AHw. In the D-stem the verb means ‘to wail, lament’. The Š-stem means ‘to cause to name’ and the N-stem is translated ‘to be named’. For nabû(m) in names see Stamm (1939: 141–142), Ranke (1905: 88–90, 125–126), Gelb (1957: 194–195), Huffmon (1965: 236), Seux (1967: 175–179, 205–207, 433–436), Gelb (1980: 164, 331–332) and Pagan (1998: 143–144). 14  CAD N I nabû, adj. and AHw. 15  Hamilton (1995: 58). For the text cf. Pettinato (1982: 281 [no. 725]). This correspondence is common in Babylonian lists. According to the Philadelphia Sumerian Dictionary (http://psd.museum.upenn.edu/epsd/nepsd-frame.html) the Sumerian verb itself was common from about 3000 BCE onwards.

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both in the D-stem and in the G-stem, especially in names.16 In 1976, Giovanni Pettinato claimed that there were two classes of prophets at Ebla, whom he specified as ‘the maḫḫû and the nabiʾutum’ without citing textual evidence.17 In an article in Akkadica one year later Pettinato modifies this statement slightly: nabî and maḫḫû are guests at Ebla, citing TM.75 G.428 and 1860.18 That TM.75 G.1860 is one of the two texts may be significant as Pettinato had previously claimed that this text mentioned Sodom and Gomorrha, causing quite a stir. Later Pettinato had to admit that this tablet is a metallurgical text and does not contain any evidence of either Sodom, Gomorrha or, indeed, prophets.19 TM.75 G.1860 has since been published by Pietro Mander.20 According to Pettinato’s own catalogue TM.75 G.428 does not exist at all.21 In his Archives of Ebla Pettinato went on to state that the travelling na-bí-ú-tum is attested in TM.75 G.454.22 This text, published by Lucio Milano, does not contain references to prophets either. It is an administrative document listing rations of grain to various women.23 In the most recent contribution to the issue that I am aware of, Pettinato does not mention either maḫḫû or nabiʾutum, toying instead with the idea that the term āpilum as found in a lexical list at Ebla should be understood as evidence of prophecy at Ebla.24 The literature on prophecy in the Hebrew Bible uncritically accepted Pettinato’s statements that there is evidence of prophecy at Ebla in the middle of the third millennium BCE. However, it is now clear that there is no textual evidence at all for prophecy at Ebla and therefore it should no longer be cited in the literature on the religions of the ancient Near East.25

16  For the verbal attestation see TM.75. G.1444 xiii: 12–13, 12unabbakama 13nabbû, which Edzard (1981: 43, 53) translates ‘Ich werde dich . . .’. The names are in the forms i-bi+DN (‘DN called’) and na-bí+DN (‘called by DN’), cf. Müller (1984a). 17  Pettinato (1976: 49). 18  Pettinato (1977: 21). 19  See e.g. Archi (1981: 151–152) for more information on this issue. 20  Mander (1990). 21  Pettinato (1979). This information has been confirmed by Professor Alfonso Archi. I would like to thank Prof. Archi for providing information and advice on these two tablets and also on TM.75 5.454. 22  Pettinato (1981a: 119). 23  ARET IX 55, Milano (1990: 169–170, pl. 34). 24  Pettinato (1999: 327–329). 25  For the ample evidence of technical divination at Ebla see Marchetti (2009).



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13.1.1.2 The nabī at Emar Often, texts from Emar are cited as giving evidence for prophecy, particularly similar to that found in the Hebrew Bible, based on the fact that nominal forms of the root nbʾ are attested. Daniel Fleming in particular, has focussed on a possible connection between the terms and Hebrew ‫נביא‬. In the following, I will show that the two terms attested at Emar, nabī and *munabbiātu are probably connected to the ancestor cult and not to prophecy.26 It is now necessary to turn to the evidence which Fleming adduces to support his argument: the unique occurrence of lúna-bi-imeš ša ḫa-nameš in ARM 26 216 from Mari, the equally unique lú.mešna-bi-i in a text from Emar and the word *munabbiātu, which occurs in four texts at Emar.27 Fleming argues that the ‘nabî of the Ḫaneans’ are mentioned in the context of prophecy in ARM 26 216 and that therefore nābīʾ-prophets were present in Mari.28 This assertion, however, rests on circular logic. The text has been classified as a prophetic letter because the word nabî occurs in it, and not vice versa. The language in the letter itself is reminiscent of the language used in technical divination: the letter uses the word têrtum to refer to the oracle of the nabî. This term usually refers to divine messages which were received through technical divination, not prophetic utterances.29 In FM 7 39: 13 the same term seems to refer to a prophetic oracle, unless we want to assume that the oracle from Adad of Kallassu was the result of technical divination, which is a possibility. Thus, it is possible that the term is used in a wider meaning in ARM 26 216 as argued by Pongratz-Leisten.30 However, in the absence of information as to how the nābî of the Ḫaneans received the divine message. While it is not entirely clear how the nabî of the Ḫaneans received their specialist knowledge, it is more likely that they are as specialists akin to the bārû (‘seer’), the extispicy specialist, rather than to intuitive diviners such as the āpilum. Fleming stresses that the Ḫaneans are of West-Semitic origin, implying that a connection to the ‫ נביא‬is therefore more plausible. However, not only the Ḫaneans had Western Semitic origins: all Amorite tribes did, and

26  Munabbiātu is not attested in the nominative, but only in the oblique (genitive and accusative) case plural, munabbiāti. On the munabbiātu at Emar see also Stökl (forthc.-c). 27  1) Emar 406: 5’, Arnaud (1986: 402–403); 2) Emar 373: 97’, Arnaud (1986: 353, 360); 3) Emar 383: 10’, Arnaud (1986: 477); 4) Emar 379: 11–12, Arnaud (1986: 475). 28  Fleming (1993a, 1993b and 1993c) and Heintz (1997c: 198–202). 29  Cf. CAD T 357–367; particularly meaning 1 and 7. 30  Pongratz-Leisten (1999: 69–70).

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with them the ruling class of most of Mesopotamia. Further, as argued above, the idiom nabû ša DN (‘called by DN’) is a familiar appellative for kings from at least the Old-Babylonian period onwards and does not refer to prophets (but instead to leaders).31 I contend that if the singular, nabû, had been used it is less likely that they would have interpreted as prophets, particularly, if, as this study suggests, the Hebrew term ‫ נביא‬initially referred to all forms of divination and became associated with prophecy at a later point. It is now necessary to review the attestations of the root nbʾ at Emar.32 Two religious specialists are attested in the Emar texts: the (female) *munabbiāti and the (male) nabī. The former is a D-participle feminine plural in the oblique case while the latter is a G-verbal adjective (acting as a noun) in the masculine plural, both from the root nbʾ. Based on this, some scholars conclude that these people are prophets without taking the wider context of the attestations into account.33 I will show that the basis of this argument is flawed and that the texts in question should be understood differently. To my knowledge, the first who suggested translating *munabbiātu as ‘prophetesse’ was Arnaud, the editor of most of the Emar texts.34 On this basis Fleming connected the *munabbiātu, Emar nabî, the Mari nabî and the biblical ‫נביא‬. Regarding the attestations at Emar, his argument goes as follows: on the basis of similar cases in ‘peripheral Akkadian’ (Akkadian which is written at the edges of the Akkadian-speaking and -writing world), in which the feminine participle is in the D-stem and the masculine participle is in the G-stem, he suggests interpreting not only *munabbiātu as an active form but also lú.mešna-bi-i, which he reads as nābī, a G-participle. On the basis that ‫ נביא‬is phonetically so similar, Fleming argues that it also should be understood as an active form.35 Going beyond Huehnergard’s criticism of Fleming’s argument, we can point out that there is no evidence that the Emar terms mean ‘prophet’ in the first place. It is now possible to gather considerable evidence in

 E.g. RIME 4.3.6.17, Frayne (1990: 354–355). See also the literature cited in the CAD.  Most of the Emar texts are published in Arnaud (1985a, 1985b, 1986 and 1987b). 33  Tsukimoto (1989: 4–5) and more recently Miller (2000: 177–178), Prechel (1996: 80, 186), Feliu (2003: 55), Gruber (2007: 10 [n.13]) and Hess (2007: 89). Gordon (1993: 65) mentions the possibility but is more careful in adopting it. This is using the same kind of etymological reasoning that Barr (1968) criticized among Hebraists. 34  Arnaud (1986). 35  Fleming (1993c). As mentioned above, this argument has been thoroughly refuted by Huehnergard (1999). 31

32



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support for a different case. Fleming and Huehnergard cited four examples of the use of the verb nabû in the D-stem at Emar. Today this number can be doubled: the verb is attested at least eight times at Emar, all eight in an idiomatic expression, all in adoption deeds.36 The four texts on which Fleming and Huehnergard based their arguments were: 1) RA 77 1: 8 2) RA 77 2: 11–12 3) Emar 185: 2–3 4) AuOr 5 13: 6–7

dingir.meš-ia ù me-te-ia ˹lu˺-ú tu-na-bi She shall invoke/mourn (?) my gods and my dead37 11 dingir.meš-ia ù me-te-ia 12lu-ú tu-na-ab-bi She shall invoke/mourn (?) my gods and my dead38 2 dingir.meš-ia ù me-te-ia 3lu-ú -na-ab-bi She shall invoke/mourn (?) my gods and my dead39 6 dingir.meš-ia dišt[ar.meš-ia] 7lu-ú tu!-nab-bi-mi She shall invoke my gods and my goddesses40

To these we can add the following four: 5) CM 13 3: 23–24 23dingir.meš u me-te-ia la--te-ia 24a-bi-šu-nu lu-na ab-bu May they invoke the gods and the dead of Laḫteya, their father41 20 6) Sem 46 2: 20–21 . . . dingir.meš-ia 21u mi-ti-ia ú-na-bu They will invoke my gods and my dead42 16 7) RE 23: 16–17 dingir.meš-ia ù ˹me˺-te-˹ia˺ lo.e.17lu-˹ú tu4˺-na-ab-b[i] May she invoke my gods and my dead43 8) RE 30: 5–7 5dingir.meš!-ia ù mé-e-te 6šamtu-ba-a a-b[i-šu] 7ú-na-ab-bi He will/shall invoke my gods and the dead of [his] father Tubâ44

36  The number of attestations is according to Progetto Sinleqiunnini. The Emar Cuneiform Archive (accessed 16/05/08 at http://www.pankus.com/). 37  Huehnergard (1983: 13). 38  Huehnergard (1983: 16–17). Both of the texts published by Huehnergard here were also published as ASJ 13 25–26, cf. Tsukimoto (1991). 39  Arnaud (1986: 197–198). I follow the suggestion by Durand (1989) and emend the first sg. cs. D-precative lunabbi to a third person D-durative+ lu, lu tunabbi. As an alternative Durand suggests correcting the text to read lu-u tu!-nab!-bi, in either case the resulting form is a third sg. f. 40  Arnaud (1987a: 233). Durand (1989) suggests correcting the verb-form from ta-nabbi-mi to tu-nab-bi-mi, changing it from a G-durative to a D-durative. This suggestion is supported by the fact that, if it is true, nabû would only occur in the D-stem at Emar, always in the same idiomatic expression. 41  Westenholz (2000: 9–12). 42  Arnaud (1996: 10–14). 43  Beckman (1996: 39–40). 44  Beckman (1996: 49–51).

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All eight represent the same idiomatic expression: ilānī u mētī/ilāti nubbû (‘to nubbû (D-stem of nabû) my gods and my dead/goddesses’), occurring in adoption deeds, a context in which the close relationship between the adoptive parent and the adopted child is expressed, including inheritance rights and the duty of the adopted child to support the adoptive parent in old age.45 It appears clear, therefore, that as part of the adoption, they also inherited the religious duties of a child towards his or her parents. It seems likely that the verb refers to some form of ancestor worship, but it is impossible to decide which form this ancestor worship took. The *munabbiātu is attested in four texts at Emar.46 The first of these texts is a list of supplies for a ritual; the second is the liturgy of the zukrufestival, where the word appears as an eponym/title for the goddess Išḫara (‘Išḫara of the *munabbiātu’) in a list of deities;47 texts 3 and 4 are described as sacrificial lists by the editor. 1) Emar 406: 5’ [. . .]bu-uq-qú-ra-tu4 ša f.mešmu-na-bi-ia-ti [. . .](a kind of ) meat of/for the *munabbiātu48 2) Emar 373: 97’ diš-ḫa-ra ša f.mešmux-nab-bi-ia-[ti]49 Išḫara of the *munabbiātu 3) Emar 383: 10’ diš-ḫa-ra ša f.mešmux-nab-b[i-ia-ti]50 Išḫara of the *munabbiātu 4) Emar 379: 11–12 11 diš-ḫa-ra ša 12mux-na-bi-ia-ti51 Išḫara of the *munabbiātu

The only information that we can glean from these four texts is that the goddess Išḫara at Emar had a connection to the *munabbiātu, whatever they did. Independently of whether *munabbiātu refers to female priests,

45  Similar analyses have also been made by van der Toorn (1994), Pitard (1996), Schmidt (1996) and Beckman (1996). None of them quotes all eight texts. As pointed out by Tsukimoto (1999), in RE 94: 25–27 the same expression occurs with kunnu instead of nubbû. Kämmerer (1994) adds a text from Ekalte, where we find l.e. 1dingirmeš ù mi-ti-ia 2 ta-ar-ra-de4, MBQ-T-34 (Kämmerer’s text 14), again an adoption deed and again a different verb. 46  As the feminine noun *munabbiātu appears to be a genuinely Emar derivative of the verb nubbû as opposed to a Mesopotamian loanword (which most likely would have been *munabbâtu) we can determine that it means ‘female nubbû-ers’, Huehnergard (1999: 93* n.40). According to the CAD the munambû occurs exclusively in lexical lists, in which the Sumerian equivalents make it clear that he is a wailing specialist. 47  On Išḫara see Prechel (1996). 48  Arnaud (1987a: 402–403). 49  Arnaud (1987a: 353, 360) and Fleming (2000: 244–245 [line 107]). The reading mux for the a sign was suggested by von Soden (1987). 50  Arnaud (1987a: 377). 51  Arnaud (1987a: 375).



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lay-women, or professional wailers who invoked the dead, the term links the goddess Išḫara to the dead not to prophecy.52 Besides this feminine D-participle, which is attested four times, there is also a masculine form of the root nbʾ attested at Emar: nabī, spelled lú.meš na-bi-i in version F of Emar 387: 11.53 The normal version of Emar 387: 11 (version N) has: ina é [d]iš-ḫa-ra 2 udu ša-a-šu-nu in the temple of Išḫara these two sheep

where version F of that text reads: [i-na u4–m]i ina é lú.mešna-bi-i ú-[x-x]-x54 [on that da]y in the temple of the nabî . . .

é lú.mešna-bi-i stands in for é [d]iš-ḫa-ra in the more widely attested textform. Apparently, the temple of Išḫara could also be called ‘temple of the nabî ’. Išḫara is, therefore, linked not only to the *munabbiātu but also to the nabī, which suggests that the two terms are probably related. There is, however, no need to regard the masculine form as the equivalent form of the feminine. The word lú.mešna-bi-i can be interpreted either as a nominalised verbal adjective in the G-stem (read nabî) which is a passive form, or as an active G-participle of nabû (read nābî). As the verbal adjective of nabû is widely attested and the active participle is not, lú.mešna-bi-i is most probably a verbal adjective. Fleming reads the word as a G-participle because he wants to interpret it as the masculine equivalent to the active D-participle *munabbiātu, not because there is any evidence either for or against it.55 As Fleming points out, there are cases in which the feminine participle is in the D-stem and the masculine participle occurs in

52  Even if some form of necromancy was involved in the ancestor worship at Emar, which is not at all clear, this still would not connect the Emar nouns to prophecy, as necromancy is a technical form of divination. See section 1.2 in the Introduction for a discussion of the differences between technical and intuitive forms of divination. 53  In addition, Durand translates the name of one of the gates at Emar as ‘DaganSeigneur-des-Prophètes-a-appelé’, based on his reading Dagan-bêl-nabê-ilsi, Durand (1989: 88). The name of the gate is mentioned in Emar 140: 1. Arnaud (1986: 151–152) reads the name of the gate as Dagan-bēl-napilsi (‘Dagan-Lord-of-the-Gaze’). I see no reason to change Arnaud’s reading. 54  Arnaud (1986: 385–386); the tablet on which this variant is attested is Msk 74286b: 47’. 55  Fleming (1993c: 182). One wonders whether the fact that only the two plural attestations of the word, nabī, have been interpreted to have links with Hebrew ‫ נביא‬has anything to do with the acoustic similarities between the two words.

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the G-stem.56 However, we should not dismiss out of hand the possibility that nabī is a G-stative, a passive form which is used of the deceased: ‘the ones who are called, invoked’. Further, in spite of the translations of nominal forms of the root nbʾ by Arnaud, Durand and Fleming as ‘prophetess’ or ‘prophet’, there is only one clear attestation of the noun nabî linked to divination, ARM 26 216, and there, technical divination is envisaged, not prophecy. The texts from Emar describe the goddess Išḫara as ‘of the munabbiāti’ and call her temple the ‘house of the nabî ’. Any number of cultic activities could be intended. In view of the adoption deeds, it seems more likely than not that ancestor worship is to be envisaged. Because of the semantic range of the verbs nabû and nubbû and because of the grammatical forms of munabbiāti and nabī, it seems likely that the munabbiāti were female priests who invoked the dead, whereas the nabī were religious specialists who were ‘invoked/authorised’ to do something.57 As the word occurs only once, the precise meaning and function of the nabî must remain open. This excursus into the evidence for the usage of the root nbʾ at Emar has shown that the claim that there is textual evidence for prophecy at Emar cannot be upheld. This is not to say that there were no prophets at Emar—it is impossible to prove a negative statement of this kind. What we can say with some certainty is that to date, there is no textual evidence for prophetic activity at Emar. As a consequence, Emar should no longer be cited as one of the ancient Near Eastern sites for which we possess evidence of prophecy. 13.1.1.3 Conclusions of the Etymological Discussion A number of conclusions can be drawn from this extended discussion of the etymological evidence for ‫נביא‬: there is no textual evidence for prophets at either Ebla or Emar. Further, two alternative interpretations for the origin of ‫ נביא‬present themselves: either, we uphold Albright’s suggestion 56  Fleming (1993c: 182) gives two examples 1) nēʾiru/munaʾʾeru (masculine) and munērtu (feminine) ‘murderer/murderess’ and 2) zāʾizānu (masc) and muzaʾiztu (fem) ‘distributor’. His first example is not convincing as the masculine is attested both in the G- and the D-participles. 57  If we allow for some speculation, it is possible to imagine that the Emar nabî and the lú na-bi-imeš in ARM 26 216 could be statues of ancestors, who are call upon as part of normal ancestor veneration but also in divination, as is envisaged for the Hebrew teraphim by Loretz (1992b). However, the determinative lú ‘man’ makes such an interpretation virtually impossible. Beckman (2008: 10) understands the *munabbiātu and the nabî as invoking priest(esse)s.



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from 1940, which links ‫ נביא‬to the Akkadian royal title nabî (ša) DN ‘called of DN’58 or link it to the religious specialist in Emar and Mari. In the first case, we would have to explain why a royal title is used to describe the role of a royal official rather than the king himself; in the second, the Emar and Mari nabī have to be identified as the nearest possible Akkadian loan. I have argued that nabī in Emar and Mari is related to some form of ancestor worship. If the word did not change its meaning in the process of borrowing, it would follow that the ‫ נביא‬was originally linked to some form of ancestor cult. A provisional, if very literal, translation of ‫ נביא‬is ‘the called’. There is, however, no indication that Israelites or Judeans would have understood it to mean anything else but simply ‘prophet’ in the post-exilic period. The sources do not allow us access to its meaning early in Israelite and Judean history. 13.1.2 The nbʾ in the Lachish Letters In this section I present the limited evidence for nabīʾ in the epigraphic record.59 As far as I am aware, the term nābīʾ is attested only in the Lachish letters and now in the unprovenanced ‘Vision of Gabriel’.60 The latter is so young that it falls outside the scope of this study.61 The Hebrew letters found during the excavations of Tell ed-Duweir, ancient Lachish, date to the early sixth century BCE. Of the 22 ostraca found at Lachish, one, Lak (6): 1.3, is pertinent to the debate. Two other ostraca have also been adduced: the first, Lak (6): 1.6, mentions the term nbʾ, but does not impart further information, while the second, Lak (6): 1.16, does not mention the word nbʾ in the first place.62 I will first discuss Lak (6): 1.6 and 1.16 and then present a closer reading of Lak (6): 1.3.  Albright (1940: 231–232).  Normally, only the Lachish letters are mentioned. Theoretically, any form such as ]‫[בי‬ or similar could be reconstructed as ‫נ[בי]א‬. Further, older spellings of the word ‫ נביא‬could leave out the ‫ י‬spelling the word defectively. Thus, the Lachish stamp seal 100.258.3 could be reconstructed to read ]‫הנבי[א‬. For the stamp seal see Aharoni (1968) and Aharoni (1975: 21–22, pl. 20: 6–7). It is more likely that the word is a gentilic (‘the man from Nob). The name Nobai is attested on three further unprovenanced Hebrew bullae: 100.343.2, 100.785.2, 100.886.2 (in the numbering system by Davies, et al. [1991–2004]). For these bullae see Avigad (1975: 71 [no.20], pl.14: 20; 1985: 305 [no.3], pl.57; 1990: 91–92 [no.4]). 60  Yardeni/Elizur (2007) and Yardeni (2008). 61  Yardeni/Elizur (2007: 156) date the inscription to the first century BCE. 62  The bibliography on the Lachish letters is substantial. Most of them were originally published by Tur-Sinai [Torczyner] in Torczyner, et al. (1938), with a Hebrew edition 58

59

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Lak (6): 1.16 is a very fragmentary text. However, in lines 4–5 the following words have been identified: [. . .]br bny[. . .] 5[. . .y]hw hnbʾ[. . .].63

4

The reading of hnbʾ in line 5 is certain, and if the letters hw before it are the end of a name, it is likely that the prophet mentioned here bore a Yahwistic name.64 Renz and Röllig conclude: ‘[d]er Text ist zu fragmentarisch, als daß der in Z.5 genannte Prophet näher bestimmt werden könnte.’65 No further conclusions can be drawn about the function of the nbʾ mentioned here.66 The second text is Lak (6): 1.6. The passage which concerns us starts at the end of line 2 and finishes at the beginning of 6: t ʾdny ʾt h ʿt hzh.šlm my ʿbdk klb ky.šlḥ.ʾdny ʾ[t sp] 4 r hmlk [w]˹ʾt˺ spry hśr[m lʾm]67 5 r qrʾ nʾ whnh.dbry.h[śrm]68 6 lʾ ṭbm lrpt ydyk [wlhš]69 2 3

Tur-Sinai/Yeivin (1940), recently republished as Tur-Sinai/Aḥituv (1987)—in the following I will give the page-numbers for the Hebrew editions in [square brackets] after citing Tur-Sinai’s editio princeps. For the text cf. Renz/Röllig (1995: I, 405–438), Donner/Röllig (2002: 44–45), Dobbs-Allsopp, et al. (2005: 299–347) and recently Aḥituv (2005: 50–82 and 2008: 56–91). The texts are also translated by Seow in Nissinen (2003d: 212–218). 63  I will give the reading of epigraphic material in transcription into ‘Western’ characters. 64  Dobbs-Allsopp, et al. (2005: 331). The reading of the first word in line five is less certain. Tur-Sinai’s drawing in Torczyner, et al. (1938: 171 [271]), shows the first letter in line four as a Pe, and in that case his reconstruction [. . .s]pr seems likely; if Michaud (1957) drawing is more accurate, the letter is not a Pe but a Bet, and therefore the word cannot be spr (‘letter’). 65  Renz/Röllig (1995: I, 433). 66  Barstad (1993a: 8*) denies even this reading, arguing that the only letter of hnbʾ which is reasonably certain is the n. According to Barstad, He and ʾAleph are problematic, but Bet is completely impossible and the traces on the photograph look closer to a Pe. However, both drawings and photographs support the reading hnbʾ. 67  The square half-brackets indicate that the signs in question are not entirely clear. The commentators offer various possibilities regarding w’t. Above, I follow Renz/Röllig (1995: 426) and Torczyner, et al. (1938: 117). Tur-Sinai/Yeivin (1940: 138) and Dobbs-Allsopp, et al. (2005: 323) show all three letters, as damaged and Aḥituv (2005: 72 and 2008: 80) marks all three as reconstructed. 68  Torczyner, et al. (1938: 117 [138]) reconstructs h[nbʾ] here. He is sometimes followed in studies on prophecy. However, none of the modern editions supports his reconstruction. They all read as above, cf. Renz/Röllig (1995: 426), Dobbs-Allsopp, et al. (2005: 323) and Aḥituv (2005: 72 and 2008: 80). 69  Dobbs-Allsopp, et al. (2005: 323) reconstructs slightly differently: ydyk[m wlhš]. Torczyner, et al. (1938: 117 [138]) reads ydym instead of ydyk.



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 . . .Who 3is your servant? A dog? For my lord has sent the [lett]4er of the king and the letter of the official[s]: 5‘Read!’ But see—the words of the [officials] 6are not good . . . 2

In his commentary on line 5, Seow states: ‘On the basis of the remarkable parallel in Jer 38: 4, a number of scholars read here h[nbʾym] [sic!] (the prophets) or h[nbʾ] (the prophet). Albright (1938: 15–16) and de Vaux (1939: 198), however, read the letter š [sic!] after h, thus hś[rym] [sic!] (the officials)’.70 Somewhat surprisingly, Seow neither interacts with nor mentions Renz/Röllig or Lemaire in his presentation of the text and commentary.71 However, all recent editions in the various handbooks agree on the reading h[śrm], which is corroborated by the context.72 Thus, Lak (6): 1.6 should not be counted among the texts mentioning the nbʾ.73 The third text is Lak (6): 1.3. In lines 3–5 it reads: wspr.ṭbyhw ʿbd.hmlk.hbʾ ʾl.šlm.bn ydʿ.mʾt.hnbʾ.lʾm 5 r.hšmr.šlḥh.ʿbk.ʾl.ʾdny. 3

4

As for the letter of Tobiah, the king’s servant, which came 4to Šallum, the son of Yadduaʿ, from the nbʾ: 5‘Beware!’—your servant has sent it to my lord. 3

This text gives some context for the nbʾ, even if it remains enigmatic. The text raises the question of what the relationship is between Tobiah and the nbʾ, and which role the nbʾ plays in the context of this letter. Various suggestions regarding the identity of the nbʾ in line 4 have been made, including the prophet Jeremiah.74 If mʾt is used in its normal meaning, 70  Seow in Nissinen (2003d: 217 n.b). For some reason, Seow insists on spelling the masculine plural –ym not –m, as is normal in pre-exilic Hebrew inscriptions, cf. Gogel (1998: 190–193). I presume Seow uses /š/ to represent /ś/ as the two are undistinguishable in epigraphic Hebrew. 71  Renz/Röllig (1995) and Lemaire (1977) for detailed arguments why h[śrm] is more probable. 72  They are mentioned in line 4. 73  For a similar conclusion regarding the (non)-value of Lak (6): 1.6 with regard to the meaning of nbʾ, cf. Barstad (1993a: 8*). Barstad illustrates the folly of the contrary position with the example of Ganor (1967: 74) who claimed that ‘we have several ostraca (2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 12, 16, 18) which refer to a prophet whose words cause demoralization among the population of the city . . .’ and comments ‘[a] statement like that of N.R. Ganor [. . .] cannot of course be taken seriously.’ Tur-Sinai interpreted Lak (6): 1.6 to the effect that the reconstructed prophet was Urijah son of Shemaiah, cf. Torczyner, et al. (1938: 113 [‫לט‬-‫)]לח‬, a thesis which has justly been abandoned. 74  Winton Thomas (1946: 13, 20–23). We note that the biblical book knows Jeremiah as a letter writer and that later Jewish and Christian traditions developed further literature such as the epistula Ieremiae based on Jeremiah the letter writer, cf. Doering (2005).

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indicating the author of the letter who is given a name when the word spr ‘letter’ is used in a topicalised position, the nbʾ must be Tobiah.75 Additionally, we can see that nb’ is determined, which normally requires that the ‘prophet’ has either been introduced earlier, or that there was only one prophet. As the second possibility seems unlikely, we can conclude that ‘the prophet’ had already been introduced, which again supports the interpretation that ‘the prophet’ is Tobiah.76 The interpretation of nbʾ as ‘messenger’ here is often attributed to Elliger, but it can already been found in Junge’s study on the Judean military under Josiah.77 Barstad rightly laments the prominence of Junge’s interpretation, channelled through The “Prophet” in the Lachish Ostraca by Winton Thomas.78 There is no indication in the text at all that the nbʾ is merely a (military) messenger.79 As an alternative, Barstad suggests regarding this prophet as a prophet whose message happens to have military significance. However, what Lak (6): 1.3 tells us is as follows: Tobiah, a prophet in the service of the king, sent a letter to Šallum, son of Yadduaʿ. Haušaʿyahu, the sender of Lak (6): 1.3, tells his superior Yaʾuš that either Šallum or Haušaʿyahu himself forwarded this letter to Yaʾuš. Independently of whether Šallum or Haušaʿyahu forwarded the letter, these lines at the end of Haušaʿyahu’s letter have the purpose of informing his superior (Yaʾuš) that the prophet’s letter exists and that is has been sent on to Yaʾuš.80 We can also tell that the message of the prophet was a warning (‘Beware!’). If the message contained in the letter was comparable to Mari oracles, it probably encouraged the king to stay in the capital. However, as the message seems to be addressed to Yaʾuš and not to the king, this seems somewhat unlikely. The nbʾ is a prophet and if his letter is transported by the military that fact seems to be coincidental to his being a prophet. It is noteworthy, that this is the only prophetic message in Hebrew which has survived on a contemporary text. Its brevity indicates that prophetic messages could be very short indeed.

 Thus also Parker (1994).  Barstad (1993a: 9*) agrees that mʾt hnbʾ must mean ‘from the prophet’, but leaves his identity open. 77  Junge (1937: 17 n.75) and Elliger (1938). 78  Winton Thomas (1946). 79  Barstad (1993a: 9*) contra Müller (1970: 240–242) who sees the role of the nbʾ as limited to a military one here. 80  This finds its equivalent in many cuneiform letters, including some of the prophetic letters from Mari about sending hair and hem, cf. section 4.3. 75

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The Lachish letters only impart a very limited amount of information about the ‫ נביא‬in pre-exilic Judah. First, they prove that the word ‫נביא‬/nbʾ itself was used at that time. Furthermore, we know that ‫ נביא‬were involved in royal (and military) communication.81 Thus, the ‫ נביא‬was probably a member of the royal administration, which means that in all likelihood they were not free-lance prophets, and therefore probably not principally critical of the royal administration as has traditionally been suggested. It also shows that prophetic messages were transmitted through letters, just as they were in Mari and presumably the Neo-Assyrian Empire. 13.1.3 The ‫ נביא‬in the Hebrew Bible After examining the non-biblical evidence for ‫נביא‬, we now turn to the 322 times the word occurs in the Hebrew Bible.82 Of these, 316 are masculine; the feminine, ‫נביאה‬, occurs only 6 times. In order to analyse what the writers of the various books of the Hebrew Bible understood when they used the term ‫נביא‬, I will present the different ways in which the term is used. By far the most common way ‫( נביא‬fem. ‫ )נביאה‬is used is as a title directly after the name: ‘PN, the prophet’.83 The individuals called prophet in this way in the Hebrew Bible are Ahijah, Azariah ben Oded, Elijah, Elisha, Gad, Habakkuk, Haggai, Hananiah, Huldah, Iddo, Isaiah, Jehu, Jeremiah, Jonah, Miriam, Nathan, Noadiah, Samuel, Shemaiah and Zechariah.84 It is

 Parker (1994).  The Aramaic noun ‫ נביא‬is attested four times, all in Ezra: twice in the singular, Ezra 5: 1 and 6: 14 and twice in the plural, Ezra 5: 1, 2. The Hebrew word is attested a further 68 times in Qumran and five times in Ben Sira. The Qumran attestations are: CD 3: 21; 4: 13; 7: 10, 17; 19: 7; 1QS 1: 3; 8: 16; 9: 11; 1QPHab 1: 1; 2: 9; 7: 5, 8; 1QHa 12: 17(=4Q430 f1: 4); 1Q29 f1: 5; 4Q88 8: 14; 4Q158 f6: 6, 9; 4Q163 15–16: 1; 4Q166 2: 5, 4Q174 f.1–2i: 15, 16; f1–3ii: 3; 4Q175 1: 5, 7; 4Q177 f1–4: 9; f5–6: 2, 5; f7: 3; f12–13i: 1; 4Q265 f1: 3; f7: 8; 4Q285 f4: 3; f7: 1(=11Q14 f1i: 9); 4Q292 f2: 4, 4Q375 f1i: 1, 4, 6; 4Q376 f1ii: 4; 4Q379 f36: 2; 4Q381 f69: 4; 4Q382 f9: 8; f31: 5; 4Q383 f6: 1; 4Q385a f18i a–b: 2, 6; fB: 1; 4Q390 f2i: 5; 4Q397 f14–21: 10(=4Q398 f14–17i: 3), 15; 4Q408 f11: 4; 4Q418 f221: 2; 4Q481a f2: 4; 4Q504 f1–2riii: 13; 11Q5 22: 5, 14; 28: 8, 13; 11Q13 2: 15, 17; 11Q19 54: 8, 11, 15; 61: 2–4. The Ben Sira attestations are 36: 21, 48: 1, 8, 49: 7, 10. 83  Of 322 attestations in total, this group numbers 96, five of which are feminine forms. 84  Aaron (Exod 7: 1), Abraham (Gen 20: 7), Ahijah (1 Ki 11: 29; 14: 2), Deborah (Judg4: 4), Elijah (1 Ki 18: 22, 36; 19: 16; Mal 3: 23; 2 Chr 21: 12), Elisha (2 Ki 3: 11; 6: 12; 9: 1), Gad (2 Sam 24: 11), Habakkuk (Hab 1: 1; 3: 1), Haggai (Hag 1: 1, 3, 12; 2: 1, 10), Hananiah (Jer 28: 1, 5, 10, 12, 15, 17), Huldah (2 Ki 22: 14; 2 Chr 34: 22), Iddo (2 Chr 13: 22), Isaiah (2 Ki 19: 2; 20: 1; Isa 37: 2; 38: 1; 39: 3; 2 Chr 26: 22; 32: 20, 32), Jehu ben Hanani (1 Ki 16: 7, 12), Jeremiah (Jer 20: 2; 25: 2; 28: 5, 10–12, 15; 29: 1, 29; 32: 2; 34: 6; 36: 8, 26; 37: 2, 3, 6, 13; 38: 9, 10, 14; 42: 2, 4, 6; 81

82

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peculiar that many of the writing prophets, such as Ezekiel, Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Malachi, Micah, Nahum and Zephaniah do not appear in this list, even more so if we take into account that neither the first nor the last of the prophets of the Dodekapropheton are called ‫ נביא‬in this way.85 The two figures who are called ‫ נביא‬most often are Nathan, David’s court-prophet, and Jeremiah. The title ‫ נביא‬is used 33 times for Jeremiah and 16 times for Nathan, which, considering the relative length of material referring to them, is striking. JerLXX uses the title προφήτης less frequently.86 Jepsen, Auld and Gonçalves argue that this anomaly can best be explained as a consequence of a diachronic development in which JerMT generally represents a later stage than JerLXX. This raises the question why there was such a tendency to call people ‫ נביא‬who had not been called ‫ נביא‬before. Some scholars understand the criticism which the writing prophets level against ‘the prophets’ as an indication that official prophecy itself was regarded ambiguously.87 However, as Williamson has pointed out, their criticism never appears to be levelled against ‫( נביאים‬nebiʾīm; plural of nābīʾ) because they are ‫ נביאים‬but because they do not fulfil their role.88 The same could be said of the priests who are frequently mentioned together with the prophets in such criticism.89 In Jeremiah, ‫ נביא‬appears in the plural absolute, while in Isaiah, Ezekiel, Micah and Zephaniah we find the singular 45: 1; 46: 1, 13; 47: 1; 49: 34; 50: 1; 51: 60; Dan 9: 2; 2 Chr 36: 12), Jonah (2 Ki 14: 25), Miriam (Exod 15: 20), Nathan (2 Sam 7: 2; 12: 25; 1 Ki 1: 8, 10, 22, 23, 32, 34, 38, 44, 45; Psa 51: 2; 1 Chr 17: 1; 29: 29; 2 Chr 9: 29; 29: 25), Oded/Azariah (2 Chr 15: 8), Samuel (1 Sam 3: 20; 2 Chr 35: 18), Shemaiah (2 Chr 12: 5, 15) and Zechariah (Zech 1: 1, 7). The following people are called a prophet in Qumran literature: Daniel (4Q174 1–3 ii: 3), Ezekiel (CD 3: 21; 4Q174 f.1–2i: 16; 4Q177 f7: 3), Habakkuk (1QPHab 1: 1), Isaiah (CD 4: 13; 7: 10; 4Q174 f.1–2i: 15; 4Q265 f1: 3; 4Q285 f7: 1; 11Q13 2: 15), Jeremiah (4Q385a f18i a–b: 2, 6, fB: 1), Samuel (11Q5 28: 8), and Zechariah (CD 19: 7). 85  E.g. Auld (1984). 86  Cf. below. See also Jepsen (1934: 139–141), Gonçalves (2001: 146–147) and de Jong (2011). I use the spellings JerLXX and JerMT as shorthand for ‘Septuagint of Jeremiah’ and ‘Masoretic Text of Jeremiah’. 87  E.g. Zeph 3: 4; Jer 2: 8 and many more places, particularly in Jeremiah. See Auld (1983a and 1983b). 88  ‘It is not that they are rejected because they are nebi’im, but because they are bad ones.’ Williamson (1983: 34). Cf. also Johnson (1962: 30–31); Vawter (1985: 207) calls for a careful re-examination of this point. Waschke (2004: 64–67) mentions how the vast majority of positively connotated ‫ נביא‬in the prophetic books appear in third-person narratives about prophets, which shows that they would not have regarded themselves as prophets. 89  E.g. Jeremiah 26 and Mic 3: 11. The priest and prophet are frequently mentioned together in other passages as well: 1 Ki 1: 8, 26, 32, 34, 38, 44, 45; 2 Ki 23: 2; Isa 28: 7; Jer 2: 8, 26; 4: 9; 5: 31; 6: 13; 8: 1, 10; 13: 13; 14: 18; 18: 18; 23: 11, 33, 34; 26: 7, 8, 11, 16; 29: 1; 32: 32; Eze 7: 27; 22: 25–26; Mic 3: 11; Zeph 3: 1–7; Zech 7: 3; Lam 2: 20; 4: 13; Neh 6: 32.



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absolute.90 Presumably, this idiom is used to encompass the most visible religious specialists of ancient (Israel and) Judah. There is a scholarly consensus that divination took place within Judean and Israelite temples.91 How such diviners were designated is a different question, which cannot be solved without further textual evidence. 13.1.3.1 Prophetic Groups The Hebrew Bible knows of groups or bands of prophets such as the ‫יאים‬ ִ ‫י־הנְּ ִב‬ ַ ֵ‫ ְבּנ‬.92 This is something of a peculiarity of the biblical texts, as outside the Hebrew Bible prophets and similar religious specialists operate in small numbers or on their own.93 These groups seem to be mainly associated with Elijah, Elisha and their opponents in Israel, which, if taken at face value, would suggest a Northern setting for these groups.94 The ִ ‫ ֶח ֶבל־נְ ִב‬and bands of ‫ נביאים‬linked to Saul bear different titles: ‫(י)אים‬ ‫ ַל ֲה ַקת הנביאים‬.95 The text describes these groups as acting ecstatically.96 In the case of the ‫נביא‬-prophets/ecstatics of Baʿal, self-mutilation is portrayed as a trigger-mechanism for entering ecstatic trance; the prophetic groups connected to Saul play drums and dance and appear to be ecstatic as well, but it remains unclear whether their ecstasy is linked to any form of prophetic activity proper.97 In the portrayal of prophecy in later times these conditions are absent, which allows us to question the historical reliability of this information about these prophetic groups.98

 Eg. Jer 23: 9–40; Isa 3: 1–15; 28: 7–13; Eze 13; Mic 3: 5–12; Zeph 3: 1–5.  For a recent study of cult-prophecy cf. Hilber (2005a). He expresses something of a communis opinio, cf. Jeremias (2003: 1696) and Koch (1996: 482–484), pointing to Johnson (1962) and the classic study by Mowinckel (1921–24). 92  I do not agree with Zevit (2001: 503) and Hess (2007: 254–255) who take the information on the prophets of Baʿal and Ašerah in 1 Kings 8 as historically reliable. 93  As far as I am aware, there are only two cuneiform texts in which groups of (lay-) prophets are mentioned, both of them connected to the temple cult. One, FM 3 3 col iii 4’–7’ is one of the Eštar-rituals from Mari; the other, SAA 12 69: 29, is a list of expenses for various rituals at the Aššur-temple in Aššur. 94  1 Ki 20: 35; 2 Ki 2: 3, 5, 7, 15; 4: 1, 38[2x], 5: 22, 6: 1, 9: 1. E.g. Zobel (1985: 87), Petersen (1981: 51–69) and Lehnart (2003) argue for this. 95  1 Sam 10: 5, 10 (‫ ) ֶח ֶבל־נב(י)אים‬and 1 Sam 19: 20 (‫) ַל ֲה ַקת הנביאים‬. 96  Müller (1984b: 151) and Gonçalves (2001: 149–150). Cf. also Hos 9: 7 where the ‫נביא‬ is described as ‫‘( ְמ ֻׁשּגָ ע‬crazy’). See also Nelson (2004) and Nissinen (2010a and 2010d). 97  Petersen (1981: 43–50). Texts like these have often served as a basis for the interpretation that Israelite prophecy is based on ecstatic experiences, Hölscher (1914) and Wilson (1980). This view has recently experienced a renaissance Uffenheimer (1988 and 2001). 98  For further criticism of the idea of prophetic groups as tradents of the prophetic word in the Hebrew Bible, see Nissinen (2008a). 90 91

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Further, the relative lack of comparative material from Mari and the Neo-Assyrian empire on the one hand and—more importantly—the legendary nature of the Elijah and Elisha cycles on the other, make the appearance of groups of prophets somewhat suspect. The argument that there would be little reason for a later narrator to invent such groups of prophets if they had not existed before is not entirely convincing, as it is precisely in later times that we find the temple musicians of the Second Temple described as ‘prophesying’ in groups.99 It is necessary in this context also to review the expression ‘‫ נביא‬of GN/DN/PN’. This expression is used a total of 13 times, nine of which can be found in 1–2 Kings; it also occurs three times in Ezekiel and once in Jeremiah.100 Most of the attestations in 1–2 Kings refer to the prophets of a deity; only in 2 Ki 3: 13 do we see Elisha mocking Jehoram, suggesting that he should go and ask the prophets of his parents—presumably a reference to Ahaziah’s seeking help from Baʿal of Ekron (2 Kings 1), just as Jehoram now seeks help from Elisha. Attestations of this expression are restricted to 1 Kings 18, 2 Kings 3 and 10, three pericopes in the Elijah-Elisha cycle. Excluding the two attestations of ‘prophets of Yhwh’, all cases depict prophets of other gods. The remaining four times can be found in Jeremiah (‘prophets of Jerusalem’) and in Ezekiel (‘prophets of Israel’).101 It is striking that of these four, only the last reference (Eze 38: 19) has positive connotations. The plural of ‫ נביא‬seems to have carried negative connotations for the biblical writers. In itself this is not too surprising, as plurals have a generalizing quality which makes a group into an ‘other’, which allows for the vilification of that group.102 At the end of the discussion of prophetic groups, we find that there are at least three kinds of ‫נביאים‬: the ecstatic groups, the technical diviners and the writing prophets. As suggested already by Jepsen, the usage of ‫ נביא‬for the writing prophets does not appear to reflect a situation before Jeremiah and the Deuteronomistic school. If the biblical portrayal of the ecstatic behaviour of the groups of ‫ נביאים‬and that of other ‫נביאים‬ as technical diviners is historically accurate, we have to explain why two  E.g. 1 Chronicles 25.  The attestations can be found in 1 Ki 18: 4, 13 (Yhwh), 1 Ki 18: 19, 22, 40 (Baʿal), 2 Ki 10: 19 (Ašerah), 2 Ki 3: 13 (once each with father and mother), Jer 23: 15 (Jerusalem) and Eze 13: 2, 16; 38: 17) (Israel). 101  ‘Prophets of Jerusalem’ in Jer 23: 15; and ‘prophets of Israel’ in Eze 13: 2, 6 and 38: 17. 102  It goes without saying that this process does not rely on any reality of the people who are subsumed in this ‘other’ to be part of that group, to be a group, or, indeed, even to exist in the first place. 99

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quite different religious specialists would be referred to by the same title. A few alternatives present themselves. First, there is the theoretical possibility that the word ‫ נביא‬is young. However, the nbʾ in Lak (6): 1.3: 4 makes it abundantly clear even to the most ardent sceptic that the word is at least of late pre-exilic origin. Secondly, the texts could be referring to the same kind of specialist, only narrating the behaviour which is important for the individual context. This seems unlikely, simply because the combination of haruspicy and ecstatic religion does not sit easily in the same individual; Mesopotamian haruspices were scholars and not renowned for their ecstatic behaviour. Alternatively, a different geographical origin of the two meanings could be considered in the usage of the word ‫נביא‬. This suggestion is difficult because both meanings seem to be connected with traditions which often have links to the northern kingdom.103 A fourth possibility would be that while an individual ‫ נביא‬might be either an ecstatic or a technical diviner, they were understood as belonging to the same general class of people. In that case, ‫ נביא‬would be a term for ‘diviner’ in biblical Hebrew including both ecstatic and nonecstatic forms of divination. This option might seem somewhat unsatisfactory, as it does not allow a more precise description of the role of a ‫נביא‬. However, Israel’s and Judah’s societies were probably considerably less stratified and diversified than most Mesopotamian societies, so that some roles would not have been performed by different specialists. While it might not be entirely satisfactory to leave the understanding of ‫נביא‬ so open, it appears that this last suggestion of how to understand ‫נביא‬ corresponds best to the text of the Hebrew Bible. At some point, presumably in the aftermath of the destruction of Jerusalem, when the term ‫נביא‬ started to be used for Jeremiah, either during his lifetime or afterwards, something like the following process must have happened: the roles of a court-diviner and that of the ecstatic combined to form a new role, that of a messenger-type prophet, such as we find them in most of the writing prophets.104 At the same time, a different development saw the musical side of the ecstatic groups of ‫ נביאים‬transferred to the temple musicians, which is how we meet them in 1–2 Chronicles. The Deuteronomistic prophetic sermon becomes the logical extension of the first change, moving

103  For a discussion of the Samuel narratives and the Elijah-Elisha Cycle as northern literature see for example Lehnart (2003). 104  Schmökel (1951: 54) compares the muḫḫûm to the ‫נביא‬, loosely referring to Zimmern in Schrader (1902–03). See also Lindblom (1958: 93).

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Israelite prophecy closer to the realm of Scriptural study, knowledge and interpretation.105 13.1.3.2 Prophets in the Pentateuch The historical value of the narratives in the Pentateuch which describe some of the actions of Moses, Aaron, Abraham and Miriam as prophetic is most likely negligible.106 Moses and Abraham are given the title ‫ נביא‬in its sense of ‘important and powerful person’ rather than that of ‘prophet’ in the more restricted sense. In the case of Moses this is not surprising. Within the story he receives a divine message and thus becomes the prophet par excellence. However, the description of Moses receiving the tablets of the law is more reminiscent of that of an ancient Near Eastern king, for example Ḫammurapi of Babylon receiving divine law (Codex Hammurabi), rather than of a prophet. Abraham is given the title ‫ נביא‬in Abimelech’s dream in Gen 20: 7. This text, which has traditionally been attributed to the ‘elusive’ Elohist, shows aspects that would in any case point towards a late dating of the passage.107 Even if the existence of the Elohist source is unlikely, the accompanying conclusion that the passage is of Persian or even Hellenistic origin stands. This is particularly true for the ‫כי‬-clause in verse 7. The logic by which Abraham is an intercessor because he is a prophet is based on the descriptions of Moses, Samuel and especially Jeremiah as intercessors. Thus, we can regard Abraham as another example of the usage of the term ‫ נביא‬in the sense of an important person with a close link to the deity.108 The narrative in Exodus 7 evokes a slightly different picture: vv 1–2 contain what is usually called the P version of the JE account of the installation of Aaron in Exod 4: 1–2.109 Whereas JE knows Aaron as a ‫‘ ֶפה‬mouth’, P refers to him as a ‫ נביא‬of Moses. However, the purpose in this text is not to describe Aaron as a ‘great man’ but rather to describe his relationship

105  It is, of course in this form that prophecy appears in Qumran, see Jassen (2007, 2008a and 2008b) and Nissinen (2010c). 106  Dtn 34: 10; Exod 7: 1; Gen 20: 7 and Exod 15: 20 respectively. I discuss the texts referring to Miriam below in section 13.1.3.4. 107  E.g. von Rad (1958a: 192–196) and Westermann (1981: 390–391). 108  Westermann (1981: 396). 109  E.g. Childs (1974: 111), Schmidt (1995: 317–318) and Propp (1999: 282). The Targumim Neophyti I and Onqelos render ‫ נביא‬with ‫‘ (מ)תורגמן‬interpreter’, Díez Macho (1970: 22–23, 36–37), Drazin (1990: 68–69, 86–88) and McNamara/Maher (1994: 23, 31). In Exod 4: 16 Ps.-Jon. translates ‫ ֶפה‬with ‫(מ)תורגמן‬, in Exod 7: 1 it keeps MT’s ‫נביא‬, cf. Clarke (1984: 70, 72) and McNamara/Maher (1994: 171, 177).



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to Moses. In other words, Moses’ status is aggrandised to the extent that with respect to Aaron, he is like a god. While this might make it difficult to maintain that that this text belongs to P, as it radically elevates the prophet Moses over the priest Aaron, it is also true that Moses, the prophet, is removed from direct impact; he might have the truth—but he needs Aaron, the priest, to communicate it. There is one more text in the Pentateuch which is relevant to our discussion, Num 12: 6. As the text is somewhat complicated I will cite it in full: ‫יא ֶכם יהוה ַּב ַּמ ְר ָאה ֵא ָליו ֶא ְתוַ ָּדע ַּב ֲחלֹום‬ ֲ ‫אמר ִׁש ְמעּו־נָ א ְד ָב ַרי ִאם־יִ ְהיֶ ה נְ ִב‬ ֶ ֹ ‫וַ יּ‬ ‫ֲא ַד ֶּבר־ּבֹו׃‬ And he [Yhwh] said: ‘Hear my word! If you have a prophet, {Yhwh}, in vision(s) will I make myself known to him, in dream(s) I will speak to him.’

Grammatically, this verse is not straightforward.110 The verbal forms (1st c.s. prefix conjugation) in the second half do not correspond to the Tetragrammaton as the subject in the topicalised first position without an additional personal pronoun (1st c.s.). There are three possible changes to the verse that could remedy this problem. Either ‫ ֲאנִ י‬could be inserted directly before or after the Tetragrammaton, or the verbal forms could be shifted to the third person. Alternatively, the Tetragrammaton could ֶ ֹ ‫וַ ּי‬, thus making be moved from its current position to directly after ‫אמר‬ it the subject of the introductory sentence as well. As it stands, the text remains awkward. The final text to be discussed here is Dtn 18: 18–22, the pericope in which Yhwh announces that he will raise up a ‘prophet like Moses’. The expression ‘prophet like Moses’ logically requires that Moses is already known as a prophet. As the title ‫ נביא‬is used for Moses in the later sense of a leader with a close connection to the deity, rather in the meaning prophet, it seems unlikely that this text can be dated to much before the last years of the Judean monarchy and it may well be considerably younger.111 110  Against the slight emendation of ‫יא ֶכם‬ ֲ ‫ נְ ִב‬to ‫נָ ִביא ָב ֶכם‬, as suggested by Gray (1903: 125–126), relying on the ‫ ב‬dropping out through haplography with the very similar ‫כ‬, Seebass (2002: 59) rightly points out that there is no support for this in any of the versions ֲ ‫ נְ ִב‬is unusual, but it also does not present the interpreter including the LXX. The form ‫יא ֶכם‬ with an unsolvable conundrum. It is therefore better to leave the word as it stands. 111  Nicholson (2010) argues that Dtn 18: 18–22 relies on Jeremiah 1. Nicholson dates Jeremiah 1, which looks back to substantial parts of the book, to the exilic or very early

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In the few attestations of ‫ נביא‬in the Pentateuch it is no longer used as a prophetic title. It is used to denote an important person with a special relationship with Yhwh, but not necessarily a divine messenger. This tradition continues into Rabbinic Judaism, Christianity and Islam, all of which know biblical characters as ‘prophets’ whom the biblical text itself does not call ‫נביא‬.112 The texts do not, however, allow the historically interested interpreter a glimpse of how prophecy was understood in preexilic Israel and Judah. 13.1.3.3 The Writing Prophets In the debate on biblical prophecy, the question of whether or not the so-called writing prophets understood themselves as ‫ נביאים‬has been discussed extensively. Scholars such as Carroll, Auld and Gonçalves regard the title as a later attribution; indeed, they go as far as claiming that every time ‫ נביא‬occurs, where it is not a post-exilic editorial addition, it has negative connotations.113 Others take the introductions of the prophetic books at face value, which attribute the title ‫ נביא‬to some of the writing prophets. A third group agrees that the titles in the introductory formulae are later editorial additions, but they take seriously the fact that at some point, the title started to be used not only for those writing prophets who were already dead, but also for those who were alive, possibly just before or during the exilic period.114 As has been noted before, it is conspicuous post-exilic period. Somewhat surprisingly, Otto (2006: 257) seems himself surprised by the ‘Wahrsagebeweis als Kriterium’ for real prophecy. With Jeremiah 26 in the background, the criterion of whose predictions came true seems to be very logical. The lists of practitioners of divination and/or magic in both texts do not allow us to glimpse much further information as the meaning of the terms has been lost in time, contra Jeffers (1996) who (re)constructs meanings for these terms. Unless we find substantial amounts of texts in which they occur in meaningful contexts, the situation is unlikely to change. All that we can assume is that they were terms to describe various diviners, mantics, magicians and other liminal figures who had access to knowledge and information beyond the reach of other humans. Römer (2008) recently pointed out that while all non-prophetic ‘divination’ is bedevilled in these verses, it was alive and well during the Second Temple period, see e.g. Daniel (I would like to thank Prof. Römer who made a manuscript of his lecture available to me). Cryer (1994: 256–257) underlines that some of the terms, specifically ‫ק ֵֺסם‬, are not used outside the Hebrew Bible and thus represent a genuinely Hebrew form of divination. 112  For Rabbinic Judaism see e.g. Seder Olam Rabba 20–21; and for Islam see e.g. the Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ (‘stories about prophets’), cf. Busse (2006). Busse (2009) expands the themes of this literature into the 21st century. 113  Cf. e.g. Auld (1984), Carroll (1988), Gonçalves (2001) and de Jong (2011). 114  Cf. e.g. Jeremias (1976: 14): ‘Ob die sog. „Schriftpropheten“ vor Jeremia (und der dtn Reform) sich als nābīʾ verstanden und ob der Titel für sie jeweils Gleiches besagte [. . .] ist



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that none of the writing prophets ever directly claims the title for himself.115 Of those who are called ‫ נביא‬in their book, Haggai, Habakkuk and Zechariah receive it in the introductions to their books. These sections are edited to hold the Dodekapropheton together.116 The only other writing prophets who are called ‫ נביא‬directly are Isaiah and Jeremiah. Isaiah is mentioned with this epithet in all three versions of Sennacherib’s campaign against Judah in the Hebrew Bible.117 However, most interpreters agree that none of the three texts stems from the eighth century, and thus cannot provide us with any information on the usage of ‫ נביא‬in that century.118 In contrast to this, the list in Isa 3: 1–7 is thought to be preexilic by many commentators.119 In this list the ‫ נביא‬is numbered among the state officials: judge, diviner and elder.120 If this list is indeed pre-exilic or even Isaianic, we can confirm that ‫—נביא‬prophets were diviners— either intuitive or technical diviners—and court officials, which situates them at the centre of power, rather than at the margins. In the eighth century, Isaiah was not yet a ‫נביא‬. Later authors and interpreters, however, had no doubts that the literary character Isaiah could justifiably be referred to as a ‫נביא‬. Contrary to the initial perception that Ezekiel does not claim the title ‫נביא‬, Müller has attempted to show that he does.121 Twice in the book of Ezekiel, in Eze 2: 5 and 33: 33, we find the phrase: ‫תֹוכם‬ ָ ‫וְ יָ ְדעּו ִּכי נָ ִביא ָהיָ ה ְב‬ And they shall know that a ‫ נביא‬was in their midst.

nicht sicher.’ Gonçalves (2001: 171–177) locates this point after the death of the writing prophets. See also de Jong (2011). 115  ‘Aucun des quinze ‘prophètes écrivains’ ne se déclare lui-même prophète’, Gonçalves (2001: 171). 116  E.g. Sweeney (2000). 117  Isaiah 36–39 || 2 Ki 18: 17–20: 19 and 2 Chr 32: 1–23. There is also one occurrence in 2 Chr 26: 22. 118  These chapters have generally been assigned to the sixth century BCE, cf. Blenkinsopp (2000: 458–461), Barton (1995: 17–18) and Clements (1980: 277–280). Even Kaiser (1974: 367–368) does not date them later. For a synchronic reading cf. Childs (2001). 119  E.g. Williamson (2006: 238–243) who cites Kaiser (1981) and Becker (1997: 163–164) as arguing for a late dating of the passage. 120  Cf. van der Ploeg (1961) for the chiastic structure of Isa 3: 2. Similar lists of leaders and religious specialists can be found in Dtn 18: 1–8, Jer 29: 8 and Mic 3: 6–7. 121  Müller (1984b: 160–161).

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Although Ezekiel is consistently called ‫‘( בן־אדם‬mortal’) and never directly ‫הנביא‬, the only obvious candidate for the ‫ נביא‬here is Ezekiel himself.122 Surely, this expression is an allusion to Dtn 18: 18 and 34: 4, so that this verse has to be regarded as a late addition to Ezekiel.123 In his commentary, Zimmerli regards Eze 2: 5 as part of the original form of the text.124 If that is true, the call narrative and Ezekiel 33 are late Deuteronomistic additions to the book. This, in turn, would indicate that the narrative uses the term ‫ נביא‬in a sense which already implies functions of a leader, a sense which transcends that of the pre-exilic usage of ‫נביא‬. Therefore, Müller’s view cannot be upheld. Both verses appear in contexts which indicate their origin after the lifetime of the historical Ezekiel. It is important to stress, however, that while it is the case that the term ‫ נביא‬probably was not used for Ezekiel by his contemporaries, they understood him as a layprophet, whatever word they would have used for him. The book of Jeremiah poses its own specific problems. To begin with, there are two different recensions, JerLXX being considerably shorter than JerMT.125 Most modern scholars agree that the Hebrew Vorlage of JerLXX represents an edition which predates JerMT.126 No matter which version of Jeremiah is earlier, both recensions were used in Hebrew at the same time within Judah at least until the late second century BCE, possibly into the first century.127

122  Auld (1983a: 5) is sceptical as Ezekiel is not referred to expressis verbis. The commentaries take it for granted that Ezekiel is referred to as a ‫ נביא‬here, not wasting as much as a single word on the question, cf. e.g. Eichrodt (1970), Zimmerli (1979) and Joyce (2007). The LXX of Eze 2: 5, makes it clearer for the reader than MT by expressing the last phrase in the second pers. sing: γνώσονται ὅτι προφήτης εἶ σὺ ἐν μέσῳ αὐτῶν (‘They will know that you are a prophet in their midst’), while the LXX of Eze 33: 33 stays in the impersonal third singular. 123  Cf. e.g. Levitt Kohn (2002: 246). The links between Ezekiel and Moses are well known, cf. e.g. McKeating (1994). 124  Zimmerli (1969: 31, 71). 125  As mentioned above, I use JerLXX and JerMT as abbreviations for the Septuagint of Jeremiah and the Masoretic Text of Jeremiah. 126  The possible exception to the communio opinio is expressed by Georg Fischer in his commentary Fischer (2005 and 2006) and his introduction to Jeremiah, Fischer (2007). Fischer’s analysis represents a minority view, and in spite of a whole-hearted endorsement by Otto (2006) it cannot really explain the current textual situation. 127  The Dead Sea scrolls include at least six Jeremiah scrolls; four of these, 2QJer, 4QJera, 4QJerc and 4QJere are closer to MT, and the other two, 4QJerb and 4QJerd are closer to the JerLXX, cf. Eshel (2000). On the textual transmission of Jeremiah cf. now Weis (2006).



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In JerMT Jeremiah is referred to as a ‫ נביא‬31 times.128 In seven cases, JerLXX translates this using different expressions which do not easily allow for the word προφήτης: three times JerLXX does not have the entire expression;129 a further three times, JerLXX uses the pronoun αὐτὸν (‘him’);130 and once, JerLXX implies the subject.131 In only four cases does JerLXX use the Greek equivalent Ιερεμίας ὁ προφήτης.132 That leaves 21 cases in which JerLXX does not use any equivalent for ‫ נביא‬in JerMT.133 JerMT also attributes the title ‫נביא‬ to Hananiah six times.134 Once, JerLXX translates ‫ נביא‬as ψευδοπροφήτης;135 in the other five cases JerLXX leaves it out.136 Not counted here among the texts which refer to Jeremiah as a ‫נביא‬ is Jer 1: 5, a text in which JerLXX and JerMT agree on the usage of the word ‫נביא‬/προφήτης. As with Ezekiel’s call narrative, Jeremiah’s call narrative also contains allusions to Deuteronomy 18, and these have often been interpreted as a sure sign for the call narrative’s Deuteronomistic origin.137 While the affinities between these two call narratives and the call narrative of Moses—and with Deuteronomistic thought in general—are beyond dispute, the direction of influence is not entirely certain. This is not the place to determine the precise direction of influence, which would go beyond the confines of this study.138 As it introduces the entire book, however, it is most likely that it was written with much of the book already present, which suggests a date well into the post-exilic period. 128  Jer 20: 2; 25: 2; 29: 29; 34: 6; 36: 8, 26; 37: 2, 3, 6, 13; 38: 10, 14; 42: 2, 4; 43: 6; 45: 1; 46: 1, 13; 47: 1; 49: 34; 50: 1; 51: 59. 129  Jer 46: 1; 47: 1; 50: 1 (LXX: 26: 1; 29: 1; 27: 1). 130  Jer 20: 2; 38: 10, 14 (LXX: 20: 2; 45: 10, 14). 131  Jer 25: 2. 132  Jer 42: 2; 43: 6; 45: 1; 51: 59 (LXX: 49: 2; 50: 6; 51: 31; 28: 59). 133  Jer 29: 29; 34: 6; 36: 8, 26; 37: 2, 3, 6, 13; 42: 4; 46: 13; 49: 34. If we subtract the seven cases in which LXX uses different expressions, this leaves us with eleven out of 15 cases in which LXX drops προφήτης, which is 85% of cases; see already Jepsen (1934: 139) with similar figures. 134  Jer 28: 1, 5, 10, 12, 15, 17. 135  Jer 28: 1 (LXX: 35: 1). 136  The tendency to express that Hananiah is not to be regarded as a real prophet is even stronger in the Targum to Jeremiah, which follows the Peshitta in translating ‫נביא שקרא‬ (‘false prophet’) which takes its cue from ψευδοπροφήτης (‘false prophet’) in the LXX. Altogether, JerMT uses the word ‫ נביא‬95 times, and all of the 58 times that it is not used as a title are faithfully translated as προφήτης by JerLXX. Once, in Jer 23: 32, LXX adds προφήτης when referring to the ‫‘( ַעל־נִ ְּב ֵאי ֲחֹלמֹות ֶׁש ֶקר‬against those who ‘prophecy’ false dreams’). It also translates the verbal form of √‫ נבא‬as προφητεύοντας. Similar analyses can be found in Jepsen (1934) and Gonçalves (2001). 137  Cf. e.g. Thiel (1973) and Carroll (1989: 65–82). 138  As mentioned above, there has recently been some movement in the discussion, cf. e.g. Fischer (2005 and 2006) and Otto (2006) for a very late date of the entire book.

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As with Ezekiel, then, the usage of the term ‫ נביא‬in the call narrative of Jeremiah reflects post-exilic usage. The last passage which will be discussed here is a text which is often mentioned in the study of ancient Israelite/Judean prophecy: Am 7: 10–17. In this text, we find the term ‫ נביא‬parallel to ‫חֹזֶ ה‬: Amaziah calls Amos a ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and Amos answers that he is no ‫נביא‬. Often, the desire to have any data at all on eighth century Hebrew prophecy leads interpreters to take the text and the two terms in the passage at face value.139 Much of the debate focuses on the question of whether Amos claims that he is not a ‫נביא‬, or whether he claims that he used not to have been a ‫ נביא‬in the past (but now is). Hebrew grammar leaves open the question of whether the nominal clause is to be understood as a past or a present tense, but a consensus is developing to translate present tense.140 If this translation is correct, Amos denies both titles in this pericope. He is neither a ‫ נביא‬nor a ‫חֹזֶ ה‬. In Wolff’s view, this means that Amos stated that he was not under Amaziah’s jurisdiction.141 Zobel assumes that both Amaziah and Amos were using the term in the other’s dialect, as a form of—in my view unexpected and unlikely—courtesy toward each other.142 Or were Amos and Amaziah—or those who transmitted this story—slightly confused as to what the actual terms meant? The passage itself does not answer any of the above questions. It is in any case questionable whether the episode is historical. For the present purposes, dating this passage is important in order to be able to assess whether the episode in general or the terminology in particular, reflects historical reality.143 In his recent monograph, Tchavdar Hadjiev reviews the discussion on the provenance of Am 7: 10–17.144 He shows that it can hardly be original in its current context; instead he local-

139  E.g. Couey (2008). Many books on prophecy interpret the narrative in Amos 7 as accurately reflecting prophetic terminology as used in the eighth century BCE: after discussing parts of the redactional history of Amos (p. 266–268), Wilson (1980: 269–270) uses these verses to locate Amos in the Judean establishment; cf. also Lindblom (1962: 182–185) and also throughout Blenkinsopp (1996). As pointed out by Hadjiev (2009: 80–81) the trend in redaction critical studies seems to be going the other way at the moment. 140  GK §141f. For the consensus view see e.g. Wolff (1969), Paul (1991) and Müller (1984b). But Cf. Mays (1969: 137–138) and recently Jeremias (1995: 105). 141  Wolff (1969: 357–358). 142  Zobel (1985). Alternatively, one could see an attempt at some form of dialectal humour here, with Amaziah using the (more) southern and Amos the (more) northern term. 143  For a sceptical position cf. e.g. Kratz (2003: 58). 144  Hadjiev (2009: 78–95).



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izes its textual origin at the end of the fifth vision. A later redactor must have moved it to its current position introducing Am 7: 9 to integrate it. However, because of differences between this narrative and the Deuteronomistic History, such as the fact that the prophet Amos does not interact with the king but with Amaziah, Hadjiev regards Am 7: 10–17 as pre-Deuteronomistic.145 Further help for the current question can be found in the usage of the two prophetic terms, ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫נביא‬. In my view, they can be explained in only two ways. Either the usage of the two terms originates in accurate historical memory of the eighth century, or it reflects the Chronicler’s usage, who seems to use the two terms synonymously. In the former case, the passage would have to be dated to a time just after the death of the prophet, as Wolff suggests, which would have the advantage of allowing for some time for the independent existence of the passage. If Hadjiev’s redactional analysis is correct, this pericope was originally composed to follow after the fifth vision, which would require the text of the five visions to have existed either already during Amos’ lifetime, or just afterwards. Hadjiev discusses critically and evaluates negatively Becker’s arguments for links between the visions and late Pentateuchal texts.146 He agrees with Becker in finding links to a form of creation theology in the visions, but points out that this creation theology need not be based on the text as we find it in Genesis today.147 Hadjiev’s arguments are less convincing when he traces individual words and expressions. His argument that the compound expression ‫‘( ללכת בׁשבי‬to go into exile’) is not late because the word ‫ ׁשבי‬itself is used in Judg 5: 12 and is therefore an old word, is not convincing. Although Deborah’s song in Judges 5 is usually considered one of the oldest texts in the Hebrew Bible, recently there have been some critical voices.148 Pfeiffer argues for a dating of Judges 5 to the established kingdom of Israel of the ninth or eighth century BCE.149 The age of ‫ׁשבי‬ 145  Wolff’s (1969: 352–365) dating of this passage to a disciple of the prophet who had probably witnessed the incident and wrote his version shortly after the prophets death, is as convincing as the possibility that it was composed in the late monarchy. Auld (1986: 28–29) considers dating it to the Chronicler(s)’s days. 146  Becker (2001). 147  Hadjiev (2009: 104–105). I would like to thank Tchavdar Hadjiev for making a copy of his manuscript available to me before publication. 148  E.g Waltisberg (1999) and Levin (2003) who argue for a post-exilic dating. 149  Pfeiffer (2005: 62–68), ‘Damit kommt ab terminus a quo am ehesten die Zeit Omris in Betracht. Insgesamt kann das 9. oder 8. Jh. v.Chr. als wahrscheinliche Entstehungszeit des Liedes gelten’, p. 65. In view of the fact that Judges 5 shows several other possible Aramaisms, such as ‫ זֶ ה‬as a relative particle and ‫ ׁש‬instead of ‫ ֲא ֶׁשר‬, it is possible that the

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itself is not a decisive factor for the age of the expression in any case. It is not impossible that the term ‫ ׁשבי‬is old but the fact that the expression ‫ ללכת בׁשבי‬is used almost exclusively within exilic contexts weighs in favour for the dating of Am 7: 10–17 accordingly, especially as elsewhere, Amos uses the verb ‫ לגלות‬to express going into exile.150 If, therefore, the fifth vision is considerably younger, and if we agree with Hadjiev’s interpretation that Am 7: 10–17 was composed to stand at the end of the fivefold cycle of visions, it itself must be a late text as well. Independently of whether Hadjiev’s redactional analysis is correct, the language of Am 7: 10–17 betrays its later origin. The fact that none of the attempts at explaining the parallel usage of ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫ נביא‬has been satisfactory so far, cannot in itself be regarded as a strong reason for dating this text late. But if the text is late, the interchangeable usage of ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫ נביא‬can be seen in the context of the Chronicler’s use of the two words. Thus, it seems unlikely that the use of ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫ נביא‬reflects pre-exilic historical reality. Summary In this section we have seen that all texts in which ‫נביא‬/‫ נביאה‬is used to refer to Miriam, Moses, Aaron and Abraham are the result of later editorial work, which used the title ‫ נביא‬in the sense that it had developed after the Exile, retrojecting the term onto the patriarchs and matriarchs.151 These texts are therefore instructive for understanding the word ‫ נביא‬in the post-exilic period, but they cannot help us to understand pre-exilic concepts of prophecy.152 It appears relatively certain that almost none of the pre-exilic writing prophets regarded themselves as a ‫נביא‬.153 In eighth

wide attestion of šby in Aramaic could indicate that Biblical Hebrew inherited ‫ ׁשבי‬from Israelite Hebrew, which in turn might have been influenced by Aramaic; for Aramaic attestations of zy (the Aramaic equivalent of ‫)זֶ ה‬, š10 and šby cf. Hoftijzer/Jongeling (1995: 310–318, 1089–1094, 1100–1101). It is, of course, also attested in Ugaritic, cf. del Olmo Lete/ Sanmartín (2003: 807). For a similar dating see also Knauf (1990 and 2005). 150  For the expression ‫ ללכת בׁשבי‬in (post-)exilic contexts see e.g. Jer 20: 6; 22: 22; 30: 16; Eze 12: 11; 30: 17 and Lam 1: 18. For the verb ‫ גלה( לגלות‬qal) (‘to go to exile’) see Am 1: 5–6; 5: 5, 27; 6: 7; 7: 7, 11. 151  For a short discussion on Miriam as a prophet see section 13.1.3.4 below. 152  Waschke (2004) is correct in pointing that the older theories, cf. e.g. Fohrer (1969: 228), are untenable which regarded genuinely nomadic Israelite traditions as connected to the ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬and the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and the Canaanite ecstatic tradition as linked to the ‫נביא‬. 153  Among others Carroll (1983), Gonçalves (2001) and de Jong (2011). Against the thesis that the prophets were poets—but misunderstanding Carroll somewhat—see Geller (1983).



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century Israel, neither Hosea nor Amos saw themselves as ‫;נביאים‬154 nor did the first two Judean prophets who appear in the literary record, Micah and Isaiah. Micah is never called a ‫ נביא‬and there is therefore no reason to understand him as such. As argued above, Isaiah seems to have borne the title ‫ נביא‬only in later legends. While the colophon of ‘his’ book suggests the title ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬for him, the book never actually calls him by this title. It is, in any case, an introduction not to First Isaiah but Isaiah as a whole, and thus to be dated in the post-exilic period.155 If this records historical memory rather than later understanding of these terms in view of Isaiah 6, we could see some evidence here that southern (court) prophets were called ‫חֹזֶ ה‬.156 We will turn to the term ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬in the next section. It remains clear that Isaiah did not claim the title ‫ נביא‬himself, nor was he called that in the earliest layers of the book bearing his name. During the late monarchy and early exilic period, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Zephaniah and Habakkuk appear. The book of Jeremiah calls him a ‫נביא‬. As pointed out above, JerLXX often lacks προφήτης where JerMT has ‫נביא‬, suggesting that the Hebrew Vorlage of JerLXX is earlier than JerMT which underwent a ‘‫’נביא‬-redaction. However, even JerLXX recognises Jeremiah as a ‫ נביא‬and not just in redactional layers. While Jeremiah was highly critical of official prophets in his day, it is at least possible that he acquired the professional title ‫ נביא‬in his life-time. If that is the case, Jeremiah would be the first of the writing prophets who also became a ‫נביא‬, meaning that in him and through his tradition two forms of prophecy, that of the ‘court’-prophet and that of the free-lance prophet, were combined for the first time.157

154  While they do not agree on every detail, two recent redaction-critical studies on Hosea exclude all eight occurrences of ‫ נביא‬to redactional layers, cf. Vielhauer (2007) and Rudnig-Zelt (2006). 155  E.g. Williamson (2006: 14–20). 156  Zobel (1985) sees this as the result of a process starting in the seventh century in which the northern word ‫ נביא‬was imported into Judah and started to be used almost interchangeably for the hitherto more typical southern term ‫חֹזֶ ה‬. 157  According to the mainstream ‘revisionists’, cf. e.g. Auld (1984) and Waschke (2004: 68–69) the historical Jeremiah did not bear the title himself, but it was only ascribed to him by later Deuteronomistic redactors. This leaves open the question why these redactors would use a title which had so many negative connotations as their most important prophetic title. There must have been some link to a historical person linked to the ‫נביא‬tradition who was—in the thought-world of Deuteronomistic—a true prophet. Jeremiah is an obvious candidate for such a person. Jeremias (2003: 1698) uses the term ‘Berufskollegen’ to express that in his opinion at least in late pre-exilic times the Writing prophets were ‫נביאים‬.

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It is unlikely that Ezekiel bore the title ‫ נביא‬in his lifetime. It remains difficult to determine whether Jeremiah or Ezekiel were ecstatic or non-ecstatic prophets. The concept of the burning of the word of Yhwh in Jeremiah’s heart seems to suggest that Yhwh’s messages were perceived as possessing the power to make the prophets speak them, whether they wanted to or not.158 From the Exilic period onwards, the term ‫ נביא‬is used with increasing frequency, finally replacing all other terms for permissible divination in Israel, apart from ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. The increase in the number of times Jeremiah is thus described shows the beginning of this process which leads to Abraham and Miriam being called prophet in the biblical canon and other figures such as Noah and Hannahin the post-biblical tradition.159 13.1.3.4 Female Prophets The study of female prophets in the Hebrew Bible has recently been advanced by three monographs on the topic by Klara Butting, Irmtraud Fischer and Wilda Gafney.160 One of the issues addressed in all three studies is the question of whether some women who are not referred to as such in the Hebrew Bible can nevertheless be identified as prophets. Some scholars use a wide definition of prophecy, which at times seems to be equivalent to my category of diviner.161 As has been noted time and again, the number of women to whom the biblical text directly refers as prophets is very limited. The only prophetic title used for women is ‫נביאה‬. It is used for five individuals only: Miriam, Deborah, the female prophet in

 Jer 20: 9.  As mentioned above, this process continues into the New Testament and into the Islamic tradition and the Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyāʾ, Busse (2006). For material on non-biblical Jewish texts on the prophet Ezekiel, cf. Wright (1998). 160  Butting (2001), Fischer (2002) and Gafney (2008). The first two concentrate entirely on the Hebrew Bible, while Gafney also includes material from the ancient Near East. A recent and monumental study on the social and religious position of women in ancient Israel and Ugarit, Marsman (2003), includes large sections on female prophets. Her information on Mesopotamian prophecy is, however, dated and problematic. Hamori (forthc.d) will soon present a study of female diviners in general. See also Hamori (forthc.-b). 161  E.g. Bechmann (2003). Sometimes the woman of Endor, 1 Sam 28: 3–25, is understood as a prophet. The story certainly portrays a woman of impressive knowledge, skill and power who manages to call up the spirit of the deceased Samuel. However, as I am concerned with prophets proper, in distinction from their colleagues using other forms of divination, I do not include women like her in my study here. On this text see now Hamori (forthc.-b). 158

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Isaiah 8, Huldah and Noadiah.162 The title ‫ נביאה‬has been questioned by modern scholars for each of these five women for one reason or another.163 I will discuss each of the five women referred to as prophets in the biblical text. Miriam While the story of Miriam is set during the Exodus, it was probably written considerably later. Recently, Ursula Rapp has presented a thorough feminist reading of the texts relating to Miriam, built on the suggestion by Rainer Kessler that the construction of Miriam as a prophet should be situated in the Persian period.164 As outlined above, in my discussion of Moses as a prophet, I agree with that assessment. The only part of Miriam’s behaviour which may be prophetic is the singing of her song, but the concept of music and particularly singing as being a characteristic of prophetic behaviour is itself dependent on the identification of Miriam as a prophet. This has led some scholars to point out that she may have acquired the title ‫ נביאה‬at a later date, when prophecy and song came to be regarded as linked in Chronicles.165 As with her brother Moses, the narrative about Miriam does not give us information about prophets in

162  Miriam is called a (female) prophet in Exod 15: 20; Deborah in Judg 4: 4; the nameless female prophet in Isa 8: 3; Huldah is referred to as a prophet both in 2 Ki 22: 14 and 2 Chr 34: 22; Noadiah is the leader of a party of prophets in Neh 6: 14. 163  It is, therefore, interesting to note that the Rabbinic tradition, which can be somewhat ambiguous in its attitude toward prophecy in general, knows of seven female prophets, not just five: Sarah, Miriam, Deborah, Hannah, Abigail, Huldah and Esther cf. Seder Olam Rabba ch. 21. In this context most scholars with the notable exception of Bronner (1991 and 1994) cite the Babylonian Talmud. However, the passage in bMeg 14a goes back to the second century CE text in Seder Olam Rabba. I would like to thank Joanna Weinberg for pointing me to this text. Sarah is counted as a prophet because of her direct conversation with God; Miriam is said to have predicted Moses birth as a liberator; Deborah for she is called a prophet in the Bible and sang her song; Hannah because she prophesied that her son, Samuel, would be a prophet; Abigail because she prophesied to David that his lust for another woman and not for Abigail herself would cause him to sin (1 Sam 25: 31); Huldah because she is called a prophet in the Bible; and Esther probably because she interceded on behalf of her people. The female prophet in Isa 8: 3 and Noadiah are disregarded in the Rabbinic sources and in their stead three of the four most beautiful women are added: Sarah, Abigail and Esther—only Rahab the fourth, is not called a prophet. I can only speculate as to why this is the case. Possibly, it is because the number eight does not have the same significance as seven; alternatively, it might be because she is a foreign woman, however, from bMeg 14a we know that there were prophets of the Gentiles. For a critical view of the Rabbis’ addition of Sarah, Abigail, Hannah and Esther, cf. Bronner (1991 and 1994: 163–184) and Elior (2003). 164  Rapp (2002) and Kessler (1996), cf. also Fischer (2000). 165  E.g. Brenner (1985: 61) and Marsman (2003: 561). See for example 1 Chronicles 25.

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pre-monarchic Israel. Instead, she was turned into a prophet some time during the Persian period.166 Deborah The same may be true also for Deborah, as she is called a ‫ נביאה‬only in Judges 4, which is generally ascribed to the Deuteronomist.167 Further, the expression with which she is introduced (v.4) is peculiar: ‫יאה ֵא ֶׁשת ַל ִּפידֹות ִהיא ׁש ְֹפ ָטה ֶאת־יִ ְׂש ָר ֵאל ָּב ֵעת ַה ִהיא וְ ִהיא‬ ָ ‫ּודבֹורה ִא ָּׁשה נְ ִב‬ ָ ‫ית־אל ְּב ַהר ֶא ְפ ָריִ ם‬ ֵ ‫ּובין ֵּב‬ ֵ ‫בֹורה בֵּ ין ָה ָר ָמה‬ ָ ‫יֹוׁש ֶבת ַּת ַחת־ּת ֶֹמר ְד‬ ֶ And Deborah, a female prophet, wife of Lappidot, ruled over Israel in those days. And she lived under the Palm of Deborah, between Rama and Bethel on the hill-country of Ephraim.

The expression ‫ אׁשה נביאה‬instead of ‫ הנביאה‬is, to say the least, unexpected. The only direct parallel to this expression can be found in Judg 6: 8, where an unnamed man is referred to as ‫איׁש נביא‬.168 Recently, there has been some discussion of the striking similarities between Deborah and Greek cultic officials and among these in particular the Pythia at Delphi.169 Earlier, Deborah had been connected to the Ugaritic goddess Anat.170 This connection to the Ugaritic deity was shown to be faulty, and the new avenue of comparison to Greek material seems more promising.171 Having said that, there are also important differences, as Berthelot and Kupitz note. The most important is that Deborah is a war leader, while the Pythia takes an altogether more passive role. Female Prophet in Isaiah 8 The female prophet in Isaiah 8 has often been denied her status as a prophet on the grounds that the text does not describe her engaging in 166  According to Tervanotko (forthc.) many of the paratextual traditions were around when Numbers 12 was compiled, a text, which knows of Miriam as a dreamer and therefore as possibly prophetic. 167  Lindars (1995: 173, 181–182). 168  Trebolle Barrera (1989, 1991–92 and 1995), the editor of 4QJudga, notes that that fragment leaves out vv 7–10 from Judges 6, which leads him to the conclusion that 4QJudga preserves a pre-Dtr text. This has been denied by Hess (1997), Rofé (2005) and Fernández Marcos (2003 and 2006). Trebolle Barrera’s views were recently endorsed by Lange (2009: 203–205). 169  Berthelot/Kupitz (2009). See also Huffmon (2007), Nissinen (forthc.) and Hagedorn (forthc.). 170  See primarily Craigie (1969, 1977 and 1978). Most recently this was reaffirmed by Tsang (2006). 171  Day (2000: 136–138).



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any prophetic behaviour. Because of the child she and Isaiah had together she is often assumed to be Isaiah’s wife. The title ‫ נביאה‬was interpreted to refer to this woman as ‘Mrs. Prophet (Isaiah)’ on the basis of her ‘husband’s’ title.172 Such a use of language may have been common in Europe, and thus in the lives of the (male) interpreters, until relatively recently. However, there is no philological basis for such an understanding in Biblical Hebrew, as was already shown almost 50 years ago by Jepsen.173 Further, the text is equally ambiguous with regard to the question whether the female prophet was Isaiah’s wife: she may have been but it is by no means sure. Huldah Huldah is sometimes criticised as not being a ‘real prophet’ either, because she was supportive of king Josiah’s reforms, a mere ‘yea-sayer’ in the services of the court.174 Indeed, some interpreters have wondered why the king did not go to Jeremiah.175 As recently pointed out by Hugh Williamson, the introductory formulae of Deborah and Huldah are very similar (2 Ki 22: 14): ‫יׁש ֶבת‬ ֶ ‫ן־ח ְר ַחס ׁש ֵֹמר ַה ְּבגָ ִדים וְ ִהיא‬ ַ ‫ן־ּת ְקוָ ה ֶּב‬ ִ ‫יאה ֵא ֶׁשת ַׁש ֻּלם ֶּב‬ ָ ‫ֻח ְל ָּדה ַהּנְ ִב‬ ‫ירּוׁש ַל ִם ַּב ִּמ ְׁשנֶ ה‬ ָ ‫ִּב‬ Huldah, the female prophet, the wife of Šallum, son of Tiqwā, son of Harḫas, the keeper of clothes. She lived in Jerusalem in the Mišnē.

The structural similarity can be expressed with the formula: PN1, the female prophet, wife of PN2, abiding at (‫יׁש ֶבת ְּב‬ ֶ ) . . .

This observation means that the first and the last ‘prophet like Moses’ in the Deuteronomistic History are women: Deborah and Huldah.176 A decade ago, Diana Edelman suggested understanding Huldah as a prophet of Ašerah claiming that Ašerah had an intercessory role in ancient

172  Not unlike expressions such as ‘Mrs. Michael Lewis’ for the wife of a Mr. Michael Lewis. 173  Jepsen (1960). See most recently Gafney (2008: 104–105). 174  Huldah has sometimes been characterised like this by (mostly male) commentators, as was already pointed out and criticised by Wacker (1988: 95–96) and following her by Rüterswörden (1995: 234–235). 175  Neither Brenner (1985: 59–60) nor Marsman (2003: 562–564) criticise the question ‘why Huldah and not Jeremiah or Zephaniah’ strongly. 176  Schlüngel-Straumann (2000: 69) and Williamson (2010). Matthews (2004: 64) notes the similarity, but does not draw any conclusions from it.

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Israel.177 There is relatively little evidence for Ašerah’s role in the Israelite pantheon, but it is entirely possible that she had such an intercessory role. I remain unconvinced, however, that the deity’s intercessory role means that it is more likely that Huldah is her prophet, as opposed to a prophet of Yhwh. While I cannot agree that Ašerah’s supposed intercessory role had anything to do with Huldah’s being mentioned in the Hebrew Bible, it is possible that Huldah was one of Ašerah’s prophets based on the fact that both are female; there seems to be a tendency for prophets and deities to be of the same gender in the ancient Near East during the first millennium.178 However, there is no indication in the biblical text itself that makes Huldah a likely candidate, and it seems better therefore to consider her as a prophet of Yhwh. Furthermore, the way in which Huldah is introduced suggests that women prophets were nothing unusual; if they were, we could expect the author to make more of her gender.179 Therefore, we can safely assume that she was not the only official prophet, and that more women probably fulfilled this function. Noadiah In the case of Noadiah both text-critical and ideological reasons akin to those with Huldah have been used to argue why she might not have been a prophet or why she might not even have existed in the first place. In his commentary on Nehemiah, Schunck revives an emendation first suggested by Galling to ‘correct’ the spelling from ‫ לנועדיה‬to ‫‘ למועדה‬the one he had hired/summoned’.180 This emendation has the advantage that it explains why Noadiah is not mentioned in the story up to this point or after it. A change from ‫ מ‬to ‫ נ‬is possible.181 The Septuagint and the Vulgate use masculine forms (προφήτης, propheta) and may have had a text which read ‫ נביא‬instead of ‫נביאה‬, probably influenced by Neh 8: 33, where ‫ נועדיה‬is the name of a man. However, apart from the curious lack of references to Noadiah before or afterwards, there is no need to emend the text.

 Edelman (1994).  Stökl (2009). 179  Weems (2003) turns the traditional argument around and contends that the writers of the text wanted to criticise the leaders of the people: even a woman was able to ‘perceive the signs of the times’, but the leaders did not. Her reading is interesting, but the fact remains that the text itself does not stress Huldah’s gender. Huldah is simply a prophet who happens to be female. 180  Schunck (1998: 173) and Galling (1954: 228). 181  Interestingly, according to BHQ the Peshitta reads lywdʿyh. 177

178



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Recently, scholars have interpreted Noadiah as the leader of the group of prophets who opposed Nehemiah.182 It is strikingly unusual in the Hebrew Bible to have the name of a woman followed by ‘the rest of the’ group, which does suggest that the text as it stands regards her as the leader of this group. But as Nissinen remarks, there is no means of telling whether this text reflects historical reality, or whether Noadiah’s attack against Nehemiah is a theological construction.183 As a reaction to the relative disregard for female prophets in more traditional studies of Hebrew prophecy, feminist scholars have looked for evidence for further female prophets in the Hebrew Bible. In her book Gotteskünderinnen, Fischer carefully analyses the text and suggests the women in Ezekiel 13 and, because of the mirrors they are using, the women at the entrance of the tent in Exodus 38 as possible candidates.184 In contrast to this, Gafney regards a wide variety of women as prophets, including musicians and practitioners of any form of clairvoyance.185 It is certainly true that one aim of reading the Hebrew Bible critically can be to identify women who have hitherto been ignored, particularly in the case of prophets as so few women are called ‫ נביאה‬in the text itself.186 It is also true that the many masculine plural forms may ‘hide’ several female prophets since biblical Hebrew uses masculine plural forms for all groups which include at least one male.187 Based on the still relatively new recognition that magic and religion should not be regarded as two distinct spheres, the women in Ezekiel 13 have been interpreted as prophets whom the biblical writer had vilified.188 182  Brenner (1985: 60–61), Carroll (1992), Marsman (2003: 564), Gafney (2008: 5, 114) and more cautiously Nissinen (2006: 31–34). 183  Nissinen (2006: 33–34). 184  Fischer (2002). Butting (2001) concentrates on the five women who are explicitly referred to as prophets by the biblical text. On the Emar munabbiātu and Ezekiel 13 see Stökl (forthc.-c). See Hamori (forthc.-a) for the observation that in the texts which possess female diviners are depicted as not having children, unusual for women in ancient Near Eastern texts. 185  Gafney (2008). 186  But cf. Stökl (2009), where I speculatively reckon with a number of female prophets of Ašerah and a very small number of female prophets of Yhwh in the historical reality behind the text. Ackerman (2002) puts forward the theory that in Ancient Israel women attained high offices only in times of destabilization. Nissinen (2006: 33 n.33) rightly points towards Huldah as a prophet in relatively stable times. More importantly, he states that the prophetic office was not of a high standing, which means Ackerman’s theory does not apply to prophets. It is through reception history that we assume that contemporaries of prophets would regard them as figures of high standing. 187  Fischer (2002: 18–19). 188  Cf. Fischer (2002), Bowen (1999) and the literature cited in the latter.

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The verbal use of the root ‫ נבא‬in Eze 13: 17, rather than the noun ‫נביא‬, can be explained as a stylistic variation to Eze 13: 2, where the male prophets are referred to. However, the activities described in Ezekiel 13 and Exodus 38 do not appear to be ‘prophetic’ in the sense that the women are not involved in transmitting a direct divine message to its human recipient. In spite of Bowen’s arguments against the separate classifications of prophecy (intuitive divination) and technical divination, I maintain that both are subgroups of divination, and thus can be differentiated.189 Most of the scholars cited by Bowen in support of her thesis react against the overly rigid distinctions between prophecy and divination. It is certainly true that prophecy is a form of divination, as is e.g. hepatoscopy, but this does not mean that there are no distinctions between different kinds of divination and it certainly does not mean that every kind of divination is automatically prophecy.190 In view of this, I hesitate to classify the women who are described in these chapters as prophets. This brings us to the methodological difficulty which I discuss in the introduction: the religious study category ‘prophet’, the Hebrew term ‫נביא‬ and the modern category ‘prophet’ overlap but are not identical.191 13.2 The ‫חֹזֶ ה‬ The noun ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is a masculine singular participle in the qal of the root ‫‘( חזה‬to see, perceive’). It is therefore commonly, and correctly, trans-

lated as ‘seer’ or ‘visionary’. Etymologically, the word has been linked to Aramaic attestations of the root in general and of the term ḥāzē in particular.192 Cognates in other Semitic languages and even the Egyptian ḥs3

 Nissinen (2004 and 2010c) and section 1.2 in the Introduction.  As hinted at above, some aspects of this question are related to value judgments by modern scholars who regard prophecy as of higher value than other forms of divination. This, however, can hardly be substantiated from ancient Near Eastern sources, where some forms of technical divination, such as hepatoscopy, enjoyed much higher status than prophecy. 191  The same applies to the āpilum and the raggintu from Mari and the Neo-Assyrian Empire respectively. Cf. also Nissinen (2004 and 2010c). 192  For this and the following cf. Jepsen (1980: 280–282) and Jeffers (1996: 35). The term is attested in a divinatory context at Deir Alla (ḥzh, line 1) and in the Zakkur inscription (ḥzyn, line 12). It is also attested on the proto-Sinaitic seal from Deir Rifa, see Hamilton (2009). 189 190



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(‘to look wildly’) have been adduced as well.193 How the root and word acquired the specific divinatory meaning can no longer be discerned. The later cognates in Arabic, Tigré and Amharic support only the meaning of ‫ חזה( לחזות‬qal) as ‘having a vision’.194 Whether ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is to be understood as an Aramaic loanword is less certain,195 as the evidence to that end is not conclusive. Whether or not the root was originally borrowed from Aramaic, the nominal forms of the root, such as ‫חֹזֶ ה‬, ‫ ָחזֹון‬and ‫ ַמ ֲחזֵ ה‬, refer to the (possibly but not necessarily visual) perception of the divine. It is not surprising that the form ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬itself is an active qal participle, as it describes someone who habitually performs a certain activity. Significantly, the feminine form of ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is neither attested in the biblical material nor in the Aramaic inscriptional material. This may be coincidental, but it could be an indication that the role of the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬was regarded as one limited to men. The number of attestations of the masculine form itself, however, is too small conclusively to support such a view. The noun ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬appears mainly in the historical books and within these mostly in Chronicles. Out of the 19 times it occurs, it is attested once each in 2 Samuel and 2 Kings; in Chronicles we find ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬attested ten times. Additionally, it appears twice in Nehemiah, twice in Isaiah and once each in Amos and Micah.196 The two attestations in Nehemiah can be discarded safely as they are part of a name, and thus do not give us any further information on Hebrew prophecy.197 It is important to stress that most attestations of this term are in late texts. There are two attestations of

193  Jepsen (1980: 280). For Old South Arabic, see Beeston, et al. (1982: 75) and Biella (1982: 171–172). The two attestations in the (Phoenician) Kilamuwa inscription can be interpreted as Aramaïsms. 194  Jepsen (1980: 281). 195  Jepsen (1980: 282) suggests that ‘[i]f Hebrew could use rāʾāh for all kinds of sight and vision, the word chāzāh appearing alongside it must be considered an Aramaic loanword.’ Cf. also Wagner (1966: 54). 196  2 Sam 24: 11; 2 Ki 17: 13; Isa 29: 10; 30: 10; Am 7: 12; Mic 3: 7; Neh 3: 15; 11: 5, 1 Chr 21: 9; 25: 5; 29: 29; 2 Chr 9: 29; 12: 15; 19: 2; 29: 25, 30; 33: 18, 19; 35: 15. 197  Neh 3: 15; 11: 5. The name is ‫ ָּכל־חֹזֶ ה‬. To my surprise, all commentators which I consulted regard this as a Hebrew name, cf. Vermeylen (1977: 214–215), Rudolph (1949: 118), Myers (1965: 108–111), Fensham (1983: 170), Gunneweg/Jepsen/Oeming (1987), Blenkinsopp (1988: 228), Becker (1990: 71) and Schunck (1998: 81). Most translate it as a ‘family name’ and understand it as ‘all seers’. As far as I can see the only exceptions are Clines (1984: 154) who translates ‘The all-seeing one’ and Williamson (1985: 197 n.15b), who offers both translation commenting that ‘[i]t is clearly a family name that derives from a profession.’ I am not convinced that ‫ ָּכל־חֹזֶ ה‬is a Hebrew name. Hebrew or not, it could also be a pun.

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‫ חֹזֶ ה‬linked to Iddo and to Jehu Ben Hanani.198 Hanani is called ‫ נביא‬within Chronicles, while the ‫‘ ְד ַבר־יהוה‬happens’ (‘‫ )’היה‬to Jehu, something which is otherwise the almost exclusive privilege of ‫נביאים‬.199 All but two attesta-

tions are determined, either by being in a determined construct connection or by the article itself.200 Unfortunately, ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is used in such a way that we cannot gather substantial amounts of data which would allow us to determine what a ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬did or how an ancient Judean would have recognized someone as a ‫חֹזֶ ה‬.201 What is clear is the proximity of the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬to the court. Of the 16 times that the noun appears, eleven show the prophetic figure in close connection to the king, often David, as can be seen in the figure of Gad.202 Out of the five cases in which the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is not portrayed in direct proximity to the court, four show him in connection to other diviners, in expressions announcing that these diviners will not be able to provide the king with the desired access to divine knowledge.203 This suggests that the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬was regarded as part of the established official advisory body, as other diviners were. Only Am 7: 12 cannot, at first glance, be connected to the court. Four of the writing prophets can be connected to the root √‫ חזה‬as Isaiah, Nahum, Obadiah and Habakkuk are all linked to the noun ‫ ֲחזֹון‬.204 However, none of them is actually referred to as a ‫חֹזֶ ה‬. In Nahum, Obadiah and Isaiah the reference occurs in the introduction to the book. Hab 2: 2 is not the introduction of the book, but here the word ‫ ֲחזֹון‬has acquired the more generic, meaning ‘prophecy’ instead of the specific ‘vision’. The relatively widespread use of ‫ ֲחזֹון‬would suggest that the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬was a wellknown figure in society. The individuals referred to as ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬are Asaph, Gad, Heman, Iddo, Jehu Ben Hanani and possibly Jeduthun.205 Of these, Gad is identified as the 198  It has been suggested that ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬refers to Hanani and not to Jehu here, cf. Curtis/ Madsen (1910: 401). Even if that is possible, it is to be rejected, cf. Schniedewind (1995: 37). This is one of the texts in which the Chronicler exchanges Deuteronomistic ‫ נביא‬for ‫חֹזֶ ה‬. In 1 Ki 16: 7, 12 Jehu is a ‫נביא‬, in 1 Chr 19: 2 a ‫חֹזֶ ה‬. 199  2 Chr 13: 22. Apart from the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬Jehu, the only non-‫ נביא‬to whom the word happens is Solomon, 1 Ki 6: 11 || 1 Chr 22: 8. Of the 110 attestations, 86 are in the Writing prophets and 50 of these in Ezekiel. For this expression, cf. Schöpflin (2002: 57–68). 200  The only two exceptions to this rule are Am 7: 12 and 2 Ki 17: 13. 201  For a discussion of the role(s) of the ‫חֹזֶ ה‬, cf. also Schniedewind (1995: 37–44). 202  2 Sam 24: 11; 1 Chr 11: 9, 29 and 2 Chr 29: 25. 203  2 Ki 17: 13; Isa 29: 10; 30: 10 and Mic 3: 17. 204  Isa 1: 1; Nah 1: 1; Obad 1: 1 and Hab 2: 2. 205  Gad: 1 Chr 21: 9; 29: 29 and 2 Chr 29: 25. In 2 Sam 24: 11 the title ‫ הנביא‬interrupts the connection between Gad’s name and the title ‫חֹזֶ ה‬. Heman: 1 Chr 25: 5. Asaph: 2 Chr 29: 30. Iddo: 2 Chr 9: 29 and 12: 15. Jehu Ben Hanani: 2 Chr 19: 2. The case with Jeduthun is



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‘‫ חֹזֶ ה‬of David’.206 He is also called ‘‫ חֹזֶ ה‬of the king’. Asaph is known from the psalms attributed to his name.207 The Levite Heman is attributed with one psalm and frequently appears together with Asaph.208 In four cases, Jeduthun is the third in this group.209 According to Schniedewind, the term ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is linked to the music in the Second Temple.210 Each of the three heads of the Levitical singers are regarded as a ‫‘( חֹזֶ ה‬seer’), two of whom are linked with the king. In 1 Chr 25: 1, their sons are characterised by their ‘prophesying’ in temple worship. It has been argued that this image of cultic prophets referred to by various titles as it is found in Chronicles, is historically credible for preexilic times.211 This image is in all likelihood reliable for the Second Temple period, in the sense that prophetic terminology was used to describe the actions of cultic musicians. Hilber’s suggestion, however, that because the image of the text is basically credible for the Second Temple, it ‘may witness to prophetic practice in the First Temple’ is not convincing.212 The evidence for pre-exilic ‘cult-prophecy’ remains minimal.213 Gad, Jehu Ben Hanani and Iddo are not connected to music. Instead, all three are referred to both as ‫ נביא‬and as ‫חֹזֶ ה‬: Jehu is referred to as a ‫ נביא‬in 1 Ki 16: 7, 12, but as a ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬in 2 Chr 19: 2. Gad is referred to as a ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬in 1 Chr 21: 9, 29: 29 and 2 Chr 29: 25, but in 1 Sam 22: 5 he is called a ‫ ;נביא‬both titles are combined in 2 Sam 24: 11. Iddo, in turn, is called ‫ נביא‬in 2 Chr 13: 22 and ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬in 2 Chr 9: 29 and 12: 15.214 All this shows that more complicated, as it is not entirely clear to whom the title ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬applies, Asaph, Heman, Jeduthun, or all three of them, cf. 2 Chr 35: 15. 206  Gad appears 13x in the Hebrew Bible. Twelve of these are to be found in the account of his announcing YHWH’s punishment for the census to David, 2 Samuel 24 || 1 Chronicles 21. Gad is once called ‫ נביא‬in 1 Sam 22: 5. The second time in 2 Samuel 24 || 1 Chronicles 21 is a later addition as can be seen by the parallel, cf. Williamson (1982: 145), McCarter (1984: 505). Elsewhere he is called the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬of David, which is his original title. 207  Psalms 50 and 73–83. 208  Psalms 88. They appear together in the following texts: 1 Chr 15: 1–29; 25: 1–31; 2 Chr 5: 2–14 and 35: 1–19. 209  1 Chr 25: 6; 2 Chr 5: 12 and 35: 15; in 1 Chr 25: 1 the sons of the three are mentioned together. 210  Schniedewind (1995: 40–44). For prophecy in Chroniclessee Kegler (1993), Kuntzmann (1998), Beentjes (2001 and 2011), Gerstenberger (2004) and Amit (2006). 211  Williamson (1982: 292–298) and more recently Throntveit (1997: 241). 212  Hilber (2005a: 35–36), Williamson (1982: 166) and Japhet (1993: 439–441) also argue this point. 213  Williamson (1982: 166) and Japhet (1993: 439–441) are therefore right in their assessment that the cultic prophets in Chronicles do not stand in a continuous tradition with the Writing prophets. 214  Zech 1: 1 and 7: 1 are similar in the grammatical construction to 2 Chr 19: 2 and 1 Ki 16: 7.

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the Chronicler could make use of prophetic terms interchangeably, either because he could no longer clearly distinguish between them, or because he wanted to blur the distinctions.215 This can be seen very well in 1 Chr 29: 29, where the three titles, ‫נביא‬, ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫ר ֶֹאה‬, are used in the same verse, at least partly for stylistic reasons.216 To summarize, it can be said that most of those who are credibly called ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬are closely linked to the royal court. While court and temple were closely connected, not every court official had an office in the cult— indeed, not even every official at the temple had an office which linked him/her to the cult. Additionally, the unspecific criticism which Isaiah and Micah level against the official prophets points towards interpreting the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬as having been situated in the royal palace and/or in the temple(s). This appears to be the major difference between the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and the ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. The latter never appear to have been part of the official entourage.217 As the verbal root (‫ )חזה‬indicates visual activity, it seems to be reasonably clear that, originally, the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬was thought to receive divine messages through a ‫ ֲחזֹון‬which at first probably referred to a vision, but later became a generic term for ‘prophecy’/divine knowledge.218 13.3 The ‫ר ֶֹאה‬ The title ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬is rare, occurring only thirteen times in the entire Hebrew Bible.219 Unfortunately, most attestations of the title are in contexts that do not give any indication of the functions a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬would have fulfilled. The occurrence in 1 Chr 2: 52 must be subtracted from these thirteen. There, one of the sons of Shobal is called ‫ ָהר ֶֹאה‬, which is a scribal error for ‫ ְר ָאיָ ה‬.220 The word ‫(ּב)ר ֶֹאה‬ ָ in Isa 28: 7 is commonly, and correctly, identified as a hapax legomenon with the meaning ‘vision’,221 leaving eleven 215  Schniedewind (1995: 22–29) regards the temple-musicians/‘seers’ as within the ‘successio propheticōn’. Cf. however, Williamson (1982: 166) and Japhet (1993: 439–441). Schniedewind is certainly right, that the Chronicler’s musicians wanted to see themselves in the prophetic succession, even if they were functionally rather different. 216  Contra Waschke (2004: 62) who argues that this verse shows that the Chronicler understood these words as different. 217  Jeffers (1996: 101) contra Waschke (2004) who explains the difference between the two terms as caused by the fact that the term ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is older than ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. 218  Jepsen (1980); for synaesthetic verbs in Hebrew cf. Kedar-Kopfstein (1988). 219  1 Sam 9: 9, 11, 18, 19; 1 Chr 2: 52; 9: 22; 26: 28; 29: 29; 2 Chr 16: 7, 10; Isa (28: 7;) 30: 10. 220  The correct form can be found in 1 Chr 4: 2, cf. Willi (1991: 69) and Noth (1932: 98 n.1). 221  Wildberger (1982: 1053) and the dictionaries.



the messengers

197

occurrences of ‫ר ֶֹאה‬: 1 Chr 9: 22; 26: 28; 29: 29; 2 Chr 16: 7, 10; Isa 30: 10 and 1 Sam 9: 9. While 1 Sam 3: 20 refers to Samuel as a ‫נביא‬, 1 Sam 9: 9 and 1 Chr 9: 22; 26: 28 and 29: 29 use the title ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. These three are the only times that the term ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬occurs in 1 Chronicles. Taking into account the fact that later editors and authors have a tendency to use the term ‫ נביא‬with a less restricted meaning than earlier, the evidence suggests that Samuel was a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬before he subsequently became a ‫ נביא‬as well, courtesy of the Deuteronomistic editors who either reworked or authored a call narrative for Samuel in 1 Samuel 3.222 Further corroboration can be found in the fact that Samuel is the only individual in the Hebrew Bible who is referred to as a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬more than once.223 This holds true even if all three attestations of ‘Samuel, the ‫ ’ר ֶֹאה‬in 1 Chronicles are not reliable.224 Turning to 1 Samuel 9, we find the term ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬four times, once each in vss 9, 11, 18 and 19. As it stands, the narrative is clearly inconsistent. First, the religious specialist found in this chapter is sometimes referred to as ‫ איׁש (ה)אלהים‬and sometimes as ‫ ;ר ֶֹאה‬at times his name is given as Samuel and at others he remains anonymous. Additionally, the story oscillates between depicting the ‫איׁש(ה)אלהים‬/Samuel/‫ ר ֶֹאה‬as being on a visit to the town on the one hand, and as living there on the other. Further, it interrupts the narrative flow from 1 Samuel 8, which continues in 1 Sam 10: 17.225 A verse which in the past has been used to reconstruct the relationship between the ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬and the ‫ נביא‬is 1 Sam 9: 9: ‫ד־הר ֶֹאה‬ ָ ‫ֹלהים ְלכּו וְ נֵ ְל ָכה ַע‬ ִ ‫ֹה־א ַמר ָה ִאיׁש ְּב ֶל ְכּתֹו ִל ְדרֹוׁש ֱא‬ ָ ‫ְל ָפנִ ים ְּביִ ְׁש ָר ֵאל ּכ‬ ‫ִּכי ַלּנָ ִביא ַהּיֹום יִ ָּק ֵרא ְל ָפנִ ים ָהר ֶֹאה׃‬ Formerly, the person who was about to go to inquire from God would say: ‘Let’s go to the seer!’ For he who is today known as a prophet was formerly called a seer.

222  Cf. Dietrich (2003: 167–169) for a discussion of the genre of this narrative. He comes to the conclusion that as the story stands it wants to be a call narrative, but also includes elements of a dream-theophany and an incubation story. He maintains the possibility of reading the narrative as a call narrative by emending vv 12–14. 223  Fenton (1997). Cf. also Lehnart (2003: 25–39) and Gordon (1984: 44–46). Interestingly, 1 Sam 3: 20 reports that Samuel was known as a ‫‘ נביא‬from Dan to Beer-Sheba’ but in 1 Samuel 9, Saul does not know Samuel, the ‫‘( ר ֶֹאה‬seer’). Both are likely additions of exilic date at the very earliest, cf. e.g. Dietrich (2003: 174–175). 224  Schniedewind (1995: 40). ‫מּואל ָהר ֶֹאה‬ ֵ ‫ּוׁש‬ ְ in 1 Chr 9: 22 appears to be a later addition to the text; 1 Chr 26: 28 and 1 Chr 29: 29 are ‘source citations’. 225  Cf. also Stolz (1981: 64–65). See Hertzberg (1956: 58–59) for further inconsistencies.

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The order of vv 9–11 is peculiar to say the least. It has long since been recognized that this text is not arranged in a logical way. Why is Samuel first called ‫ איׁש האלהים‬and only later ‫ ?ר ֶֹאה‬In the current setting, v 9 explains a term which only appears in v 11. Fenton convincingly argues ָ ‫ ַע‬at its end.226 for changing the order of vv 10 and 9, and inserting ‫ד־הר ֶֹאה‬ After this operation, the text reads more smoothly. Independently of where vs 9 is placed, it is clear that it is a later insertion in this text, which itself appears to be an amalgam of various traditions and narratives.227 This verse attempts to explain why Samuel is called ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬throughout much of the narrative. The purpose of this verse is to equate Samuel, the ‫ר ֶֹאה‬, who appears to be a well-known figure in a popular story, with Samuel, the ‫נביא‬. Thus, the author not only wants to help the hapless reader who does not understand what a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬is, but also wants to underline his claim that Samuel is a ‘prophet like Moses’.228 1 Sam 9: 9 does not, therefore, improve our knowledge of the meaning of ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬in pre-classical Hebrew, as is sometimes claimed by interpreters of this story.229 It seems possible that there was a Samuel who was a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬and that later authors fused him with at least one different character, the ‘man of god’. This conglomerate character was then portrayed as a prophet like Moses. The first of the two occurrences in 2 Chronicles 16 is in v 7. The verse mentions Hanani rebuking king Asa for not trusting his god, Yhwh. A few verses later, v 10, uses the title ‫ ָהר ֶֹאה‬in order to refer to Hanani, probably an addition brought about by a misunderstanding of 2 Chr 19: 2. There we ֲ ‫ יֵ הּוא ֶב‬is meeting Jehoshaphat to rebuke find the notice that ‫ן־חנָ נִ י ַהחֹזֶ ה‬ him. Here, Hanani is only mentioned as a father of the seer Jehu. The fact that Jehu is called a ‫ נביא‬in 1 Kings 16 should be read as an indication that the various terms for prophet are losing their distinction in 1–2 Chronicles and so can be used almost interchangeably.230 In Isa 30: 10 the prophet mocks the inhabitants of Jerusalem. He puts words into their mouths that in his opinion betray their actions: 226  Fenton (1997). In his comprehensive study on the subject Lehnart (2003: 24–39, 131–144) does not discuss this suggestion. 227  Cf. also Waschke (2004: 61–62), who (rightly) regards 1 Sam 9: 9 as a later and ahistorical insertion. 228  As the text stands the similarities between Samuel, Moses and Jeremiah are striking. This can hardly be coincidental. 229  E.g. Fenton (2001). 230  Alternatively, one could interpret the different terminology as reflecting a different provenance of the relevant traditions. For such a theory of local difference in the use of ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬into northern and southern Hebrew cf. Petersen (1981), Wilson (1980) and Zobel (1985). I regard this theory with some reservation as the number of attestations in either case is too low to support a convincing case.



the messengers

199

‫זּו־לנּו נְ כֹחֹות‬ ָ ‫רּו־לנּו ֲח ָלקֹות וְ ַלחֹזִ ים לֹא ֶת ֱח‬ ָ ‫ֲא ֶׁשר ָא ְמרּו ָלר ִֹאים לֹא ִת ְראּו ַּד ְּב‬ ‫ֲחזּו ַמ ֲה ַתּלֹות‬ There are those who say to the seers, ‘Do not see—speak to us smooth things;’ and to the visionaries, ‘Do not prophesy to us what is right—prophecy illusions.’

Clearly, this passage uses word play and builds on the general idea of parallelism, without attempting to be overtly poetic. The construction of the verse suggests that the verbs connected with the ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬are ‫ דבר( לדבר‬pi.) and ‫ ראה( לראות‬qal), while the verb connected with the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is ‫לחזות‬ (‫חזה‬, qal). However, all three verbs could also be understood as depicting different aspects of the role of an Israelite/Judean seer.231 Due to the special usage of the verbal root ‫ ראה‬in Amos, Zobel assumes that Amos regarded himself as a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬and not as a ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬or a ‫נביא‬, which is why Amos cannot accept either of the professional appellations used by Amaziah. According to Zobel, the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is defined as a Judean court-prophet, while the ‫ נביא‬is the northern equivalent.232 Not many results can be drawn from this study on the ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. There are a few individuals who are described by this title. Of these, Samuel and Hanani are the most convincing for historical accuracy. A link with some form of divination appears to be obvious with both of them. In all likelihood, Samuel was first known as a ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬before he was turned into a leader (and prophet) like Moses by having the title ‫ נביא‬attributed to him. This does not, however, allow us to glean further information regarding the typical behaviour of a ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. We can only speculate that it was probably a term given to diviners who were not employed by the royal administration/the temple. 13.4 Comparison of the ‫נָ ִביא‬, the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and the ‫ר ֶֹאה‬ The textual data as we have them defy clear definitions of and distinctions between the various prophetic roles in ancient Israel and Judah. The ‫ר ֶֹאה‬ and ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬are only scarcely attested, whereas the evidence for the ‫ נביא‬is abundant but confused, due to the fact that the word and role underwent

231  First ‘perceiving’ the divine message and then ‘announcing’ it to the people, cf. Jepsen (1980: 282). It has to be stated that with the notable exceptions of Kaiser (1973) and Brekelmans/Vermeylen (1989) most commentators attribute the passage to Isaiah or at least his times, cf. Williamson (1994: 86–87). 232  Zobel (1985: 93–95).

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changes in meaning, and due to the fact that the literary history of the text in which it is attested is complicated. However, a few tentative suggestions as to the difference between the terms can be ventured. The ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is almost exclusively mentioned in connection with ‘official’ prophecy in Judah. This suggests that the word originally denoted court/ temple officials in the southern kingdom. However, many of the texts containing the word are found in Chronicles and their historical value for preexilic times is limited. It may be a truism that in the story where Samuel is called ‫ר ֶֹאה‬, the kingship has not yet been established. But this specific epithet is never used for him after he has anointed Saul. In fact, no epithet is used for him after that event, even if he clearly continues to perform similar functions. I suggest reading ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬as a term for a diviner without institutional links to either court or temple. This appears to be the major difference between the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬and the ‫ר ֶֹאה‬.233 The ‫ נביא‬seems to have been an official, professional prophet. It remains unclear whether this term initially referred to any kind of diviner whether technical, intuitive, lay, professional or ecstatic. Around the end of the Judean monarchy the title started to be used also for people who previously would have been understood as lay-prophets, such as Jeremiah. After that time it becomes the normal word for ‘prophet’. As the ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬can be identified with an official Southern prophet, it has been suggested that the ‫ נביא‬is its northern counterpart.234 With the destruction of the Israelite monarchy and the subsequent migration of people, theology and language to Judah it was used for Southern prophets as well and thence become the standard term denoting any kind of prophet in biblical Hebrew. However, considering that there is very little evidence for ‫ נביא‬in genuinely eighthcentury texts, this theory becomes difficult to uphold, as it oversimplifies the evidence.

 Jeffers (1996: 101) and Zobel (1985). Waschke (2004: 62) regards ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬as the older title. Considering that it is only sparsely used outside Chronicles, such a view would seem to be difficult to uphold. This is not to say that the term ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬is younger than ‫ר ֶֹאה‬. The texts simply do not allow for a relative dating of the two terms. 234  Zobel (1985) and Wilson (1980: 256 and 2005: 7431). 233

chapter fourteen

Conclusions Amongst many other issues, this chapter has shown that the etymological and functional evidence for ‫ נביאים‬and people bearing similar titles in other cultures has not always been interpreted with enough care. It is important to state that, unless further evidence comes to light, Ebla and Emar texts should only be cited as providing etymological evidence for the Hebrew term ‫נביא‬. To date, no positive evidence has been unearthed at either site indicating that prophets were active there. Furthermore, the tendency of the so-called ‘disappearing [Biblical] prophets’1 can be shown to be based on a misunderstanding. The decision by Auld and Carroll to call the writing prophets ‘poets not prophets’ cannot be upheld.2 While it is true that the contemporaries of the writing prophets probably did not use the title ‫ נביא‬when referring to them, there is no reason not to understand them as fulfilling the socio-religious role of a (lay-)prophet, namely that of a person who is used by a deity to transmit their message to other human addressees, as Robert Gordon has already noticed.3 This is exactly why later writers and redactors of the Biblical material could use the word ‫ נביא‬for them, a term which may well have been used for Jeremiah, or had already acquired a wider meaning than ‘court-prophet’ by their time. Carroll, Gonçalves and Auld oversimplify the evidence, but so do other scholars who use the title ‫ נביא‬for writing prophets. One could almost say that Amos, Hosea, Isaiah, Micah and Ezekiel were adopted into the class to which Jeremiah already belonged. On the question of female prophets, we can summarize that there were more female prophets in ancient Israel than the Hebrew Bible shows at first glance. This fact does not mean that we should expect to find them lurking behind every masculine plural or every time a woman performs a divinatory act, in the same way that not every male diviner is a prophet.4 It is true that on the one hand, prophecy and divination are not as different  Gordon (1995).  E.g. Carroll (1983) and Gonçalves (2001). 3  Gordon (1995). 4  The term ‘prophet’ describes a subcategory of diviner; they are not synonyms, see 1.2. 1

2

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as used to be maintained.5 On the other hand, we can still differentiate between different forms of divination, e.g. differences between hepatoscopy and oneirocriticism and thus also between prophecy and other forms of divination. A number of recent studies have ignored these differences and used the term prophecy, when haruspicy would have been more appropriate.6

 E.g. Nissinen (1998: 5–7).  E.g. Bechmann (2003) and Weems (2003).

5

6

part four

Comparison and Conclusion

chapter fifteen

Comparison of Old Babylonian, Neo-Assyrian and Biblical Prophecy In this chapter I compare the results of various aspects of the preceding chapters on Old Babylonian, Neo-Assyrian and Israelite prophecy. As pointed out in the introduction to the chapter on Neo-Assyrian prophecy, scholars working on the Hebrew Bible were remarkably slow to realize the importance and the potential of Neo-Assyrian prophecy for the study of prophecy in the Hebrew Bible. Apart from a few exceptions, it took until the 1970s for scholars to attempt to compare the two, even though accessible English translations of the Neo-Assyrian material were prepared as early as the late 19th century.1 By contrast, the texts from Mari attracted the immediate attention of biblical scholars before major comparative studies on biblical and Neo-Assyrian prophecy were written, even though they were found around 50 years later.2 There are three book-length studies comparing biblical prophecy with Mari prophecybut even the most recent is now more than 25 years old.3 By contrast, there are many articles which compare individual aspects of biblical prophecy with either Neo-Assyrian or Mari prophecy.4 Malamat, Heintz and van der Toorn compared aspects of prophecy at Mari and in the Hebrew Bible.5 Weippert and Nissinen focused mainly on studying

1  E.g. Strong (1894) and Banks (1898). For an overview of the history of research on the Neo-Assyrian texts, see Parpola (1997: cix–cx). For an overview of the history of comparative studies, see de Jong (2007: 25–28). 2  The first prophetic letter from Mari was published in 1948, cf. Dossin (1948). Already von Soden (1950) muses about functional similarities between the Mari prophecies and the prophecies recorded in the Hebrew Bible, in that both are unsolicited divine-human communication. In his article, von Soden mentions four letters, Schmökel (1951) already knows of five—considerably fewer than the 70–80 texts are available for the study of Old Babylonian prophecy today. 3  Ellermeier (1968), Noort (1977) and Schmitt (1982). On Ellermeier also see the detailed review by Heintz (1971b). 4  There are also three recent monographs, Hilber (2005a), de Jong (2007) and Lenzi (2008) comparing aspects of Neo-Assyrian prophecy with biblical material. 5  Malamat started publishing very early, cf. Malamat (1957, 1958, 1962, 1987, 1991 and 1998a). These and more are now easily accessible in English translation in Malamat (1998b). Heintz (1969, 1971a, 1972, 1981, 1997b and 1997c) has done valuable work on

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aspects of Neo-Assyrian prophecy informed by biblical prophecy and then comparing the two with each other.6 Huffmon has recently moved to Neo-Assyrian prophecy, after having worked mostly on biblical and Mari prophecy earlier.7 Studies comparing the Hebrew Bible and ancient Near Eastern material are often driven by the desire to find out more about the Hebrew Bible and to a lesser degree by an interest in ancient Near Eastern cultures and it is usually undertaken by biblical scholars.8 Consequently, aspects which are important in biblical scholarship are at times given undue weight in other ancient Near Eastern material. A good example of this is the awareness of being sent, which has been such an important category in biblical scholarship, but which is virtually absent from the cuneiform record.9 As much of the comparative research has been carried out by biblical scholars, there has been a focus on literary forms, such as the formula ‘fear not’, found in both Neo-Assyrian and biblical oracles.10 Some further points of comparison between biblical prophecy and ancient Near Eastern prophecy which have been identified in previous scholarship—in my view, too quickly—are the existence of prophetic groups (16.1), cultic prophecy (16.2), the close relationship between music and prophecy (16.3) and the awareness of being sent by a deity (16.8). I will also discuss a number of additional issues such as prophetic intercession (16.4), male

individual expressions and also the concept of ‘Holy War’ in prophetic literature and on the legitimacy of comparison of ancient Near Eastern prophecy and biblical prophecy in general. Van der Toorn (1987, 1998a, 1998b, 2000 and 2004) has focussed on the transmission of prophetic oracles and the methodological questions that arise from them. 6  Weippert (1972, 1981, 1985, 1988, 1997, 2001 and 2002) is justly famous for his pioneering work on Neo-Assyrian prophecy. Nissinen (1993, 1996, 2000d, 2000e, 2001, 2002a, 2002b, 2003a, 2003b, 2003c, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2010b and 2010c) has published the most widely and is regarded as the main specialist on ancient Near Eastern prophecy. 7  Huffmon (1968, 1976a, 1976b, 1992, 1997, 2000, 2003, 2004 and 2007). Other contributors were Anbar (1993a, 1994 and 2007), Barstad (1993b, 2000, 2003, 2005 and 2006), Böhl (1949–50), Craghan (1975), Noth (1956), Nötscher (1966), Weinfeld (1977), Westermann (1964). Nissinen (2000c) and Ben Zvi/Floyd (2000) also collect a number of valuable individual studies. Every book on biblical prophecy or religion since the 1950s includes some comparative material as well, but as they rarely provide original interpretation, and as their number is vast, I will not list them here. 8  Bonnet/Merlo (2002). As Sasson (1998: 97) points out, ‘relatively few conclusions by biblical scholars about Mari strike Mariologists as well-informed’. He goes on to say that the inverse situation is true as well, but the number of Assyriologists who publish comparative work on the Hebrew Bible and their area of expertise is remarkably low. 9  Some Assyriologists can be charged with not adequately communicating their results to the scholarly public. 10  Heintz (1969), Dion (1970), Merlo (2002) and Nissinen (2003b).

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 207 and female prophets (16.5), the transmission of prophetic messages (16.6) and the deities involved in prophetic communication (16.7).11 15.1 Prophetic Groups There is a tendency among scholars of the Hebrew Bible to scrutinize the cuneiform record to find ancient Near Eastern prototypes for institutions found in the Hebrew Bible, as is the case with prophetic groups.12 As has been demonstrated in the preceding chapters, the evidence is by no means unequivocal in its support for prophetic groups in Mari or the Neo-Assyrian empire. Many scholars have pointed to the plural form āpilū in FM 7 39: 29. However, it seems more likely that Nūr-Sîn, the letter’s author, referred to several individual prophets. He starts his letter by saying that he has written to Zimri-Lim ‘Once, twice, even five times’ (line 3). It seems likely that while the messages were consistent, they were transmitted by several individual prophets. The attestation of five muḫḫū in one of Manatan’s letters, published by Ozan, is highly uncertain. The text is too fragmentary for this reconstruction to be reliable.13 Similarly, the dream report which mentions two muḫḫū acting together, ARM 26 227, should be treated with care. All manner of things can occur in a dream without their necessarily reflecting reality. FM 3 3, which shows a group of muḫḫātum acting during a monthly Eštar ritual, has previously not been included in the scholarly discussion on prophetic groups. However, the muḫḫātum appear to be active in their function as religious ecstatics, not in their role as messengers for the gods. As I have argued above, conflating the ecstatic muḫḫûm and the āpilum

11  On prophetic bands see e.g. Schmitt (2001), Lehnart (2003) and Huffmon (2000); for cultic prophecy see e.g. Johnson (1962) and Hilber (2005a); for the awareness of ‘being sent’ see e.g. Noth (1957: 238) and Westermann (1964: 179) (an earlier version of his contribution can be found in Westermann (1960: 82–91). Lemaire (1996) is one of many scholars who see the functional connection between music and prophecy as a given. 12  A good example of this can be found in Huffmon (2000: esp. 52), where he argues for the existence of prophetic groups in Mari. He contradicts himself on p. 64: ‘But the only indication of group activity by the Mari or Assyrian prophets is the Mari reference to nabûs (ARM 26 216), who apparently offer a collective response to inquiry in a way parallel to 1 Ki 22.’ 13  FM 3 152.

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only serves to blur the boundaries between two professions which the Mariotes appear to have regarded as distinct.14 Finally, the reference to the feminine plural maḫḫāte in SAA 12 69, a list of provisions for the Aššur temple in Aššur, does not allow any firm conclusions other than that groups of maḫḫûtu were active in Neo-Assyrian times in the Aššur temple at Aššurfor a ritual that mentions the ‘council of the gods’ (ukkin dingir.meš). The evidence for prophetic groups in the Hebrew Bible is also weaker than it is usually taken to be, if we take seriously the possibility that the term ‫ נביא‬may have undergone a semantic shift. The Hebrew Bible refers to groups of ‫ נביאים‬in three ways. A group called the ‫ בני הנביאים‬occur in the Elisha-cycle in 2 Kings and in the Deuteronomistic narrative in 1 Ki 20: 35–42, which is dependent on the Elisha-cycle.15 Their actions are neither ecstatic nor particularly prophetic. As these stories are probably of a considerably later origin, their value for historical reconstruction of ‘prophetic groups’ in ancient Israel is limited. A second kind of group is described in 1 Kings 22, where the Israelite and Judean kings gather 400 ‫ נביאים‬before going to battle against Aram in order to find out whether they will win. In my view, the author of this narrative uses the large number of prophets as a literary device, making Micaiah ben Imlah’s disagreement with them look more heroic. They announce a positive outcome for the military campaign against the king of Aram, whereas Micaiah announces doom and is subsequently proven right be the ensuing events.16 There, just as in 1 Kings 18 where the 450 prophets of Baʿal and 400 of Ašerah are defeated by Elijah, a simple plural is used—‫נביאים‬.17 As with the ‫בני הנביאים‬, the value for historical reconstruction of prophetic is limited.  See chapter 3.  Schmitt (2001). 2 Ki 2: 3, 5, 7, 15; 4: 1, 38; 5: 22; 6: 1 and 9: 1 attest the ‫בני הנביאים‬. Lehnart (2003: 444–470) gives an overview of recent approaches to the ‫בני הנביאים‬. On the basis of the expression ‫ איׁש אחד מבני הנביאים‬for individual members as opposed to ‫( נביא‬1 Ki 20: 35 and 2 Ki 9: 1), Lehnart argues that they formed a distinct group from other northern groups of ‫נביאים‬. However, in the context of the Elisha cycle, normally the singular ‫ נביא‬would be used for Elisha. The somewhat roundabout expression ‫איׁש אחד מבני‬ ‫ הנביאים‬makes it clear that not Elisha but one of the nameless ‫ נביאים‬is the acting ‫נביא‬. 16  The practice of asking a deity before going to war is well attested in Mesopotamian omens. This was usually done through a bārû (‘seer/haruspex’). For texts see e.g. Durand (1988) and Lambert (2007). 17  See Lehnart (2003: 219–222) for a research history of (mainly German) scholarship on the conflict between the Baʿal (and Ašerah) prophets and Elijah. On pages 222–236, he offers his own analysis in which he disagrees with Alt’s classic thesis which separates this pericope from the surrounding narrative; see Alt (1935) and Thiel (2002: 103–111). 14 15

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 209 A third kind of group is mentioned in 1 Samuel: ‫(י)אים‬ ִ ‫( ֶח ֶבל־נְ ִב‬1 Sam 10: 5, 10) and ‫( ַל ֲה ַקת הנביאים‬1 Sam 19: 20). Both texts function as aetiologies for the proverb ‘is Saul also among the prophets?’. These ‫נביאים‬ seem to be less concerned with transmitting divine messages than with experiencing religious ecstasy. In this, they appear remarkably similar to the Mari muḫḫûm and, by inference, the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû, as noted a century ago by Zimmern.18 It seems likely, therefore, that groups of ecstatics existed in ancient Israel and Judah as well as in Mari and in Aššur, where we find groups of female muḫḫātu and maḫḫāte respectively. It is not unlikely that some members of these groups at times prophesied, especially as their ecstasy was regarded as the result of divine action.19 However, to call these groups ‘prophetic’ suggests that prophecy was more central to their role than is indicated by the evidence. ‘Ecstatic groups’ is a better term with which to describe them. 15.2 Cultic Prophecy As early as 1950, and thus very much at the beginning of the interpretation of prophecy at Mari, Adolphe Lods asserted that the āpilum and āpiltum are des prophètes attachés à un temple, des “prophètes cultuels,” comme on les appelle, dont l’existence en Israël est de mieux en mieux attestée depuis les études que leur ont consacrées Sigmund Mowinckel, Alfred Loisy, Paul Humbert, bien d’autre encore . . .20

Indeed, some scholars regard Mari prophecy as occurring in an exclusively cultic context.21 This raises an important methodological point: is any person or action with some connection to the temple automatically ‘cultic’? If so, scholars will have to start referring to temple administrations and their archives as ‘cultic’ administrations and archives. In contrast, I contend that not everything that has to do with the temple is by necessity ‘cultic’. Instead, the word ‘cultic’ implies an involvement in  Zimmern in Schrader (1902–03: 590).  For the Hebrew Bible see for example 1 Sam 10: 10. 20  Lods (1950: 107–108). See also Dossin (1966: 86). 21  Huffmon (1968: 104–109). In his two dictionary entries on ancient Near Eastern prophecy, Huffmon (1976b and 1992), Huffmon becomes increasingly more cautious on this issue. Lately, he seems to have reverted to his earlier position, Huffmon (2007: 455). 18

19

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the cult (worship/adoration) of the deity. Further, this involvement cannot be merely incidental. To illustrate this point, let us look at the narrative in Amos 7. Irrespective of whether it recounts a historical scene, it must have in general been believable to its readers. The confrontation between Amos and Amaziah presumably takes place in the temple. Does this turn Amos into a cult-prophet?22 In my view, this would be over-interpreting the evidence. Rather, I suggest using the term ‘cultic prophet’ only for prophets whose prophecy is an integral part of temple worship. As indicated by the quotation from Lods’ article, the idea of cultic prophecy in Mari depends on the concept of temple prophecy in the Hebrew Bible as first formulated by Mowinckel.23 Van der Toorn’s statement that all prophetic oracles in the Mari text, even those for which no location is given, should be understood to have occurred in the temple, goes beyond the available evidence.24 Yet some of the texts do portray the prophetic oracles occurring in temples.25 Further, as pointed out by Huffmon, some cultic personnel are incidental prophets: the Mariote assinnu and probably the qammatum should be understood in this way.26 As argued above and in the chapters on Old Babylonian and NeoAssyrian prophecy, the muḫḫûm/maḫḫû is probably best understood as an ecstatic who occasionally prophesies.27 As shown by the Eštar ritual, the muḫḫûm was involved in the cult at Mari. Similarly, the ration list from the Aššur temple at Aššur indicates that the maḫḫû was supported by the temple and was involved in the cult there, as it seems somehow connected to ritualised laments.28 In the anthropological record, prophecy and ecstasy are often connected and it should therefore not surprise us

22  ‘The designation “cultic prophet” is in itself a rather imprecise term’, Barstad (1984: 8 n.24). For an overview of positions on the question, see Carroll R. (2002). After having established that Amos’ words are reminiscent of cultic language and may well cite it, Farr (1966) muses: ‘Do these quotations establish him as a cultic prophet? The answer is “No”.’ One does not need to be involved in a cult in order to use cultic language. 23  Mowinckel (1921–24). Nötscher (1966: 240–241) and Ellermeier (1968: 79–82) differentiate between some oracles which occur in temples and others which not. 24  Van der Toorn (1998a: 58). 25  Fleming (2004: 53–55). 26  Huffmon (2000: 52–53) and Zsolnay (forthc.). 27  See sections 3.2.1.1 and 8.2. 28  Musicians are involved in the Eštar rituals, as in most rituals. The term for musician, nāru(m), is the same, irrespective of whether they are active in the cult or in the temple (or, indeed elsewhere). They were ‘musicians’, not ‘cult musicians’ or ‘court musicians’.

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 211 that in Mari, too, ecstatics such as the muḫḫûm and the assinnu could at times prophesy.29 Ecstatics were certainly involved in rituals in Mari and in the NeoAssyrian empire. Some of these ecstatics occasionally prophesied. However, the evidence does not show them prophesying in rituals, unless a special translation of the verb maḫû (‘to rave’) is used, which is methodologically unwise. Rather the verb used indicate that they acted as ecstatics. Since they are connected to laments in the ritual texts where they occur it seems more likely that they are ecstatic ritual lament experts. This in turn means that it is impossible to use them as a blue-print for cult-prophecy in ancient Israel and Judah.30 15.3 Music and Prophecy Music, especially drumming, is often regarded as linked to prophecy, particularly female prophecy, in the ancient Near East and in the Hebrew Bible as well as in the anthropological record.31 While there is relatively little doubt that music can lead to prophetic trances in some cultures, this is neither universal, nor is it necessarily a feature of earlier times.32 It is important that prophecy and music occur in the same context, but to see which function, if any, the music has in relation to prophecy. A re-assessment of the relevant ancient Near Eastern texts is, therefore, necessary. I am not aware of a single Neo-Assyrian text which indicates that music and prophecy were linked in any way whatsoever. There are, however, the Mari rituals referred to above, in which professional singers are mentioned in conjunction with ecstatic activity. Because the first text, FM 3 2, ends so suddenly, Charpin suggests understanding the other ritual text, FM 3 3,

 E.g. Lewis (2003). For the biblical image see Nelson (2004). For ancient Near Eastern and ancient Greek prophecy and ecstasy see now Nissinen (2010d), but note that Nissinen does not bring examples of either an āpilum or a raggintu in ecstasy. Most examples of people in ecstasy are linked to the muḫḫû, whom I understand as a cult-ecstatic. It is, therefore, not surprising to find them in connection with ecstasy. 30  It may be possible to assume that some form of ecstatics may have been involved in the Temple worship, in a way similar to the involvement of the ‘prophesying’ cult musicians in the Second Temple, 1 Chronicles 25. 31  E.g. Huffmon (1968: 112 and 2007: 453), Nissinen (2003d: 80). 32  Much anthropological material suggests that drumming and other music is used as a means to achieve ecstatic trances; a few examples can be found in Stutley (2003: 39–48) and Lewis (2003: 37). See for example the role of drums in the dramatic possession trance related in Bourguignon (1976: 18–21). 29

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as the continuation of the first, thereby creating a new and considerably longer text. Durand, who re-edited the text, disagrees with this interpretation, pointing to a number of differences between the two texts.33 Yet, Charpin’s opinion has found support elsewhere.34 Ziegler in turn supports Durand’s interpretation in her recent work on musicians at Mari and suggests that the two texts may describe the same ritual, but that they were edited by different scribes and with different criteria.35 If the two texts describe the same liturgical setting, the two scribes probably perceived a generally similar order of events. For the section that is of interest here, the texts do not appear to be sufficiently similar, which leads me to favour Durand’s solution of two different but similar rituals, or two editions of the liturgy for the same ritual:36 FM 3 2 col ii: 21’–27’ šumma ina rēš war[ḫim] 22’m[u]ḫḫûm ištaqqa[lma] 23’an[a] maḫḫê[m] ūl i[reddû] 24’ištu mà.e ú.re.m[én šēram]37 25’iktašdū waklū n[ārī]38 26 ’uwaššarūma im[maḫḫima] 27’mà.e ú.re.m[én izammurū] 21’

If at the end of the mon[th] 22’the e[c]static is in equilibrium 23’(and) does not p[roceed] int[o] tranc[e] ‑24’when the time for [the chant] màe urrem[en] 25’has come, the supervisors 26’send 25’the m[usicians] 26’away; if he r[aves] 27’[they sing] the màe urrem[en]. 21’

FM 3 3 col iii: 4’–13’ inūma ana me[ḫetīša] 5’mārū īter[bū] 6’muḫḫātum ū[l . . .]39 7’u mārē nā[rī . . .] 8’inūm[a muḫḫātum] 9’ista[qqalū] 10’2 m[ā]r[ē nārī . . .] 11’ana [. . .irrubūma] 12’pāni [iltim ana Enlil ?] 13’eršemakk[am izammurū]

4’

When 5’the (young?) musicians have ente[red] 4’bef[ore her (Eštar)] 6’(and when?) the female ecstatics do no[t . . .] 7’and the mus[icians . . .]. 8’Whe[n

4’

33  Charpin’s suggestion and Durand’s critique can be found in Durand/Guichard (1997: 28). 34  Fleming (1999: 160). 35  Ziegler (2007: 63). 36  WAW 12 51–52. 37  Durand/Guichard (1997: 50) identify this song as the canonical Sumerian lament me.e ur.re.mèn. They argue that the form of this Sumerian song known and used in their rituals was in all likelihood similar to the text in PRAK C 26 (de Genouillac [1925: pl. 7]). In fact, PRAK C 26 contains parts of the beginning of the sixth kirugu of Uru Amirabi (‘That City which has Been Pillaged’), cf. Cohen (1988: II, 536–603). 38  This is Durand’s reading. Because she ‘ne sai[t] pas qui pourraient être les « chefs d’équipe »’ Ziegler (2007: 58, 61) suggests reading dumumeš n[armeš] (‘young/junior mu[sicians]’) instead of ugualmeš n[armeš] (‘supervisors of the mu[sicians]’. However, while this part is not entirely clear, the sign on the tablet appears to be a pa, not a tur. 39  Durand/Guichard (1997: 60) do not read the u which is tentatively suggested by Ziegler (2007: 64 n.225).

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 213 the female ecstatics] 9’remain in equi[librium], 10’two m[u]s[icians] 11’ [enter] (in)to [. . .]; 12’before [the goddess] 13’[they sing an eršemakk[um]lament 12’[for Enlil?].

As read here, the texts differ in one important aspect: in FM 3 2, the musicians are sent away in the event that the single male prophet does not go into trance. Only if he raves are they to sing the lament.40 This means that the music is not instrumental to inducing the trance. Conversely, in FM 3 3 two musicians are to enter and sing a (different) lament if several prophets do not go into trance.41 The two texts, therefore, understand the liturgical order in quite different ways here. Ziegler resolves this inconsistency by restoring a considerable amount of text. She suggests the following reading for FM 3 2 col ii: 25’: ištu mà.e ú.re.m[én šēram] 25’iktašdū mārē n[ārī ana lismim] 26’uwaššarūma im[maḫḫima]

24’

When [the song] “màe urremen” is reached, the musi[icians] are let go [ for the race] and he (the prophet) will p[rophesy].’42 24’–26’

However, not only does this translation introduce the problematic concept of the lismum-race into this text, but it also leaves line 27’ syntactically hanging. If Durand and Guichard’s reading of FM 3 2 is followed, there is no way of linking music and prophecy.43 The correct reading of FM 3 2 at this point must be regarded as uncertain. Without arbitrary restorations, this text does not support the view that music caused prophecy in Mari. To base the entire theory on these arbitrary restorations seems unwise, particularly as the very similar text FM 3 3 clearly shows that music is not used to induce (prophetic) trance. A further question is whether we want to regard these texts as evidence that there is a functional connection between music and prophecy. In my view, the two liturgies simply describe two possible courses within the

 It seems unlikely that the (mārē) nārī and the kalû are the same, as claimed in Huffmon (1968: 112). For the figure of the kalû see now Gabbay (2008) and the literature cited there. 41  Why the situation should be inverse with male and female ecstatics remains unclear. 42  Ziegler (2007: 58); the italics are in the original in order to indicate that these restorations are not certain. 43  Contra Ziegler (2007: 61), who in her commentary to col ii: 21’–27’ claims that this is the proof-text for the connection between music and prophecy at Mari, as sought by Lemaire (1996: 431). 40

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liturgy of a certain ritual.44 In addition, I argue that the muḫḫû’s role is as a cult ecstatic here. The question is whether he goes into ecstasy, whether he raves, not whether he prophesies or not. As said above, as far as I am aware, there is not a single Neo-Assyrian text in which music and prophecy are linked.45 Considering the nature of the evidence maybe this does not carry too much weight, and absence of evidence is certainly not evidence of absence, but the absence of NeoAssyrian texts linking prophecy and music sits easier with the notion that the two were not regarded as functionally linked in the ancient Near East. The situation is different with respect to biblical prophecy. In the narrative about the joint Israelite-Judean-Edomite campaign against Moab in 2 Ki 3: 15, Elisha asks king Yoram to bring a musician: ‫חּו־לי ְמנַ ּגֵ ן וְ ָהיָ ה ְּכנַ ּגֵ ן ַה ְּמנַ ּגֵ ן וַ ְּת ִהי ָע ָליו יַ ד־יהוה‬ ִ ‫וְ ַע ָּתה ְק‬ And now, get me a musician! When the musician was playing, the hand of Yhwh came upon him [Elisha].

This narrative portrays Elisha as attaining prophetic trance through music.46 As has been noted before, this connects Elisha with the groups of ‫ נביאים‬in 1 Samuel. It has been argued that female prophecy is particularly linked to music in the Hebrew Bible, and some scholars think that Miriam received the title ‫ נביאה‬because of her song.47 Apart from the poem in Judges 5, the

44  Nissinen (2010a: 455–461 and 2010d: 9–11) argues in favour of a connection between prophecy and music here, since he regards the muḫḫû as a prophetic role and since the muḫḫû and music are mentioned in the same context. 45  Unless one is to count the ritual to Dumuzi and Ištar, Farber (1987), WAW 12 118. In this text which has a medical function, two musical instruments are placed in the same room as male and female zabbu and maḫḫû. However, many other things, such as flour, milk, bread, water, beer, etc. Additionally, the musical instruments and many other implements are mentioned before the errection of a place for the spirits of the dead. The male and female zabbu and maḫḫû are explicitly supplied with kurummatu bread. This links up with the bread supplied in preparation for the ‘assembly of the gods’ in SAA 12 69: 27–31. There, the maḫḫāte receive beer, and not bread (line 29). 46  For the expression ‘hand of DN’ see e.g. Roberts (1971). Normally, we would expect ‫ וַ יְ ִהי‬and not ‫ וְ ָהיָ ה‬as already pointed out by Skinner (1904) and reiterated by Cogan/ Tadmor (1988: 45). However, their argument that ‫ וְ ָהיָ ה‬must be interpreted as frequentative (‘every time when’) as opposed to narrative ‫‘( וַ יְ ִהי‬when’) cannot convince, unless verse 15b is taken as a saying, in which case the syntactic link to the preceding sentence is tenuous in any case. See also Joüon/Muraoka (1991: §119z) who list the verse as one of the exceptions. 47  E.g. Brenner (1985: 61) and Marsman (2003: 561).

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 215 link between music and ‘prophecy’ becomes strong in the post-exilic period, when the temple musicians are referred to as prophets.48 Judges 5 is a poetic text which was probably written in Omride Israel.49 Its poetic nature suggests that the verb ‫ ָׁשר( ָל ִׁשיר‬, qal, ‘to sing’) was chosen precisely to introduce the following poem. Further, Judges 5 is a literary text, which has found a secondary context in Judges. This text should therefore be read as a literary rather than as a historiographical text. In any case, prophets in the Hebrew Bible are well known for their ability to employ various different forms of communication, and there is no reason why a prophet should not also sing. But this does not mean that singing is an integral part of being a prophet. It is clear, therefore, that the link between music and prophecy in the cuneiform evidence is incidental. In the Hebrew Bible, the case is slightly different, as some of the temple singers are called ‫נביא‬, and as Elisha is clearly depicted as entering a trance because a musician was playing. However, the link between prophecy and music is limited also in the Hebrew Bible. Compared to the wealth of texts in which prophets appear without so much as a note being played, Elisha and the temple musicians are the exceptions.50 As the text stands, the use of music in 2 Ki 3: 15 to attain a state of trance indicates a fundamental difference between cuneiform and biblical prophecy.51 15.4 Intercession The Hebrew Bible depicts prophets such as Samuel, Moses, Jeremiah and Ezekiel as intercessors.52 As far as the information from the sources indicates, neither Mariote nor Neo-Assyrian prophecy included an intercessory role. In both these archives, prophets appear as mouthpieces of the  E.g. 1 Chr 25: 1–31.  Pfeiffer (2005: 19–116). 50  The link between Elisha and music may be inspired by texts such as 1 Samuel 10. 51  In Graeco-Roman times individual psalms were read as prophetic texts in general, which gives a further link between prophecy and music. However, this development lies outside the time-frame chosen for this study. 52  Gen 20: 7 is the locus classicus for the link between prophecy and intercession. Moses, Samuel (and by inference, Jeremiah) are mentioned together as intercessors in Jer 15: 1. The healing power which is sometimes attributed to prophets is related to intercession. Contrast the stories of Elijah and Elisha each reviving a child (1 Ki 17: 17–24 and 2 Ki 4: 8–37). While Elijah prays and intercedes, with the effect that Yhwh acts and lets the boy recover, Elisha does not intercede with god and instead revives him magically. 48

49

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deity, not as mediums through which a deity’s mind could be changed and a negative future averted. For that, other means were used, such as the namburbi rituals.53 The only connections prophets had to intercession was through announcing divine messages in which the deity told the king that (s)he interceded on his behalf.54 In order to address a question to a deity, Mesopotamian kings turned to their technical diviners, especially the bārû (‘seer/haruspex’). Indeed, one of the reasons for understanding the title āpilum not as ‘answerer’ but rather as ‘spokesperson’ is that the āpilum is never portrayed as asking or answering any questions. This leaves open the possibility that in Israel and Judah too, intercession was not always part of the prophetic role, instead becoming part of it at some point during its history and then being projected onto Moses and Abraham retrospectively.55 Irrespective of when intercession became part of the remit of a prophet, it is a true innovation and proprium of biblical religion, more so than the critical stance towards kingship and worldly authorities. 15.5 Female Prophets In the Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts, women form the majority, and there seem to be roughly even numbers of male and female prophets in the Old Babylonian texts. This differs sharply from the narratives in the Hebrew Bible, though the historical situation behind the biblical texts may have been more similar to the situation in Mari.56 Apart from the 400 prophets of Ašerah in 1 Ki 18: 19, the Hebrew Bible only directly refers to five women as ‫נביאה‬.57 Additionally, there are the women in Ezekiel 13.58 The way in which Huldah is introduced in 2 Kings 22 is so inconspicuous that it seems unlikely that female prophets were quite as rare as the text of the Hebrew Bible seems to suggest.59 Further,  See Maul (1994).  E.g. FLP 1674, SAA 9 9 and SAA 13 139. On these texts see Nissinen (2002b) and Nissinen/Parpola (2004). 55  E.g. Hertzberg (1963) and Balentine (1984). 56  On female prophets in the cuneiform texts in general see Stökl (2010). 57  Miriam (Exod 15: 20), Deborah (Judg 4: 4), the female prophet in Isa 8: 3, Huldah (2 Ki 22: 14; 2 Chr 34: 22) and Noadiah (Neh 6: 14). 58  Joel 3 also portrays the ‘sons and daughters’ as prophesying. However, as this text is a utopian vision of the future, it can hardly be used to describe the (then) present. 59  See the section on female prophets in the preceding chapter. As argued by Fischer (2002: 18–19) and Gafney (2008: 15), masculine plural forms are used to describe groups 53

54

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 217 since the religious life in pre-exilic Israel and Judah probably included the worship of the goddess Ašerah, it seems plausible that there were female prophets who spoke in her name, particularly as ancient Near Eastern deities generally tended to speak through prophets of the same gender, as I have shown elsewhere.60 It is important, however, to remain aware that this tendency is not an absolute rule; in Mari and Neo-Assyrian texts alike, deities speak through prophets of the opposite sex as well.61 Before going on to compare and summarize the modes of transmission of prophetic oracles as they can be found in the three corpora, it is important to underline that in ancient Israel and Judah, more female prophets existed than the biblical text might suggest.62 15.6 Transmitting Prophecy In the recent past, research on the prophetic books in the Hebrew Bible has focussed on the processes of writing and redacting the books in the Persian Period.63 Thus, the scribal or literary rather than the oral aspect of prophecy has moved into the focus of scholarly attention. This is in no small part a reaction to some of the more extreme outgrowths of redaction-critical approaches, which were confident in their ability to identify the so-called ipsissima verba of eighth century prophets. At the same time which can include women as well as men, which leaves open the possibility that some women are simply ‘hidden’ behind masculine plural forms. 60  Stökl (2009). For an overview of Israelite religion(s) see for example Zevit (2001) and Hess (2007). In my view, the inscriptions from Kuntillet Ajrud prove beyond reasonable doubt that Ašerah was regarded as Ywhw’s consort at least in some circles. Thus e.g. Müller (1992), Dietrich/Loretz 1992: 77–189 and Wacker (2004). Day (1986), Emerton (1999) and Hadley (2000) regard ʾšrth as referring to a symbol and not the goddess directly on account of the suffix, a grammatical construction which does not occur in biblical Hebrew. Against this argument see e.g. Rainey (1998). 61  While it is an interesting suggestion, I do not think that Edelman (1994) is correct in reading Huldah as a prophet of Ašerah. As has been pointed out by Ben Dov (2008) the narrative of the book-finding which includes Huldah shows similarities with the episode in the Second Plague Prayer of Muršili II, in which two tablets are found which contain ‘ancient’ rituals and stipulations which have not been kept. The Pest Prayers are primarily addressed to the ‘Storm-god of Ḫatti’, e.g. Haas (2006: 255–259). It seems more likely that Josiah would have wanted to contact the head of the pantheon, Yhwh, and not Ašerah, his consort. 62  In this I agree with Fischer (2002) and Gafney (2008). As argued in the chapter on biblical prophecy, there is, however, little need to assume that any woman who is linked to divination is a prophet. 63  E.g. Becker (2004) and the essays in Floyd/Haak (2006). see the cautionary remarks by Blum (2008b: 82–83) regarding the more extreme developments of this approach.

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that scholars have become more doubtful of their ability to reconstruct the prophets’ inner lives, the written books, rather than reconstructed oral utterances, have moved to the centre-stage of research.64 A similar shift can be detected in the study of both Neo-Assyrian and Old Babylonian prophecy. Millard had argued that the Neo-Assyrian prophecies are a good model by which to reconstruct oracles by biblical prophets such as Isaiah, on the basis that the Neo-Assyrian prophecies were (supposedly) written down shortly after being pronounced.65 In contrast, van der Toorn has argued that the Mari prophetic letters already represent a redacted stage and do not allow access to the words of prophets at Mari.66 De Jong has shown literary development in some of the oracles collected in SAA 9.67 Nissinen has approached the issue from a theoretical angle similar to that of van der Toorn, denying modern scholars the ability to access the underlying words of individual ancient Near Eastern prophets.68 Therefore, another aspect of the long-held view that biblical prophecy is unique in comparison to other ancient Near Eastern prophecy can no longer be sustained: Israel and Judah were not the only places where prophecies were written down, kept, and redacted in order re-use them at a later point. A similar process took place in the Neo-Assyrian empire, as witnessed by the oracle collections.69 Jeremias’ insistence on this issue can be identified as one of the causes for the prominence of Mari prophecy as compared to Neo-Assyrian prophecy in the work of biblical scholars. The other proprium of biblical prophecy, namely the critical stance towards kingship and worldly authorities, already noted by Schmökel, Noth and Westermann, remains a valid distinction, when comparing the two corpora as they stand.70 As Nissinen has pointed out: [d]as kritische Potential der [keilschriftlichen] Prophetie führt in den uns bekannten Quellen nicht zu einer umfassenden Unheilsprophetie gegen

 For a history of research cf. e.g. Blenkinsopp (1996: 16–39).  Millard (1985). 66  Van der Toorn (1998a). 67  De Jong (2007: 436–437). 68  Nissinen (2000e and 2005). 69  For the position that the selection and transmission of prophecy is to be regarded as a proprium of Israel see Jeremias (1994 and 2006). Schart (1995) formulates a similar understanding as above regarding Mari prophecies in letters. See also Nissinen (2000e). 70  Schmökel (1951), Nötscher (1966), Westermann (1964). This difference has recently been re-affirmed also by Blum (2008b). 64 65

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 219 das Königtum als Institution oder gegen die eigene Gesellschaft in ihrer Gesamtheit.71

On the basis of the mostly pro-royal stance of prophecy in the cuneiform record, recently, some scholars have ascribed much of the critical aspect of the prophetic books in the Hebrew Bible to later redactions.72 However, this would be to underestimate the critical potential of the prophets in ancient Israel and Judah. The different nature of the collections of prophetic texts is more central to the issue at hand: the Mari and NeoAssyrian prophetic texts were found in royal archives, while the Bible includes texts which are anything but royal in their origin.73 There clearly would have been very little interest in recording words of prophets who were critical of the entire system of governance, among those who ran this system. In my view, de Jong does not go far enough in realizing the scribal nature of the prophetic collections. It is likely that some changes to the words and some elaborations and actualizations were introduced during the process of transmission: first of all in a letter reporting the prophecy (to the king), then possibly transferred onto an individual tablet and finally into a collection. We should therefore not regard the words on the collection tablets as close to the ipsissima verba of Neo-Assyrian prophets. Rather, the texts should be considered literary creations, even if some of the words of the prophet remain.74 As a consequence, the reports about oracles as they are contained in letters to the king should be regarded as the textual evidence which is closest to the prophetic event. For the Neo-Assyrian period, this should lead to a renewed effort to understand the implications and workings of 71  Nissinen (2003a: 29–30). However, as SAA 16 59, the letter by Bēl-aḫu-uṣur in which he reports that a slave/servant of Nabû-reḫtu-uṣur prophesied against Esarhaddon and in favour of a different contender to the throne, there was much more critical prophecy also in the Neo-Assyrian empire, and presumably elsewhere in the Ancient Near East. The fundamentally oral nature of prophecy means of course that only that which is written down survives. On critical voices in the Mari material see Charpin (2002: 26–28). In spite of some criticism regarding royal behaviour in specific contexts, the cuneiform prophetic texts never question the principle of kingship itself, which is connected to their nature as royal archives, Høgenhaven (1989). 72  Thus Nissinen (2003a: 31–32), pointing to Loretz (1992a: 208), Levin (1997) and especially Carroll (1989). 73  Thus also Blum (2008b: 85–88). 74  See also Nissinen (2005). While Huffmon (2000: 58–59) allows for some redaction to have taken place. He does not, however, take into account that for example in SAA 16 59 we have a letter reporting a prophecy, just as we have them in Mari, even though he mentions the reporting letters (p. 60).

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prophecy first of all on their own terms, rather than on the basis of the redacted and expanded texts in the so-called oracle collections. The oracle collections can perhaps better be used to understand how prophecy was used as a means of royal propaganda.75 This does not mean that they, and other literary developments of prophecy, do not have any importance for the study of prophecy.76 They are, by definition, the only way by which we can have any access to prophetic utterances before the first sound recordings. However, they are heavily coloured by the ideology of those who transmitted them. In the case of the royal archives from Mari and Nineveh, this results in a tendency for critical voices to be under-represented in the sources.77 15.7 Deities of Prophecy Dagan is the most frequently attested god in the prophetic texts from Mari, while Issār of Arbela, a form of Ištar, is attested most often in NeoAssyrian texts; in the Hebrew Bible the deity most often connected to ִ ‫נְ ִב‬ prophecy is Yhwh. However, also the Hebrew Bible attests to ‫יאם‬ (‘prophets’/‘diviners’) of other deities, namely Baʿal and Ašerah, even if the numbers cited in 1 Ki 18: 19 are polemically inflated.78 In all three corpora more than one deity communicates through prophecy.79 It is not surprising that in contrast to the plethora of deities who are represented in Neo-Assyrian and Old Babylonian prophetic texts, the Hebrew Bible only attests to prophets of Baʿal, Ašerah and Yhwh. In its language, Baʿal and Ašerah are the two archetypal ‘foreign’, non-Israelite

 Pongratz-Leisten (1999).  As pointed out by Nissinen (2004: 25). 77  This does not mean that an individual could not be criticized, especially for neglecting cultic duties, as occurs quite frequently in the Mari letters, Nissinen (2003a). 78  The narrative in 1 Kings 18 surely is a literary creation, e.g. Zapf (1998) and Beck (1999: 70–95). I do not share Lehnart’s (2003: 239) confidence that the pericope was already part of the Elijah cycle in its oral form (which Lehnart presumably would date to the 9th or 8th century), particularly given the difficulties of how such a composition would have survived the destruction of Samaria unchanged, and why it would be transmitted in a Judean history. 79  Huffmon (2003) shows that in Mari and in the Neo-Assyrian prophecies, most prophets tended to speak for one prophet only, as is the case in the Hebrew Bible. However, at times a prophet can invoke the words of more than one deity, an impossibility in the monotheistic imagination of the Hebrew Bible. 75

76

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 221 gods, one male and one female.80 As argued above, it is not unlikely that if a prophet was in the same place as the king, he or she did not need to approach a member of the royal family or a royal official in order to have their message transmitted to the king; instead, it would probably have been delivered orally.81 It has been suggested that in Neo-Assyrian prophecy almost all oracles go back to Ištar.82 If this were true, it would create a situation similar to that in the Hebrew Bible, where we find one deity dominating prophetic communication, with only a few exceptions to the rule. However, if we gather the attestations of deities and their prophets together with the prophetic oracles, we can see that it is not only Ištar who communicates through prophets, but other deities as well. 15.8 Being Sent The concept of a Sendungsbewusstsein, the sense of divine commission of the prophets in the Hebrew Bible, is part of the scholarly consensus, and is used to explain their call narratives.83 Most of the early comparative studies on biblical and Mari prophecy were carried out by biblical scholars and it is partly due to this that expressions such as DN išpuranni (‘DN sent me’) were interpreted to mean that prophets at Mari regarded themselves as commissioned in the same way.84 However, already early on, von Soden called for more caution as the expression is by no means ubiquitous.85 In the Neo-Assyrian texts, no evidence can be found to indicate whether or not prophets regarded themselves as sent by the deity for whom they spoke.

 Other gods, like Milkom are referred to by name in the Hebrew Bible, but when the Hebrew Bible polemicizes against non-specific ‘foreign’ gods, Baʿal and Ašerah are used as examples. 81  Contra the assumption by Nötscher (1966) that prophets could not approach the king but had to have their message sent through an intermediary. 82  E.g. Parpola (1997: xlvii–xlviii) but also Bonnet/Merlo (2002: 80). 83  E.g. Lindblom (1962: 182–197). 84  ARM 26 210 and 220. Noth (1957: 238) and Westermann (1964: 179) and Renger (1969: 218–221). 85  E.g. von Soden (1950: 321), Moran (1969: 24–27), Noort (1977: 30–32) and Koch (1972: 62–64). Nakata (1974: 146 n.25) cites Noort and Koch as writing that formulae such as Dagan išpuranni are characteristic of prophecy at Mari. However, both authors are more careful than that and only remark that they provide an interesting parallel. 80

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Recently, Huffmon pointed to six texts, ARM 26 210, 212, 220, 221, 233 and 240, to support the case for a Sendungsbewusstsein among prophets at Mari.86 As already pointed out by Nakata, four of the six texts are letters of Kibri-Dagan: ARM 26 210, 212, 220 and 221. ARM 26 210 refers to a female lay-prophet who has to reveal the authority by which she speaks. In ARM 26 212, it is not the assinnu Ili-ḫaznaya who claims to be sent by the deity (Annunītum). Instead, it is the message itself which is said to be sent by the deity. This statement is hardly surprising, given that a prophet cannot (or should not) transmit a message which has not previously been sent. The next two texts ARM 26 220 and 221 both describe a muḫḫûm of Dagan as speaking. The two texts are so similar that they may well describe the same event.87 The phrase Dagan išpuranni (ARM 26 220) / ilum išpuranni (ARM 26 221), (‘Dagan/the god has sent me’), can be understood as the idiosyncrasy of one muḫḫû. Also, the fact that KibriDagan was the author of these letters must be taken into account. Possibly, Kibri-Dagan used this phrase in order to indicate to Zimri-Lim that he, Kibri-Dagan, believed that the prophecy was genuine.88 The awareness of prophets at Mari that they were sent may have been there, but it is only mentioned with incidental prophets. No āpilum claims to have been sent. This suggests that the formula DN išpuranni (‘DN sent me’) was used by lay-prophets to express that their message originated with a deity. There are also several dream reports which use similar expressions. ARM 26 233 is sent by Itur-Asdu to Zimri-Lim. Itur-Asdu reports that a certain Malik-Dagan came to him to tell him about a dream he, Malik-Dagan, had had. In this dream, Malik-Dagan is on a journey, presumably to Mari, and stops over in Terqa where he goes into the temple of Dagan. There, Dagan speaks to Malik-Dagan and after questioning him, he gives him a message for Zimri-Lim including the line: inanna alik aštaparka (‘now go! I have sent you!).89 It is important to realize that this text is a dream-report and not the report of a prophetic message—none of the Mari prophets ever relates that they received their message in a dream. Further, Zgoll has shown that among all the Mari dreams, only ARM 26 236 is a vision.90 The other dream-texts should be regarded as dream omens. Like prophecy,  Huffmon (2000: 56).  They also share a concern with offerings and ritual matters. 88  A third explanation is also possible, but in view of the fact that no other muḫḫûm ever uses a similar expression, less likely: the muḫḫûm was not a prophet as the āpilum was, and therefore needed to state the source of his authority. 89  ARM 26 233: 32. 90  Zgoll (2006: 164). 86 87

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 223 they belong to the class of unsolicited oracles. However, they have their own terminology, such as the verb naṭālu (‘to see’), which shows that they were a form of communication distinct from prophecy. The case is similar with ARM 26 240, another dream-report in which the expression išpuranni (‘she sent me’) is used as part of the opening formula: [u ina š]uttiya bēlet-[ekallim] 11[kīam išp]uranni 12[ummāmi . . .]

10

[and in] my [s]leep Bēlet-[ekallim] 11[se]nt me 12[(saying) thus . . .]

10

Normally we would expect a verbum dicendi like iqbû (‘she spoke’) or similar. The fact that the divine message comes to Timlû in a dream makes this text part of the group of dreams and it should be interpreted accordingly. Thus, deities can send individuals at Mari in their dreams, but this does not happen to professional prophets. The issue raises an important theoretical point: is someone who is known to transmit divine messages ‘sent’ by that deity, or how is this act of transmission to be understood? Someone who is possessed by a spirit or deity can hardly be said to be sent, as they would no longer be in control of their own behaviour. This corresponds to the classic understanding of ecstatic prophecy, where a deity uses someone’s body to speak. A striking case of this understanding of a prophetic message can be found in ARM 26 213: 6–7 with the assinnu Šēlebum: 6

Šēlebum 7immaḫḫu umma Annunītumma

6

Šēlebum 7raved (and) thus said Annunītum.

The name of the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm and the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû suggest that this is the manner in which they received messages. The alternative is that of a deity speaking to a human messenger, who is aware that they are being commissioned to go and pronounce their message to the intended recipient. In the case of the Old Babylonian āpilum this seems to be the more likely form of transmission, as their title means ‘spokesperson’. However, no firm conclusions on this can be reached from the material, as the Mari letters do not report the manner in which prophetic oracles are received. Similarly, the manner in which the Neo-Assyrian raggintu received her messages is entirely unclear. Some textbooks on prophetic literature describe the raggintu as an ecstatic but there is no evidence for this.91 If  E.g. Rogerson/Davies (2005: 167–169).

91

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the observation is correct that in general, Old Babylonian prophecy and Neo-Assyrian prophecy are organised in a similar way, it seems more likely that the raggintu was a messenger rather than an ecstatic, like her Old Babylonian counterpart the āpilum. Divine Council In a number of prophetic books in the Hebrew Bible, particularly Isaiah and Jeremiah, the prophet is portrayed in a setting which Jeremiah calls the Council of Yhwh.92 There can be no doubt that as the text stands, the Hebrew Bible portrays and even demands that prophets took part in the divine council.93 There is, of course, also evidence for the ‘divine council’ in the text from Deir Alla, so that the phenomenon is not limited to prophetic texts from Mesopotamia.94 Recently, Nissinen has argued that ‘in Assyria, sitting in the council of God indeed was an essential prerequisite of prophecy.’95 He portrays an impressive array of texts in support of his thesis. While the idea of the ‘council of the gods’ is indeed well attested in cuneiform sources, in my analysis, most of the texts do not support Nissinen’s theory about the presence of prophets in the divine council. I will quickly assess the texts for each corpus. For Old Babylonian prophecy, Nissinen relies on ARM 26 196 and 208 from Mari and FLP 1674 from Ešnunna. ARM 26 208 is a letter by queen Šibtu to her husband Zimri-Lim. In the letter she reports that Qišti-Dēritum, an āpilum had come to her in order to announce an oracle. On the reverse of the tablet a divine council is described as taking place. Nissinen assumes that the reverse belongs to Qišti-Dēritum’s message. However, the last word which is readable on the obverse is šanītam (‘secondly’), which in Old Babylonian letters usually indicates that a different topic starts.96 That means the prophet’s message was probably finished by this point, and that the reverse belongs to a different text. Indeed, considering the other dream texts from Mari, it seems more likely to me that the scene which is described here should be attributed to a dream.

92  E.g. Isaiah 6 and Jeremiah 23. For a list of references see Mullen (1980). The divine council also features in the Deir Alla Inscription. 93  Jer 23: 18: ‘But he who has stood in the council of Yhwh and seen and heard his word, he who has listened to his word must obey.’ 94  See Nissinen (2002b). 95  Nissinen (2002b: 16). 96  ARM 26 208: 15. Nissinen (2002b: 7–8).

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 225 The case is similar with the second text, ARM 26 196. Nissinen writes: The damage of the tablet does not allow us to conclude who the visionary was, but, since the king has obliged him to report every oracle he hears to be delivered in the temple of God, the vision presumably was delivered in the temple of Dagan in Terqa by a local prophet or other visionary.97

However, there is no reason to assume that the scene which is described should be linked to prophecy, rather than to a dream.98 The text from Ešnunna, FLP 1674, is a tablet which contains a prophetic oracle with a very short introduction indeed. In the oracle, Kititum, a form of Ištar worshipped at Ešnunna, announces to the king that she communicates the decisions of the divine council to him. This means that the prophet does not need to be present in the council at all—the goddess communicates the council’s decisions to him, and it is the prophet’s duty to transmit them to the king. Therefore, none of the three texts supports Nissinen’s theory that prophets were present in the divine council in Old Babylonian texts. What can be said is that the divine council communicated to the king, and one of the possible ways a member of the divine council could communicate to the king, was through prophecy.99 Indeed, the situation is similar with the Neo-Assyrian texts which Nissinen cites.100 It is true that Neo-Assyrian prophetic oracles include messages in which a deity, usually a form of Ištar, says that she is active on the king’s behalf in the divine council. As Nissinen admits, ‘the prophets never play a personal role in the process.’101 The prophetic involvement in the divine council is limited to the prophets’ role of transmitting the divine message which they had received from a deity, who was acting as a messenger, reporting the decisions of the divine council him- or herself. The only text which does suggest some connection between the maḫḫāte and the divine council is SAA 12 69, the ration list from the Aššur temple in Aššur. The text clearly states that the (female) maḫḫāte are to be given vast amounts of barley presumably for use in the ritual.102 As I have argued

 Nissinen (2002b: 9).  On Mari dreams see especially Zgoll (2006). 99  On the divine council in prayers in the ancient Near East and the Hebrew Bible see Hartenstein (2008) and Zgoll (2005). 100  SAA 3 13, SAA 9 9, SAA 13 139, Prism B v 15–vi 16 and SAA 12 69. 101  Nissinen (2002b: 15). 102  Nissinen assumes that the barley was intended for beer. But all the other professionals who receive barley receive it for bread, which probably means that the ecstatics were 97

98

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above, the maḫḫû is probably best understood as an ecstatic and only an occasional prophet, rather than an official whose role was focused on prophecy. No prophets can be said to have been involved in the divine council in the Old Babylonian period. For the Neo-Assyrian period, a link can be shown between a group of ecstatics and the divine council, but as the ecstatics should not be understood as professional prophets the link between prophecy and the divine council in cuneiform text is limited to the transmission of messages to the king, messages which the prophets received from a deity, who him- or herself functioned as a messenger of the divine council’s decisions.103 Ecstasy With regard to the Hebrew Bible, the evidence is ambiguous with regard to the ‫נביא‬. Only the groups of ‫ נביאים‬in 1 Samuel and in 1–2 Kings show truly ecstatic behaviour. However, these groups are not portrayed as delivering oracles. Instead, they dance, cut themselves and play music—all well known as trance-inducing techniques from the anthropological record. In contrast to these groups of ‫נביאים‬, many of the writing prophets in the Hebrew Bible are portrayed as being sent by Yhwh, often as part of the prophet’s call narrative.104 The image of the writing prophet is that of a messenger sent by the deity, and therefore endorsed by the deity (and not the royal administration). This means that when the term ‫ נביא‬started to be used for the writing prophets, the concept of their independence of the royal court was transferred on to the ‫ נביאים‬in general: a ‫ נביא‬was someone who was inherently ‘authorized’ by Yhwh against the worldly authorities. The deuteronomistic call narratives were composed as expressions of this status. There are also prophets such as Nathan, Micaiah ben Imlah and the 400 prophets in 2 Ki 22: 1–40, who do not display any form of ecstatic behaviour and are more similar to technical diviners. The way they are being approached by the kings in order to discern the will of Yhwh prior to a military campaign is reminiscent of haruspicy, which would have

not given rationed beer to help them with their trance. 103  It may be possible to assume that in the first millennium the idea of prophetic involvement in the divine council developed. In the Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts the deities are present in the divine council and there intercede for the king—in biblical texts the prophet intercedes and is present in the divine council as no other deity can fulfil this function. 104  E.g. Jer 1: 7, Eze 2: 4.

comparison of old babylonian, neo-assyrian & biblical prophecy 227 been carried out in most Mesopotamian cities and states before going to war as well. This would suggest that the ecstatic ‫נביא‬, the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm and the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫûm are expressions of their respective religious systems. The later messenger-‫ נביא‬and the Old Babylonian āpilum can be regarded as an expression of a different kind of prophecy, not based on ecstatic performance, a kind of prophecy which developed into ‘scribal prophecy’ during the exilic and post-exilic periods. It is likely that the Neo-Assyrian raggintu should also be understood as a female messenger prophet, however the evidence is inconclusive.

chapter sixteen

Conclusions We have reached the end of this comparative study on prophecy in the ancient Near East, having studied each system of how prophecy was integrated in the respective culture, before comparing them with each other. We have seen that substantial similarities exist between all three cultures, but that there are also important differences. On the whole, this is not surprising, as we can expect cultures in a Kulturkreis such as that of the ancient Near East to develop in diverse but related ways. Several topics have been of special interest: the relation between music and prophecy, the gender distribution of prophets in each culture, concepts of ecstatic and non-ecstatic prophecy and the terminology used for various kinds of prophets. Regarding prophecy at Mari, the realization that the muḫḫûm was regarded as a cult ecstatic, rather than a professional prophet, is an important result. In all likelihood, the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû fulfilled a similar role. It is probably due to chance that we possess relatively many messages from Mariote muḫḫū compared to other ecstatic cult functionaries. The translation of āpilum as ‘spokesperson’ offers the opportunity to translate better the function of this specialist within Mariote society, taking seriously that there is no evidence that they ‘answer’ any questions. With regard to the translation ‘translator’ as suggested by Fronzaroli, van der Toorn, Merlo and recently also Durand, the translation ‘spokesperson’ has the advantage that it takes serious Durand’s concerns that all diviners are ‘interpreters’ from the divine to the human sphere.1 While music and prophecy in the ancient Near East occur in similar contexts, no functional link between the two can be demonstrated in the cuneiform evidence. In view of 2 Ki 3: 15 the Elijah-Elisha tradition points toward the use of music in order to achieve ecstasy, which probably formed part of prophets’ method of receiving divine messages. It is,

1  Fronzaroli (1980), van der Toorn (1998a: 60), Merlo (2004) and Durand (2008a: 441 n.19).

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however, also possible that this text was written at a time when music and ‘prophecy’ was already well established in post-exilic times. More than 50 years ago, Eissfeldt wrote that most scholars can be seen as belonging to one of two groups. The first believed that the pre-classical prophets were ecstatic, while the classical prophets were not. The second group of scholars believed that both pre-classical and classical prophecy was ecstatic. Both groups of scholars agree, therefore, that pre-classical prophecy was ecstatic and differ only in their interpretation of classical prophecy.2 We might go a step further and speculate that initially, the term ‫ נביא‬included two different aspects, ecstasy on the one hand and on the other technical divination.3 This would mean that the word ‫ נביא‬was first used for two distinct roles, neither of which was primarily prophetic. The Old Babylonian muḫḫûm and the Neo-Assyrian maḫḫû were ecstatics with prophetic experiences and it is likely that the ecstatic kind of ‫נביא‬ resembled them. It must remain open which term was used in the eighth century for people like the writing prophets, or people who prophesied who were not professional prophets.4 It is important to stress that this does not mean that they were not thought to speak for Yhwh; they simply had other professions and thus should be classified as lay-prophets. If this characterization is true, then it seems logical to assume that at some point, there was at least one individual who combined the office of a ‫ נביא‬on the one hand, with an outlook closer to that of the earlier writing prophets on the other. This assumption could, then, explain the wide variety and disparity of characters referred to as ‫ נביא‬in the Hebrew Bible.

2  Eissfeldt (1951). See also Haran (1977). Holladay Jr. (1970) regards the change between pre-classical and classical to be related to the change of the political situation that Israel and Judah find themselves in from the eighth century onwards when they become dependent on Assyria and later Babylon. Huffmon (2012) uses the exclusivity of the political communication in Assyria as a model to interpret the exclusivity of divine communication through prophecy in the Hebrew tradition. 3  Sasson (1998: 118–119) had suggested that in their function the Hebrew ‫ נביא‬was more similar to the Mesopotamian haruspex called bārû (‘seer’). The two cuneiform attestations of the plural nabī seem to suggest that a term related to ‫ נביא‬was used for some form of a technical diviner in 18th century Mari and 13th century Emar (both BCE). PongratzLeisten (1999) has shown how the various kinds of divination, including intuitive and technical kinds, were used by Mesopotamian kings to legitimize their kingship and to rule their kingdoms. With regard to the Old Babylonian material, Launderville (2003) study is interesting from a literary point of view, but it suffers somewhat by relying on outdated textual editions of prophetic texts. 4  I refer to Jepsen (1934), Auld (1983a and 1983b), Gonçalves (2001) and de Jong (2011).



conclusions

231

The gender distribution of prophets in the three corpora showed that while Mari has a relatively even distribution overall, a difference was clearly marked between the higher-status āpilum and the lower status muḫḫûm. The former were almost exclusively male, whereas the latter showed a fairly even distribution. Among lay-prophets, and especially among dreamers, it seems that women predominated. In the Neo-Assyrian texts, the majority of prophets were women. However, this is not as exclusive as has hitherto been presented. The picture of exclusivity is due to the fact that until recently the oracle collections have been taken as the main source for the study of Neo-Assyrian prophecy.5 However, the matter is relatively difficult to assess once and for all, as prophetic titles are used much more sparingly in Neo-Assyrian texts than in Old Babylonian sources. It is probably safe to say that the majority of official prophets in the Neo-Assyrian empire were female. The picture drawn in the Hebrew Bible of such a small number of female prophets probably does not reflect historical reality.6 There were probably more than the five mentioned in the biblical text.7 Huldah is certainly introduced in the text of Kings without the author making an issue out of her gender.8 When looking at the terminology for the individual prophetic offices in the three cultures we immediately see that the Old Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian prophecy share one term: muḫḫûm/maḫḫû. This alone should have prevented Parpola’s and Nissinen’s interpretation of the NeoAssyrian raggintu as the successor of the Old Babylonian muḫḫûm.9 The existence of both in the same clause in Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty settles the matter.10 As the āpilum never answers any questions, Fronzaroli had suggested translating the term not as ‘answerer’ but as ‘spokesperson’. I fine-tuned his suggestion and translate ‘spokesperson’. Further, the Old Babylonian and Emar nabī and the biblical ‫ נביאים‬are certainly etymological cognates. Yet, as Barr has shown, no functional similarity can be deduced from etymological relationships between terms. It seems, however, not

 In spite of the helpful collection of non-oracular material by Nissinen (1998).  E.g. Häusl (2001), Fischer (2002) and Gafney (2008). 7  The small number of five may well have to be reduced when looking at the texts historically. Miriam’s and Deborah’s historicity as prophets is difficult to substantiate. 8  Contra Weems (2003). 9  Contra Parpola (1997: xlv–lxxix) and Nissinen (1991: 228). 10  Lines 116–117, Watanabe (1987: 72, 148–149). 5

6

232

chapter sixteen

completely unfounded to suggest tentatively a link between the Old Babylonian nabī and those biblical ‫ נביאים‬who were active as technical diviners, for example Nathan.11 I started with an open mind regarding the differences and similarities between Neo-Assyrian and Old Babylonian prophecy. Having studied the texts closely I have come to the conclusion that the principles underlying the way prophecy worked in those two societies seem to have been very similar indeed. The nature of the sources and their level of redaction is, however, considerably different. The Old Babylonian prophecy reports in administrative letters give us an image of prophetic utterances that does not seem to be as influenced by the official line as those in the Neo-Assyrian oracle collections, none of which appear to have escaped a process of redaction. This has implications not only for the study of the divinatory system of Old Babylonian and Neo-Assyrian cultures, but also for their use as comparative material for the study of prophecy in the Hebrew Bible. If the recent shift from oral to written prophecy as the main focus for the study of prophecy is sustained, the Neo-Assyrian prophetic texts may be more suitable for comparison, precisely because they have been redacted, and thus resemble more closely the nature of the prophetic texts in the Hebrew Bible.12

11  How the Emar nabī fit into this must remain open, as their function cannot be described from the Emar texts with any sense of certainty (see section 13.1.1.2). As the evidence stands, it seems more likely that they were somehow involved in ancestor worship of some kind. This worship may or may not have included necromancy. There is simply no indication in the texts. 12  This is not to say that the Old Babylonian prophetic texts are prophetic ipsissima verba, as van der Toorn (1998a) has shown conclusively.

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General Index Administration, royal 35, 44, 53, 55, 69, 130–131, 171, 199, 226 Administrative texts 30, 108 Admonition of Ipu-Wer 14 Agency  Definition of 12–13  Instrumental agency 13–25 Akkadian Prophecies 21, 137, 151 Ammon Citadel Inscription 19, 22–23 Anthropology 11–14 Being sent 3, 45 n.42, 47, 76, 84, 92, 98–99, 206, 207 n.11, 226 Cult  Cult functionary 9  Cultic prophecy 99, 143–146, 206, 207 n.11, 210 Deir Alla 19–21, 23, 192 n.192, 224 Deir Rifa 19, 22–23, 192 n.192 Definition of prophecy 7–11, 18 Deuteronomist 174–175, 180–181, 183, 185 n.157, 188, 194 n.198, 197, 208, 226 Divine Council 108, 208, 224–226 Diviner, divination Technical diviner 10, 37, 64, 66, 174–175, 179, 216, 226, 230 n.3, 232 Haruspex, hepatoscopy 10, 24–26, 44, 82–83, 104, 116, 155 n.3, 175, 192, 202, 208 n.16, 216, 226, 230 n.3  Intuitive diviner 10, 38, 52 n.69, 161 Dreams 9 n.38, 17, 79–81, 84–86, 95, 98, 112, 181 n.136, 222–223, 225 n.98 Eanna 34 n.44, 57, 135 Ecstatic, Ecstasy 1, 9–12, 14–15, 17, 19, 32, 37, 38 n.6, 39 n.12, 44, 49 n.62, 51–53, 57–58, 60, 65–69, 91–94, 97–100, 103 n.4, 109, 111, 114–115, 119, 135, 145, 148, 159, 173–175, 184 n.152, 186, 200, 207–214, 223–224, 225 n.102, 226–227, 229–230 Eḫulḫul 136 Elijah-Elisha Cycle 174, 175 n.103, 229 Esagila 104, 134 Ešarra 147 n.22

Etymology 4, 9 n.39, 14, 41, 51–53, 61, 63, 118 n.39, 156, 158–167 Female prophets 1 n.3, 67 n.151, 113, 123–125, 144 n.8, 155, 162, 166, 186–192, 201, 207, 211, 214, 216–217, 231 Gender 13, 48, 58–60, 67–69, 84, 98–99, 111 n.1, 121–124, 127, 146 n.16, 152, 190, 217, 229, 231 Geography 74, 88–90, 149, 175 Greek Divination 23–25 Groups 3, 6, 45 n.42, 64–68, 80, 88, 93–94, 99–100, 115, 173–176, 206–209, 214, 216 n.59, 226, 230 Hair and Hem 53, 81–86, 170 n.80 Intercession 78 n.42, 206, 215–216 Kingship 33, 94 n.37, 116, 124, 136, 200, 216, 218, 219 n.71, 230 n.3 Laments, lamentation 9, 21 n.99, 37, 51, 57, 97 n.1, 145, 159 n.13, 170, 210–213 Lay-prophet 9 n.42, 13, 37, 44, 50-63, 68, 76, 79, 95, 98, 117–121, 157, 173 n.93, 180, 200–201, 222, 230–231 Letters 3, 4 n.11, 29 n.2, 32–35, 44–45, 47-48, 50, 58, 63, 64 n.133, 71–79, 81, 84–85 n.79, 88, 90, 94, 98, 103–105, 112–113, 115–117, 126, 130–134, 138, 148 n.30, 151, 161, 167–171, 205 n.2, 207, 218–219, 220 n.77, 222–224, 232 Letters from gods 33, 72, 75 n.25, 138 Lexical Lists 14 n.61, 29-30, 39–43, 52 n.69, 59, 108–109, 112, 119, 143, 159–160, 164 n.46 Literary predictive texts 23, 133 n.22 Literary texts 33, 98 n.5, 215 Magic 7–8, 54, 81–83, 155, 178 n.111, 191, 215 n.52 Man of god 16–17, 156, 198 Military 3, 48–49, 107–108, 115 n.23, 126, 134, 170–171, 208, 226

282

general index

Monotheism 1, 147–148, 220 n.79 Music 56–58, 65, 68 n.153, 99, 145, 174–175, 187, 191, 195, 196 n.215, 206, 207 n.11, 210 n.28, 211–215, 226, 229–230 Omen lists 24, 39, 41–42, 108, 119 Oracles against the Nation 20, 93 Oracle of salvation 3, 21–22 Oracle of doom 8 n.36, 20–21, 93, 208 Philological 33 n.42, 38–43, 79, 81, 111, 189 Priests 17, 34, 42, 59, 63, 71 n.4, 73, 124, 157 n.3, 164, 166, 172, 177 Professional prophet 13, 37–38, 43–44, 51, 53 n.74, 67, 76, 79–80, 92 n.25, 97–100, 117, 120, 125, 152, 157, 200, 223, 226, 229–230 Ritual 8 n.36, 17, 25 n.118, 30, 34, 45, 55–57, 60, 65–68, 83, 86, 97, 99–100, 103, 104 n.5, 105–108, 113 n.13, 118–119, 121, 122 n.66, 124, 126 n.83, 140, 143–144, 164, 173 n.93, 207–208, 210–212, 214, 216, 217 n.61, 222 n.87, 225

Sacrifice 43 n.30, 55, 105, 164 Sammeltafeln 98 n.5, 106, 131–132, 136 n.35, 137, 151 Scribe, scribal activity 32, 74, 113, 117 n.33, 123, 129, 132, 135, 137, 141 n.70, 151, 155 n.1, 212 Shaman, Shamanism 12 n.54, 58 n.102, 60, 97, 99 Symbolic Action 35, 54, 55 n.87, 95 Temple 10, 15, 31, 33, 37, 45, 47, 49, 55–56, 68, 75, 77, 80, 84–85, 89–95, 104, 108, 112–113, 124, 134, 136, 144–145, 158 n.8, 165–166, 173 n.93, 174–175, 195–196, 199–200, 209–210, 215, 222, 225 Trance 9, 12, 15, 37, 44–45, 49–50, 55, 57 n.93, 58, 60, 63, 98, 173, 211, 213–215, 226 n.102 War see military West Semitic influence (alleged) 90, 161–162 Word play 54, 199 Zakkur Inscription 3, 15, 19, 21, 23, 136 n.39, 192 n.19

Names

Divine Names Names with an asterisk are individual forms of Ištar Adad 33, 87, 94 n.37   of Aleppo 31, 48 n.54, 55–56, 71 n.5,   77, 94 n.37   of Kallassu 33, 94 n.37, 161 Amu of Ḫubšalum 66 Anat 188 Annunītum* 30–31, 51, 58, 60, 63, 74, 84–85, 87, 89, 122 n.66, 222–223 Ašerah 173 n.92, 174 n.100, 189, 191 n.186, 208, 216–217, 220, 221 n.80 Aššur 108, 119, 133 n.23, 138–139, 144, 146, 148, 173 n.93, 208, 210, 225 Baʿal 90 n.18, 173–174, 208, 220, 221 n.80 Baʿal-Šamen 21 Banītu* 146 Bēl 19, 52 n.71, 104, 116–117, 146 Bēlet Babili* 107, 146 Bēlet Ekallim* 223 Bēlet Kidmuri* 146 Dagan 23, 31–32, 45–46, 48, 63, 76–77, 87, 91, 165 n.53, 220–222   of Terqa 46–47, 225 Dēritum* 46–48, 87 Ea 60 El 18, 94 Enki 60 Ereškigal 59, 71 n.3, 73 Issār* see Ištar Išḫara 164–166 Ištar 33–34, 47, 53, 57–61, 65, 67, 73, 75 n.24, 87, 107, 117, 119, 121, 125, 136, 138–140, 143, 146–148, 212, 220–221, 225   of Arbela 33, 104, 106, 116 n.28, 125, 139, 143 n.1, 144, 146, 220   of Aššur 146 n.18

  of Ḫuzirina 122   of Nineveh 104, 116 n.28, 146 n.18   of Nīnet 33, 87 Itūr-Mēr 30, 80 Kititum* 33, 75, 225 Marduk 32, 40, 51, 87, 90 n.18, 105, 107, 115, 136–137, 144–146, 148, 151 Milkom 22, 221 n.80 Mullissu* 33, 124, 146, 147 n.23 Nabû 63, 66, 115, 146, 159 n.14, 162–166, 207 n.12 Nanâ* see Nanaya Nanaya* 33, 146 Nergal 30–31, 146, 148 Nikkal* 116 n.28, 146, 148 n.30 Ninḫursag 31 Ninurta 103 n.4, 117, 146, 148 Nusku 76 n.30, 117–118, 146, 148 Sîn 116, 134 n.27, 136, 146, 148 Ṣarpanitu 104, 117, 146 Šamaš 20, 32–33, 44 n.34, 51 n.66, 61 n.118, 75, 87, 146, 148 Tiamat 90 n.18, 114 n.15 Urkittu 146 Yam 90 n.18 YHWH 8 n.32, 17 n.74, 93 n.36, 174, 177–178, 186, 190, 191 n.186, 195 n.206, 198, 214, 215 n.52, 217 n.61, 220, 224, 226, 230 Zababa 33, 87

284

names Personal Names

Aaron 171 n.84, 176–177, 184 Abba 64 Abigail 187 n.163 Abimelech 176 Abiya 33 Abraham 171 n.84, 176, 184, 186, 216 Abu-ḫalim 71 n.5 Adad-aḫu-iddina 105, 113 Adad-šumu-uṣur 117 Addu-dūri 84, 95 Aḫatum 63 Ahaziah 174 Ahijah 171 Aḫšēri 136 Aḫum 63 Aḫuwaqar 30 Amasai 157 n.3 Amaziah 182–183, 199, 210 Amos 157, 172, 182–185, 193, 199, 201, 210 Annu-tabni 30, 68 n.155 Asa 198 Asaph 194–195 Asqudum 86 n.82 Assurbanipal 104–107, 112, 115–118, 124, 126, 133–136, 138, 149 Aššur-ḫamatuʾa 105, 116 Atamrum 32, 44 n.34 Azariah 157 n.3, 171, 172 n.84 Bāia 122–124, 152 Balaam 20–21 Bar-Hadad II 21 Bāša 51 n.66, 61 n.118 Bēl-aḫu-uṣur 76 n.30, 117, 119, 148, 219 n.71 Bēl-erība 117 Bēl-ušezib 104, 113, 116–117, 125, 134 Dadâ 134 Dagan-malik 63 Damqî 124, 144 Daniel 176 n.84 Deborah 23, 171 n.84, 183, 186–189, 216 n.57, 231 n.7 Dunnaša-āmur 120 Ea-maṣi 30, 68 n.155 Ea-mudammiq 30, 68 n.155 Eḫlip-Addu 31 Elijah 171, 173, 208, 215 n.52 Elisha 171, 173, 208 n.15, 214–215 Esarhaddon 103 n.4, 104–105, 107, 112–119, 124, 131, 133–136, 146 n.20, 148–149, 219 n.71, 231

Esther 84, 187 n.163 Ezekiel 55 n.87, 172, 179–182, 185–186, 191–192, 194 n.199, 201, 215–216 Gad 171, 194–195 Habakkuk 155 n.1, 171, 172 n.84, 179, 185, 194 Ḫadnu-El 64, 68 n.155 Haggai 155 n.1, 171, 179 Ḫammurapi 32, 66 n.144, 77, 89, 159, 176 Hanani 171, 181, 194–195, 198–199 Hananiah 171, 181 Hannah 186, 187 n.163 Haušaʿyahu 170 Ḫaya-sumu 31 Heman 194–195 Hosea 172, 185, 201 Ḫubatum 68 n.155 Huldah 171, 187, 189–190, 191 n.186, 216, 217 n.61, 231 Ibal-pî-Ēl 75, 87 n.2 Iddin-kubi 64, 68 n.155 Iddo 171, 194–195 Ili-andulli 30 Ili-ḫaznaya 51 n.67, 222 Ilussa-āmur 152 Inibšina 71 n.4, 73, 84 Innibana 84 Irra-gāmil 30–31, 68 n.155 Isaiah 171–172, 179, 185, 189, 194, 196, 199 n.231, 201, 218, 224 Issār-lā-tašiāṭ 122–124 Issār-šumu-ēreš 117 Išḫi-Dagan 31, 89 Išme-Dagan 50 Itur-Asdu 84–85, 222 Jahaziel 157 n.3 Jeduthun 194–195 Jehoram 174 Jehoshaphat 198 Jehu (ben Hanani) 171 n.84, 194–195 Jeremiah 155 n.1, 169, 171–172, 174–176, 177–178 n.111, 179–182, 185–186, 189, 198 n.228, 200–201, 215, 224 Joel 172, 216 n.58 Jonah 171, 172 n.84 Kakkalidi 80 Kibri-Dagan 62, 76, 95, 222



names

Lā-dāgil-ili 120–121, 140 n.66 Lupaḫum 31, 45–49, 89, 113 Manatan 65, 207 Malachi 172 Malik-Dagan 85, 222 Manatan 65 n.138, 207 Mār-Issār 105, 113, 144 n.9 Marduk-šakin-šumi 117 Marduk-šumu-uṣur 104, 116, 133 n.23 Micah 172, 185, 193, 196, 201 Micaiah ben Imla 208, 226 Miriam 171, 172 n.84, 176, 184, 186–187, 188 n.166, 214, 216 n.57, 231 n.7 Moses  176–177, 180 n.123, 181, 184, 187, 189, 198–199, 215–216 Mullissu-abu-uṣri 113, 124, 144 Mullissu-kabtat 113, 120, 124 Nabû-nadin-šumi 104, 117, 134 Nabû-rēḫtu-uṣur 76 n.30, 116–118, 134, 219 n.71 Nabû-rēšī-išši 105, 116 Nahum 170, 194 Nathan 171–172, 226, 232 Necho (Pharao) 157 n.3 Nehemiah 190–191, 193 Nergal-šallim 117 Noadiah 171, 187, 190–191, 216 n.57 Nobai 167 n.59 Nūr-Sîn 33, 56 n.90, 74, 82, 84–85, 89, 207 Obadiah 172, 194 Oded 157 n.3, 171, 172 n.84 ‘Pythia’ 23–24, 98 n.4, 188

285

Sammetar 31–32, 45, 47–48, 73, 91 Samsi-Addu 90–91 Samsu-iluna 33, 34 n.42, 66 n.144, 159 Samuel 171, 172 n.84, 176, 186 n.161, 187 n.163, 197–200, 215 Sarah 187 n.163 Sasî 60 n.114, 105, 117–118, 148 Saul 17 n.74, 173, 197 n.223, 200, 209 Sennacherib 134, 149, 179 Sîn-kašid 33 Sumu-ḫadu 53 Šallum 169–170, 189 Šamaš-naṣir 74 n.20 Šamaš-šumu-ukin 124 Šēlebum 31, 51 n.67, 71, 73, 84–85, 223 Šemaiah 169 n.73, 171, 172 n.84 Šibtu 50 n.62, 63, 80, 224 Šobal (Shobal) 196 Tašmatu-ēreš 120, 125 Tebī-gērišu 64 Timlû 223 Tobiah 169–170 Urad-gula 104, 112, 126–127 Yadduaʿ 169–170 Yaḫdun-Lim 90, 94 n.37 Yarim-Addu 32, 89 Yarim-Lim 56 n.90, 77, 85, 94 n.37 Yasim-El 32 Yasmaḫ-Addu 32, 53, 90 n.15, 91 Yaʿuš 170 Yoram  214 Zakkur 21–22 Zakira-ḫammu 32 Zechariah 157 n.3, 171, 172 n.84, 179 Zephaniah 172, 185, 189 n.175 Zimri-Lim 33–34, 45, 47–48, 53, 56 n.90, 63–64, 72, 74, 76–77, 78 n.42, 82, 85 n.81, 87, 89–91, 94, 207, 222, 224

Qišatum 31, 49 Qišti-Dēritum 224 Qn 19, 23 Quqî 108, 126 Rahab 187 n.163 Ribbiya 30

Geographic Names Andarig 88 Aleppo 29, 31, 33, 48 n.54, 55–56, 71 n.5, 77, 84, 89 Ammon 19, 22–23 Aram 208 Arbela 33, 104, 106, 116 n.28, 122, 125, 139–140, 143 n.1, 144, 146, 149, 220

Aššur 43 n.30, 108, 119, 146 n.18, 149, 173 n.93, 208–210, 225 Babylon 29, 32, 77, 88–89, 104–105, 107, 117, 124, 144–145, 149 n.33, 176, 230 n.2

286

names

Chagar Bazar 1, 31, 48 n.54, 52 n.70, 55–56, 67 n.148 Dāra-aḫuya 149 Deir Alla 192 n.192, 224 Deir Rifa 19, 22, 192 n.192 Delphi 23, 73, 93, 98 n.4, 188 Dēr 46–48, 89, 113 Ebla 14, 41–42, 53 n.74, 158–160, 166, 201 Egypt 14, 15 n.64, 16, 22, 116 Ekron 174 Elam 106, 115, 135 Emar 14, 63–64, 156, 158, 161–167, 191 n.184, 201, 230 n.3, 231, 232 n.11 Endor 186 n.161 Ešnunna 1, 29, 46, 72, 75, 87, 89–90, 224–225 Gaššum 32, 66, 67 n.147 Greece 9 n.39, 23–24 Ḫabur 46 n.49 Ḫaneans 64, 161 Harran 116, 136 Hittites 16 Ḫubur 46 n.49 Idamaraṣ 31, 66 Ilanṣūra 31 Iščali 33, 72, 75, 90, 138 n.51

Jerusalem 174–175, 189, 199 Judah 2, 21, 94, 145, 155, 171, 173, 178–180, 185 n.156, 199–200, 209, 211, 216–219, 230 n.2 Kalḫu 149 Kiš 29, 33, 34 n.42 Lachish 167, 170–171 Larsa 30 Nineveh 104, 114, 116, 146, 149, 220 Nuzi 43 Qatna 30 Saggaratum 46–47, 54 Samaria 220 n.78 Susa 30 Tell ed-Dēr 30 Terqa 23, 45–47, 89, 222, 225 Tuttul 1, 23, 31, 46–48, 52 n.70, 89, 113 Ugarit 18–19, 103 n.4, 186 n.160 Uruk 1, 29, 33, 34 n.44, 89–90, 135, 137, 151 Yamḫad see Aleppo Yaminites 46 Yamutbaleans 32, 66, 67 n.147 Zakkur 3, 15, 19, 21–23, 136 n.39, 192 n.192 Ziyaret Tepe 26

Terms referred TO Akkadian ʾpl 38, 41–42 apālu 41–42, 46, 50 n.62 adê 139 āpilum 4, 30–33, 37–45, 47–51, 53 n.74, 55, 64 n.135, 68–69, 71–72, 75, 79, 89, 91, 93–94, 97–99, 108–109, 113, 152, 160–161, 192 n.19, 207, 209, 211 n.29, 216, 222–224, 227, 229, 231 āpiltum 31, 43 n.30, 50 n.62, 68, 84, 99, 209 apillû 39–41, 108 assinnatu 59 assinnu 12 n.54, 14, 31, 37, 44, 51–52, 57–61, 67, 97, 99, 121, 210–211, 222–223 bārû 37, 49, 64, 68, 161, 208 n.16, 216, 230 n.3 diglu 104 n.11 etqum 53, 62 i/egerrûm 78–79 kurgarrû 58–59 lumaḫḫum 34 maḫḫûtu 39 n.12, 108–109, 111 n.1, 114, 119–120, 124 n.74, 143, 152, 208–209, 214 n.45, 225 maḫḫû 9–10, 14, 19, 34, 39 n.12, 53, 57, 107–109, 111, 114–115, 118–120, 124 n.74, 135, 143–145, 149, 151–152, 160, 208–210, 214 n.45, 223, 226–227, 229, 230–231 m.ḫ.ʾ 52, 66 n.142, 118 maḫû 52, 56–57, 65–66, 97, 114 n.15, 118, 135, 211–212 namḫû 66 n.142, 93, 95, 99, 212–213, 223 muḫḫûm 9–10, 14, 30–32, 34, 37–40, 44, 48 n.54, 49 n.62, 51–57, 62, 64–69, 77, 89, 91, 93 n.30, 94, 97–111, 113–114, 118–119,

145, 149, 152, 175 n.104, 207, 209–211, 214, 222–223, 227, 229–231 muḫḫūtum 30, 32, 34, 55, 62, 65–68, 84, 100, 207, 209, 212 munabbiātu 161–162, 164–166, 191 n.184 nabû 4 n.13, 63–64, 66, 159–166, 207 n.12, 230 n.3, 231–232 qabû(m) 50, 54–55, 61, 95, 97, 135, 223 qammatum 37, 48, 51, 57, 61–62, 72, 97, 99, 210 ragāmu 111, 113, 124–125, 144 raggimu 104, 108–109, 111 n.1, 112–116, 119 n.53, 120, 125–126, 135, 140 raggintu 4, 104–105, 111, 113–116, 119–120, 124–127, 144–146, 151–152, 192 n.191, 211 n.29, 223–224, 227, 231 sissiktu 53, 82–83 šartam 53 n.78, 82 n.60, 84 šasû(m) 55, 60 n.114 šelutu 105 šipir maḫḫê 118, 135 šuttum 79–80, 85 n.81, 86, 98 tebû(m) 50, 55, 95 têrtum 64, 82, 161 zabbu 14, 52, 57, 107, 115, 145, 214 n.45 Aramaic ḥzh 21–22, 192 ʿdd 15, 21 n.97 Egyptian ʿḏd ʿȝ 15 ḥm nṭr 15 ḥsȝ 192 n-b i-ȝ–w 158 n.5 nbȝ 158 n.5

288

terms referred to

Greek and Persian

Hittite

magu 53 n.74 μάγος 53 n.74 μανία, μανική, μαντική, μάντις 9 n.39 οἰονοïστική 9 n.39 οἰωνιστική  9 n.39 προφήτης 93, 172, 180 n.122, 181, 185, 190 τεχνική  9 n.39

antuḫšaš šiunii ̯anz 17 n.71

Hebrew

Sumerian

‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫)א‬ ֱ ‫(ה‬ ָ ‫  ִאיׁש‬156 ‫יאים‬ ִ ‫י־הנְּ ִב‬ ַ ֵ‫  ְבּנ‬173 ‫(י)אים‬ ִ ‫  ֶח ֶבל־נְ ִב‬173, 209 ‫ חֹזֶ ה‬156, 182–186, 193–200 ‫  ַל ֲה ַקת הנביאים‬173, 209 ‫בּואה‬ ָ ְ‫ נ‬13 ‫ נביא‬4, 14, 63–64, 66, 156–158, 161–162, 165

a.bil 39–42, 108

n. 56, 166–167, 171–192, 194–201, 208–209, 214–216, 226–227, 230–232 ‫ נביאה‬171, 184, 186–191, 214, 216 ‫ ק ֵֹסם‬178 n. 111 ‫ ר ֶֹאה‬156, 184 n. 152, 186, 196–200

Proto-Canaanite ḥz 19, 23

eme.bala 41 gub.ba 39 n.12, 108, 114, 119–120, 124 n.74, 152 lú gub.ba 34 n.44, 39–40, 52, 55, 57, 108–109, 114 n.17, 119 n.53 f

sukkal 31 ukkin dingir.meš 108, 208

Cited Texts Aramaic Texts Ammon Citadel Inscription Deir Alla Deir Rifa

19, 22–23 19–21, 23, 192 n.192, 224 19, 22, 192 n.192

Kilamuwa 193 n.193 Zakkur Inscription 3, 15, 19, 23, 136 n.36, 192 n.192

Classical Texts De dea Syria §43 De divinatione 1.VI 11

Phaedrus 244 b–e

9

9 n.39, 24

9 n.39 Hebrew Bible

Genesis 20: 7 171 n.84, 176, 215 n.52

 12 6: 8

183 188

Exodus 4: 1–2  16 7  1 15: 20 38

176 176 n.109 176, 109 171 n.84, 176, 187 176 n.106, 187 n.162, 216 n.57 191–192

Numbers 12: 6 22–24

177 9 n.39, 20 n.90

Deuteronomy 18  1–8  18–22  18 34: 4  10

181 179 n.120 177 180 180 176 n.106

1 Samuel 3: 20 8 9  9  11, 18, 19 10: 5, 10  17 19: 20 22: 5 25: 31 28: 3–25  6

172 n.84, 197 197 197 20 n.90, 196 n.219, 197–198 196 n.219 173 n.95, 197 197 173 n.95, 209 195 187 n.163 186 n.161 17

Joshua 13

20 n.90

Judges 4: 4 5

187 n.162, 188, 216 n.57 183, 214–215

2 Samuel 7: 2 172 n.84 12: 25 172 n.84, 206 n.84 24 195 n.206  11 171 n.84, 193 n.196, 194–195 1 Kings 1: 8  10, 22, 23  26  32, 34, 38, 44, 45

172 172 n.84 172 n.89 172

290

cited texts

6: 11 194 n.199 8 173 n.92 11: 29 171 n.84 14: 2 171 n.84 16 198  7, 12 171 n.84, 194 n.198, 195 17: 17–24 215 n.52 18 9, 78, 174, 208, 220 n.78  4, 13 174 n.100  19 174 n.100, 216, 220  22 171 n.84, 174 n.100  36 171 n.84  40 174 n.100 19: 16 171 n.84 20: 35–42 208  35 173 n.94, 208 22 208, 216

2 Kings 1 174 2: 3, 5, 7, 15 174 n.94, 208 n.15 3 174  11 171 n.84  13 174  15 214–215, 229 4: 1 173 n.94, 208 n.15 4: 8–37 215 n.52 4: 38 173 n.94, 208 n. 15 5: 22 173 n.94, 208 n.15 6: 1 173 n.94, 208 n.15  12 171 n.84 9–10 76 n.30 9: 1 171 n.84, 173 n.94, 208 n.15 10 174  19 174 n.100 14: 25 172 n.84 17: 13 193 n.196, 194 n.200, n.203 18: 17–20: 19 179 n.117 19: 2 171 n.84 20: 1 171 n.84 22: 1–40 216, 226  14 171 n.84, 187 n.162, 189, 216 n.57 23: 2 172 n.89 Isaiah 1: 1 194 n.204 3: 1–15 173 n.90  1–7 179 6 185, 224 n.92 8: 3 187, 216 n.57



9: 1–6 137 n.46 11: 1–5 137 n.46 28: 7–13 173 n.90  7 172 n.89, 173 n.90, 196 29: 10 193 n.196, 194 n.203 30: 10 193 n.196, 194 n.203, 196 n.219, 197, 199 32: 1–2 137 n.46 36–39 179 n.117 37: 2 171 n.84 38: 1 171 n.84 39: 3 171 n.84

Jeremiah 1 177 n.111  5 181  7 226 n.104 2: 8 172  26; 4: 9; 5: 31; 172 n.89  6: 13; 8: 1,10; 13: 13;  14: 18; 18: 18 15: 1 215 n.52 20: 2 171 n.84, 181  6 184 n.150  9 186 n.158 22: 22 184 n.150 23 224 n.92  5–6 137 n.46  9–40 173 n.90  11 172 n.89  15 174  32 181 n.136  33, 34 172 n.89 25: 2 171 n.84, 181 26 172 n.89, 178 n.111  7, 8, 11, 16 172 n.89 28: 1, 5, 10 171 n.84, 181 n.134  11 171 n.84  12, 15, 17 171 n.84, 181 n.134 29: 1 171 n.84, 172 n.89  8 179 n.120  29 181 30: 16 184 n.150 31: 31–37 139 n.58 32: 2 171 n.84  32 172 n.89  40 139 n.58 33: 20–25 139 n.58 34: 6 171n.84, 181  8–18 139 n.58 36: 8, 26 171 n.84, 181 37: 2, 3, 6, 13 171 n.84, 181



cited texts 38: 4 169  9 171 n.84  10, 14 171 n.84, 181 42: 2, 4 171 n.84, 181 n.128 42: 6 171 n.84 43: 6 181 45: 1 171 n.84, 181 46: 1, 13 171 n.84, 181 n.128 47: 1 171 n.84, 181 49: 34 171 n.84, 181 50: 1 171 n.84, 181  5 139 n.58 51: 59 181  60 172 n.84

Ezekiel 2: 4 226 n.104  5 179–180 7: 27 172 n.89 12: 11 184 n.150 13 173 n.90, 174, 192  2 174, 192  16 174 n.100  17 192 22: 25–26 172 n.89 30: 17 184 n.150 33 180  33 180 n.122 38: 17 174 Hosea 9: 7

173 n.96

Joel 3

216 n.58

Amos 1: 5–6 5: 5, 27 6: 7 7: 7  9  10–17  11  12

184 n.150 184 n.150 184 n.150 184 n.150 183 182–184 184 n.150 193 n.196, 194

Obadiah 1: 1

194 n.204

Jonah Micah 3: 5–12  6  7

173 n.90 179 n.120 193 n.196

291

 11  17

172 n.89 194 n.203

Nahum 1: 1

194 n.204

Habakkuk 1: 1 2: 2 3: 1

171 n.84 194 171 n.84

Zechariah 1: 1 172 n.84, 195 n.214  7 195 n.84 6: 12–13 137 n.46 7: 1 195 n.214  3 172 n.89 Haggai 1: 1, 3, 12 2: 1, 10

171 n.84 171 n.84

Zephaniah 3: 1–5  1–7  4

173 n.90 172 n.89 172 n.87

Malachi 3: 23

206 n.84

Psalms 50 51: 2 73–83 88

195 n.207 172 n.84 195 n.207 195 n.208

Lamentations 1: 18 2: 20 4: 13

184 n.150 172 n.89 172 n.89

Daniel 9: 2

172 n.84

Ezra 5: 1–2 6: 14 8: 33

171 n.82 171 n.82 190

Nehemiah 3: 15 6: 14  32 11: 5

193 187 n.162, 216 n.57 172 n.89 193

292

cited texts

1 Chronicles 2: 52 196 4: 2 196 n.220 9: 22 196 n.219, 197 11: 9, 29 194 n.202 12: 19 157 n.3 15: 1–29 195 n.208 17: 1 172 n.84 19: 2 194–195, 198 21 195 n.206  9 193 n.196, 194 n.205, 195 22: 8 194 n.199 25 174 n.99, 187 n.165, 211 n.30  1–31 195 n.208, 215 n.48  1 195  6 195 n.209  25 172 n.84, 193 n.196, 194–195 26: 28 196 n.219, 197 29: 29 172 n.84, 181, 193 n.196, 194 n.205, 195–197 2 Chronicles 5: 2–14  12

195 n.208 195 n.205

9: 29 172 n.84, 193 n.196, 194 n.205, 195 12: 5 172 n.84 12: 15 193 n.196, 194 n.205 13: 22 171 n.84, 194 n.199, 195 15: 1 157 n.3 15: 8 172 n.84 16: 7, 10 196 n.219, 197 19: 2 194 n.205, 195, 198 20: 14 157 n.3 21: 12 171 n.84 24: 20 157 n.3 26: 22 171 n.84, 179 n.117 29: 25 171 n.84, 193 n.196, 194–195  30 194 n.205 32: 1–23 179 n.117  20, 32 171 n.84 33: 18, 19 193 n.196 34: 22 171 n.84, 187 n.162, 216 n.57 35 157 n.3  1–19 195 n.208  15 193 n.196, 195  18 172 n.84 36: 12 172 n.84

Hebrew Epigraphy Lak(6): 1.3  4 Lak(6): 1.6 Lak(6): 1.16

167, 169–170 175 167–169 167–168

Vision of Gabriel

167

Qumran CD 3: 21 4: 13; 7: 10, 17 19: 7 1QS 1: 3; 8: 16 9: 11 1QPHab 1: 1 2: 9; 7: 5, 8 1QHa 12: 17  (=4Q430 f1: 4) 1Q29 f1: 5 2QJer 4QJera 4QJerb 4QJerc 4QJerd

171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 180 n.127 180 n.127 180 n.127 180 n.127 180 n.127

4QJere 4Q88 8: 14 4Q158 f6: 6.9 4Q163 15–16: 1 4Q166 2: 5 4Q174 f.1–2i: 15,  16; f.1–3 ii: 3 4Q175 1: 5, 7 4Q177 f1–4: 9; f5–6: 2,  5; f12–13i: 1 f7: 3 4Q265 f1: 3 f7: 8 4Q285 f4: 3; f7: 1

180 n.127 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82 171 n.82, 172 n.84

4Q292 f2: 4 4Q375 f1i: 1, 4, 6 4Q376 f1ii: 4;  4Q379 f36: 2 4Q381 F69: 4 4Q382 f9: 8; f31: 5 4Q383 f6: 1 4Q385a f18i a–b: 2,  6; fB: 1 4Q390 f2i: 5 4Q397 f14–21: 10, 15 4Q398 f14–17i: 3 4Q408 f11: 4

cited texts 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82

4Q418 f221: 2 4Q481a f2: 4 4Q504 f1–2Riii: 13 11Q5 22: 5, 14; 28: 13 28: 8 11Q13 2: 15 2: 17 11Q14 f1i: 9 11Q19 54: 8, 11,  15; 61: 2–4 Ben Sirah 36: 21,  48: 1.8, 49: 7.10

293 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82, 172 n.84 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82 171 n.82

Rabbinic Texts bMeg 14a Seder Olam  Rabba 20–21  21

187 n.163 178 n.112 187 n.163 Hittite Texts

Muršili II Plague

 Prayer

17, 217 n.61 Mesopotamian Texts

A.3760 32  6 39.8 A.3796 31, 49 A.4676 31 AbB 2 65 62 n.122 AbB 2 71 62 n.122 ABL 839 see Mattila 1987 ARM 1 3 94 n.37 ARM 9 22 30, 49 n.57 ARM 10 38 78 n.42 78 n.42 ARM 10 42+ ARM 21 333 30–31, 49 n.57, 68 n.155 ARM 22 167 30, 49 n.57, 68 n.155 ARM 22 326 30, 49 n.57, 68 n.155 ARM 23 446 30, 49 n.57, 68 n.155 ARM 25 15 31, 49 ARM 25 142 31, 49 n.57, 89 n.14 ARM 26 81 86 n.82 ARM 26 82 85 n.80, 88 n.7 ARM 26 142 85 n.80, 88 n.9, 88 n.9, 89 n.14 ARM 26 182 53, n.79

ARM 26 191 34 ARM 26 192–194 75 n.25, 138 n.51 ARM 26 192 33, 72 n.8, 75 n.25, 89 n.11, 98, 151 n.3 ARM 26 193 34 ARM 26 194 33, 39 n.8, 44 n.34, 68 n.157, 72, 75 2, 20 39 n.8 ARM 26 195–223 32 ARM 26 195 32, 55 n.88, 88 n.7 ARM 26 196 76, 88 n.9, 224–225 ARM 26 197 58 n.99, 61, 72 n.11, 88 n.7, 97 ARM 26 198 71, 71 n.3, 73, 81 n.52, 84, 88 n.7 2’’–4’’ 81 n.52, 84 n.76 ARM 26 199 44 n.35, 45, 61, 73 n.16, 74 n.21, 88 n.7 33–37 73 ARM 26 200 29 n.2, 68 n.155, 81, 88 n.7 7–10 73 21–24 81 n.52, 84 n.75

294

cited texts

ARM 26 201 81, 84, 88 n.7 ARM 26 202 72 n.11, 88 n.7, 97 16 55 ARM 26 203 84 n.77, 88 n.7 11’–13’ 81 n.52 ARM 26 204 39 n.8, 82, 84, 88 n.7 4 39 n.8 16–21 81 n.52, 84 n.76 ARM 26 205 88 n.7 ARM 26 206 54 n.80, 88 n.9 ARM 26 207 49, 88 n.7, 92 ARM 26 208 39 n.8, 44 n.35, 88 n.7, 92 n.30, 224 6 39 n.8 ARM 26 209 39 n.8, 88 n.9 6, 14 39 n.8 ARM 26 210 62, 76, 88 n.9, 99 n.7, 221 n.84, 222 11 99 n.7 ARM 26 211 88 n.7 ARM 26 212 78, 88 n.7, 92, 93 n.36, 222 10 99 n.7 ARM 26 213 58 n.99, 88 n.7, 223 23–27 81 n.52, 84 n.75 ARM 26 214 62, 87 n.7, 88 n.7 19–28 81 n.52, 84 n.75 ARM 26 215 62, 88 n.9 22–25 81 n.52, 84 n.75 ARM 26 216 66, 88, 161, 166, 207 n.12 ARM 26 217 84–85, 89 n.11 29–31 81 n.52, 84 n.76 ARM 26 218 88 n.9 ARM 26 219 74 n.21, 84 n.77, 88 n.9 5’, 23’ 39 n.8 22’–24’ 81 n.52, 84 n.75 ARM 26 220 88 n.9, 222 19 99 n.7 ARM 26 221 32 n.29, 76, 88 n.9, 222 13 99 n.7 ARM 26 221bis 32 n.29, 77 n.35, 88 n.9 ARM 26 222 88 n.7 ARM 26 223 5’, 3’’, 10’’ 39 n.8 ARM 26 224–240 34, 85 n.80 ARM 26 223–225 88 n.9 ARM 26 226 85–86, 88 n.7 14–18 81 n.52 ARM 26 227 79, 83 n.153, 88 n.7, 108, 249

ARM 26 229 88 n.9, 99 n.59, 104, 108 14–21 98 n.52 ARM 26 230–232 88 ARM 26 233 29 n.1, 79 n.44, 85, 88 n.7, 93 n.34, 222 53–54 81 n.52 ARM 26 234 85, 88 n.9 11’–15’ 81 n.52 ARM 26 235 88 n.9 ARM 26 236 80, 85 n.80, 88 n.7, 222 ARM 26 237 81, 84, 88 n.7 29–33 81 n.52 ARM 26 238 88 n.7 ARM 26 239 82, 89 n.11 ARM 26 240 89 n.11, 222–223 ARM 26 243 32, 88 n.9, 91 ARM 26 246 88 n.9 ARM 26 371 32, 39 n.8, 77 n.37 9 39 n.8 ARM 26 414 32, 44 n.34 29 39 n.8 ARM 27 32 32, 66, 89 n.11 Assurbanipal’s Inscriptions Prism A 136  iii 4–7 107 n.27, 134 n.30, 136  vi 113–118 107 n.27, 134 n.30 Prism B 136  B v 15–vi 16 107 n.27, 225 n.100  B v 46–49 134 n.30, 136   93–99 134 n.30, 135 n.31   95 134 n.30 Prism C 136  C i 61 135 n.31  C i73–76 107 n.27, 134 n.27, 136  C vi 127 107 n.27, 134 n.30, 135 n.31 Prism F 135 Prism T 135  ii 7–24 107 n.27  T ii 9–17 134 n.30, 135 n.31  T ii 16 118 n.40  TTafl 134 n.30 ASJ 13 see RA 77 AuOr 163 Boissier 1894: 211  rev.4

52 n.70

Chagar Bazar 176 31, 48 n.54, 52 n.70, 56, 67 n.148 CM 13 3: 23–24 163



cited texts

CT 18 5a: rev.10 CT 31 11: 18 CT 39 45: 32 CT 41 28: rev.6 CT 53 219 CT 53 946

39 n.11 39 59 n.105 52 105 n.19, 130 n.6 105 n.19, 130 n.6

Dynastic Prophecy

137

Emar 185: 2–3 163 Emar 373: 97’ 161 n.27, 164 Emar 379: 11–12 161 n.27, 164 Emar 383: 10’ 161 n.27, 164 Emar 387: 11 63 n.129, 165 Emar 406: 5’ 161 n.27, 164 Enuma eliš iv 8 114 n.15 Epic of Zimri-Lim 137–142 33 Erim-ḫuš 108 Erra Epos 58, 137 iv 55–56 59 n.104 Esarhaddon’s Inscriptions Prism  Ass A i 31–ii 26 107 n.27  Ass A i 43 103 n.4  Ass A ii 12 134 n.29, 135 n.31  Nin A i 59–62 134 n.29, 136  Nin A i 61–62 107 n.27  Nin A ii 6 107 n.27, 134 n.29, 135 n.31 Farber 1977 107 n.33, 119, 145 n.11 FLP 1674 29 n.2, 33, 72 n.8, 75 n.24, 138 n.51, 216 n.54, 224–225 FLP 2064 33, 75 n.24 FM 3 2 34, 37, 51, 53, 55–56, 57 n.93, 65–66, 99, 211–213 ii 21’–23’ 65 ii 21’–27’ 57 n.93, 212, 213 n.43 ii 24’–26’ 213 FM 3 3 57, 65–66, 173 n.93, 207, 211–213 iii 4’–7’ 173 n.93 FM 3 152 32, 65, 207 n.13 FM 6 1 32, 55 n.88, 90 n.15 FM 6 2 90 n.15 FM 6 45 31 FM 7 8 94 n.37 FM 7 38 33, 39 n.8, 89 n.11 3, 17’ 89 n.11 FM 7 39 89 n.11, 56 n.90, 74, 77 n.36, 94 n.37, 140 n.65

295

13 29, 31, 35, 42, 46, 60 29 60–61

64 n.133, 161 39 n.8

ḫar.gud=imru=ballu B 133 B 135 ḫar.ra=ḫubullu HSS 13 152 HSS 14 149 HSS 14 215

39 59 39 39 n.10 43 n.30 43 n.30 43 n.30

Igituḫ IM 50.852 Inanna C Samsu-Iluna C Ištar’s Descent into the Underworld Nin 104–108

40 n.17, 108 30 51, 57 see RIME 4.3.7.7 59, 60 n.114

K.8927: 10 KAR 460 KAV 121: 5 Kingsbury 1963 KTT 53 KTT 306 KTT 359: 4’’

52 n.70 43 n.30 122 30 31 31, 52 n.70 32

64 n.135 71 n.5

59 n.110

LKU 51 34 n.44, 37 n.3, 51, 57 lú=ša 14 n.61, 29, 108–109, 114, 119 A 23–24 40 n.17  23–24, 32 29 B 26–27 40 n.17  26–27, 35 29 30 C3 14 D 147–148 40 n.17  144, 147–148 30 E’ 12 30 Ludlul bēl nēmeqi ii: 21–22

52 n.71

M. 5529 32 M. 11299 31 M.11436 31, 89 n.14 M.13091 71 n.6, 74 n.22 M.18192 31 Malku=šarru I 135 59 Marduk Prophecy 133, 137 Mattila 1987 105, 115 n.23, 133 n.23

296

cited texts

OECT 15 133: i 9

51 n.66, 61 n.118

PRAK C 26

212 n.37

RA 14 24 RA 77 1: 8 2: 11–12 RE 23: 16–17 30: 5–7 RIME 4.3.7.7: 63–79 4.3.6.17 Ritual for Ištar and Dumuzi

30 163 163 163 163 33, 98 n.5 162 n.31 see Farber 1977

SAA 2 6 107, 139 116–117 135 n.32 116 112 117 144 397–409 139 n.60 SAA 3 13 129, 137–138, 225 n.100 SAA 3 23 103 n.4 SAA 3 34 51, 107, 119 n.42, 145 28 107, 143 n.4 SAA 3 35 51, 107, 119 n.42, 145 n.11 31 107, 143 n.4 SAA 3 44–46 138 SAA 3 44–47 138 SAA 3 47 103 n.4, 117, 137–138 SAA 7 9 108, 125–126 23 112 SAA 9 1.1–10 106, 121, 136 n.41, 140 n.66, 152 1.1 120, 123 1.2 105, 114, 120, 130 1.3 136 n.41 1.4 122, 130, 136 n.41 1.5: 5’–6’ 122 1.10 130, 136 n.41 SAA 9 2.1–6 106 2.2 122 2.3 121, 136 n.41 2.4 ii 30 146 n.20 2.6 136 n.41 SAA 9 3.1–5 106–107 3.1–3 107 3.2 146 n.22 3.3 107 3.4–5 107 3.4 139 n.61  ii 33 139 n.61 3.5 112, 120, 125, 139 n.61  iii 1’–5’ 139 n.61

 iv 31–35 125  iv 31 112, 120 SAA 9 4 106 SAA 9 5 106, 130, 138, 146 n.20 SAA 9 6 106, 125, 130 n.9, 131  edge 10 112  edge 11 120  edge 12 125 SAA 9 7 33, 106, 124, 130  1 113, 120 SAA 9 8 29 n.2, 104 n.5, 106, 130 SAA 9 9 120, 129–130, 216 n.54, 225 n.100 SAA 9 10 105, 120, 124 n.74, 130, 152 side 2 105, 114 SAA 9 11 105, 130 SAA 10 24 104, 117, 130 SAA 10 109 104, 124–125, 134 13’–15’ 116 n.24 SAA 10 111 104, 134 n.25 23–26 116 n.25 SAA 10 174 76 n.30, 104, 133 n.23 14 116 n.26 SAA 10 284 29 n.2, 104, 134 n.26 4–8 116 n.27 SAA 10 294 104, 125–126 31 112 SAA 10 352 105, 113 n.13, 124, 144 SAA 12 69 108, 145 n.11, 208, 225 27–31 214 n.45 29 173 n.93 SAA 13 37 105, 124, 130 n.9 7 113 SAA 13 139 105, 116 n.31, 130 n.9, 216 n.54, 225 n.100 SAA 13 144 105, 130 n.9 rev.7–side 1 116 n.30 SAA 13 148 105, 117 n.32, 130 n.9 SAA 16 59 105, 113 n.13, 117, 130 n.9, 134 n.24, 148 n.30, 219 9–11 116 n.28 SAA 16 60 116 n.29, 134 n.24 5–9 116 n.29 SAA 16 61 116 n.29 4–7 116 n.29 SAA 18 100 149 n.33 Sem 46 2: 20–21 163 STT 406 rev. 10 122 Šulgi prophecy 137



cited texts

Šumma ālu i 101–102 i 114 Šumma izbu Šumma izbu (commentary on)

39–40, 52, 108, 119 39 n.12, 108 n.37 39 n.12, 108 n.37 108, 119 108

T.82 ix 2–4 TCL 1 57 TCL 10 34 TCS 1 369 TM.75.G.428 TM.75.G.454 TM.75.G.1444 xiii 12–13

31 30 30 34 106, 160 160 160 n.16

297

TM.75.G.1488 TM.75.G.1860

41 n.20, 42 160

Uruk Prophecy

137

Votive Inscription to Marduk

107, 136

W.19.900 Wilcke 1986 88 n.9

33 50 n.62, 78, 80 n.85,

ZTT 19 ZTT 25

108 n.36 108

Proto-Canaanite UC 51354

22 Ugaritic Texts

Keret Epos KTU 1.15 ii-17–iii 19 18 n.79

‘Ludlul bēl nemeqi II 114–120’ RS 25.460: 11’ 19 n.84, 103 n.4