pp 83 & 84:
Some Non-literary Readings of Judges 19 The subtitle of Trible’s book is Literary–Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives, which I take to mean readings of texts about and/or for women, using the tools of literary criticism. This goal is different from what I am suggesting in at least two ways: (1) Her reading begins with modern (theological) needs and concerns, rather than ancient norms;4 (2) It is “literary” in a typical sense critiqued in Chapter Two, since it ignores the context that engendered the text.

Others have called for an approach that is broader than Trible’s. Don Michael Hudson observes quite directly: “[T]his narrative is a product of a narrator who ingeniously portrays his message through the manipulation of his medium – not art for art’s sake, but art for meaning’s sake” (Hudson 1994: 53). Ken Stone is among those who employ anthropological approaches to cast light on the story, noting almost apologetically: “The limits to a strictly literary approach will then be transgressed so that the text can be placed in an anthropological frame” (K. Stone 1995: 89–90). His insights concerning the way in which homosexual rape imagery is used in the chapter in connection with a broadly Mediterranean code of honor and shame certainly highlight various aspects of the text that are otherwise easy to miss. Yet, this interpretation through such a general framework, without recourse to many of the specifics that shape this story, does not go far enough in explaining why this story was written, and why it took the particular shape that it has. Our world is full of implicit codes, social and other types – they do not all produce stories.
More compelling is Gale Yee’s suggestion that Judges 17–21 should be read using the methods of ideological criticism, which “uses literary critical methods within a historical and social scientific frame in a comprehensive strategy for reading biblical texts” (Yee 1995: 146). She studies Judges 17–21 as a unit, and suggests that both stories there were written at the time of Josiah, the traditional date for the first edition of the Deuteronomistic history (McKenzie 1992: 163–4), and their goal was to consolidate Josiah’s power and reform. That reform involved centralization of power, which is explicitly argued for in Judges 17–21. Furthermore, part of his reform involved the loss of power by the rural Levites; this explains, Yee suggests, why the Levites are so prominent, and depicted so negatively, in these five chapters.

The methodological approach of Yee is very commendable, particularly her attempt to find a logical context for the production of the text. She certainly succeeds in offering such a plausible setting, but her suggestion has several problems. She treats 17–21 as a single unit. Most scholars would disagree; the two stories are very different in tone and narrative underpinnings, and though they have been edited together as a sub-unit in Judges, it is unlikely that they were composed together. The dating of Judges is a very complex issue; the final redaction might very well be post-Josiah, while even the Josianic redaction likely incorporates a variety of earlier sources (O’Connell 1996: 345–66). Thus, independent, specific evidence needs to be brought to bear on the Josianic date.
Yee’s observation about the prominence of Levites in both stories is significant, but the interpretation of this data is quite complex, due to our uncertainty about the history of the Levites (Rehm 1992: 297–310). Indeed, it is unclear if she is correct in asserting that the rural Levites were excluded from Jerusalem after Josiah’s reform; 2 Kgs 23:9 suggests that they were, but Deut 18:6–8 suggests that they may fully participate in the Temple ritual, on a par with those who are native. It is unclear which view is historically accurate, or for that matter, how accurate or idealized the depiction of Josiah’s reform in 2 Kings 22–3 is.

An alternate reason may be given for why Levites figure so prominently in these two stories. At some time, Levites were not defined geographically or tribally, but incorporated individuals who removed themselves from their families in divine service (Albertz 1994: 58). They were landless, and are depicted as such in Deuteronomy (e.g. 10:9; 14:27). For the narratives in chapters 17–18 and 19–21 to work, you need a landless person, who can wander, and has no close kin. There is no indication in these chapters that the (rural) Levites are being condemned as a class, as necessary for Yee’s reading.
Yee points out that ideological criticism may be used to tease out what stands behind the text, based on a close reading of the text. Her reading of this material is too schematic, as seen, for example, in the way that she combines chapters 17–18 and 19–21 in her analysis. More significantly, she does not pay sufficient attention to the fact that Judges 19 in particular is a very learned text, full of allusions to other biblical texts. This needs to be considered when considering how, why and when it was written.
Polemic and Allusion in Judges 19:
Recent years have seen a revival of the position articulated in the mid-nineteenth century that Judges 19–21 should be seen as an anti-Saul polemic (Brettler 1989a: 412–13; Amit 1999: 341–50; 2000: 178–88). A variety of evidence connects this chapter to Saul. We already saw that Judg 19:29 and 20:1 allude to Saul’s battle against Nahash the Ammonite in 1 Sam 11:7. The place names and tribal affiliation in this final episode of Judges are closely connected to Saul. Saul is from Gibeah (1 Sam 10:26), and is a Benjaminite (1 Sam 9:1). The city of Jabesh-gilead, so crucial to the continuation of the narrative in Judges 20–1, has close affiliations with Saul: he rose to fame when he liberated that city from Nahash (1 Sam 11:1), and the residents of the city ultimately buried him and his family there (1 Sam 31:11–13). The city of Ramah, the birthplace and burial place of Samuel (1 Sam 1:1; 28:3), and thus closely associated with Saul, is mentioned in Judg 19:13. The city of Mizpah and the rock of Rimmon, both mentioned in Judges 19–21, also play a role in the Saul narratives (Amit 2000: 180–1). These multiple correspondences are too numerous to be coincidental.
These allusions also all function in the same way – they make Saul look bad. He comes from a tribe, indeed from a city of rapists and murderers, who are unwilling to own up to their wrongdoings. Through these allusions, chapter 19 in particular serves to de-legitimate Saul even before he becomes king. Though Yairah Amit deals with this chapter within the broader purview of “hidden polemic” (Amit 2000), the polemic here is hardly hidden at all. This polemic also clarifies the reason why the Sodom pericope from Genesis 19 figures so strongly in this unit. Sodom is known for two things in the Bible: its great sin (e.g. Isa 1:10; 3:9; Ezek 16:46–9; Lam 4:6) and its crushing punishment by YHWH (e.g. Isa 13:19; Jer 49:18; Amos 4:11; Zeph 2:9). Both of these aspects are being alluded to here; the sins of the people of Gibeah, namely Saul, are heinous, and the house of Saul deserves the fate of Sodom; no future descendent of Saul possibly deserves to reign. It is not clear when such a polemic would originate. Some feel that it would most likely develop early in the monarchical period, and be connected to the development of the ideology of the early Davidic monarchy (Jüngling 1981). This is certainly possible, though if I am correct, probable later language in the chapter suggests that this is unlikely. Much of the Book of Samuel, which is very difficult to date precisely, attempts to convince the reader that David is the legitimate successor of Saul (Brettler 1995: 91–111); such a polemic would only be needed if there were people who believed otherwise.
As I have noted elsewhere (Brettler 1989a: 414–15), two of the latest biblical books provide us with evidence that the Saulide royal ideology did not die with David’s or Solomon’s accession to the throne. The fact that the post-exilic author of Esther chose a “new Saul,” namely Mordecai from Benjamin, descended from Kish, to defeat Haman the Aggagite (contrast 1 Samuel 15) reflects the continued existence of a pro- Saul contingent in the post-exilic period. This is confirmed by the preservation of a lengthy genealogy of Saul and his family in 1 Chr 8:33–40. Much later rabbinic texts also seem to preserve traditions that laud Saul; this is quite surprising given the ultimate victory of David in the canon, and might suggest a continuing Saulide royal ideology.
The Question of Genre:
The Question of Genre Judges 19 is a learned, allusive, polemical text, arguing against the kingship of Saul, which is described early in the following Book of Samuel. The likelihood of this political reading is now widely recognized, and will be further supported in the next two chapters, which will show the same tendency in other parts of Judges as well. It is odd that the political reading of this story, dating from the nineteenth century, was ignored for much of the twentieth century, and did not again become popular until the end of the twentieth century. This is probably connected to the conservatism that predominated biblical scholarship in the post-Wellhausen period, both on the continent and in America (Thompson 1992: 1–84). Thus, scholars wanted to see historical texts as historical in as many ways as possible. Their a priori inclination was to see Judges 19 as reflecting a real battle, a real story of how the Benjaminites were almost decimated, but were allowed to recover, adding another piece of evidence to the obscure history of pre-monarchic Israel. This type of reading blinded scholars to the polemical nature of the text. Judges 19 does not reflect ancient events; rather, it creates them.
I suspect that this text was understood quite differently in antiquity. Its parallels to Jonah go well beyond their both being learned texts. I would argue that their learned nature makes them “studied,” or fanciful, and the ancient reader appreciated them as such. Did the ancient readers of Jonah really believe that he was in the belly of a big fish for three days and three nights? Did they believe that the Ninevites repented, and that even their cattle participated in the repentance ceremony (3:7–8)? Similarly, did the ancient Israelites really believe that a woman would be cut up into twelve pieces and sent one to each tribe? In fact, it makes no sense to say that one piece would have been sent to Benjamin! Other details in the story are equally improbable. Would a man follow his concubine, especially after (v. 2) “she fornicated,”6 and then have such a comfortable relationship with the concubine’s father? This is an early marker that the story is not merely topsy-turvy (Lasine 1984: 37–59), but is not real. Even more indicative is the way that the typical 3–4 pattern is broken in vv. 3–8; instead of staying for three days and leaving on the fourth, the man stays for four days and leaves on the fifth! And what are the odds that the person the traveler should meet should just “happen to be” from the hill-country of Ephraim as well (v. 16, see v. 1)? I suspect that the ancient reader who read this text, and saw these features, and noted “didn’t I hear this story already?” would not have classified it as history in the sense of a narrative that is depicting the (real) past.