Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
The Targums And Rabbinic Literature
The more I read the targums and rabbinic literature, not to mention the vast amount of secondary material they have called into being, the more bifurcated my desires become. On the one hand, I hesitate to write anything at all on the subject, as it is not only vast, but a veritable minefield. On the other hand, I want to write at length, a book at least, and not a mere chapter on a subject which properly demands much more.
The problem is compounded by the lack of scholarly consensus. E. P. Sanders, in his recent magisterial work Paul and Palestinian Judaism, has brought the debate into the open, and it is now almost impossible to write anything about rabbinic views on election, grace, merit, covenant, free will, and law, without interacting with him directly.
Bound as I am to the limitations of one short chapter, I propose to do three things. First, I intend to outline the work of Sanders, indicate something of its great strengths, and express a few important reservations. This section will make minimal use of the primary material. Second, I shall focus attention on the manner in which the twelve Old Testament texts, considered in the second chapter of this study, are handled in the targums and by some of the rabbis. Third, I shall sketch in my present understanding of the broad outlines of rabbinic thought in the relevant areas, making constant reference to the sources.
Before doing any of these things, something must be said about the sources themselves. The rabbinic material begins with the Mishnah, codified in written form about ad 200, but stretches into late midrashim and haggadah from the medieval period. Just how much of this is relevant to the first century? Rabbinic traditions about the Pharisees are extremely difficult in their own right, even though there are now several works of major importance dealing with this issue. No doubt many traditions attributed to the Tannaim (roughly ad 70–220) and Amoraim (roughly ad 220–350) spring from an earlier period. Nevertheless Judaism traversed two traumatic hurdles before such early traditions were written down; and it is difficult to believe that these hurdles had no effect on Judaism’s inner character. The first hurdle was the destruction of ad 70, coupled with the devastations and Roman decrees associated with the crushing of the Bar-Kochba revolt (ad 132–135). The political, economic, and religious implications of these defeats must not be underestimated. The second hurdle was scarcely less severe, viz. the rising influence of Christianity. Judaism responded with more than the Birkat haMinim: indeed, there is a sense in which rabbinic Judaism may be interpreted, at least in part, as a ‘counter-reformation’. Just as it is anachronistic to read post-Tridentine Roman Catholicism back into pre-Luther Catholicism, so also it may be anachronistic to read post-Jabneh Judaism back into Pharisaism. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that if rabbinic Judaism and first century Pharisaism are pages. To grant the historical distinction between Pharisaism despite the many positive perspectives on Pharisaism within its pages. To grant the historical distinction between Pharisarism and rabbinic Judaism is to enable the student to read both the New Testament and the rabbis with greater sympathy and clearer understanding than is the case otherwise.
Two other factors must be borne in mind by those who wish to speak of ‘rabbinic theology’. First of all, rabbinic Judaism is characterised by many discussions which are not resolved into an ‘orthodox’ position. There is a rich diversity of viewpoints which makes synthesis of the rabbinic material into one ‘theology’ not only impossible but forced and wrong-headed. Second, the rabbinic material, whether halakah, haggadah, expository midrash, or whatever, is primarily concerned with defining and applying the Hebrew Scriptures, especially Torah. There is little prayer, not much psalmic material, little that is overtly hortatory, no ‘epistles’, no apocalyptic monograph, no ‘prophecy’. But to point this out is not necessarily to say that rabbinic Judaism was interested exclusively in the fine points of legal interpretation and application. Rather, it is to say that the rabbinic material must be accepted on its own terms, and that it is precarious to compare, without serious reflection, the material that emerges from this kind of literature with material arising from literature of quite another sort.
The dating and provenance of the targums is not less difficult. Targumic ‘orthodoxy’ as represented by the Kahle school holds that the Palestinian Targum (PT) is older than Onkelos, and probably pre-christian. Neofiti 1 is usually seen as the most ancient exemplar of the P . Yet not only has the age of Neofiti 1 been questioned, but the uniqueness and age of P has been challenged. G. J. Cowling goes so far as to suggest that it is a third century translation of a Greek document. But with the discovery of targums at Qumran, such a reaction against the exuberances of Diez-Macho and McNamara seems somewhat excessive.
In the present chapter, then, I am not attempting to estimate how far the targumic and rabbinic traditions with which I deal may reflect first century belief. Nevertheless, in the rabbinic literature I have generally (but not exclusively) restricted myself to Tannaitic and Amoraic sources; for my aim is to sketch in a religious movement, at least in so far as it impinges on the sovereignty-responsibility tension. As this is done, some of the patterns of Jewish religion and worship in the period 200 bc to ad 200 become a little more complete.
the work of e. p. sanders
E. P. Sanders’s book is a long, powerfully argued attack on one of the most deeply entrenched positions of much New Testament scholarship. To put his position briefly, he argues that Palestinian Judaism before ad 70 adopts a stance he designates as ‘covenantal nomism’. Election of the Jews qua race is by grace. The works required do not secure salvation for any individual Jew, but are designed to keep him within the bounds of the elect covenant community. Even such works, however, are not measured on a simple commercial basis, good points versus bad points. Rather, God’s mercy wins out, while talk of rewards and punishments guarantees that God’s justice is preserved intact so his grace is not rendered arbitrary. On this reading of first century Judaism, there is no doctrine of supererogation; and even many of the rabbinic references to ‘merits’ or to ‘the merits of the fathers’ are better explained in a different way. Judaism was not a system of mere externals, a morose religion without inner religious experience and without joy. Rather, it was a religion of ‘covenantal nomism’, a religion which balanced grace and works, a religion whose covenant, granted and guaranteed by divine grace, provided for and prescribed a system of works and even a system for atonement when there was default.
To present his case, Sanders first of all outlines and criticises the writings of those whose position he is attacking, in particular Weber, Bousset, Thackeray, Billerbeck and Bultmann. His first major section (up to p. 238) focuses on the rabbinic literature, almost exclusively the Tannaitic sources. He then devotes about one hundred pages to the Dead Sea Scrolls, and another section to brief consideration of Ben Sirach, 1 Enoch, Jubilees, the Psalms of Solomon and 2 Esdras (=4 Ezra). He concludes his study of this literature by insisting that covenantal nomism was the common pattern of first century religion, 2 Esdras being the only notable exception to this pattern.
From p. 429 to p. 523, Sanders examines Paul and asks how it is that Paul seems to misunderstand first century Judaism. His reply is that Paul did not approach Judaism by working out an antithetical relationship between law and grace, and then proceed to the exclusive sufficiency of Christ; rather, he began with the exclusive sufficiency of Christ and worked back to the antithesis between law and grace. Sanders winds up the volume by including a summary of some recent German discussion, written by M. T. Brauch, and then by providing his own pointed conclusion.
This major work is the product of close study and wide reading. Besides the over-arching arguments, it is laced with valuable insights and provocative asides. With respect to the sovereignty-responsibility tension and rabbinic Judaism, its strong points include at least the following:
(i) Over against the extreme views of the Bousset/Bultmann line regarding merits, Sanders is basically correct. There is no unambiguous evidence to support a doctrine of supererogation in the Tannaitic period. When ‘the merits of the fathers’ are appealed to, the expression may mean no more than ‘by virtue of the fathers’, referring to the promises God himself made with them. Even where merits play a more prominent role in the sources, there is no simple weighing of merits and demerits in order to determine whether an individual is to be ‘saved’ or not; for most of the merit language refers to those already within the covenant, and in any case God’s mercy regularly transcends whatever is achieved by merit. (See especially pp. 93, 128ff., 140ff., 185ff., 197.)
(ii) In this context, Sanders is right to point out that the absolute antithesis between grace and works is not found in rabbinic thought of the Tannaitic period, and it is anachronistic to read it into the material.
(iii) We need to be reminded that the rabbis found some sense of the presence of God and real joy in studying and applying Torah. They did not see their work as joyless, externalised, almost meaningless discipline, but as the proper response to the demands of their covenant relationship with God. (See especially pp. 83f., 212ff.)
(iv) The covenant provided the means for atonement. Before the fall of the Temple, the Torah stipulations concerning sacrifice could be minutely obeyed, and were regarded as efficacious because God had commanded that they be efficacious. After the fall of the Temple (which, after all, God had allowed), then other things were accepted as of atoning value: works, suffering, obedience, death. But these, too, were covenantal stipulations, and therefore within the covenant of grace. Very rarely is it clear that repentance was regarded as a meritorious work. (See especially pp. 147ff., 176ff.)
(v) Sanders repeatedly emphasises, in telling ways, the non-systematic nature of rabbinic literature. The Tannaitic rabbis are concerned to interpret and apply the biblical passages with which they deal; and within the framework of their own hermeneutical procedures they utilise relentless logic. Nevertheless they are not very often concerned with synthesising all of their own interpretations into a systematic theology. (See especially pp. 74, 76ff., 90, 141, 161.)
(vi) As an application of the last point, it is helpful to be reminded that, on the one hand the rabbis envisaged their emphasis on merits, rewards and punishments as a reflection of God’s justice (i.e. his non-arbitrariness); and, on the other, that they perceived the total covenantal structure to be the result of divine grace. To focus on the former point and draw all sorts of conclusions which the rabbis themselves would have eschewed, is to do them serious disservice—the more so if the latter point is not taken into account. What is at stake is a sensitive evaluation of the way various components of rabbinic teaching function within their religious life and thought. (See, inter alia, pp. 104ff., 117ff., 122ff.)
(vii) Sanders rightly insists that the kind of literature which the rabbis produced necessarily limits the full range of religious discussion; and, unless this is taken into account, the limitations of halakah may be projected back on to the entire religious life of the rabbis. In halakic discussion, a particular rabbi may score points, and argue over pedantic detail, ruling that ‘if one constructed a side-post for an alley and raised it three hand-breadths from the ground, or removed it three handbreadths from the wall, his act is invalid’ (B. Erub. 14b); yet elsewhere, in one of the few prayers preserved for us, the same rabbi may voice his felt unworthiness, pleading for the grace of God. Something of this distinction in genre must surely be taken into account.
Essentially, then, E. P. Sanders is correct in his basic contentions, and Bousset, Billerbeck, Bultmann et al. are basically incorrect when they deal with the same areas. Nevertheless, in my view Sanders has so strongly reacted against an admittedly false view that he has swung too far the other way. In a polemical work, this is almost inevitable. Again and again, in reading his book, when one arrives at disputed passages, one does not sense a dispassionate analysis of the evidence and a cool, reflective consideration of pros and cons (contrast, for example, the superb work of E. E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs ), but a competently argued and polemically oriented thesis. That is not necessarily bad: it is the nature of the book Sanders has chosen to write. But perhaps in that case it will not appear too gauche if I express strong reservations at a number of points. I limit myself for the moment to Sanders’s rabbinic section, as I hope to deal briefly with the rest of his non-Pauline material in chapter 10.
(i) Although, as Sanders says, the rabbis preserve a doctrine of election based on grace, nevertheless several serious caveats must be entered. This election has to do with the Jewish people as a whole, and stands as the divine commitment to uphold the covenant with the Jews qua people. Within this structure, every individual Jew is automatically ‘saved’ unless he consciously and wilfully opts out. Thus there is a harking back to Sinaitic and Abrahamic covenant traditions, but little emphasis on the prophetic warnings about breaking the covenant and about restoration of a (mere) remnant. Moreover, although majority rabbinic opinion held that a non-Jew could be ‘saved’ by becoming a proselyte, i.e. by voluntarily coming under the covenant (Sanders, pp. 206–8), in his case salvation does not involve election at all: he both enters the covenant and keeps himself in it by his voluntary adoption of ‘covenantal nomism’ and its implications. Even the election of Israel reflects some elements that are less than gracious. As Sanders himself notes (pp. 87–101), when the rabbis asked why Israel was chosen and granted the covenant, there are three kinds of answer given. The first is that God offered the covenant and its related commandments to all, but only Israel accepted it. The second is that God found some merit in the people, whether in the patriarchs, those of the Exodus generation, or those of some unseen future generation. The third is that God chose Israel for his own name’s sake. The first two are very common, much more common than the contrary opinion that God chose Israel in defiance of demerit. It is not uncommon to read things like this, attributed to Tanna R. Judah: ‘The Holy One, blessed be He, said, “If I am to scrutinise the deeds of Israel, they will never be redeemed (from Egypt); I will therefore fix my regard on their holy ancestors.” ’ (Exod. R.15.4). Even the third answer (supra) might include a merit rationale; for if God redeems Israel for his own name’s sake, this may only mean that he has pledged himself to do what he said he would do. This answer may therefore at times provide, not the grounds for election, but assurance as to its certainty. Even when all of Sanders’s evidence regarding the semantic range of zekut (‘merit’) is admitted, his conclusion is much too generous: ‘Despite the attempts to explain it,’ he says, ‘the cause of election finally goes unexplained, as it always must’ (p. 101). The rabbis admit much more merit than that; and their perspective is a great distance removed from, say, Deuteronomy, where, as we have seen, election has no other ground than the free, unconditioned love of God. It does not help to say, with Sanders, that the rabbis were simply trying to explain that love (e.g. p. 87; p. 101, n. 72), precisely because it is the rabbinic explanation which tends to remove the mysterious, selectively loving sovereignty in favour of a divine choice based on the relative moral superiority of Israel.
(ii) Although Sanders rightly challenges the common belief that the Tannaitic rabbis held to some doctrine of supererogation; and although he rightly shows that not every instance of zekut ʾabôt refers to ‘merit of the fathers’; and although the merits of individuals are never utilised to counter-balance demerits at the judgment; yet Sanders consistently downplays the strength of the merit theology which the rabbis do accept. Even he is forced to admit, with respect to the merit of the fathers, that God performed certain deeds for Israel because of the good deeds of the fathers, and that in view of the merit of the fathers God does not punish the world as he otherwise would, and that the good deeds of the fathers benefit their descendants in given historical situations (p. 197); so even if there is no mention in the Tannaitic literature of a treasury of merits with transferable credits, it does not appear to be improper to speak of ‘merit theology’ among the Tannaim, even if such theology is extended considerably only in later generations. ‘Merits,’ Sanders says with considerable force, ‘never counterbalance demerits at the judgment’; but then he must add, ‘although, in consideration of them, God may suspend punishment’ (p. 197). There is no treasury of merits with transferable credits; yet, Sanders admits, ‘At most we have here a view of transfer of punishment from the parents to the children’ (p. 194). No doubt God’s mercy forgives many transgressions; and no doubt there is no simple weighing of credits and debits; yet Sanders himself cites R. Hanina b. Gamaliel, ‘If he that commits one transgression thereby forfeits his soul, how much more, if he performs one religious duty, shall his soul be restored to him!’ (Makk. 3.15). No doubt the even-handedness of God’s ‘justice’ is thereby being defended; but this is still a reflection of ‘merit theology’ which goes beyond anything in the Hebrew Bible. In fact, anyone who accepts even one single commandment with faith deserves to have the Holy Spirit rest upon him (Mek. Beshallaḥ 6) (Lauterbach, Vol. i, pp. 252ff.). Charity itself has a salvific effect (B.B.B. 10a). I shall discuss a few more examples a little further on; but, granted the limitations which Sanders himself rightly insists on, there should be no objection to speaking of the ‘merit theology’ of the Tannaim (not to mention the later sources!).
(iii) The rabbis introduce ideas not found in the Old Testament, ideas which necessarily impinge on the shape of the sovereignty-responsibility tension. Especially is this the case once the Temple has been destroyed, and the prescribed sacrificial system ended. The law had provided a system of atonement which, in the view of the rabbis, was both efficacious and also in accord with divine justice, as Sanders points out (p. 172). Following ad 70, however, other means of atonement are required and defended. A person can atone for his sins by obedience, by suffering (see especially pp. 168–173), and even by his own death. This forced change in the theology of atonement could not do other than contribute to merit theology. The sacrifice of animals was something people did; but it was the animal that died. In this light, the Old Testament sacrificial system provided a means of atonement which was one step removed from what the individual himself did; it encouraged the concept of atonement by a substituted death. But once atonement was judged to be something that could be secured entirely by personal deeds, even if it was insisted that such were efficacious because they were God-appointed means, then the primitive merit theology of the early rabbis was necessarily strengthened and set on the road to the full-blown merit theology of the later rabbis. Although Sanders discusses rabbinic teaching on atonement, yet these important distinctions he nowhere considers, even though they are crucial to one’s understanding of the development of the rabbinic tradition. Similarly, he barely mentions the rabbinic treatment of the two ‘inclinations’, or the rabbinic tendency to formulate a free will position which overtly fences God off from certain moral decisions.
(iv) This brings up a related problem. Not only do the rabbis go beyond what the Old Testament says at certain points, they also contradict it. I am not referring to picayune details which, by our standards of exegesis, are contradicted because of rabbinic hermeneutical methods. I refer rather to broad issues and concepts. Sanders identifies one of these for us; it is a point to which I have already alluded. The prophets regularly picture the Israelites as delinquent with respect to the covenant, so much so that the continuation of the covenant (at least in that form) is called into question. By contrast, the rabbis are eager to fulfil their side of the covenant, and are never in doubt that God will fulfil his. As Sanders puts it (p. 106):
This last is a very important point, since it stands in contrast to a type of religious concern found in the prophets and in Job. It is a mark of the particular genius of prophetism that it was able to charge God with the responsibility of fulfilling the covenant and thus to imply that he might not have been doing so satisfactorily. But this note is never struck in the surviving Tannaitic literature. God’s total faithfulness and reliability are always assumed and often stated. This is frequently indicated by comments on the biblical phrase ‘I am the Lord your God’. The Rabbis often interpret this to mean: ‘I am faithful to pay a reward; I am a faithful judge to punish.’
This, in my view, is a misinterpretation of the Old Testament prophetic stance. Note that Sanders says the prophets charge God with the responsibility of fulfilling the covenant and thereby imply that he might not have been doing so satisfactorily. It would be more accurate to say that, as compared with the rabbis, the prophets reflect a greater insight into divine ultimacy and a more pessimistic outlook about the nature of man. The prophets can cry to God about this catastrophe or that, precisely because they recognise that divine sovereignty is so extensive that God must indeed in some sense stand behind that catastrophe; yet they do this without impugning divine justice. They simply do not know how to fit God’s justice, mercy and sovereignty together. Sanders is correct when he points out (supra) that the rabbinic perspective is quite different from this. The rabbis stress the fact that God is judge; but they are not as strong as the Old Testament writers in defence of his ‘ultimacy’ (in the sense developed in Part One). Moreover the prophets, as I earlier pointed out, were pessimistic about the ability of the people to repent; and in this they are not the only Old Testament witness. By contrast, as Sanders notes (p. 114), the rabbis believed there was no entailment from the fall. Men are free to obey or to disobey; and so the possibility exists that a person might not sin. This optimistic perspective is scarcely likely to call forth many divine promises to the effect that God himself would one day renew men’s hearts and give them another spirit. Thus, the sovereignty-responsibility tension in the rabbinic material assumes a somewhat different shape because of the distance between the rabbis and the prophets in certain crucial themes
(v) This brings up a methodological question. Sanders is concerned to criticise part of the New Testament, and most of New Testament scholarship, for what he takes to be their misjudgments about rabbinic material. His criticism of New Testament scholarship is fundamentally justified. But as far as the relation between New Testament writers and the rabbis is concerned, perhaps it should be noted that both groups make appeal to the Old Testament: how then does each side stack up against this common standard? For clearly Paul (for example) believes that the Pharisees err in their understanding of the Old Testament; and equally clearly they share the same feelings about him. Now of course it would be unfair to expect Sanders to write a book he never intended to write; and I grant that he is first of all concerned to write a book which criticises a mistaken notion still rampant in New Testament scholarship, and he does this very well. But I cannot help wondering if, in this area of dispute, some thought should not be given to the standard to which both sides make appeal. I do not mean to raise the question of how the New Testament quotes the Old, nor to bring up the hermeneutics of rabbinism, nor to contrast rabbinic theories of oral tradition with the New Testament’s insistence that the gospel assumes a revelatory stance of fulfilment vis-à-vis the Old Testament. I mean rather to suggest that the shape of the sovereignty-responsibility tension in the rabbinic literature, and in Paul or John needs to be compared with its shape in the Old Testament before they are compared with one another.
(vi) Although Sanders is convincing in his main argument, he seriously distorts the shape of the tension in the rabbinic literature, because he fails to comment on the drift of rabbinic thought. If the Tannaitic sources which impinge on the sovereignty-responsibility tension are compared both with Old Testament material and also with later rabbinic material, it becomes difficult not to see which way the wind is blowing. For example, Sanders correctly observes that God’s justice is being defended in the reward/punishment/merit motifs, and that divine grace is defended in the election of Israel and in the forgiveness God grants (e.g. cf. pp. 119, 124, 127). These are important observations when confronting Bousset and correcting Billerbeck. But if the same themes are examined over the longer time span that I have suggested, it must be admitted that major shifts have taken place and are still taking place. Sin is more anthropocentric in its definition, and less theocentric, in first century Judaism than in the Hebrew canon. God’s justice is stridently affirmed, but his ‘ultimacy’ is diluted. Man’s freedom tends now to exclude God from certain areas. Merit theology has come a long way since the scrolls of the Old Testament were penned, even if it still has some distance to go. And although, as Sanders rightly observes, it is severely misleading to say that for the rabbis God was so transcendent and sovereign that there is among the rabbis less enjoyment of his presence or more need felt for mediators, nevertheless it is true to say that, with the decline of his ‘ultimacy’ and the rise of merit theology, God is more domesticated than he is in the Old Testament, despite the rabbinic emphasis on his transcendence. Consciously or not—and there is some of both—the rabbis are attempting to resolve the sovereignty-responsibility tension.
It remains to survey rapidly some of the most important evidence.
targumic and rabbinic treatment of the twelve old testament passages previously examined
Genesis 45:5–8; 50:19f.
In 45:8 M has: ‘So it was not you who sent me here, but God.’ Neofiti 1 has ‘but Yahweh’, although a marginal note offers ‘the word of Yahweh’. But T puts the divine action into the passive voice, and prefers the periphrastic ‘before Yahweh’: ‘So now it was not you that sent me hither, but the event was brought about before the Lord (qdm h’).…’ This eliminates the tension; but it may not be the tension which occasions the change, because the trend toward passive expression of divine action is quite strong in the targums.
In 50:19f., the evasive tactics are clearer. Joseph’s rhetorical question, ‘… for am I in the place of God?’, is quite displaced by T , T i , and Neofiti 1. Further, in 50:20, T eliminates all trace of God’s active participation in the selling of Joseph, while simultaneously introducing the glory of Joseph’s father as the ground of Joseph’s present position before God. T i makes the brothers alone responsible, and stresses God’s role as Judge: ‘And Joseph said unto them, Fear not, for the evil which you did to me has ended; are not the reckonings of the sons of men always before the Lord?’ Neofiti 1 is closer to M but, like T on 45:8, makes God’s role passive: ‘And you planned evil against me: before the Lord it was reckoned as good so as to preserve alive this day a numerous people.’ The explicit tension has again disappeared.
Joseph’s willingness to forgive is often held up in rabbinic literature as exemplary. Genesis Rabbah 90.9 (on 50:19f.) offers a marvellous collection of the utterances Joseph used to comfort his brothers, but fails to wrestle with the tension (cf. also Est. R. 7.25). Strangely, it is Pesikta Rabbati, a late compilation (fifth century?) and one that is full of merit theology, which at 12.5 cites Genesis 50:20 correctly. But it uses the Genesis passage to show only how Joseph by being kind guarded himself from committing murder.
Leviticus 20:7f.; 22:31f.
In Leviticus 20:8, the M ends the verse with ‘I am the Lord who sanctifies you’: ʾanî yhwh meqaddisekem. But Neofiti 1 offers an Aramaic perfect: ʾny yyy dqḏšt Ytkwn: hence McNamara’s correct translation, ‘I am the Lord who sanctified you.’ The same thing occurs at 22:32. This makes Yahweh’s sanctification of the people refer to an historic event (the exodus?), and the tension disappears. What could have prompted this change? It is difficult to imagine any other reason than a desire to avoid the sovereignty-responsibility tension. At both 20:8 and 22:32, T preserves the tension: ‘ny yyy mqdšḵwn. Pseudo-Jonathan (T ) at both places likewise preserves ‘I am the Lord who sanctifies you’; but at 20:7 and 22:31 it inserts promises of reward: ‘And sanctify yourselves and be holy in your bodies, so that your prayers may be favourably answered’ (20:7); ‘I am the Lord who gives a good reward to those who keep my commandments and my laws’ (22:31).
Numbers Rabbah 9.7 (on 5:12) cites Leviticus 20:8 according to M , but then destroys the tension by continuing, ‘When does the Holy One, blessed be He, sanctify Israel? When they observe His statutes.’ When the relevant verses are cited in the Talmuds, other interests than ours have evoked the reference and so no help is offered to this study.1
Judges 14:4a
Targum Jonathan is similar to M , except that the customary targumic anti-anthropomorphism1 ‘before Yahweh’ (qdm yyy) displaces ‘Yahweh’ (as in TJ on Gen. 45:8, supra, and the P on 2 Chr. 10:15; 11:4, infra). There are several rabbinic passages which cite Judges 14:4 to demonstrate ‘that a man’s marriage partner is from the Holy One, blessed be He’ (e.g. Gen R. 68.3 [on 28:10], R. Phinehas in R. Abbahu’s name; cf. B.M.K. 18b; Midr. Teh. 59.2). In B. Sota 9b the Gemara is fully cognisant of the tension. On the one hand it contradicts rabbinic opinion which said that Samson was rebelling, since the text insists it was from Yahweh; but on the other hand, it adds, ‘When he went (to choose a wife) he nevertheless followed his own inclination.’ In Numbers Rabbah 9.24 (on 5:26f.) R. Eleazar cites Proverbs 3:34 according to Midrash: ‘If it concerneth the scorners, He scorneth through them, but unto the humble He giveth grace’—apparently meaning that God uses every medium, including Samson’s wickedness, for the accomplishment of his will, but that had not Samson succumbed to temptation he would have been given other opportunities to save his people.
2 Samuel 24:1ff. (1 Chronicles 21:1–7)
The targum on 2 Samuel 24:1 offers no significant difference to the M ; but since it is the anger of Yahweh, and not Yahweh himself, who incites David, the targumist may have felt this was a sufficient anti-anthropomorphism and not been concerned with any further problem. Quite surprisingly, however, Yahweh is introduced into the targum on 1 Chronicles 21:1, viz. w’qym yyy śṯn’ … (‘Yahweh raised up Satan against Israel …’).
R. Eleazer puts the two references together to make Satan the subject of the verb in 2 Samuel 24:1 (P. Ber. 9.8 [Schwab, Vol. i, p. 498]; cf. also B. Ber. 62b).1 It is the later Pesikta Rabbati 11.5 which comes closest to understanding the text. It pictures David numbering his mighty men (end of 2 Sam. 23) and getting only as far as Uriah the Hittite, the mention of whom evokes divine displeasure: ‘again the anger of the Lord was kindled against Israel. Thereupon He moved David to number.…’
1 Kings 8:57–60
On these verses there are no targumic variants or rabbinic expositions of significance to the sovereignty-responsibility tension. But the tension is perhaps too diffuse to occasion mitigating reaction, spread out as it is over several verses. Moreover, the universal language of theistic prayer might blind the reader to the tension unless it were already a live issue with him. Similar remarks hold true for Isaiah 10:5ff.; Jeremiah 29:10–14; and Haggai 1:12–14.
1 Kings 11:11–13, 29–39; 12:1ff. (cf. 2 Chronicles 10:15; 11:4)
The circumlocution qdm yyy (‘before Yahweh’) occurs—e.g. 2 Chronicles 10:15; 11:4 (cf. Judg. 14:4a, supra).
Jeremiah 52:3 (2 Kings 24:19f.)
In both passages, Targum Jonathan eliminates the tension by dissolving the connection between Zedekiah’s rebellion and its cause in Yahweh’s wrath, which becomes the express result of the sins of the people.
Joel 2:32
Targum Jonathan makes no significant change. Elsewhere the first part of the verse functions as an encouragement to pray (Midr. Teh. 4.3; 71.3), while B. Sanhedrin 92a and B. Hullin 133a understand the ‘remnant’ in the last clause to refer to scholars.
Psalm 105:24f.
The targum on 105:25 opens the verse with the hithpaʾel: ʾṯhpyk.… The Aramaic tendency to use hithpa’el with passive significance (equivalent to M hoph‘al) makes this change seem to be a reflection of the tendency to flee from divine ultimacy whenever such ultimacy is in danger of ascribing evil to God—especially evil directed against Israel. It is possible to understand M ’s qal hp̱k in a passive sense (cf. Ps. 78:9); but it was earlier shown that the active sense is most probable in this context. Interestingly enough, the targum has no difficulty following the M four verses later, in 105:29, where the same verb is used.
Exodus Rabbah 1.8 (on 1:8) argues that God incited the Egyptians to hate Israel for Israel’s good. Since circumcision had to be re-instituted by Moses when the people left Israel, it is argued that the covenant of circumcision was abandoned when Joseph died, and so God turned the hearts of the Egyptians to hate his people in order to prevent assimilation. Midrash Tehillim 105:8 (on 105:25), however, makes Pharaoh the subject: ‘Pharaoh turned their heart to hate His people’, i.e by issuing new laws, Exodus 1:2ff.
Summary and conclusions
There is no simple pattern of the sort that can predict what a particular targum will do with the next tension-passage, much less conveniently classify the rabbinic material. Some of the changes in the targums doubtless reflect other interests than a desire to ease the sovereignty-responsibility tension; but still, when the tension reaches its most pronounced form in concentrated passages (e.g. Gen. 50:19f.; Lev. 20:7f.; Judg. 14:4; 2 Sam. 24:1ff. and parallels; Jer. 52:3 and parallel) then at least some of the targumic and rabbinic witnesses inject significant changes or casuistical expositions. In some cases it is the desire to avoid ascribing evil to God that is primarily responsible for prompting the change. In Leviticus 20:7f; 22:31f., however, there can be little question of this mitigating factor. At the same time, the targum on 1 Chronicles 21:1 introduces the tension, probably by assimilation to 2 Samuel 24:1. Overall there is a tendency—we can say no more—to break down the tension or, more accurately, to shift its focal point to the side of man’s advantage: man becomes a good deal more free, and God a trifle less ultimate.
the sovereignty-responsibility tension in rabbinic and targumic thought: a sketch
Before attempting to uncover the limitations of God in the targums and rabbinic literature, it is important to recognise just how much his sovereignty is emphasised. In the targums, no limitation is placed on God’s knowledge and power when these are in open view. ‘Affirmative statements are changed into questions, negative statements into affirmations etc., if their original wording seems to allow for doubts regarding the omniscience of God, his omnipotence and the like.’1 In Genesis 18:14, for example, TJ changes the question, ‘Is anything too hard for Yahweh?’ to ‘Is it possible for anything to be hidden from Yahweh?’ ‘The purpose of this alteration was to remove even the slightest hint that God might be unable to do something.’1 Further, both T and TJ on Genesis 3:5 make it clear that the fall did not catch God by surprise. Divine sovereignty is so extensive that even if the plague rages for seven years, no man dies before his appointed hour (B. Yeb. 115b). R. Hanina said, ‘No man bruises his finger here on earth unless it was so decreed against him in heaven’ (B. Hull. 7b; he cites Ps. 37:23 and Prov. 20:24). B. Sukk. 53a tells a long story to illustrate the fact that no one can escape his appointed place of death. In sum: throughout the rabbinic literature, God is one, God is unchangingly merciful and just, and God is sovereign.1
Simultaneously, God is becoming increasingly transcendent. A. Sperber lists examples from Codex Reuchlinianus to show how anthropomorphisms are avoided, actives (which ascribe to God an actual action) become passives, and extra care is taken to avoid any suggestion that God could have equals.1 Similar conclusions may be drawn about P and T .1 If M at Genesis 5:22 says that Enoch walked with God, TJ has, ‘And Enoch walked in the fear of Yahweh.…’ Similarly, at Genesis 7:16, TJ , TJi , and T employ different expressions to eliminate the offending anthropomorphism. We read that ‘it repented Yahweh in his word that he had made men on the earth’ (TJ Gen. 6:6; cf. Gen. R. 27.4). That God is both sovereign and yet in some way distant is reflected by the answer to the question, Who instructed the children before the destruction of the Temple? ‘If you like, you may say Metatron, or it may be said that God did this as well as other things’ (B.A.Z. 3b).1
As in Jewish apocalyptic, God’s sovereign reign is not monolithic: there is an age to come in which will be culminated both God’s judgment and his soteriological purposes for his people. The structure of rabbinic eschatology1 is less rigid than its apocalyptic counterpart. It allows more room for blessings in this life, not leaving all reward for the age to come (e.g. Ab. 5.19). The overwhelming rabbinic desire to make Torah relevant and applicable in this life imposes a natural curb on uncontrolled futurist speculation. Moreover, although some rabbis indulge in calculating ages (e.g. B. Sanh. 97b), R. Jonathan could say, ‘Blasted be the bones of those who calculate the end. For they would say, since the predetermined time has arrived, and yet he (i.e. the Messiah) has not come, he will never come’ (B. Sanh. 97b). But when all caveats have been entered, it is nevertheless true to say that rabbinic Judaism adopts the same sort of eschatological structure as Jewish apocalyptic.
More fundamental to this inquiry is the rabbinic perspective on some of God’s work in creation. The rabbis agree that God created man with two ‘inclinations’ (yēṣer); the anomalous double-yôd in Genesis 2:7 providing the explicit exegetical justification for this belief (B. Ber. 61a; Gen. R. 14.4. Cf. also Midr. Teh. 14.1 or 1 Chr. 28:9; Gen. R. 27.4; T on Gen. 2:7). Some rabbis included evil spirits in the list of things God initially created (B. Pes. 54a–b). Bowker notes that Tanḥuma (Buber) 1.30 interprets Genesis 6:6 to mean that ‘the Holy One, blessed be He, may His name be blessed, said, “It is I who put the bad leaven in the dough, for the inclination of the heart of man is evil from his youth.” So where it says, “It grieved him at his heart”, it means “man’s heart”.’2
It is impossible in a few words to do justice to rabbinic teaching on the evil yēṣer.2 Nevertheless it is important to recognise the fullness of ultimacy ascribed to the God whose creative work embraces even the evil inclination. (Perhaps it is the awesomeness of this concept which contributes to the conclusion that in some way even the evil inclination is good, since without it men would never marry, procreate, build a house, or trade (Gen. R. 9.9)). Yet it is precisely at this point where divine ultimacy begins to crumble. A.R.N. 32 divides men into three classes: the righteous who are ruled by the good yēṣer, the wicked under the dominion of the evil yēṣer, and a middle class ruled now by one, now by the other (Eccl. R. 4.15f. prefers just two classes). But what governs the destiny of the individual? What class will he find himself in? The crucial factor is his view of Torah. God no only created the evil yēṣer but also the Torah as its remedy. When a man makes Torah his concern, the evil yēṣer does not overcome him (Sifre on Deut. 11:18; B. Ber. 61a; B.B.B. 16a; B. Kidd. 30b; B. Sukk. 52b; P. Yeb. 4.2; A.R.N. 16). God has given to man power over his own evil yēṣer (T on Gen. 4:7). Indeed, the evil yēṣer appears to have been given so we may receive reward for conquering it (B. Yoma 69b; cf. B. Sanh. 64a).
Free will, the ‘doctrine that volition is self-originating and unpredictable … was regarded by rabbinical Judaism as a fundamental principle of the Jewish religion.’2 R. Akiba’s oft-quoted dictum, ‘All is foreseen (by God), yet freedom of choice is granted; and by grace is the universe judged, yet all is according to the amount of the work’ (Ab. 3.16), is patient of several interpretations. It has been taken to mean that human decisions are free, but predictable by God who foresees what they will be; or again, that both aspects of the sovereignty-responsibility tension are fully operative and irreconcilable. Urbach, however, has convincingly shown that the verb ‘foreseen’ (ṣp̱wy) always means ‘to watch, keep watch’ in the Tannaitic period. Moreover:
The content of the Mishna likewise shows that R. Akiba’s intention was not to resolve the contradiction (sic) between [God’s] ‘foreknowledge and [man’s] freewill, but to make man realise his responsibility for his actions. This responsibility is grounded in two factors: in the permission given to man to choose his own way and in the realisation that man is destined to account for his actions before Him who sees and examines his ways.2
If Urbach’s interpretation is correct (and I believe it is), then the ‘grace’ by which the universe is judged can scarcely be more than a reference to kindness, forbearance—i.e. God judges according to the amount of the work, but he is gracious in his judging and will not be too severe. Whatever the interpretation of R. Akiba’s statement, it is outstripped by the undisputed maxim found in the Babylonian Talmud, and attributed to R. Hanina: ‘Everything is in the hands of heaven except the fear of God’ (B.Ber. 33b). The same maxim is found in B. Nidd. 16b (citing Deut. 10:12 as authority), where the angel in charge of conception ‘takes up a drop and places it in the presence of the Holy One, blessed be He, saying, “Sovereign of the universe, What will be the fate of this drop? Shall it produce a strong man or a weak man, a wise man or a fool, a rich man or a poor man?” Whereas “wicked man” or “righteous man” he does not mention, in agreement with the view of R. Hanina (above).’ (Cf. also B. Yoma 38b; Sifre on Deut. 11:26). In other words, the entire sphere of human moral life is explicitly reserved from divine determination.
From all this it is clear that although divine ultimacy is preserved in terms of the initial creation, it is lost in terms of the individual and his moral, existential decisions. God at this point is distant, and man is more or less on his own, however much God may help him when he begins to move in the right direction. By insisting on this absolute freedom of will, the rabbis are trying to preserve human responsibility and maintain the non-arbitrariness of divine justice; but in one important way they are actually weakening both. To postulate a universe in which God directly and explicitly created the evil yēṣer cannot but reduce the enormity, the heinousness, of open rebellion, as compared with the Genesis narratives which do not speculate on the relationship between divine sovereignty and the fall. Rabbinic speculation preserves divine transcendence and pure monism at creation, sacrifices divine ultimacy in the existential moral decision, and makes sin, however evil, part of the essence of humanity instead of an entailment from the fall. Once again the sovereignty-responsibility tension is being denied at its soteriological focal point. The divine endowment is, more or less, only the raw material which man must work up to bring to perfection.2
Predictably, the insistence on free will affects the rabbinic view of election. Election becomes a crucial issue for the rabbis facing christian apologists who declared that the church was the true people of God. Justin Martyr in Dialogue with Trypho 14 and 18 argues that many of the outward signs of Israel’s former election were in reality given for purposes of judgment; and the Epistle of Barnabas 9.4 goes so far as to say that circumcision was actually a form of punishment. Christians could always point to the destruction of the Temple: God has forsaken his people. By way of reaction, ‘The catastrophe of the year 70 occasioned the richest amplification of the doctrine (of election), as the Rabbis stressed over and over again the eternal, intimate and unique relationship which exists between God and His people.’2 As long as Christianity was viewed as a sect of Judaism, the central point of disagreement would remain the question of the continuity of the law. With the fall of the Temple, the full provisions of the law could not be met. In some measure the law had to be abandoned. Christians, seemingly, were winning the argument, and so the disputed point had to be pushed back farther to a deeper question, viz. Who are the real people of God?2
It is against this background that the strongest expressions on election must be understood.2 R. Gamaliel ii insisted that the Jews are God’s people: God has not cast them off (B. Yeb. 102b). Midrash Tehillim 72.6 (on 72:17) makes Israel one of the seven (sic; eight are listed) pre-created things; but the contents of the list (viz., the throne of glory, the name of the Messiah, Torah, Israel, the garden of Eden, Gehenna, repentance, and the Temple) do not suggest that the writer was thinking of a gracious election so much as of an eternal, stable position for Israel. R. Hanina ben Akashia said, ‘The Holy One, blessed be He, was pleased to grant merit to Israel, therefore he gave them a copious law and many commandments.’ The saying occurs in identical form as a sort of doxological conclusion to the Mishnaic tractates Aboth and Makkoth. At first glance it might be mis-interpreted to mean that God was granting ‘merit’ to Israel out of sheer grace. Closer examination reveals that God is not conferring ‘merit’ directly, but by the gracious provision of ‘a copious law and many commandments’—i.e. by the provision of rules to be obeyed. In other words, God has, out of grace, provided the covenantal structure of commandments and laws, whereby the chosen people maintain themselves in the divine favour.
There was disagreement among the rabbis as to whether Israel’s restoration could take place irrespective of her repentance and merits.2 However, the argument calls in question neither the belief in the divine election of Israel qua people, nor the merit theology everywhere assumed. It deals rather with epochal blessings for the people of God, these people who are already privileged to enjoy the covenant and earn reward.
The gratuity of the election of the people is called into question at one crucial point. When the rabbis expressly consider the why of God’s choice, the conclusion is almost always in terms of Israel’s worthiness. I discussed this briefly, including the apparent exception, in connection with Sanders’s work; but it remains to provide a selection of examples.
Of all nations, only Israel accepted the decalogue when it was offered (Pes. R. 21).2 The oft-repeated story of R. Jose’s demonstration that God knows to choose what is good is another way of saying that on account of its good works Israel is ‘as wheat among the chaff’ (Midr. Teh. 1.20 on 1:4):
A Roman lady addressed a query to R. Jose. She said to him: ‘Your God brings near to Himself indiscriminately whomsoever He pleases.’ He brought her a basket of figs and she scrutinised them well, picking the best and eating. Said he to her: ‘You, apparently, know how to select, but the Holy One, blessed be He, does not know how to select! The one whose actions He perceives to be good, him He chooses and brings near to himself (Num. R. 3.2).
Compared with Israel, all nations are subsidiary (Midr. Teh. 2.13 on 2:12), as is demonstrated by the fact that the commandments concerning circumcision, tassels, phylacteries and Mezuzahs were given only to Jews.3 In other words, the blessings of election demonstrate moral superiority. Indeed, Israel could boast not only moral but racial superiority: she was given the law because of all nations she was strongest, most ‘energetic’.3 As the school of R. Ishmael taught, no nation could have withstood Israel were it not for the curbing effect of the law (B.Y.T.=B. Bez. 25b). In an atmosphere like this even Amos 9:7 could be re-interpreted to mean that as the Ethiopians are distinguished by colour, so Israel is distinguished from all other peoples by the manner of her obedience to God (B.M.K. 16b). The Holy One chose Israel because she came from genuine seed (Tanḥ. 16a). Even some of the rabbis who teach that Israel was chosen before the creation of the world understand that divine choice in terms of God’s foreknowledge of how good the patriarchs would be (e.g. Ex. R. 15.17).
Most rabbis allow that Gentiles can be saved by coming under Torah (e.g. B.A.Z. 3b, 24a; B. Sanh. 105a; Tos. Sanh. 13.2; cf. T on Gen. 9:27); but others flatly deny the possibility (e.g. B. Kidd. 31a, 32a; B. Git. 45b; Mek. on Exod. 21:30 (Lauterbach, Vol. iii, pp. 87ff.)). Certainly B. J. Bamberger in his book Proselytism in the Talmudic Period3 exaggerates the eagerness of the rabbis for converts and their friendliness toward proselytes. Above all, it is important to observe that where Gentile proselytes are saved by coming under Torah, this action has nothing whatever to do with God’s election. They enter by their voluntary, unconditioned submission to the covenant. This should not be too surprising because, as we have already had occasion to observe, election has been restricted to God’s choice of the Jewish race as a whole.
In short, an extensive ‘merit theology’ is on the rise. I use the expression advisedly, acutely aware of the way it has been abused by christian scholars. The argument of E. P. Sanders must be taken seriously. But if we exclude from this term any idea of supererogation, or of a simplistic commercial weighing of merits and demerits, then we must still confess that merit theology is on the ascendancy in the Tannaitic and Amoraic periods, inasmuch as there is an increasing dependence on personal merit as an approach to God, and much serious theological argument surrounding the significance and limitations of merit.3 Although it is true to say that various elements of this theological structure are contradicted by other rabbis, there is little doubt which way the winds are blowing. B. Sanh. 81a records an important exchange between R. Gamaliel and R. Akiba:
When R. Gamaliel read the verse [Ezek. 6:9] he wept, saying, ‘Only he who does all those things shall live, but not merely one of them!’ Thereupon R. Akiba said to him, ‘If so, Defile not yourselves in all these things (Lev. 18:24).—is the prohibition against all [combined] only, but not against one?’ [Surely not!] But it means, in one of these things; so here too, for doing one of these things; so here too, for doing one of these things [shall he live].
A later expanded version pictures R. Gamaliel replying, ‘Thou hast comforted me, Akiba, thou hast comforted me’ (Midr. Teh. 15.7 on 15:5). A not dissimilar picture is painted by R. Jose, who argues that if a single violation by Adam brought so much death and suffering, how much greater would the rewards be for the good deeds? For ‘which is greater, the attribute of reward (lit. of goodness) or that of punishment? Surely the attribute of reward’ (Sifra 27a).
The merits of the patriarchs are particularly powerful, even if it is not likely that the Tannaim thought that such merits could be imputed to the descendants of the patriarchs. Abraham is singled out. In magnifying his merit, the rabbis correspondingly magnify the man. R. Levi tells stories of the effectiveness of Abraham’s prayers in relieving the ill and the barren (Gen. R. 39.11; cf. B.B.B. 16b; Gen. R. 44.16 on 15:11). Even Abraham’s faith is meritorious (Mek. Ex. 14.31, Lauterbach, 1, p. 253). The following story makes Abraham so great that the previously noted emphasis on divine transcendence is temporarily lost to view:
R. Yudan said in the same of R. Hamma: In the time-to-come, when the Holy One, blessed be He, seats the lord Messiah at His right hand, as is said, The Lord saith unto my lord: ‘Sit thou at My right hand’ (Ps. 110:1), and seats Abraham at His left, Abraham’s face will pale, and he will say to the Lord: ‘My son’s son sits at the right, and I at the left!’ Thereupon the Holy One, blessed be He, will comfort Abraham, saying: ‘Thy son’s son is at My right, but I, in a manner of speaking, am at thy right’: The Lord [is] at thy right hand (Ps. 110:5). (Midr. Teh. 18.29 on 18:36).
But Abraham is not alone in his merits. R. Eleazar teaches that Israel will be saved through five things: affliction, the cry of prayer, the merits of the fathers, repentance, and the time of ingathering (Midr. Teh. 106.9 on 106:44; cf. Ab. 2.2). The merits of the fathers will endure forever (Lev. R. 36.6).
Coming to his own contemporaries, R. Joshua, citing Micah 7:4, said, ‘As briers protect a gap so do the best men among us protect us’ (B. Erub. 101a). God would have created the world for the sake of a single righteous man (B. Yoma 38b). Conversely, God permitted Hadrian to destroy the city of Jerusalem only because the merits of the people had run out (Lam. R. 1.5; cf. T on Deut. 7:10).
Rewards may be bestowed in this life on the man who merits them. Longevity was sometimes regarded as proof of a life full of merits (so R. Meir, P. Bikk. 3, near end: Schwab, ii. p. 385),3 although this was disputed by some (B.M.K. 28a). R. Hanina was saved from sorcery because of his abundant merits. The Holy Spirit is won by merits.3
Clearly, the destruction of the Temple forced on the rabbis some radical rethinking about ways and means of atonement. The rising consensus finds apt expression in R. Johanan b. Zaccai, who argued that the Jews should not grieve too much at the loss of the Temple, since they had an atonement equal to that of the Temple, viz. the doing of good works: did not the Holy One say, ‘I desire mercy ḥeseḏ and not sacrifice’ (Hos. 6:6; A.R.N. 4.5)? Others (e.g. R. Eliezer b. Hyrcanus) regarded the cessation of the sacrificial cult as an irreparable loss (B. Sot 49a); but the centrality of good works as a means of atonement, along with suffering and death, can scarcely be doubted. In Exod. R. 44.4 (on 32:13), R. Abin in the name of R. Aha tells a lengthy parable whose significance he spells out as follows:
So, when Israel sinned, God was angry with them and said, ‘Now, therefore, let Me alone, that My wrath may wax hot against them, and that I may consume them’ (Exod. 32:10). But Moses pleaded: ‘Lord of the Universe! Why art Thou angry with Israel?’ ‘Because they have broken the Decalogue,’ he replied. ‘Well, they possess a source from which they can make repayment,’ he urged. ‘What is the source?’ He asked. Moses replied: ‘Remember that Thou didst prove Abraham with ten trials, and so let those ten [trials serve as compensation] for these ten [broken commandments].
It must not be thought that the rabbis had no regard for humility. Humility is a virtue frequently extolled, although sometimes even humility is seen as meritorious. But, as G. F. Moore rightly says, ‘Pride is hard to subdue, and none so hard as the joint pride of piety and learning, and where men have made a painful effort to eradicate their pride they may become inordinately proud of their humility.’3 Perhaps the story of God at Abraham’s right hand (supra) is not so anomalous after all. Certainly the mature merit theology of the medieval period brought with it certain spiritual arrogance.3
One might almost have expected that merit theology would bring with it the kind of desperate theodicy found in 4 Ezra. In fact, that is not the case. Although there is considerable variation, it is refreshing to discover how frequently the rabbis retreat for their theodicy to an absolute confidence in the sheer justice of God.3
This realisation brings us to the supreme irony. Few are as concerned to preserve the transcendence, justice and sovereignty of God as are the rabbis; but by cutting man entirely free in the moral sphere and developing merit theology, they deny an important facet of divine ultimacy and raise man to a position he does not have when he is chosen out of sheer grace, in defiance of demerit. God is theoretically sovereign, but not in the area of salvation (however salvation be construed); he is transcendent, but instead of taking the initiative in this age and visiting his people with saving grace, he merely assists and rewards their efforts. The tension, of course, remains: monotheism cannot escape it. But it has assumed a new shape.