Of course, God’s control of life was still more obvious in the case of certain onetime interventions. When the Hebrews were enslaved by a wicked pharaoh, it was God who afflicted the Egyptians with ten plagues and then led them out of Egypt “with a mighty arm and an outstretched hand.” Likewise, it was God who bequeathed the land of Canaan to the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—and then saw to it that Joshua was successful in the war to capture it. It was also God who unstopped the stopped-up wombs of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Hannah. But understanding these onetime interventions in this way belongs to a much larger mentality. In the biblical world—at least judging by the evidence we have—anything that did not have an evident human cause (and even some things that might seem as if they did) was caused by the divine. Indeed, even to say this falls somewhat short of the ancient Israelite sense of God’s overwhelming, overbearing presence, at least according to the Bible’s testimony. It may be difficult for people nowadays to conceive of God’s utter mastery in this ancient way, but with some imagination this sense can be recaptured.
Judah and Tamar
The story of Judah and Tamar (Genesis 38) is a brief and somewhat embarrassing tale. Judah is a wealthy sheep-owner who ends up sleeping with his daughter-in-law, Tamar. Judah, as the eponym of the Kingdom of Judah, homeland of the Jewish people, ought to be an altogether positive character. But sleeping with your daughter-in-law is certainly not an acceptable thing to do. It was therefore necessary to explain how this positive character ended up doing such an altogether bad deed.
There were extenuating circumstances, as the Bible relates. Tamar had first been married to Judah’s son Er, but he died. Then, in keeping with ancient custom, Judah married her off to his second son, Onan; but he died as well. At this point Judah, in keeping with the same custom, ought to have passed Tamar on to his third son. But he was afraid that she might somehow bring about the death of that son as well, so he kept Tamar unmarried in his household for a long time. As the years passed, she became increasingly desperate to have a child, in or out of wedlock, and finally fixed on a stratagem that worked. She knew her father-in-law was going off to Timnah with his flocks; since Judah had now been a widower for some time, she correctly supposed that he might be tempted to seek out some female companionship of the most fleeting kind. So Tamar dressed up as a prostitute, veiling her face with thick cloth, and hurried off to arrive at the entrance of the city before Judah. When he saw her, Judah indeed took her for a prostitute and ended up sleeping with her—without ever recognizing who she was. These were the extenuating circumstances: truly, neither of the two was blameworthy. When Judah subsequently found out that his daughter-in-law was pregnant, at first he was incensed. “Take her out and burn her!” he said. But when she explained to him how it all had happened, and that he was the father, he had to relent. “She was right,” he conceded.
The biblical account is a bit more detailed, but this is the essential story. There is, however, one tiny difference between my account above and that of the book of Genesis—an altogether negligible detail, really—which nevertheless is quite telling. I said that Judah’s two sons, Er and Onan, “died.” In my version of the story, that was certainly enough. People do die, after all—some at a ripe old age, but some not, especially in ancient times. Yet in the world of divine causality, simply saying “they died” would have sounded a bit like Ronald Reagan’s famous “mistakes were made.” Some further clarification was necessary, one that explained how these premature deaths had come about:
Er, Judah’s firstborn, was evil in the LORD’s eyes, so the LORD killed him. Then Judah said to Onan, “Go into your brother’s wife and do your duty toward your dead brother: provide offspring on his behalf.” But Onan knew that the offspring would not be considered his, so every time he had relations with his brother’s wife, he would waste his seed on the ground without giving it on his brother’s behalf. What he did displeased the LORD, so He killed him as well. (Gen 38:7–10)
Of the two deaths, the more interesting one is actually the first. Why did God kill Er? He was “evil.” What he actually did or didn’t do is apparently not important, but it was crucial for the narrative to assert that his death did not just happen. God killed him. The reason that this had to be said has already been given: God must be the causer of anything conspicuously lacking a cause, so it had to be said that He had, for whatever reason, brought about Er’s premature death. The same assertion could have explained Onan’s death, but in his case a more elaborate justification is offered: Onan’s sin (not, apparently, what used to be called “onanism,” i.e., masturbation, but coitus interruptus) was what angered God, so much so that He killed him too. But whatever the particulars, it was crucial for the narrative to say that the two brothers didn’t just “pass away.” As Amos asks (quite rhetorically), “Can misfortune befall a town if the LORD has not caused it?”
The Story of Joseph
It is against this background that I wish to consider another biblical story, one that could not be more different from that of Judah and Tamar despite their close proximity in the book of Genesis: the story of Joseph and his brothers, which stretches from Genesis 37 to 45. In particular, I want to focus on three separate verses in the story, verses which, although taken from different parts of the narrative, share a common theme:
“What is this that the LORD has done to us?” (Gen 42:28)
“Your God, and the God of your fathers, must have put a hidden treasure in your grain sacks.” (Gen 43:23)
“God has uncovered the crime of your servants.” (Gen 44:16)
As will be seen, each of these verses reveals something crucial not only about the Joseph story, but more generally about Israel’s different understandings of the role of its God in the world. In order to explain them, however, it is necessary first to say something about the narrative as a whole.
The biblical tale of Joseph is an extraordinarily moving story, with a series of dramatic ups and downs for its central figure and a very happy ending. Joseph, the favorite son of his father, Jacob, is seized by his jealous brothers and sold as a slave to a passing caravan. He ends up in Egypt, where he is bought by a high Egyptian official. The official’s wife tries to seduce the handsome boy, but when he resists, she charges him with attempted rape and he is sent to prison. Eventually, the Egyptian king summons Joseph because of his reputation as a dream interpreter: the king has had a disturbing dream that needs deciphering. Joseph explains the king’s dream, which foretells seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. The king then appoints Joseph to oversee the food rationing that will allow Egypt to survive the coming seven lean years.
When famine does indeed strike the whole region, Joseph’s brothers in Canaan journey to Egypt, the only place where it is still possible to buy grain. Joseph recognizes his brothers at once, but they, seeing someone dressed in the garb of an Egyptian official and speaking through an interpreter, simply take him for some senior Egyptian administrator. Deciding to go on with the masquerade, Joseph puts his brothers through a series of hardships—at first accusing them of spying, then freeing them, then, on their return visit, charging the youngest of them with the theft of his expensive drinking goblet. At the height of this last crisis, and with his brothers despairing of their fate, Joseph suddenly empties the room of his attendants and aides and announces the truth (in Hebrew) to his astonished siblings: “I am your brother Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt.” A tearful reunion follows, ending with Joseph’s father, who had long believed his son dead, traveling to Egypt to be united with his beloved offspring.
What is the overall message of this story? At first glance it might seem to be: nil desperandum, “Don’t ever lose hope.” Joseph, after all, suffered more than one setback—sold as a slave, later falsely accused of attempted rape, then stuck for years in a dismal Egyptian prison—yet he never despaired. His pluck and his willingness to overlook present difficulties in the hope for a better day are clearly what helped him through al
l his trials. Yet in the world of Israelite wisdom, to which this story belongs,2 this optimistic outlook in turn derives from a still greater lesson of life, and that is the existence of a great, divine plan underlying all of reality. Whatever happens in this world, Israelite sages came to believe, happens in keeping with such a plan, a set of principles established long ago by God.
These principles, only some of which we humans can discover, are nothing less than the operating instructions of the world. In fact, the entirety of these principles is sometimes referred to by the word “wisdom,” a kind of code word for the preprogrammed instructions that have forever governed life on earth. “How great are Your works!” a biblical psalm exclaims. “You have made them all with wisdom” (Ps 104:24). This doesn’t mean, “Good job, God!” It is an assertion that there is an order to all of reality, that all things are governed by “wisdom,” the world’s great, underlying plan. Similarly: “By wisdom the LORD founded the earth, by understanding He established the heavens” (Prov 3:19). Moreover: “How great are Your works, so very deep are Your plans: a simpleton cannot know, nor a foolish man understand this” (Ps 92:6–7).
What are the operating instructions that biblical sages called wisdom? The most basic one has already been mentioned. The very idea that there are rules, that things don’t happen at random or spontaneously but obey long-established principles—this is the central tenet of wisdom. As the above-cited verses indicate, this set of plans was held to be of divine origin; God had established them from the beginning of time to govern all that happens.3 For this reason, biblical texts often contrast the vanity of human plan-making with the all-inclusive divine plan:
The LORD overthrows the plans of nations, undoes peoples’ designs; the LORD’s plan stands forever, the designs of His heart for every age. (Ps 33:10–11)
The LORD knows a person’s plans—that they are futile. (Ps 94:11)
To humans belong the plans of the mind, but from the LORD comes the spoken reply [that is, the last word]. (Prov 16:1)
Many are the plans in a man’s mind, but the LORD’s plan—that is what will stand. (Prov 19:21)
Certainly some of the rules that make up this underlying set of plans belong to what might be described as early “science”: thus, it was simply a rule that the light of the moon waxes and wanes according to a fixed design, and that the movements of the sun and stars are similarly patterned. Israelite wisdom also included such things as botany or ornithology: age-old experience had taught, for example, that if you cut down a tree, it can regenerate itself; even if it looks like a dead stump, “at the scent of water” it will bud anew (Job 14:9). Ostriches lay their eggs on the ground, “letting them warm in the dirt” and apparently caring little for their survival (Job 39:14–16), while storks build their nests in the highest fir trees (Ps 104:17–18). But other rules apply to human behavior. There is a proper way to behave in the royal court (Eccles 10:20), a proper way for parents to behave toward their children (Prov 13:24), and a proper way for the young to treat their elders (Sir 3:1–16). In general, modesty and the via media are the right path: “Better a dry piece of bread eaten in peace than a houseful of abundance that is consumed in strife” (Prov 17:1).
While such truths may have emerged from sustained observation, wisdom also had an idealistic side that did not always match appearances. It held, for example, that the righteous will ultimately get their reward in this world, while the wicked will inevitably be punished. For this reason, patience was the cardinal virtue of the wisdom outlook: wait long enough and everything turns out all right. Indeed, Joseph’s patience in the face of adversity—which was ultimately rewarded—is a perfect illustration of this rule. Beyond these are dozens and dozens of other specific insights about life that make up the corpus of wisdom writings—a genre well known throughout the ancient Near East.
One might rightly ask here: Hadn’t these rules always been the basic message of the Bible as a whole? The answer, modern biblical scholars say, is: yes and no. In many other parts of the Bible, there is no apparent prior plan. God’s management of reality is a hands-on job, requiring constant adjustment to changing circumstances. Indeed, the God of Old follows no set of invariable, eternal principles; some biblical texts even glorify His capacity to shake things up and do the exact opposite of what we expect:
The bows of the mighty may snap, while weaklings brim with power.
The formerly fat are hired out for bread, while those who were hungry are feasting.
A barren woman gives birth to seven, but the mother of many is bereft.
The LORD can kill or bring back to life, send down to Sheol or raise up again.
The LORD makes poor or makes rich, He humbles as well as exalts.
He lifts up the poor from the dirt, and the needy from a pile of dung,
He sits them next to the nobles and grants them the place of honor. (1 Sam 2:4–8)
In most of the book of Genesis, God follows no particular set of rules. He acts, or reacts, quite spontaneously. He discovers that Cain has murdered Abel and then sentences him to exile. After seeing that the human race, which He created, has turned out to be fundamentally flawed, God decides to bring a great flood to punish mankind. He decides to destroy the tower of Babel only after He has realized what the people are doing. And of course in all of these episodes and others, He personally intervenes in human doings in some hands-on, physical way.
The story of Joseph has a different quality. After Joseph has revealed his true identity to his brothers, he explains what has really happened—and why:
“And now, don’t be upset and don’t blame yourselves for selling me here: it was to keep [people] alive that God sent me ahead of you. For the famine has already lasted for two years in the midst of this land, and for five years more there will be no plowing or harvest. But God sent me ahead of you to assure your survival in this land, and along with you to keep alive many other survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God.” (Gen 45:5–8)
If that is not enough, he goes on to reiterate the lesson later on. After their father’s death, Joseph’s brothers are afraid that he will at last take some revenge upon them, a revenge they know they justly deserve. But Joseph reassures them:
Joseph said to them: “Do not be afraid—am I in God’s stead? You planned evil against me, but God had planned it for the good, in order to keep a great number of people alive, as [He is] doing today.” (Gen 50:19-20)
This is the whole point: humans may think what they think, but ultimately, they are merely part of a much larger game. As a verse cited earlier puts it, “Many are the plans in a man’s mind, but the LORD’s plan—that is what will stand” (Prov 19:21).
The Divine Travel Agent
It all reminds me of the story about the fellow who has a vivid dream one night, in which he is on a Greek ferryboat that suddenly overturns in the middle of the sea, and he and all the other passengers are drowned. “Repent before it is too late,” a voice cries out at the end of the dream. Waking up, the man doesn’t repent, but he does resolve never to find himself anywhere near Greece or Greek ferries, just in case this dream was some sort of warning. Several years pass, however, and one day he decides he needs a vacation: the French Riviera seems like the ideal spot. When he goes to make reservations, however, the travel agent tells him that the prices for France are particularly high this year: “You would do better to go somewhere like Greece,” the agent says. The very word strikes fear into the man’s heart, but the travel agent assures him that flights to Greece are quite safe—and of course involve no Greek ferries.
On the day of his flight everything begins well, but there is a problem at the Athens airport and the plane is forced to make an emergency landing on the Greek island of Santorini. The man then tries in vain to arrange a flight to the mainland, but all the flights are booked solid. “Why not take the ferry?” the airline official suggests. Now, the man is extremely reluctant, but a dream is just a dream, after all, and the ticket agent at the fe
rry’s pier dismisses his misgivings: “The trip lasts only a couple of hours, and it’s completely safe: in fact, this particular boat itself is brand-new, the weather forecast is for calm seas, and besides, we have never had the slightest emergency in over fifty years in the business.” Reassured, the man agrees. As soon as the ferry is in open waters, however, the sea suddenly turns stormy, the ferry begins to list badly, and it now appears quite possible that the vessel will overturn. The man, in a panic, lifts his voice to heaven: “O Lord,” he says, eyeing the other passengers on the boat, “I know I am a terrible sinner and did not repent as You said. But will You sacrifice all these other people just to punish me?” From heaven immediately comes the response: “Do you know how much planning and arranging it took for Me to get all you people together on the same boat?”
This is the God of the “wisdom” strand of Scripture, the divine travel agent who arranges things from afar and well in advance—in fact, a God who is Himself to some extent subject to the preexisting rules. If the righteous must ultimately be rewarded, then in a sense God has no choice but to reward them. It is almost as if wisdom, the great plan created by God (Prov 8:22), is a kind of independent, divine force. The book of Job at one point asks:
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