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‘And if all the trees of the earth were pens and the oceans ink, with many more oceans for replenishing them, the word of God would never come to an end.’ Quran 31: 27
‘Turn it over again and again, for everything is in it.’ Pirke Avot 5: 22
‘Commentary questions discourse as to what it says and intended to say; it tries to uncover that deeper meaning of speech that enables it to achieve an identity with itself, supposedly nearer to its essential truth; in other words, in stating what has been said, one has to re-state what has never been said. In this activity known as commentary which tries to transmit an old, unyielding discourse seemingly silent to itself, into another, more prolix discourse that is both more archaic and more contemporary—is concealed a strange attitude towards language: to comment is to admit by definition an excess of the signified over the signifier.’ Foucault 1975: xvi–xvii.
Readers of the Bible and Quran continue to unpack and tease out new meaning of a biblical narrative or quranic verse that resonates for the reader personally or throws light on a current social or political matter. The canon of scripture is fixed, but political, social, and religious exigencies give rise to different interpretations of it. Particular contexts give shape to the ways in which exegetes revitalize the word of God. This is as true of the church fathers, the rabbis, and the muffasirūn as it is of interpreters of sacred texts today.1
Ancient and modern Jewish, Christian, and Islamic scriptural interpretation share many fundamental assumptions inherent to the hermeneutical process. They approach scripture as a seamless whole, perfect in its message to humanity. The word of God is neither self-contradicting, nor subject to mutability. Its interpretation on the other hand is far from monolithic, and betrays differing perspectives. Interpretation must be understood as a contextualized activity. The very questions addressed, the manner in which they are addressed and answered—who is addressing and answering and to what audience—all factor into understanding scriptural interpretation. In other words, awareness of the historical situatedness of the interpreter and of that which is interpreted provides a portal into exegetical texts and the practices that inform specific readings of scripture.
‘An interpretation’, writes Heidegger (1962: 192–3), ‘is never a presuppositionless apprehending of something presented to us. If, when one is engaged in a particular kind of interpretation, in the sense of exact textual interpretation, one likes to appeal [beruft] to what “stands there”, [but] then one finds that what “stands there” in the first instance is nothing other than the obvious undiscussed assumption [Vormeignung] of the person who does the interpreting.’ What ‘stands there’ is twofold: one must attempt to grasp what ‘stands there’ for the rabbis who interpreted scripture, for the muffasirūn, interpreters of the Quran, and for the Christian church writers, and also to recognize what ‘stands there’ for us as interpreters of the received tradition. The process of interpretation is never purely philological, even when it is explicitly stated as such. In attending to our own presuppositions—from which we are never free, but an awareness of which and through which we better understand and elucidate the past and present—we are better attuned to the very movement between the text and interpreter, and between the interpretation and ourselves. This recognition of our own situatedness allows us to appreciate the ways in which the literature we will examine is itself the very expression of the experience of the historically situated interpreter and text.
What follows is an overview of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim interpretative traditions of the late antique, early medieval periods that played a role in later exegetical developments. Far from exhaustive, this general discussion seeks to familiarize the reader with underlying exegetical concepts, some common to all three Abrahamic religions, some unique to each, as well as with several important works and interpreters whose impact is detectable in contemporary exegesis.
The stories in the Hebrew Bible and Quran are characteristically terse, and in the case of the Quran elliptical, and thus readers are left with many unanswered questions about the details of any given narrative. Exegetes creatively expand stories as well as bridge gaps therein. At the same time, troubling passages are explained away in order to whitewash the patriarchs who are depicted as embodying religious teachings and behaving in exemplary ways. Clothed in layers of tradition scriptural characters take on a life of their own, and events are imbued with meaning exceeding the literal reading of the text. The accretion of traditions and confessional assumptions shape preconceived images and scriptural personages.
In Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (1985), Michael Fishbane draws attention to how the Bible, the very source for exegesis, includes numerous examples of interpretation. That is, many biblical passages re-tailor earlier material to construct new meaning. The inner-biblical exegetical phenomenon takes on many forms and functions and is consonant with later interpretative literature. Our enquiry into Jewish biblical interpretation is, however, limited to a period spanning the ancient and early medieval eras, and will focus on midrash—rabbinic biblical interpretation.
The Septuagint, a Greek translation of the Pentateuch, and the Aramaic translations, the targumim, are biblical translations. Although their intent is not to explicate the Bible, to the extent that translation per force is a form of interpretation, they possess some of the qualities of interpretation. Translations of specific words or phrases considered problematic in Hebrew often, although not necessarily, convey theological or philosophical concerns. For example, ‘the image of God’ is rendered ‘the glory of God’, and the ‘mouth of God’ is ‘the voice of God’.
Forms of scriptural amplification include Jubilees, an elaborate narrative covering events that take place from Genesis to Exodus 12, the Genesis Apocryphon, one of the Dead Sea Scrolls extant in fragmentary form, and the Biblical Antiquities of Pseudo-Philo that ends with the death of Saul. These works embellish biblical stories but the question remains whether they take the stories of the Bible as their starting point, or whether they are renditions of biblical stories. In other words, one should not readily assume the canonical status of the Bible at this stage, and therefore while they exhibit embellishments and amplifications of biblical stories, it is debatable whether or not they should be considered forms of biblical interpretation.
One of its earliest interpreters was Philo of Alexandria (20 bce–50 ce), who commonly attributes Greek philosophical views to biblical characters. He was a Jewish Hellenistic philosopher and interpreter of scriptures whose approach to the Bible made less of an impact on Palestinian rabbinic interpretation than it did on patristic exegesis. His interest in the etymologies of Hebrew names, a form of allegorical interpretation, was for example adopted and popularized by early church exegetes.2 Philo was more concerned with philosophical matters and understanding biblical personages in light of Hellenistic philosophical values. His approach to reading scriptures was shaped by a commitment to Judaism and Stoic philosophy.
Another early interpreter of the Bible is the ancient Jewish historian Josephus (37–c.100 ce). His account of the history of the Jewish people from the biblical period must be considered part of the long trajectory of Jewish scriptural interpretation. Josephus promises to cover the entire biblical history systematically, and by and large delivers on that promise. His retelling of biblical events and character embellishments contributed to the reception of the Bible in antiquity. His depiction of the Jewish forefathers resonates with Greek thought and culture. For example, Josephus’ Abraham is a Greek philosopher who combats Chaldean views that maintain the power of heavenly bodies. Abraham’s discovery of God comes about through celestial contemplation, recognition of the irregularity of the stars, which effect changes in the land and sea: ‘For he said that if they had the power they would have provided their own orderliness; but since they lack this, it is evident that as many things as they contribute to our increased usefulness they perform not by their own authority but in accordance with the power of their commander, on whom alone it is proper to confer honor and gratitude’ (AJ 1.156; trans. Feldman 2000: 57).3 This portrayal of Abraham as one who refutes the divine power of heavenly orbs is also found in Philo, who commonly attributes Greek philosophical views to biblical characters.
Previous scholarship drew a connection between the pesharim of Qumran and rabbinic midrash. The pesher (‘interpretation’) of prophetic works of the Bible found at Qumran exhibit similar traits with those of rabbinic midrash, namely the atomistic approach to scriptural verses, the employment of double entendre, anagram, and paronomasia. It, however, is a distinct form of interpretation and should not be conflated with rabbinic forms of interpretation. Although there are no traces of the pesher proper in the New Testament, it also shares affinities with New Testament uses of prophetic literature. The Qumran pesher, however, is future oriented and prophetic literature functions in the New Testament as a key to unlocking the meaning of past events.4
In common parlance, midrash (Hebrew root drš, ‘to investigate, seek, search out, examine’) refers generally to interpretation of any text, sacred or secular, ancient or contemporary. In its strictest sense, however, it is a process of scriptural exegesis that characterizes classical rabbinic interpretation. It also refers to the vast and varied rabbinic compilations of the late antique and medieval periods that preserve oral traditions prior to their redaction (c. fifth to the thirteenth centuries). Midrash, both the process and the very fruit of that process, grew out of an attempt to understand laconic or obscure biblical verses in order to make meaning out of scripture. Midrash is the means by which the rabbis made biblical ordinances relevant, taught moral lessons, told stories, and maintained the Jewish meta-narrative that shaped and continues to sustain the Jewish people. The Bible was a means to look both backward and forward. They probed it for responses to the burning theological issues of the day, for answers to a changing reality.
Not all rabbinic interpretation, however, should be understood as a response to contemporary religious or social concerns. Gaps in the biblical text, superfluous wording, and seeming contradictions occupied the rabbis’ attention. Midrash’s verso-centric, intertextual orientation is its fundamental feature, but not all midrashim can be understood in these hermeneutic terms. Social, theological, and political issues precipitated by historical events such as the rise of both Christianity and Islam played a role in the development of rabbinic interpretation.
There are generally two kinds of rabbinic compilations of this period: aggadic exegetical and homiletic compilations. The former are ordered according to biblical verses, and the latter are a series of sermons based on a specific verse under discussion. The premier examples of aggadic exegetical compilations are Genesis Rabbah and Lamentations Rabbah, two of the Midrash Rabbah collections of the books of Torah and the five megillot (scrolls)—Lamentations, Esther, Ruth, Song of Songs, and Ecclesiastes.5
In addition to Leviticus Rabbah, Deuteronomy Rabbah, and Numbers Rabbah, other compilations such as Peskita de Rab Kahana on selected passages or sections read on special Sabbaths or festal days are arranged homiletically. In these works, chapters comprise homilies that cohere around a particular topic. The collections of homilies moreover share a structural arrangement: a series of proems (petiḥtot), the body (gufa) of the homily, and an eschatological ending or peroration. The petiḥta (proem), a verse usually from the Writings, especially from Psalms or the Wisdom Literature, although also sometimes from the prophets, is also an earmark of the aggadic compilations, whether exegetical or homiletical. Through a chain of interpretations, the seemingly extraneous verse is connected to the verse under discussion. This structure exemplifies a fundamental aspect of midrash, namely the desire to unite the diverse parts of the tripartite canon—Torah, Prophets, and Writings—into a harmonious, seamless whole that reflects the oneness of God’s Word.
Halakhic midrashim, the earliest midrashic collections, deal primarily with issues of halakha, rabbinic law. They are also exegetical by nature and thus often provide word-by-word explications on verses in Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy. Later compilations, which are more difficult to date, include Midrash Psalms (Tehilim), Exodus Rabbah, Tanna de-be Eliyahu, also known as Seder Eliyahu, and the Tanhuma-Yelamdenu literature, which consists of a group of homiletic midrashim on the Torah.
The broad designation of compilations as either halakhic or aggadic belies the fact that halakhic midrashim contain aggadic material and vice versa. Whether halakhic or aggadic, late antique or early medieval, the midrashic locus of exegesis is a biblical word or phrase. Punsters par excellence, the rabbis were keen on making philological associations. They culled TaNaKh for verbal affinities; they spun stories and drew connections in order to elucidate a given verse. Every letter of a word, every phrase, was open to interpretation, for the Word of God is expressed in a specific way in order to teach or explain something. Nothing in scripture is superfluous and every word has meaning, in fact many meanings, some more apparent than others. One will often find contradictory statements from various rabbis made about the meaning of a word, and one interpretation is not more acceptable than another. The multiplicity of meaning does not challenge scriptural authority, but rather attests to its infinitude.
Rabbinic exegetical methods employed in halakhic and aggadic midrashim vary. The qal vaḥomer (literally ‘light and heavy’) establishes an argument based on the inference that if something applies in a minor case, it will also apply in the major. This form of reasoning is found in both halakhic and aggadic midrashim, and was common in Graeco-Roman argumentation (a minore ad maius). The gezera shavah, however, is more common to halakhic midrashim. By means of verbal analogy, a particular detail of a biblical law in one verse is derived from the meaning of the word or phrase in the other. Other rules that characterize halakhic midrashim include the binyan av (a specific law in one verse may be applied to all other similar cases), klal uprat, prat uklal (rules of inference between general and specific statements and vice versa), and hekkesh (inference by analogy, whether explicit or implicit between two subjects—not words—within the same or similar context).
These aforementioned rules are employed in halakhic exegesis, but biblical non-legal passages are often explained by paronomasia (wordplay). Philology provides a linchpin for rabbis to draw analogies between verses. It also can take the form of gematria, whereby the arithmetical value of Hebrew letters is used to interpret a word or verse, and notarikon, shorthand writing whereby individual letters are used to signify words. In other words, Hebrew words are understood as acronyms so that each letter stands for another word, which in turn forms a phrase or sentence.
An important feature of rabbinic compilations is the inclusion of competing opinions on how to interpret a verse. Consider, for instance, this midrash from Genesis Rabbah:
‘So it came about that the Lord scattered them (vayafeẓ) from there over the face of the entire world and they stopped building the city.’ (Gen. 11: 8) R. Yudan said: The people of Tyre went to Sidon and the Sidonites to Tyre, while Miẓraim [Egypt] retains his land. R. Nehemiah said: Everyone held onto their own land for their original settlement was there, and to that they returned. So what is meant by ‘…the Lord scattered them…’? All the peoples entered the mountain peaks and absorbed their own inhabitants. The Rabbis said: vayafeẓ is to be read vayaẓef (swept away): the sea came up and swept away thirty families. R. Pinchas said in R. Levi’s name: No misfortune comes to a man which does not profit somebody. Whence were those thirty families replaced? From Abraham, sixteen from the sons of Keturah and twelve from Ishmael, and as for the remaining two—And the Lord said unto her, ‘Two nations are in your womb’ (Gen. 25: 23). (Gen. Rab. 38: 10)
The midrash concerns God’s response to humanity’s building of a tower after the great flood (Gen. 11: 8): ‘The Lord came down to look at the city and tower [called Babel in verse 9] that man had built, and the Lord said, “If, as one people with one language for all, this is how they have begun to act, then nothing they propose to do will be out of their reach. Let us, then, go down and confound their speech there, so that they shall not understand one another’s speech.” Thus the Lord scattered them from there over the face of the whole earth.’ What does it mean that God scattered the people from there over the whole earth? Didn’t the people already ‘branch out over the earth’ after the Flood? Rabbi Yudan understands the scattering to mean that people exchanged places, but Rabbi Nehemiah interprets it as meaning that people went back to where they belonged before the Flood. In the third explanation, the rabbis, true to form, transpose letters, turning vayafeẓ, ‘scattered’, into vayaẓef, ‘swept away’, and explain that the verse means that thirty families were swept away and replaced by the progeny of Abraham. Where did the rabbis come up with thirty? From the nations or families of Abraham: twelve from Ishmael, two from Isaac, and sixteen from the children Abraham has with Keturah. The image is that of sweeping away and scattering—sweeping away nations that engage in building a tower to reach the heavens, and scattering Abraham’s family throughout the world.
The example illustrates recurring aspects of rabbinic interpretation. First, it asks what is meant by the scattering of people from over the face of the whole earth, in light of Gen. 10: 32: ‘the nations branched out over the earth after the Flood’. It tackles the question by offering different explanations, including one based on wordplay, and it exemplifies the intertextuality of rabbinic biblical interpretation.
In addition to wordplay, we find scores of stories, maxims, and parables, meshalim (sg. mashal). The Hebrew parables about kings are the signal form of narrative in rabbinic exegetical literature. Nearly all rabbinic meshalim consist of a bipartite structure—the fictional narrative, which is the mashal proper, and its application, the nimshal, which usually concludes with a biblical verse serving as the mashal’s prooftext. Formulaic phrases mark the two parts: mashal le, ‘it is like’ (also, mashal lema hadavar dome le, or simply le), and kakh, ‘so, too, similarly’ (Stern 1991).
Thesaurus-like anthologies characterize the post-classical, mid-late medieval period of rabbinic literature. Noteworthy are the Yalkut Shimʿoni (known simply as the Yalkut), Yalkut ha-Makhiri, and the Midrash Ha-Gadol. The Yalkut, compiled from more than fifty works and covering the entire span of the Jewish Bible (TaNaKh), is one of the most well-known and comprehensive anthologies. There are several other collections of midrashic works of this period, collections that blend collation and commentary. A noteworthy work of the eighth/early ninth century that falls into the category of neither midrash nor anthology is Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer (PRE).6 It transmits both classical rabbinic and non-rabbinic material and utilizes earlier motifs and narratives from the Second Temple period.7 The status of PRE in the rabbinic corpus is problematic. Its narrative structure as biblical expansion is similar to that of the book of Jubilees (second century bce), and its style is significantly different from that of earlier midrashim. Even though several sources were used, its structure indicates that it is ostensibly the work of one author, probably a Palestinian. It seems to represent a transition between the mythical perspective of rabbinic literature and that of Kabbalah.8 Given its dating and the inclusion of material that betrays familiarity with Islam, the composition sits at literary as well as cultural crossroads.
This later period saw a rise in commentaries on the Bible, but the interest in midrash continued nevertheless. Midrashim of the ancient and early medieval periods were often mentioned or alluded to in Bible commentaries. Even today they find their way into contemporary sermons, for they are part of the very bedrock of the Jewish tradition that exhorts readers of the Bible to ‘turn it over again and again, for everything is in it’ (Pirke Avot 5: 22).
The later rabbinic compilations include stories found in Islamic sources. While previous scholarship generally assumed that the Islamic texts adapted Jewish material, recent scholars have compellingly argued for a more fluid circulation of stories and motifs that may indeed have originated in Islamic circles.9
Many literary genres shaped early Christian biblical interpretation. Through the use of homilies, letter writing, and commentary, the church fathers engaged the meaning of individual verses as well as entire passages and entire books of the Bible. The role scriptural interpretation played in the formation of doctrine and indeed in all areas of the life of the church contributed to Christianity’s vitality and development over the centuries. It both influenced and was influenced by doctrinal discussions. How the early Christian exegetes understood biblical passages throws light on the manner in which Christian communities conceived of themselves.
Like their Jewish counterparts, Christian interpreters made sacred texts relevant to Christian audiences. Lessons from the lives of biblical characters became accessible and practical. This is especially true given that most Christians could not read the Bible. Thus, what they understood to be God’s word was mediated by the church fathers. In retelling the biblical story for edifying purposes, early church writers in a sense ‘rewrote’ the narrative. They also engaged in internecine debates on theological matters and drew on scripture to bolster their beliefs.
The fathers of the church unequivocally accepted the inspired nature of Christian scriptures. They differed with respect to determining the meaning of the divine word, when to take it figuratively, and when to read it literally. The term literal refers to the sense of scripture intended by the writer. That is to say, the literal sense may be metaphorical. Christian exegetes acknowledged that the explicit literal meaning may also include an implicit sense. Early Christian scriptural interpretation took into account the need to consider a variety of approaches to scripture; otherwise how was one to understand Exod. 21: 24, ‘eye for eye, tooth for tooth’, when, for example, a toothless baby is murdered? Or, how does one read anthropomorphic statements about God in Genesis (e.g. Gen. 3: 8)? As Chrysostom (347–407) would explain (Hom. in Ps. 9.4), ‘We interpret some passages by the letter, others with a meaning different from the literal and figurative’ (Kannengiesser 2006: 171). In his analysis of early Christian exegesis, the scholar Charles Kannengiesser notes that even the most literal-minded exegetes who rigorously ‘applied the rules and principles of a philological analysis to the sacred text’ instinctively approached ‘the literality of the biblical text as gifted in itself with supernatural power. “The meaning deserves to be explored because divine scripture says nothing that would be useless or out of consideration…” (Ambrosiaster, Quaestiones 10,1)’ (Kannengiesser 2006: 175). The meaning of the literal sense was not always apparent, and often proved problematic. Cultural chasms resulted in unfamiliar phrases and foreign geography. The ‘ordinary’ sense of a word or phrase was not always readily available, so Christian writers consulted lists, among them those of Philo, whose interpretation of proper names often opened up the meaning of obscure terms. The interest in etymology harks back to Homer and Hesiod and generally speaking played a role in the development of allegorism. In Christian circles, Origen (c.185–c.253 ce) believed in the significance of the original meaning of Hebrew names, but unlike Jerome he did not compose an Onomastikon (‘Book of Names’).
Interpreters were primarily concerned with maintaining the continuity between the Old and New Testament. The notion that Christians are the spiritual inheritors of the Old Testament with respect to its sacred teachings and divine revelation is paramount to understanding early church interpretation. Through allegory and typology, Christian exegetes fostered the unity of the testaments. ‘The New is in the Old concealed, the Old is in the New revealed’, ran a popular medieval Latin saying (quoted by Pelikan 2005: 95). The notion that the Old and New Testaments are intrinsically connected, not as two separate parts of a whole, but as one in which each testament is part and parcel of the other, is fundamental to understanding Christian approaches to scripture.
One sign of that intrinsic connection is the Christological reading of prophetic literature. Beginning with Paul, the events of the OT prefigured Jesus and the church. They, in turn, unfasten the deeper meaning of events recorded in the OT. Examples of prefiguration include Adam as a topos of Jesus in Paul’s writing. The fulfilment statements in Matthew exemplify how the New Testament reads the prophetic writings of the Old Testament. Other examples include Matthew 21: 42–3 and Acts 8: 26ff., in which Isaiah 53: 7–8 is explicitly read as a reference to Jesus:
Now the passage of the scripture that he [Ethiopian eunuch] was reading was this: ‘Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter, and like a lamb silent before its shearer, so he does not open his mouth. In his humiliation justice was denied him. Who can describe his generation? For his life is taken away from the earth’ [Isa. 53: 7–8]. The eunuch asked Philip, ‘About whom, may I ask you, does the prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?’ Then Philip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus. (Acts 8: 32–5)
The second century ce controversy with Marcion and the ongoing debates with Gnostic thinkers contributed to this very linkage between the Old and New Testaments as many writers went to great lengths to respond to theological challenges that compromised the relationship between both Testaments. Gnostic dualism and disregard for the material world led some to reject the Old Testament entirely, for it was deemed a product of a foolish Demiurge in contrast to the supreme, good God of the New Testament.10 Marcion also dismissed the Old Testament in toto. The testaments, even his New Testament, which differed from what eventually became canonized, to his mind, were irreconcilable. Marcion believed that the God of the Old Testament was vengeful yet righteous, but for many Gnostics the creator God of the Old Testament was inherently evil, proof of which could be found in the world he created. Early church exegetes employed a variety of strategies in order to secure the relationship between the Old and New Testaments, throwing light on the meaning of individual words, phrases and verses, and entire stories. A brief review of terms commonly used in discussions of patristic methods of interpretation—such as ‘literal sense’ and ‘plain sense’, allegory, typology, and theoria—may be helpful (see Kannengiesser 2006 and Simonetti 1994).
The relationship between the literal and spiritual ‘sense’ of scripture was often referred to in terms of ‘lower’ or ‘closer’ and ‘higher’ and ‘deeper’. The relationship between the literal and spiritual ‘senses’ of scripture informs the use of allegory in Christian exegesis. Allegory is a Hellenistic term derived from the Greek, ‘to say something else in public speech’. It is a form of interpretation, as I. Christiansen explains, ‘thanks to which a core idea (“Ideeneinheit”) implicitly included in the letter is explicated, a notion equivalent to the written expression but of a broader significance being joined to it’ (as translated in Kannengiesser 2006: 250). In Greek antiquity, commentators produced allegorical interpretations of Homer and Hesiod. The Latin tradition, too, utilized allegory for exegetical purposes; there is no shortage of it in Philo.11 In every instance, allegory is a means by which pagan, Christian, as well as, to some degree, Jewish interpreters situated themselves vis-à-vis society and culture.12
Typology is a form of allegorical interpretation. According to the writings of the church fathers, a biblical place, person, event, or institution can function as a type, or typos, insofar as the place, person, event, or institution signifies someone or something that will be fulfilled or manifested in the future through God. What sets typology apart from allegory is connection to historical reality: typology attaches itself to history, whereas allegory need not have any connection to an original event in order to derive meaning. Isaac, Joseph, Joshua, and David are regarded as typoi of Jesus. Typological readings are widespread among the church fathers.
Events such as the crossing of the sea are read typologically. Thus, in Ps. Barnabas (12: 2–3), the prayer of Moses as he extends his hands during the battle between the Israelites and the Amalekites is understood as a typos of the cross and crucifixion. In Dialogue with Trypho, the law as discussed in the OT is a typos of Christ and the church. Gregory of Nyssa explains the Red Sea as a typos of baptism. Theodore of Mopsuestia provides numerous examples of how the events in the Old Testament are understood as typoi of events in the New Testament. Thus the liberation of the Israelites from Egypt is read as a prefiguration of the death of Jesus and freedom from sin.
Not all early Christian interpretation is by nature non-literal. Clement, for example, draws on Old Testament characters to exhort believers to behave morally. He employs exempla throughout his writings. Cain, Esau, and Aaron illustrate the effects of jealousy, and Abraham, Job, and David display the virtue of humility. And, while early Christian exegetes interpreted the couple in the Song of Songs as Christ and the church, Theodore read it as a love song, and hence did not accept its canonicity.
When discussing early Christian interpretation, scholars of patristics13 often refer to two general schools of interpretation, the Alexandrian and the Antiochene, even though the later was not a formal school (didaskaleion). Although scholarship in the field has adhered to this rigid dichotomy, customary distinctions such as ‘Alexandria vs. Antioch’ have recently been modified in order to underscore the importance of figural representation to all forms of early Christianity (Young 1989; Nassif 1996; Trakatellis 1996; Kannengiesser 2002). Not only are there instances when an Antiochene scholar allegorizes a verse that an Alexandrian takes literally, but these categories homogenize the exegetical process such that differences among interpreters within a school are obfuscated.14 Antiochene exegetes, for example, may in fact use the same method but come to different interpretations.
One of the leading figures of the Alexandrian school is Clement of Alexandria (c.150–c.215 ce), for whom the gospel is the fulfilment and realization of the law. Scripture is written with intention, but that intention is not necessarily immediately perceptible. Scripture operates on two levels according to Clement. One level is intended for immediate consumption, but the other level requires deeper enquiry and exegetical ability. The Word of God was revealed mysteriously, and every word, jot, or tittle was written with intention even if it is not readily known (Strom. 1.9.45, 4.25.160). It is therefore of no surprise that allegory was favoured, for if scripture is expressed on the first level, it would still require assistance.
Philo’s influence is palpable in Clement’s work. Like Philo, Clement (Strom. 1.3.30–1) illustrates how Abraham represents faith, Sarah wisdom, and Hagar pagan culture. But even while Clement continues his traditions, there is a major difference—Clement’s traditions are Christocentrically oriented.
The characteristics that mark the work of Origen (c.185–c.253 ce), among them allegory, etymology, and the symbolism of numbers, may be found in the work of his predecessors, such as Clement, but it was under Origen (c.185–c.253 ce) that the school of Alexandria reached its apex. Known for his encyclopedic learning and productivity, and for his staggering facility with the biblical text, Origen stands out as one of the greatest scholars of the early church. His interpretation took the form of commentaries on entire books, homilies preached in Caesarea, and scholia—that is, collections of explanations for select passages in Exodus, Leviticus, Isaiah, and Psalms 1–15. Other exegetes tended to concentrate on a few books of the Old Testament; the more expansive Origen included Ecclesiastes and Job. In fact, he wrote on all the books of the Old and New Testaments. As one scholar observes, ‘Origen made biblical hermeneutics into a real science, and, in that sense, he conditioned decisively all subsequent patristic exegesis’ (Simonetti 1994: 39). What he received from his predecessors he widened and deepened, and at the same time he produced what is perhaps the first attempt at a critical edition of the Old Testament, his sixfold Bible, commonly known as the Hexapla. Although he knew no Hebrew and thus relied on rabbis for the significance of Hebrew names, he set himself the task of producing the most reliable biblical text by placing six translations side by side.
Origen’s approach to scripture was philological and marked by the recognition of the inexhaustibility of the word of God. His De principiis outlines a theory of exegesis that informed his interpretative work and espouses notions generally accepted by Christian exegetes—that scriptures convey knowledge about God and Jesus, the world, and evil, and demonstrate divine salvific actions. In De principiis 4.3.5, Origen notes that while all of scripture has a spiritual significance, that is not the case with respect to the literal, since one can identify several instances where the literal sense is impossible.
For Origen, every word of the Bible had a possible spiritual message; Theodore (see below), in contrast, renounced his allegorical readings and emphasized the historical dimension of scripture which in his view undermined allegory. But even Theodore, who took an extreme position, understood the non-literal dimensions of scripture, and those who took their cue from Philo and Origen did not diminish the intrinsic value accorded the letter. Literal and allegorical readings are intertwined.
The Alexandrian exegete Didymus the Blind (c.313–398) was heavily influenced by Origen and admired by Jerome. Like his Alexandrian predecessors, Didymus read scripture in order to unveil the supernatural mysteries therein. Thus, etymologies of Jewish names are pregnant with meaning, as are animals and numbers. While he read beyond the literal, unlike Origen he was far less concerned with textual criticism.
We see Origen’s influence in Didymus’ Commentary on Genesis, putatively the oldest commentary by a Greek Christian author on the first book of the Bible. Didymus makes the same distinction between the lighter, spiritual bodies of the prelapsarian period and the weighty body after the Fall. Furthermore, he draws on Philo’s interpretation of Sarah and Hagar. Whereas Sarah is emblematic of perfect virtue, Hagar symbolizes a preliminary stage leading up to virtue. After Didymus who lived to the end of the fourth century, the Alexandrian school’s importance diminished.
Unlike Alexandria, where an actual school was established under the aegis of a local bishop, in Antioch we find a group of exegetes and theologians who came together for a common purpose, although some such as the founder of the school, Diodorus (late fourth century), took on private teaching roles (Simonetti 1994: 67). The Antiochene school, which flourished in the fourth and fifth centuries, is often described as anti-allegorical, but such a portrayal is inaccurate.
Theodore of Mopsuestia (c.350–428), one of the leading figures of the school of Antioch, would in 553 be renounced as a heretic at the Second Council of Constantinople for his Christological views, but at the time of his death he was regarded as one of the outstanding biblical exegetes and theologians of his time. Known today as the Father of Nestorianism, Theodore was a towering critic of Origen’s allegorical interpretation. He maintained a literatist orientation as well as one directed toward eschatological readings of scripture.
Gregory of Nyssa (c.335–c.395) came from an illustrious family in Cappadocia. Along with his brother Basil, who was Bishop of Caesarea, and Gregory of Nazianzus, he is recognized as one of the three great Cappadocians whose sundry writings left an enduring impact on the teachings of the church. His exegetical work reveals a deep admiration for Origen to the extent that his hermeneutical principles by and large played a role in Gregory’s writing. Gregory uses the term historia as designating the literal wording or actual event and theoria, like the Alexandrians, to mean allegoria or dianoi (the ‘deeper meaning’). Cyril of Alexandria, for example, used the word for the allegorical sense. For Antiochian exegetes, theoria was prophetic vision. One of Gregory’s major works, The Life of Moses, is divided into two parts—the first summarizes Moses’ life (historia), and in the second he draws moral and spiritual lessons from it (theoria).
John Chrysostom (347–407), ‘the golden-mouthed’, was a close friend and classmate of Theodore’s and a fellow monk. Renowned for his oratory excellence that earned him his name, Chrysostom was an interpreter of scriptures whose literary legacy was unsurpassed among the Greek church fathers. In addition to the exegetical homilies that make up the largest part of his writings, he wrote sermons, treatises, and letters. He adhered to the Antiochene exegetical precepts, yet, as he explains, ‘We interpret some passages by the letter, others with a meaning different from the literal, others again as literal and figurative’ (Hom. in Ps. 9.4, quoted in Kannengiesser 2006: 171).
Ephrem (c.306–373) is considered one of the best-known writers of the golden age of Syriac literature, which spanned the fourth and eighth centuries. He is best remembered for his teaching and scriptural interpretation. His extensive oeuvre may be divided between prose, including expository as well as rhetorical works, and poetry. He was most famous for his poems: dialogue poems and metrical homilies (mêmrê) and ‘teaching songs’ (madrashê), often referred to as hymns (Palmer 1993).15 According to Jerome, these compositions were recited publicly after the reading of scriptures (Griffith 2006: 1407). As many have noted, their closest analogues might be ‘the Hebrew Piyyutim, synagogue songs which enjoyed great popularity in Palestine from the eighth century on, and which feature biblical themes and literary devices very similar to those regularly used by Ephraem’ (Griffith 2006: 1400). The purpose of madrashâ (singular), however, is akin to its Hebrew cognate, midrash, to instruct.
The Syriac and Greek traditions refer to him as having commented on all the books of the Bible, however, his Commentary on Genesis is the only extant work in Syriac. Many of his commentaries are preserved in Armenian and some are preserved in Syriac fragments. Rather than giving a verse-by-verse exposition, Ephrem focused on passages that he considered significant, such as the first three chapters of Genesis on creation and the Adam and Eve narrative.
Ephrem’s exegetical works point to a familiarity with Jewish interpretation and reflect the influence of his Mesopotamian milieu. They are also shot through with Christian faith. But one can say that of all his work:
The scriptures are set up
like a mirror;
one whose eye is clear
sees there
the image of the truth.
Set up there
is the image of the Father;
depicted there
is the image of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit. (Griffith 2006: 1416)
Whether in his refutations against those who hold opposing theological views, in his commentaries, or in his mêmrê and madrashê, his concern was to draw the reader or listener closer to truth which for him is the life, death, and resurrection of Christ:
See, the Law carries
all the likenesses of him.
See, the Prophets, like deacons,
carry
the icons of the Messiah.
Nature and the scriptures
together carry
The symbols of his humanity
and of his divinity. (Griffith 2006: 1417)
Indeed, as highly regarded as his prose was, it was his poetical works that brought him wide acclaim, for it was through them that he conveyed his theological teachings, displayed his mastery of Semitic poetic devices, and exhibited his artistic genius.
Most scholars of patristic literature prominently place Cyril of Alexandria (c.375–444 ce) among writers who helped shape Christian thought. There is no question that he was a key figure in theological controversies of the fifth century but he was also a prolific biblical commentator. As Robert Wilken suggests, Cyril’s exegetical work is best understood by turning to Cyril’s own words: ‘In Christ we bloom again to newness for life.’ ‘For Cyril’, writes Wilken, ‘the renewal of all things in Christ is the central skopos of the Bible.’ He continues: ‘Christ is Cyril’s true subject matter. Yet without the Bible there is no talk of Christ. Cyril knew no way to speak of Christ than in the words of the Bible, and no way to interpret the words of the Bible than through Christ’ (Wilken 2006: 864–5). This is amply illustrated in his Glaphyra, an exegetical treatise on the Pentateuch. Cyril’s commentary on select passages such as the story of Cain and Abel, the flood narrative, Abraham, the institution of Passover, the theophany on Mount Sinai, the cleansing of lepers, and the reconnaissance into the Promised Land is Christologically oriented. Abel and Joshua are figures of Christ.
Cyril is a good example of how an Alexandrian exegete can engage in literal interpretation. He shows restraint in the spiritual interpretation of Old Testament figures. The literal interpretation of biblical verses is more developed than in other writers of the Alexandrian school. Moreover, his literal reading of passages in the Pentateuch is extensive. Thus, for example, while Jonah is a figure of Jesus with respect to the three days which he spent in the belly of the fish, he is not a figure of Jesus when he tried to escape God’s command to speak to the Ninevites. Cyril rejects Origen’s figurative reading of the story. Cyril’s exegesis is characterized by a moderate position vis-à-vis the Alexandrian and Antiochene approaches.
Jerome and Augustine are two of the greatest interpreters of scripture in the West. Each produced systematic commentaries. With Jerome as the primary exception, generally speaking, western authors rarely engaged in philological examinations of scripture. Origen’s influence permeated the exegesis of western authors. The prominent tendency was to interpret allegorically, yet they displayed a wide variety of attitudes. Ambrosiaster (later half of the fourth century), the name given to an anonymous exegete who wrote a Latin commentary on Paul’s thirteen epistles (Hebrews was not included), for example, is an exception to the tendency to engage in allegory. And yet, scriptural verses are understood spiritually or figuratively (Kannengiesser 2006: 1083).
Jerome (c.347–419/420) may be charged with lacking originality or methodological coherence; however, there is no shortage of philological rigour to his commentaries. Even during his lifetime he gained authority in the realm of sacred scripture. Augustine’s correspondence with him attests to his widespread reputation. His translation of the Old Testament, the Vulgate, directly from the Hebrew contributed to his renown as one knowledgeable in scriptural matters, and more importantly became the bases ‘on which would rest from now on any edifice of the explication of the Scriptures in the Christian West’ (Jay 2006: 1114).
Origen’s profound influence on him is clear in Jerome’s Hebraic Questions on Genesis, but his approach, unlike Origen’s, is twofold, taking into account the literal and spiritual senses of scripture (Jay 2006: 1104). Moreover, he engaged with rabbinic sources to an unprecedented degree. Jerome’s personal trajectory equipped him with the proper exposure to the cultural and philological tools necessary to produce commentaries that enriched Christian exegesis. As Pierre Jay (2006: 1114) writes:
Positioned by his personal itinerary at the crossroads of a classical Latin training, a biblical culture very largely Greek, and of a serious Hebrew initiation, the uir trilinguis that Jerome knew himself to be thus appears at this winding down at the end of the fourth century as an exceptional mediator in the service of scripture: between the heritage of ancient culture and the newness of Christian experience, between Jewish traditions and the Church’s tradition, between the Greek East and the Latin West.
Even the briefest overview of Christian interpreters must include Augustine (345–430 ce) whose interpretative work took on many forms—homily, commentary, and quaestio. His De doctrina Christiana (On Christian Teaching) is largely a treatise on biblical interpretation. In it he espouses the notion that there is a multiplicity of interpretations one may offer for a scriptural passage. ‘Sometimes not just one meaning but two or more meanings are perceived in the same words of scripture,’ writes Augustine. He continues: ‘Even if the writer’s meaning is obscure, there is no danger here, provided that it can be shown from other passages of the holy scriptures that each of these interpretations is consistent with the truth.’16 Augustine also appreciated the rhetorical devices used in scripture: ‘The literary-minded should be aware that our Christian authors used all the figures of speech which teachers of grammar call by their Greek name of tropes, and that they did so more diversely and profusely than can be judged or imagined by those who are unfamiliar with scripture or who gained their knowledge of figures from other literature.’17
In addition to De doctrina christiana (On Christian Teaching), two other works mark an important phase in Augustine’s career as biblical commentator: De genesi ad litteram (The Literal Meaning of Genesis), a unique attempt to produce a proper commentary of scripture; and Confessions. Especially in the Confessions we encounter the inextricable links between the human condition and scriptural interpretation and are exposed to the ways in which theology, philosophy, and one’s personal spiritual journey commingle with exegetical endeavours. In these works Augustine affirms both the diversity and oneness of scripture, and in theory celebrates the diversity of opinions as long as an interpretation draws us toward love of God and of neighbour.18
Early Christian interpreters exhibited two tendencies. On the one hand, their wish to read the Old Testament Christocentrically, against Jews and Gnostics, pushed them toward allegory; on the other, the dangers of the Gnostics’ exaggerated allegorism fostered a more literal interpretation of scriptural sources. Despite the prominence of symbolic interpretation among Christian exegetes, then, the early church writers cannot be characterized as mere allegorists. Loosely speaking, the Alexandrian and Antiochene schools represented these two trends—the Alexandrians on the allegorical side, the Antiochenes on the literal side—but recent scholarship has benefited from moving beyond the oversimplification of earlier decades.
‘Tafsīr’ is derived from the root fassara, to explain, to expound, and refers both to the act of interpreting, exegesis, and explanation and to actual corpora of interpretation.19 The chronological span of tafsīr literature is expansive; its scope is vast and its physical size voluminous. It exhibits the cumulative and innovative nature of the exegetical enterprise par excellence. Extant commentaries on the Quran represent a sustained engagement that continues to the present.
Traditional tafsīr commentaries hew to a fairly standard format. As their starting point they take the quranic chapters from first to last, and they include a range of interpretations attributed to earlier authorities. While the individual commentator (muffasir) preserves exegetical traditions, at the same time, through his selection process, he transforms the tradition. As McAuliffe (2003: 312) observes, ‘The authorities that he cites define and demarcate the exegetical lineage within which he writes. Further, it is in the very process of selection, organization, presentation, and assessment of this material from one’s exegetical predecessors that the individuality and originality of the particular commentator demonstrates itself.’
The isnād (chain of transmission, plural asānīd) goes all the way back to the Companions and successors of the prophet. These reports provide the basis of the extensive tafsīr compilations.20 Traditional commentaries include an isnād and the very interpretation, the matn. Given the breadth of the tafsīr corpus, generalizations are untenable. We can safely assert, however, that Muslim exegetes repeatedly addressed questions and concerns having to do with when and why a verse was revealed (asbāb al-nuzūl), the meaning of an uncommon word or phrase, syntactic matters, and morphological irregularities. Quranic exegesis of the classical period—roughly from al-Ṭabarī (d. 923 ce)21 to the twelfth century—is intertextual to the extent that parallel words and phrases occurring in other verses are brought to bear on the meaning of the verse at hand. Furthermore, ḥadīth traditions are also included in the commentaries.
Often, tafsīr literature is divided into two broad categories: al-tafsīr bi’l-ma’thūr (also known as tafsīr bi’l-riwāya) and tafsīr bi’l-ra’y. The first refers to inherited tradition and is more conservative and constrained, whereas the second is based on personal opinion. About al-tafsīr bi’l-ra’y, it is reported that Muhammad categorically stated: ‘Whoever talks about the Quran on the basis of his personal opinion (ra’y) or from a position of ignorance will surely occupy his seat in the Fire!’22 As other ḥadīths indicate, during the classical period exegesis itself was less of a concern than the issue of whether or not someone unqualified would venture into such matters (McAuliffe 1991: 20–1). The prevalence of tafsīr bi’l-ma’thūr may be attributed to Ibn Taymiyya (1263–1328) whose exegetical paradigm categorically rejected as valid sources other than those inherited (Saleh 2010; Saleh 2011). While scholars today continue to use these categories to categorize tafsīr, one must question their analytical utility. The very act of selecting and organizing ‘received tradition’ reveals that which is unique to the muffasir.23
Saleh offers an alternative tripartite categorization: the encyclopedic, or as Goldfeld (1988: 6) labelled them, ‘collective commentaries’, which include the major, massive works of tafsīr that, while disseminating a sea of sources, in turn become foundational sources for later interpreters. Included among this type of tafsīr are the works of al-Ṭabarī, al-Thaʿlabī, al-Wāḥidī, and al-Rāzī, to name a few. The second type of tafsīr is the ‘madrasa-style work’. Appreciably shorter and oriented toward topics, these commentaries served a pedagogic or ideological purpose. ‘They summarized the issues in tafsīr’, writes Saleh, ‘and usually avoided the larger context of a given hermeneutical problem’ (Saleh 2010: 21). Examples include al-Wāḥidī,24 al-Zamakhsharī, and al-Bayḍāwī. The third type is a supercommentary, or textual gloss (ḥāshiya),25 on several madrasa-style commentaries such as al-Zamakhsharī’s al-Kashshāf and al-Bayḍāwī’s Anwār al-tanzīl. These ḥāshiya-style commentaries were used in the madrasa curriculum.26
Muqātil Ibn Sulaymān al-Balkhī (d. 150/767) was born in Balkh, in modern day Afghanistan, and lived in Iraq, but his scholarly pursuits sent him on peregrinations as far as Beirut and Mecca (Muqātil b. Sulaymān 1979–89; Gilliot 1990b). The scholarly consensus maintains that his tafsīr is most likely the earliest extant quranic commentary. Muqātil ibn Sulaymān was one of the earliest mufassirūn to show less of an interest in grammar and more on narrative expansion. Although he was roundly considered a great quranic commentator, later generations denigrated his contribution. This sea change, according to Claude Gilliot, ‘betrays a discernible historical trend of backward projection, whereby ancient scholars come to be judged according to standards which only find widespread acceptance long after the scholar in question has died’ (Gilliot 2001–6).
Because Muqātil drew heavily on isrā’īliyyāt literature, he was accused of having borrowed his narratives from the Jews. He was also reproached for anthropomorphisms, and was heavily criticized for not providing chains of transmission for his exegesis. Viewing him as unreliable and a liar, later Sunni traditionalists (aṣḥāb al ḥadīth) did not mention his corpus of interpretation. It is important to note that Muqātil engaged with the Quran at a time when asānīd were not considered the fixed pathways of transmission. Moreover, his work was composed before the muʿtazilite attack on anthropomorphism developed. In any event, there is no question that his work left an indelible mark on these later exegetes.
The incorporation of ḥadīths, around 38,000, and 13,000 different isnāds in al-Ṭabarī’s al-Tafsīr alone, is staggering (Robinson 2005: 337). In attempting to be as comprehensive as possible, al-Ṭabarī includes interpretations that he himself did not favour. Sometimes his preferences are made explicit; at other times they are subtly revealed by the way in which the ḥadīths are arranged. In either case, he constantly displayed independent judgement (ijtihād),27 favouring reasoned, commonsensical interpretations over those marked by flights of fancy.
Unlike Muqātil, whose reception by his contemporaries was less than favourable, al-Ṭabarī was regarded by his peers as a foremost authority. A scholar’s scholar and consummate compiler, he laboriously gathered and systematically organized the exegetical, linguistic, and historical opinions of previous generations on the verses of the Quran, which resulted in his al-Tafsīr, the most celebrated example of the tafsīr bi’l-ma’thūr (based on reports) approach. His other crowning achievement, which he wrote before his commentary, is his Ta’rīkh al-rusul wa-al-mulūk (The History of the Prophets and Kings, also known as the Annals, Ta’rīkh al-Ṭabarī), a universal history of the world.28
Al-Ṭabarī’s general theory of exegesis has been described as resembling a family tree: ‘There are several main stems from which descend the various branches’ (Khalidi 2008: 4). The three main stems are God, Muhammad, and the scholarly community, and from these stems we derive the fundamental exegetical principles of quranic interpretation, which include the following (Khalidi 2008: 4–5):
Aḥmad b. Muḥammad al-Thaʿlabī (d. 427/1035), a native of Nīshāpūr, was a prominent mufassir, considered by some ‘the most important Quran exegete of the medieval Islamic world’ (Saleh 2009: 323).33 His major exegetical work, al-Kashf wa’l-bayān ‘an tafsīr al-Qur’ān (The Unveiling and Elucidation in Quran Exegesis), commonly known as al-Kashf, is a massive interpretation of the Quran. Characteristics that set al-Thaʿlabīʾs work apart from other medieval commentaries include the self-conscious manner in which he embarked on the task before him. The introduction evaluates the status of the field, enumerates all utilized sources, discusses earlier exegetes, and explains why the Muʿtazilite tafsīr tradition, for example, was not included. Al-Thaʿlabī drew on personal notes from well over three hundred scholars and, meticulous in amassing material, availed himself of all recensions (Goldfeld 1984). Because it also included most of al-Ṭabarī’s material, it became the treasured resource for later exegetes. Al-Thaʿlabī is also known for his Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyā’, a recounting of the prophets preceding the birth of Muhammad.
Fakhr al-dīn al-Rāzī (d. 606/1209) is one of the most important commentators and theologians of the medieval period, perhaps only second to al-Ṭabarī. In addition to his extensive quranic commentary, Mafātīḥ al-ghayb (Keys to the Unseen), which is also referred to as Tafsīr al-Kabīr (The Great Commentary), he wrote other major works that display his philosophical and theological proclivities. Written in scholastic fashion, his exegetical commentary exemplifies the method of tafsīr bi’l-ra’y. Theological and philosophical issues raised in quranic verses are addressed dialectically. Arguments and opinions reign supreme, and less consideration is given to the authority of the prophet and his Companions (al-ṣaḥābah).
Born in Bosra in 1300, Ibn Kathīr was a historian and traditionalist of Mamlūk, Syria. Most famous for his al-Biddāya wa-l-nihāya, a major historical work that became the basis of later works, Ibn Kathīr also produced a Quran exegesis, Tafsīr al-Qur’ān al-ʿaẓīm, and a popular qiṣaṣ work.
Interpretation of the Quran takes on other forms, among them histories and stories of the prophets. The Qiṣaṣ al-Anbiyā’ (The Stories of the Prophets), which share details found in Jewish and Christian sources, fill in the gaps of the quranic narrative, and flesh out characters with homiletic and historical flourishes.34 These stories are also known as the isrā’īliyyāt,35 a term applied to narratives about the ‘children of Israel’ (Banū Isrā’īl),36 that is, the ancient children of Israel. A precise definition of the term has eluded scholars; perhaps it is best defined as Muslim renditions of narratives also found in the Jewish tradition.
Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’, unlike the Quran itself, are ordered for the most part chronologically. In fact, linear chronology may be considered the most significant aspect of this literature. As Roberto Tottoli notes, ‘If, in historiography, the succession of prophets constitutes the initial stage of a history based on three periods—prophets, Muḥammad, and Islamic history—the Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ represent a type of genre limited to the description of the first among these. Here, in a temporal and literary space that goes from creation to the advent of Muhammad, medieval Islamic authors gather stories and traditions of different kinds to alternate with and link to Quran verses and passages’ (Tottoli 2009: 469).
During the early Islamic period, those gathering traditions looked favourably on these stories, considered early testimonies of the true religion, Islam. In fact, in the Quran God instructs Muhammad to consult those who have read the Book if he doubts what God reveals to him (10: 94). Consulting these traditions for legal advice, however, was prohibited, and by the fourteenth century the term isrā’īliyyāt had come to designate dubious traditions with objectionable content (Tottoli 1999; Calder 1993). Ibn Kathīr (d. 1373) was in all likelihood the first to use the term systematically to designate unreliable traditions of direct Jewish origin (Tottoli 1999: 206). In any event, the normative attitude toward the isrā’īliyyāt37 did not prevent their wide readership and preservation in various literary corpora throughout the centuries. The terms Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ and isrā’īliyyāt should not be conflated, for the latter is a pejorative term that develops much later than the former.38 After all, Ibn Kathīr produced his own collection of Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’. Isrā’īliyyāt implies judgement on the reliability of a tradition in contrast to Qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’, which are perfectly acceptable.
In the introduction to his Tales of the Prophets (ʿArāʾis al-Majālis fi Qiṣaṣ al- Anbiyā’), the eleventh-century Quran commentator al-Thaʿlabī, whose collection of tales is one of the most widely known, enumerates five reasons for transmitting stories about the prophets: 1. It was a ‘manifestation of his prophethood and a sign of his mission.’ 2. ‘God told him about the noble characters of the preceding messengers and prophets, the saints and pious men, and praised them, so that these men would serve him as a model and example, so that his people might avoid the transgression of those commandments for which the nations of the prophets were punished and for which they deserved punishments and chastisements.’ 3. In order to confirm him and make his nobility as well as his people’s known. 4. To serve as instruction and guidance. 5. To keep the memory and legacy of preceding prophets and saints alive (Brinner 2002: 3–5). They affirm Muhammad as prophet, and offer moral instruction. Through the preceding prophets’ exemplary behaviour, they guide all who are subject to transgressions. Accounts of the moral depravity of previous generations and the fate they faced as a consequence of their wretchedness assure Muhammad and his followers of God’s favour bestowed on those who live righteously. They also secure the prophetic legacy for posterity. Far from being dry didactic disquisitions, these fanciful, colourful tales entertain and edify. They convey Muslim beliefs and mores in the same way that Jewish aggadah, non-legal narrative, not only fills in scriptural and theological lacunae, but also transmits rabbinic teachings and religious, social, and cultural values.
In addition to collections of tales of the prophets, there exist copious compilations of extra-quranic traditions dealing with quranic narratives and personae. The historical works of the late ninth and early tenth centuries synthesize earlier traditions and in turn become foundational for later writings.39 The massive classical history of al-Ṭabarī, Ta’rīkh al-rusul waʾl-mulūk, for example, was copied or abridged to suit the purposes of later chroniclers. His monumental account spans the period from the creation of the world to 914–15, the last years before his death. Indeed, the synthetic corpus of this indefatigable collector of traditions, considered an author by some (Hodgson 1968),40 is hardly a mere collection of random reports.
Robinson writes: ‘Certainly anyone who has written history can only marvel at the variety and number of al-Ṭabarī’s sources: by any reasonable standard, he was an extraordinarily resourceful scholar. It is not only the scale of his work that is marvelous, however. Just as impressive is its overall coherence. It is a hugely ambitious narrative that begins with creation and ends with the year 915, and which pivots around the birth of Islam: the career of the prophet, the conquests and early caliphs—the culmination of God’s will for human history. It is precisely this coherence that gives rise to the suspicion that al-Ṭabarī was doing more than merely collecting and arranging’ (Robinson 2003: 35).41 His Taʾrīkh, ‘emphatically traditionalist, moderate and catholic’ (ibid.) became the standard of the period.
Volumes of quranic exegesis play an important role in the Islamic tradition and the production of different collections over the centuries reflects heterogeneity often overlooked when discussing ‘the’ Islamic tradition.
As in the Jewish and Christian traditions, pre-modern readers of scripture assumed its immutability, explained seeming contradictions, and demonstrated its timeless efficacy. They made the Word of God relevant to their contemporary concerns, and smoothed out seemingly irreconcilable verses in accordance with deeply held theological notions.
1 This is a somewhat expanded version of chapter one of my monograph, The Family of Abraham (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014).
2 For an overview of Philo’s life and work, see Kamesar 2009a, especially the two articles in the volume: Kamesar 2009b and Runia 2009.
3 With respect to Josephus’ argument, namely that if the celestial spheres had their own independent power, then they would have arranged for their own uniformity, Feldman observes: ‘it is the celestial phenomena that are the originating cause of all that happens and that they alone determine the future’.
4 For a general introduction to the Dead Sea Scrolls, see VanderKam 2010.
5 For an introduction to rabbinic texts, see Strack and Stemberger 1992 and Millar et al. 2013.
6 For a general introduction to PRE, see Zunz 1954: 134–40, 417–24; Friedlander 1981: xiii–lvii; Strack and Stemberger 1992: 332–3. On the use of narrative in PRE, see Meir 1980; Elbaum 1986b: 57–62; Elbaum 1991–2: 99–126; Elbaum 1986a: 97–117. On the folkloristic aspects of Pirke de Rabbi Eliezer, see Stein 2005; Adelman 2009; Sacks 2009; Treitl 2010.
7 Adelman 2009 contends that PRE preserves mythic narratives of the Pseudepigrapha of the Second Temple period.
8 Rubenstein 1996: 158. Cf. Dan 1974, esp. 21, 135–6; Urowitz-Freudenstein 1994. And see especially Shinan 1979: 162–5, Elbaum 1996: 245–66.
9 For discussions and illustrations of this phenomenon, see Firestone (1990), Lassner (1993), Lowin (2006), and Bernstein (2006).
10 Not all Gnostics took this approach. Others, such as the Valentinian, Ptolemy, displayed a more nuanced position. See Simonetti 1994: 16 for a brief discussion of Ptolemy’s Letter to Flora.
11 As Kannengiesser (2006: 249) mentions, traces of allegorism in Hellenistic Judaism are found in Aristobulos (mid-second century bce). Fragments of his Commentary on Pentateuch are found in Eusebius of Caesarea’s Praeparatio evangelica 8.10, 12.2.
12 For a discussion of the use of allegory in ancient Alexandria, see Dawson 1992. For an excellent discussion of allegory in midrash, see Kister 2013.
13 For an excellent overview of patristic studies, see Clark 2008.
14 See the discussion of Frances M. Young (1983) of how Origen and Eusthatius of Antioch treat Saul’s meeting with the witch of Endor in 1 Samuel 28, as well as Hay 1964.
15 For a general introduction, see Matthews and Amar (1994: 3–56) and Griffith (2006).
16 Augustine, On Christian Teaching 3.27.38 (1997: 86–7).
18 On Christian Teaching 1.35.39; Confessions 12.30.41–31.42.
19 Another related term is ta’wīl, exegesis, interpretation, from the verb taʾawwala, which originally meant, ‘to apply a verse to a given situation’. See Gilliot 2001–6.
20 For some literature on the debate as to the reliability of the chains of transmission, see Juynboll 1983; Motzki 1991; Sezgin 1992; Leemhuis 1988; Cook 1981: 107–16; Berg 2003: Berg 2000; McAuliffe 1991: 23–6. See Gilliot 1990a, who examines the mythic dimensions of the Companion Ibn ‘Abbās, considered by some the father of tafsīr bi’l-ma’thūr.
21 For a superb biography of al-Ṭabarī, see Robinson 2005. See also Rosenthal 1989: 5–134; Kennedy 2008; Gilliot 1988; Gilliot 1994; Gilliot 1989.
22 Ibn Kathīr, Ṭafsīr al-Qur’ān al-ʿaẓim, 1.5, quoted from McAuliffe 1991: 20. McAuliffe notes that in the introduction to his commentary, Jāmiʿ al-bayān 1.77–9, al-Ṭabari enumerates variants on the prophet’s denunciation of al-tafsīr bi’l-ra’y.
23 It is important to note that the use of the terms was ideologically driven, as a Sunnī (of the Salafī type) endeavour to suppress ‘heretical’ interpretations. For a discussion of the genealogy of the term, see Saleh 2010.
24 al-Wāḥidī is listed under the first category for one of his works, al-Basīṭ, and here for his other work, al-Wasīṭ.
25 The ḥāshiya has three meanings: the margin of pages, in which notes were written, the note itself, and gloss, which is a comparatively later usage developing over time. See Rosenthal 2012. To date, very little is written about the subject, yet it is of central importance in the development of the Islamic scholarly tradition.
26 Rippin 1994: 70 suggests that in addition to locating texts of tafsīr, as either ‘in an academic setting devoted to the study of Qur’ān in its many aspects’ or as popular, ‘where a preacher uses the Qur’ān for the edification of his audience’, we consider a third situation that is ‘less scholarly but yet semi-learned, one that would work on a fairly local level to produce people sufficiently familiar with the Qur’ān so that they might become respected persons within their own groupings’.
27 According to Rosenthal 1989: 56, ‘His own views leaned toward moderation and compromise.’
28 For a complete, annotated English translation with useful historical and philological notes, see the thirty-eight-volume History of al-Tabari, Yar-Shater (1985–99). Volumes of special interest are Vol. I, The History of al- Ṭabarī, trans. Franz Rosenthal (1985); Vol. II, Prophets and Patriarchs, trans. William M. Brinner (1987); and Vol. III, The Children of Israel, trans. William M. Brinner (1991).
29 It would be worthwhile to compare the rabbinic rule of kelal uperat, perat ukelal (rules of inference between general and specific statements and vice versa) to al-Ṭabarī’s principle.
30 As Khalidi 2008: 6, notes, when it comes to questions of human freedom, and anthropomorphic verse, al-Ṭabarī is willing to ‘entertain a less than fully exoteric interpretation’.
31 Compare gzera shavah, the rabbinic hermeneutical rule of analogy: a particular detail of a biblical law in one verse is derived from the meaning of the word or phrase in the other.
32 This is antithetical to the rabbinic penchant to fill in the lacunae of biblical verses.
33 Saleh describes al-Kashf as an ‘epoch-making work’ (Saleh 2009: 324). See Saleh (2004).
34 For an introduction, see Brinner 2002 and Tottoli 2002. For a flawed but useful compendium of legends associated with biblical and quranic personages, see Schwartzbaum 1982.
35 While I refer to the terms interchangeably, some scholars argue that the generic term qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ covers three different categories: legends about creation, legends about prophets, and stories dealing specifically with the Israelites (isrā’īliyyāt) and their rulers, beginning with the death of Moses and their entry into the promised land. Others, however, are of the opinion that the qiṣaṣ al-anbiyā’ are a subdivision of the isrā’īliyyāt. See discussion in Adang 1996. For an introduction to the stories of the prophets, see Klar 2009.
36 On isrā’īliyyāt, see Tottoli 1999; Schöck 1993: 39–54; Adang 1996: 8–10; and McAuliffe 1998: 345–69. McAuliffe comments that ‘perhaps the most felicitous translation is that provided by Jacob Lassner, who dubs the whole genre “Jewish memorabilia,”’ but the term, as she herself observes, is sometimes attributed to ‘the earlier ahl al-kitāb’, even though ‘the association with Jews predominates’ (346). Awn 1983: 9, like some other scholars, points out: ‘The qiṣaṣ literature should not be viewed as wholly derivative from Jewish and Christian sources, for it underwent substantial Islamization at the hands of Muslim preachers and commentators. Cross-fertilization occurred, with details, nuances and embellishments traded back and forth among the various religious communities. Finally, the influence of these tales on indigenous non-Christian or Jewish pre-Islamic beliefs should not be discounted.’
37 Wahb ibn Munnabih (654/55 to 728 or 732), of Persian or Yemeni descent, is inextricably associated with isrā’īliyyāt. Because his writings appear to have drawn heavily from Jewish and Christian sources, later Muslim sources look down upon his writings. See Adang 1996: 10–12 for a brief discussion of his role in disseminating Jewish and Christian traditions. On Wahb b. Munabbih, see Khoury 1972; Kister 1974; Abbott 1977.
38 Compare Vajda 2012, who subsumes Qis.ṣas.ṣ under the broader Isrā’īliyyāt category. Adang (1996: 9) adopts the term ‘to indicate the whole genre of Islamicized biblical legends’.
39 A great deal has been written on Islamic historiography. See Rosenthal 1968; Khalidi 1994; Robinson 2003; Humphreys 1991; 1989: 271–90. For a focused discussion of two of the major histories and the use of sources, see Athamina 2008. This triumph of collection over composition that prevailed during the emergence of Islamic historiography in the ninth century may be an oversimplification. Robinson 2003 describes three phases of the development of the genre of historiography and it is in the second phase, from c.730 to c.830, that we can speak of Islamic historiography: ‘By 830, biography, prosopography and chronology had all emerged in forms that would remain recognizable throughout the classical period’ (Robinson 2003: 24).
40 Hodgson briefly discusses al-Ṭabarī’s method of selecting hadīth reports and illustrates how the process of selecting anecdotes is quite deliberate.
41 He continues: ‘In fact, it is now becoming clear that he and his contemporaries were [emphasis his] doing much more than that. Late ninth- and tenth-century compilers impressed their vision upon the material not merely by selecting and arranging pre-existing akhbār, but by breaking them up, by rephrasing, supplementing and composing anew’ (35–6).