Since the time of Martin Noth, the book of Judges has been included by scholars in the Deuteronomistic redaction (Deuteronomy–2 Kings). However, portions of the book, especially chapters 1 and 17–21, do not readily fit the theological pattern of obedience/success and disobedience/punishment (Greenspahn, 389–95). Like the book of Job, the book of Judges is characterized by a sandwich structure. The introductory materials in 1:1—3:6 and the judge-less narratives in 17–21 envelop the collected tales of the judges as they are presented within the context of the framework cycle (compare Genesis 1 and Exod. 7:14—12:32 for similar literary frameworks). In this middle portion of the book, a succession of individuals, both male and female, are portrayed in a variety of contexts. Each (excluding the minor judges, who function simply as literary pauses between the tales of major figures), however, must deal with a crisis precipitated by Israelite apostasy.
Interspersed within the narratives are small vignettes, often depicting physical humor, that point to individual heroes operating in a time when violence is common. For instance, the stories of Caleb and Othniel (Judg. 1:11-21) set the stage for later, more developed episodes like those of Gideon and Samson (Judges 6–8 and 13–16). Perhaps they serve as oral reminders of the body of tales in the storyteller’s repertoire or a way to portray aspects of life and the difficult land the Israelites have come to inhabit. In sum, the stage is set for future tensions with neighboring peoples that appear more graphically in the framework-bound stories in Judges 3–16.
In what appears to be an addendum to the book of Judges, the last five chapters are remarkable for their gross violations of the covenant with God and for their gratuitous violence and are therefore a fit conclusion to a text that shows the Israelites to be their own worst enemy (McCann, 117). They are reminiscent of the unsettling events recounted in the fourteenth-century-BCE Egyptian El Amarna tablets that describe Canaan as filled with lawlessness men (‘apiru) and political opportunists.
Even though the conclusion to Judges does not follow the structure of chapters 3–16 and does not include the activities of a judge, it achieves the goal of showing that social, religious, and political chaos are prone to exist in the absence of a central government and a king (Judg. 21:25). That is not to say that they are entirely promonarchy. After all, the Deuteronomistic Historian is a politico-religious voice that generally promotes the house of David. It is therefore not surprising to find in these final chapters some poorly disguised political polemics (Leuchter, 438). Thus the house of Saul is tied to the setting (Gibeah) and atrocities in the story of the Levite’s concubine (cf. 1 Sam. 11:4-7 and Judg. 19:22-30), and Jeroboam’s placement of a golden calf and shrine in Dan (1 Kgs. 12:28-30) finds it origins in the story of Micah’s idol (Judg. 18:27-31).
It is still unclear how the Israelite tribes entered Canaan and coalesced into an identifiable people (Niditch, 6–8). Archaeological evidence indicates a large number of new settlements in the central hill country after 1200 BCE, but they may be tied to the collapse of the Canaanite city-states after the sea people’s invasion or to a synthesis of refugees and new peoples. Judges, with its stories that range from a set of ancient “battle-story accounts” (Younger) to a theodicy of the Israelites’ failure to conquer the promised land, diverges from the triumphalist conquest account found in Joshua. Its narratives present a mix of victory and defeat, with the Israelite tribes continually falling short of their obligations under the covenant and then “crying out” for divine assistance. In fact, the accounts are closer in tone to the ninth-century-BCE Moabite inscription of King Mesha, with its acceptance of divine wrath of their god Chemosh (see Judg. 2:14; 11:24), and a subsequent return of divine grace that leads to military victory and an end to oppression (compare 2 Kings 3).
When stories are so “over the top” in their depiction of characters and their antisocial activities, modern audiences come to see them as either satire or as a gross form of comedy. Who could believe anyone or any group could possibly do the things described in these final chapters in Judges? And yet, news reports are filled today with incredible statements or violent acts in the name of religious piety. Mass murders, rape, and mayhem are a part of civil wars around the world. It may be that shock literature such as this in Judges or portrayals of the dark side of human nature are necessary to make the point that it takes more than identifying a problem to cure it. Conscious intent to work with and ease the pain of those who have been broken in spirit and body is needed far more than taking revenge on the culprits. When everyone does what is “right in their own eyes” (Judg. 21:25), there is no justice except by force; and there is no peace when self-interest overrides the well-being of the community.
There are two distinct beginnings to Judges, although both reference the end of Joshua’s life and career (1:1 and 2:6-10). The first, stating “Judah is to go up” first to fight against the Canaanites provides justification (linked to later political realities) for the emergence of the tribe of Judah as one of the two most important tribes in Israel’s later history (1:2). The second introductory passage begins with a divinely heralded proclamation of the Israelites’ failure to obey the covenant. Therefore, they will be unable to drive out the Canaanites (2:1-6), who will subsequently become a test of Israel’s faithfulness and a means of sharpening their skills in war (3:4).
Despite Judah’s initial success, more realistic references to differences in material culture (i.e., use of more sophisticated weapons) are injected into the text that explain why the tribes are bottled up in the hill country (1:19). The Joseph tribes (Manasseh and Ephraim) do achieve mixed success, but the rest of the tribes are listed in a litany of failures in other areas of the land (1:21-36). This section also includes the ironic fate of King Adoni-bezek (Judg. 1:5-7), who suffers the same mutilation as the seventy kings he had defeated. It serves as a reminder that the proud, Canaanite or Israelite, can also fall. His scuttling about under the table without thumbs or big toes punctuates the rough humor of a frontier society often quick to laugh at the misfortunes of a former oppressor.
The third-fourth-century Christian historian Eusebius of Caesarea traces Judah’s emerging prominence among the tribes (1:1-10) as an indicator of the tribe’s future role in producing leaders like David, Zerubbabel, and ultimately Jesus. Another church father, Jerome, the translator of the Vulgate, sees the reference to the tears shed by the disobedient Israelites at Bochim (Judg. 2:1-5) as an allegory for the “vale of tears” imposed on all humankind after their expulsion from Eden. In this way, humanity had the opportunity to wrestle with vice and obtain merit through its righteous labor.
These narratives represent the struggles faced by pioneers in their effort to exploit the resources of the land while fighting to maintain their hold over the land and its resources in order to survive. It is, of course, possible for North American audiences to identify with the settlers as part of their own pioneering history. The push to conquer or eliminate the indigenous population from territory assumed to be given to the settlers as their Manifest Destiny is also familiar.
It is also apparent that these shocking tales contain little that is uplifting or admirable. However, when seen in the light of how oppressed or marginalized people depict themselves, Judges emerges in its original context as a way of coping with oppression. These first two chapters make it clear that obtaining ownership of the land will not be an easy task. The pluralistic and polytheistic environment in which the settlers find themselves becomes a major stumbling block. At the same time, these chapters demonstrate that people do not live in a social vacuum and that hard choices must be made continually. Interestingly, the Israelite tribes in these introductory chapters do not adequately recognize cause and effect. They simply know that they have either succeeded or failed, and occasionally they acknowledge the role of God in this process. It is their unsteady relationship with Yahweh that is highlighted in these texts. The stories show God’s persistence in upholding the covenantal agreement in the face of a “stiff-necked” and disobedient people. They also demonstrate that the benighted Israelites do keep crying out for relief, a sign that they have not abandoned their hope in Yahweh.
In a tightly reasoned theodicy, the Deuteronomic editors of the Judges material lay out a clearly defined cycle of disobedience, divinely sanctioned oppression by neighboring peoples, divine redemption (rising up of a judge), and a return to disobedience. A more explicit tone of repentance by the Israelites is injected in the actual accounts of the judges (3:9), but in this initial version they are simply described as being “in distress” (2:15). A similar pattern is reprised in the prophetic materials in which God responds to idolatrous behavior with foreign invasions, drought, and plague, and then raises up prophets to call on the people (usually just a righteous remnant) to return to proper compliance with the covenant (see Jer. 26:4-6; Hag. 1:2-11). However, in Judges the cycle also functions as a sort of literary glue holding together a disparate collection of narratives.
The use of a collective “Israelites” (benê yísrā’ēl) throughout the book (sixty-one times) might be compared to the hieroglyphic determinative for a people attached to the ethnic name Israel in the Egyptian Merneptah Stela (1208 BCE), at least in the sense of assigning collective guilt. However, there is no real effort at chronological progression in these stories, and their settings never encompass all of the Israelite tribal allotments. It is enough to say that disobedience to the stipulations of the covenant, and in particular idolatry (2:19), provides sufficient justification for divine anger and action.
The injection of a divinely appointed hero/champion is an interesting story element and does seem to preshadow the introduction of the earliest anointed kings (Saul and David) when the monarchy is established (see Nathan’s reference to the judges period in 2 Sam. 7:11). Of course, the hero archetype is as old as the third- and second-millennium-BCE Gilgamesh legends of ancient Mesopotamia. These figures are often aided by deities and demonstrate greater than human abilities. Where the archetype differs in the biblical account is in the stated purpose for the judge’s appearance. Each is to function as a temporary deliverer whose job is to remove the current form of oppression inflicted on the Israelites. While some do display feats of strength, skill, and courage, they are different enough in their methods and character to escape too much stereotyping.
God’s response to the recurrence of disobedient behavior following the death of each judge is to set aside divine protection so that the indigenous inhabitants of Canaan remain in the land (Judg. 2:20-23). Conflict with these enemy nations functions as a live classroom for the Israelites to learn the arts of war while testing their allegiance to the covenant (3:1-4). Unfortunately, the presence of these foreign peoples simply entices the Israelites to intermarry with them and to worship their gods (3:5-6)—a socio-theological situation that provides the spark to begin the cycle and the raising of the first judge, Othniel.
In his recounting of the Judges narrative, Josephus cites the Israelites’ refusal to fight against the Canaanites, preferring to indulge themselves with luxuries obtained from their cultivation of the land (Ant. 5.132–35). He then demonstrates their corruption by appending the stories of the Levite’s concubine (Judges 19–21) and the migration of the tribe of Dan (Judges 17–18). The church fathers drew comparisons between unbelievers in the time of Christ and those who bent the knee to Baal (Origen—third century), and saw the testing of the Israelites (Judg. 3:1-4) by the nations left in the land as part of God’s plan to teach humility (John Cassian—fifth century) and to develop perfection through trial (Isaac of Nineveh—sixth century).
It is tempting to see these introductory sections of the book of Judges as part of the “apology” of David and thus a political treatise arguing for the establishment of the monarchy as an alternative to anarchy. But that sets aside the Deuteronomistic Historian’s focus on the need for religious fidelity (Block 1988, 46). At the heart of these stories is the temptation faced by the Israelites to assimilate to a wider culture and to set aside allegiance to their tribal god and what may be considered less sophisticated customs. In a pluralistic society (then and now), it is easy to lose focus on what really matters and be drawn to the dominant culture or the latest craze or religious movement. Is it possible to say that we are “tested” by God in our own society, as the Deuteronomist believed the Israelites were tested in theirs? A complementary issue has to do with human recidivism and divine patience. A divine patron who saves once is not remarkable, but one who repeatedly forgives is. The Judges cycle does not end with just a single revolution of its elements. God is shown to be patient and willing, after getting the people’s attention through very harsh measures, to provide them yet another chance; and that is indeed remarkable and worth taking seriously.
What becomes quite evident after the judgeship of Othniel is that a literary framework provides a narrative vehicle to highlight the personal flaws of each successive judge, ultimately overshadowing their accomplishments. While Othniel succeeds with the help of God’s infusing spirit and without any comment beyond his total success, other judges will not be as successful. There is always something about their character (tricksters like Ehud and Gideon) or the degree to which they can call on the allegiance of other tribes (Deborah and Jephthah) that suggests matters are just not quite right. In the end, the last of these divinely appointed figures (Samson) is portrayed as an utterly self-centered, self-indulgent womanizer, and much closer to the stereotypical ancient hero typified by Gilgamesh or Hercules.
Perhaps this downward progression is part of a larger editorial plan designed to set up the audience for the political statements in 18:1 and 21:25 that blame a lawless society on the lack of a king to rule the tribes. However, that may be too narrow a view given a similar pattern of stubborn disobedience to God’s commands found elsewhere in the Deuteronomistic History (see 2 Kgs. 17:7-20) and in the Psalms (78; 81) and in the Prophets (Jeremiah 5; Hosea 4; Zech. 7:8-14). The judges, like the kings in a later period, have to deal with real-world situations and yet will also have to work within a structure in which they are the servants of a god. The mixture of secular situations and crises, and divine assistance/interference is a favorite device of ancient authors. (The Sumerian sage Adapa, for example, is offered the “bread of life” by the gods, but is counseled by his patron deity Ea to refuse to eat, and thus loses the chance for personal immortality.)
The need for humility and the expunging of a prideful and destructive spirit were self-evident to the church fathers, who used the text of the book of Judges to call on Christians to recognize God’s active concern in current difficulties. Just as the Israelites were handed over to enemy nations because of their wickedness, those who call on God in repentance can expect that they will be lifted up by “throngs of archangels” and restored to their inheritance of salvation (Origen; cf. Eph. 2:1-2). In that way, it is possible to interpret the succession of judges as divine deliverers, brought to the people because of the Israelites’ tendency to become “tepid” in their faith and thus need more than a single lesson in humility (Cassian).
Among the questions that can be asked about these texts is how they relate to our perception of leadership today, and whether it makes a difference if the Bible does not present the judges as perfect heroes. Given the fact that some of today’s leaders are shown to be flawed and unethical in their dealings with their constituents and others, does the book of Judges simply excuse such behavior as “simply human”? Are the obvious narrative cues and a host of incidents that contain social gaffes to be taken as social criticism or humor? To be sure, modern literature is filled with these types of characters, and it is almost a comfort to be introduced to less-than-perfect protagonists with whom it is possible to identify. There is also a clear sense in these stories of divine redemption apart from the merit of those to be redeemed. Biblical characters are thus released from the unreasonable expectation that they must always be perfect role models.
The story of the first judge, while it sets a precedent , tells little more than the fact that Othniel of the tribe of Judah “went out to war” and with God’s help defeated King Cushan-Rishathaim, most likely a king of Edom (Sadler, 812–13; Judg. 3:10). Such a bare-bones account of the unvarnished steps of the cycle format may have been intended to set the proper tone for the behavior of judges. It does resemble the initial presentation of Abram, who answers God’s call to immigrate without question (Gen. 12:1-4), and shows unquestioning loyalty to God’s command through his willingness to sacrifice his long-desired son Isaac (Gen. 22:1-19). However, it would be impractical to think that the storyteller would choose to present every other judge in the same shorthand manner. In fact, the editors do not, resorting instead to the Deuteronomist’s theme of social and religious disintegration.
Curiously, there is a similar story in Judg. 1:11-15 in which Othniel successfully, and without any narrative elaboration, captures the city of Kiriath-sepher. More interesting here is the interchange between Othniel’s new wife Achsah and her father Caleb. It provides a human-interest story that includes a tone of barely disguised, disrespectful dissatisfaction over the dry dowry lands provided as part of her wedding contract. Caleb’s quiet acquiescence to Achsah’s request for springs to water their given section of the Negev acknowledges that she is in the right (1:14-16; compare Judah in Gen. 38:25-26).
Both Josephus (Ant. 5.182–83) and his first-century contemporary Pseudo-Philo (L.A.B. 26–28) have recounted Othniel’s story, ascribing his accomplishments to his father Kenaz/Cenaz. Josephus focuses more on the political crimes of the Israelites rather than their covenantal failures as the cause for the crisis that leads to God’s revealing to Kenaz what he must do. Pseudo-Philo grants Kenaz a larger role than in either the Bible or in Josephus, expanding his leadership efforts to include interrogating sinners and punishing those who question his authority (Begg, 334–35).
The editors of Judges have created a sliding scale of effectiveness in their portrayal of the deliverers, which requires the first judge to be an unsullied paragon and the last to exhibit total self-interest and disregard for the needs of the community. Modern society publicly sets a high standard of ethical leadership for its officials, but few actually measure up to that ideal. The twenty-four-hour news cycle and the ability to delve into every aspect of a leader’s life put extreme pressure on them and sometimes leads them to make foolish decisions. The pattern of decline in Judges does allow for a more realistic view of leadership while warning society against letting bravado and demagoguery replace substance. Many would appreciate a conscientious public servant like Othniel, but we often settle for someone who simply gets things done.
The second judge, Ehud, is a successful leader, and he serves in that capacity for eighty years, longer than any other judge/deliverer. His narrative also begins the downward spiral that will take the judges from the pinnacle represented by Othniel to the lawless egotism of Samson. In many ways, these stories echo the character types among Homer’s heroes in their struggle before Troy. Some, like Achilles, are able to achieve remarkable feats of strength, usually with the assistance of a patron deity; some are trickster figures (Odysseus); and some are willing to make incredible bargains with the gods to gain a victory (Agamemnon). Ehud falls into the trickster category, a favorite character in Israelite tradition (cf. Jacob).
Ehud’s tale begins with an indictment of the Israelites for their unfaithfulness (3:12). An affronted God then allows an alliance of traditional foes led by Eglon, king of Moab, to take possession of portions of the land for eighteen years (3:13-14). The audience is then provided with a series of narrative cues and puns. Ehud is a Benjamite (Saul’s tribe; 1 Sam. 9:1-2), and the seat of power chosen by Eglon is the “city of Palms” (probably Jericho), a reference to the partial dismantling of Joshua’s conquests (Joshua 6). The fact that Ehud is left-handed, possibly ambidextrous (3:15), and carries a specially designed dagger on his right thigh (3:16) foreshadows Ehud’s means of assassinating Eglon. The play on Ehud’s name (“Where is majesty?”) and Eglon’s name (“calf” or “bull”) plays into the contest-between-gods motif in which Yahweh challenges the power of Baal, who is often represented as a bull or astride a bull (Keel and Uehlinger, 144–46; see 1 Kings 18). For comic-relief purposes, it is possible that a phonetic pun on Eglon’s name may be stretched to include the “round” nature of the king’s ample belly fat (3:17b, 22; Butler, 69).
Ehud’s trickster nature emerges in his fabrication of a sleek, double-edged dagger, which he hides under his right thigh. A right-handed man would normally draw from his left side, and it is not surprising the guards miss the weapon when they search his person (cf. Joab’s assassination of Amasa in 2 Sam. 20:9-10). Extending the trickster theme, Ehud first tempts Eglon’s cupidity with the promise of a “secret message” (3:19), and then expands this to a “message from God” (3:20) in order to get the king alone. Given the opportunity, Ehud thrusts his dagger into Eglon’s belly and the fat completely envelops the blade (3:21-22). In what may be the first “locked-room mystery,” Ehud foils any likelihood of quick discovery of the king’s body by locking them both into Eglon’s private toilet and escaping through the opening to the cesspit (3:23-26; Halpern, 43–46). The victory over the leaderless Moabites, completing the narrative framework, is almost an anticlimax (3:27-30).
Susan Niditch (57–58) compares Eglon’s murder to the emasculation of enemy soldiers in the Iliad and to the surprising narrative shift when Jael’s tent peg penetrates Sisera’s skull (Judg. 4:21). Certainly, that does fit into the type scene of an unlikely victory against great odds (see David and Goliath in 1 Sam. 17:31-54).
The single verse describing the exploits of Shamgar ben Anath (3:31) serves, like the listing of other minor judges (10:1-5; 12:8-15), as a literary interlude separating the tales of the major figures. Since his name includes the name of a Canaanite goddess, it is unlikely that Shamgar is an Israelite. However, because he is able to slay six hundred Philistines with a weapon generally used to herd cattle, he fits into Israelite tradition as a heroic ally (like Jael the Kenite in Judg. 4:17-22).
The church fathers seem to have been impressed with Ehud’s ambidextrous abilities. However, because the left hand is often associated with “unfortunate” purpose or occurrence, they style the ability to use both hands for righteous purposes a divine gift that guides him to proper uses and “turns both into a right hand” (Cassian). Jerome also refers to Ehud as having “two right hands” because he was “a just man.” Origen, who appears to be enthused by Ehud’s story, labels his actions as a “praiseworthy deception,” a remark that reinforces the view that many acts are justified if they are done in battle for God and the right. Later thinkers had mixed views of Ehud’s assassination of King Eglon. Voltaire (Philosophical Dictionary, 1764) decried regicide as a sign of fanaticism, while John Milton used Ehud’s example to justify the regicide of King Charles I in England (Gunn, 38–39, 45).
In current political discourse, there is a fine line between the recording of freedom fighting that includes acts of extreme violence for a just cause, and criminally minded insurgents, whose fanatical and bloody deeds are decried by other nations and by their victims. Since stories are composed for particular audiences, it is unlikely that all will share the same viewpoint on the matter any more than the Moabites would have appreciated Ehud’s heroics. In modern parlance, it remains to be seen, for instance, how suicide bombers and political assassins will be viewed in the future, both within their own social context and by outsiders. Perhaps it is possible to laud Ehud’s desperate act as a model of bravery for a subject people. However, because the story contains raw details and comic asides, it is difficult, as Heb. 11:32 seems to indicate, to include it in the litany of heroes of the faith.
There are a number of remarkable aspects to the dually presented story of Deborah. The narrative version in Judges 4 helps to fill some of the gaps left in the “song” in Judges 5, which concentrates more on the theme of blessings and curses (Butler, 133). The most obvious point is that Deborah is the only female judge (“a mother in Israel,” 5:7), the only figure in the book to be given the label of “prophetess,” and the only person to actually participate in legal mediation (4:4-5). Her role as prophet places her in company with Moses’ sister Miriam (Exod. 15:20) and Huldah in Josiah’s time (2 Kgs. 22:14). As an arbitrator of the law, Deborah, unlike Samuel who worked a circuit of sites (1 Sam. 7:16-17), has a recognized location in the Ephraimite hill country beneath a palm tree where the people come for justice. From her seat of authority, Deborah summons the Naphtali war chief Barak and exercises her prophetic office to call on him in God’s name to lead his men against the Canaanite general Sisera at Mount Tabor (4:6-7; cf. Samuel in 1 Sam. 15:1-3).
While Barak’s request that Deborah accompany his army suggests a lack of faith on his part (cf. Saul in 1 Sam. 13:8-10), it was not unusual for an army to include prophets as an intermediary for divine presence (see Elisha in 2 Kgs. 3:9-20). In this case, Barak’s reluctance becomes a narrative catalyst for gender reversal, substituting a female champion whose “hand” would bring the ultimate victory (4:9). The battle in which Sisera’s forces are defeated is barely mentioned (4:12-16), although the “song” in Judg. 5:19-23 does contain elements of the divine warrior’s intervention (“mountains quaked,” 5:5; “stars fought from heaven,” 5:20). More important is the praise for the faithful tribes who joined the campaign (4:10; 5:13-15a, 18) and the sarcastic remarks made against those who stayed away (5:15b-17). In this chaotic period, it will take more than the call of a prophet and her war chief to unite the tribes in a common cause (cf. Saul in 1 Sam. 11:5-7). Deborah’s only fault, then, is an inability to unite the people.
Of central interest here is the role of the Kenite woman Jael, who is called “most blessed of women” (5:24) while performing horrific acts that would under normal circumstances violate hospitality protocols (Matthews, 66–74). Serving as a narrative surprise, it is Jael’s “hand” rather than Deborah’s that will dispose of Sisera and the Canaanite threat (4:17-22; 5:24-27). Demonstrating that this is a world without the normal social constraints, Jael takes on the male role by playing host, inviting Sisera chaperoned into her tent, and then playing the vengeful angel (perhaps echoing God’s angel in 5:23) by driving a tent peg through his skull (a sexual innuendo that would not have been lost on the ancient audience).
The “song” then supplies a poignant and stinging satire comparing Jael’s heroic act to the greedy anticipation of Sisera’s mother, who looks in vain for the plunder she expects will accompany the return of her son (5:28-31). For a people so often oppressed by their more powerful neighbors, there is great satisfaction found in the ability to say “so perish all your enemies” (5:31).
There is much praise in the church fathers for Deborah, the “mother” who provides prudent advice, exhorts Barak to victory, and saves the nation by directing men to do their duty (Chrysostom). Jael the Kenite becomes for Ambrose the model of the righteous gentile, who is quicker than the Jews in accepting the doctrines of the church. Origen agrees by saying Jael, the foreigner, “symbolizes the church, which was assembled from foreign nations” (Franke, 117). Artistic representations of Jael’s act range from a graphically pinned Sisera to more subtle depictions (Gunn, 78). While ancient and medieval commentators subordinate the role and accomplishments of women in the bible, in the nineteenth century Elizabeth Cady Stanton (The Women’s Bible) hails Deborah’s self-reliance and heroic virtues as “worthy of their imitation,” and demonstrating women’s ability to take a more active role in society. However, she is more reserved in her treatment of Jael, noting the Kenite must have at least “imagined herself” called by God to commit an otherwise fiendish act (Gunn, 64–65, 83).
There is an interesting mixture in this tale of decisive purpose, prophetic anticipation of divine intervention in warfare, and personal triumph made possible by taking incredible risks. For once in Judges, it is possible to identify with women who are positive role models. Deborah can easily be compared to other powerful female figures (cf. Abigail in 1 Sam. 25:2-42) whose actions drive the narrative and who often overshadow their husbands, just as Deborah overshadows Barak. However, even the celebration of her as a “mother” in Israel, usually a nurturing, life-giving role, is used by the narrator to remind us that rape and the exploitation of women is a factor in the male ideology of war (Judg. 5:30; Exum, 73–74).
Jael may be more difficult for modern audiences. Her remarkable fortitude and courage is matched by her bloody-handedness. Is she to be compared to women today who are used as suicide bombers to kill crowds of people? Is her encounter with Sisera an example of collateral damage in wartime, or just another instance of the blasé attitude about the rape of women in a war zone (see Sisera’s mother’s musing in 5:28-30)? While the editors’ narrative shell enclosing Sisera’s encounter with Jael is built around how God uses unlikely vehicles to achieve victory, there is also an internal drama centered on Jael’s choices. She is engaging in risk calculation designed to uphold the honor of her household and to preserve her body from the potential of rape and death at Sisera’s hands. Does that, then, justify her deception and Sisera’s murder? Can today’s “castle doctrine” apply here, allowing her, like us, to protect herself against an unfriendly invader?
Despite the heavy-handed oppression of the Midianites (Judg. 6:1-6), Gideon is the only judge who actively campaigns against his own appointment. In that sense, his call narrative is similar to that of Moses (Exod. 3:7—4:17), Isaiah (Isa. 6:5-8), and Jeremiah (Jer. 1:4-10; Habel, 287–305). Like these reluctant prophets, Gideon shows his temerity by claiming to be too insignificant (Judg. 6:15), and prior to battle with the Midianite coalition he twice requests that God provide an oracular sign that Gideon will be able to deliver Israel (Judg. 6:36-40). The comparison breaks down, however, because Gideon never manages the ability to truly trust God or to grow into his potential as a leader (Butler, 199–200).
Intertwined with Gideon’s vacillating allegiance to God’s command and his own desire to gain fame for himself is another theme, the contest between Yahweh and Baal for worshipers (Bluedorn, 69). Both themes appear when Gideon is required to tear down the Baal altar that his father had built in their village (Judg. 6:25-27). Lacking the courage to perform this ritually cleansing act, Gideon dismantles the altar in the dark of night and then only escapes the wrath of the villagers when his father asserts that it is up to Baal to take vengeance, if the Canaanite god can (Judg. 6:28-31). There is a clear parallel here to Elijah’s challenge of Baal’s divinity on Mount Carmel (1 Kgs. 18:21), but again Gideon is in the shadows. He benefits from his actions, but he is not the one to assert Yahweh’s preeminence.
In a similar manner, the battle narrative against the Midianite host contains an element of resignation on God’s part about the people’s and Gideon’s trust. Almost with a divine shrug of the shoulders, it becomes necessary to radically diminish the size of Gideon’s army so that the victory can only be attributed to God’s intervention (compare the fight against the Amalekites in Exod. 17:8-13). Thus only three hundred men, all of whom have shown their lack of vigilance by lapping up water from a stream (Judg. 7:4-7), are mustered for a night attack. Still Gideon has doubts, and once again God gives him the chance to pluck up his courage by a secret foray into the enemy camp, where he hears a dream interpreted (Judg. 7:9-15). What is remarkable is that Gideon’s battle call, “For the Lord and for Gideon,” allows him to share credit with God, a strategy Shakespeare echoes in Henry IV: “ ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!” (act 3, scene 1). Moses was denied the promised land for a similar lack of faith when he gave himself more credit than God for providing water in the wilderness (Num. 20:7-12). Gideon’s action, however, is in tune with the growing egotistic tendencies of the judges.
His initial battle is won using trumpet blasts (compare the “battle” of Jericho in Josh. 6:15-16) and nocturnal brandishing of torches that frighten the enemy (Judg. 7:19-22). Gideon’s hurled torches and smashed pots may have evoked the fear of divine lightning strikes or might associate him with shamanistic abilities to call down a fiery torrent (see Elijah’s acts in 1 Kgs. 18:36-38) like Apollodorus’s description of Salmoneus, who attempts to imitate Zeus (Brown, 385–86). Whatever the case, the aftermath is a chase to round up the enemy leaders.
Two facets of the narrative stand out here. First is the shrewd diplomatic speech employed to mollify the Ephraimites, who had entered the fray late and were angry that they did not share in the loot (Judg. 8:1-3). Gideon distinguishes himself, using flattery to prevent conflict between tribes. That magnanimity is not extended to the towns of Succoth and Penuel, who were reluctant to trust the Israelites’ ability to achieve total victory. Gideon therefore takes heavy vengeance on those who had refused to assist his men (Judg. 8:4-21). His savage treatment of the elders and the enemy chiefs shows no hint of forgiveness and serves to enhance his role as a commander, who is to be feared by all who oppose him (Judg. 8:16-21).
At the height of his popularity, Gideon refuses the offer of hereditary kingship, saying that the people will be ruled by God alone (Judg. 8:22-23). However, he spoils what could have distinguished him as a servant-leader by presenting the people with an ephod made from the spoil taken from the Midianites (8:24-27). This trophy, a memorial to Gideon’s successes, later becomes a cult object, drawing the people away from Yahweh after Gideon’s death (8:33-34). In the end, Gideon earns a sad epitaph, in that the people exhibit no loyalty to either God or him. It foreshadows the editorial comments about the kings of Israel, who continue the “sins of Jeroboam” and “caused Israel to sin” (1 Kgs. 22:52-53; 2 Kgs. 13:2).
Setting aside any concern over the existence of a Baal altar in Gideon’s village, Ambrose focuses on the analogy between Gideon’s sacrifice of a bull (making an end to all gentile sacrifices) and Jesus’ crucifixion as the true offering for the people’s redemption. In like manner, the church fathers pass over Gideon’s lack of faith in asking for a sign and instead see the dew (Judg. 6:36-40) as the divine word sent down from heaven (Ambrose), Christ as the “sweetness of the dew” (Augustine), and the fleece as Mary, who in her conception of the Lord “absorbed him with her own body” (Maximus of Turin, fifth-century bishop in Franke 127). Gregory the Great (sixth-century pope) styles Gideon’s army as “glittering martyrs, who willingly exposed their bodies to their opponents’ swords” (Franke, 131–32).
What kind of role model can Gideon the reluctant judge be for modern audiences? The degree of divine hand-holding necessary to get him in motion throughout his career may be taken as either indecisiveness or dependence. Some leaders today justify their inaction by constantly seeking out new polling data or going on endless fact-finding excursions. Are today’s leaders turning a blind eye to “Baal’s altar” in their town square while decrying the community’s failure to erect a monument to the Ten Commandments? Do we prefer flashy, if temporary, victories or vengeful attacks to seeking out the causes of cultural differences and discontent? While Gideon was a successful general, with God’s assistance, he did not pave the way to stable leadership, and he left a legacy of idolatry and divided loyalties. For modern audiences, that may raise the question of how leaders should be chosen and what long-term expectations we have for their accomplishments.
The contrast between Gideon’s refusal to accept the kingship (Judg. 8:22-23) and the striving by his son Abimelech to obtain that office is symptomatic of a society that desires stability but is not yet ready for the full implications of centralized government (Amit, 111). Plus, the association with Shechem may be another Deuteronomic, political polemic against northern-based leaders
(Schneider, 136). Other interesting facets of this narrative include the importance placed on kinship in elevating Abimelech (Judg. 9:2-3) and the extensive use of direct speech (Judg. 9:2, 16-20, 28-29, 31-33) and dialogue (9:36-38) at crucial points in the political drama, drawing the audience more closely into the action.
What is bloodily begun when Abimelech murders his seventy brothers (Judg. 9:5; cf. Saul’s slaughter of eighty-five priests at Nob) ends with Abimelech’s bloody demise (9:54). Between these two events is a frenzy of activity resulting from a change of heart by the “Lords of Shechem,” who had originally supported Abimelech’s rise to kingship. They make the roads unsafe, robbing travelers (9:25), and support Gaal (9:26-29). Gaal’s challenge, “Who is Abimelech?” (9:28), calls his legitimacy into question (cf. Nabal, who defames David’s right to the throne, saying, “Who is David?”; 1 Sam. 25:10). His brief venture into Shechem’s vacillating politics concludes with many of his supporters killed, the city captured, and its ruins “sowed with salt” (cf. eighth-century Aramaic vassal-treaty of Sefire’s curse imposed on covenant-breakers, “Hadad will sow salt thereon”; Fensham, 49). Abimelech’s escalating rampage finally comes to a conclusion when he is struck by a millstone thrown by a woman from the walls of Thebez (Judg. 9:53). Rather than die at her hands (like Sisera in 4:21), he orders his armor bearer to slay him (9:54). Abimelech’s mistake of going too near the wall becomes a military maxim cited by Joab when he sends David a report that Uriah the Hittite has been slain (2 Sam. 11:20-21).
Embedded in the narrative is a fable recited by Jotham, the only surviving son of Gideon (Judg. 9:7-15). His fable is a political metaphor cautioning the “Lords of Shechem” to consider the type of ruler they have chosen for themselves, which will likely “backfire” on them (Butler, 241–42). The comical selection process and the subsequent curse predicting a fiery ending to these events matches the tone of the overall narrative (9:56-57).
Abimelech’s death forms a bridge to two minor judges, Tola and Jair. The only information contained here (Judg. 10:1-5) is the number of years they served as a judge and in Jair’s case the symmetry of thirty sons, thirty donkeys, and thirty towns. These brief remarks may be based on an annalistic style more typical in the monarchy period (cf. 2 Kgs. 17:1-2). While they may have served as local leaders, the lack of a formal call from God diminishes their importance except as representatives of a brief period of stability between two violence-prone judges, Abimelech and Jephthah (Block 1999, 337).
The church fathers had to stretch to find anything uplifting in the tale of Abimelech. Augustine chose to defend the value of fables to achieve understanding through metaphor, and Methodius, a fourth-century bishop of Olympus, sees Jotham’s parable as a prediction of the future reign of chastity, viewing the story of trees meeting to appoint a king as a representation of humble penitents who approach God asking to be governed by his pity and compassion.
Considering the problems created throughout history by persons whose ambitions have led them to take power by violence, Abimelech’s story does not sound all that unusual to modern audiences. The damage to lives and property caused by political purges, wars of conquest and retribution, and the brutalizing of society can be ascribed to poor political choices and rampant ambition (e.g., Hitler’s rise to power first through constitutional means and then by force and fiat). The question is always how long societies that accept high levels of everyday violence can last. And, is there a higher dictum to question and if necessary remove leaders who foster tyranny?
Jephthah’s narrative is sandwiched between two lists of minor judges (Judg. 10:1-5; 12:8-15). Both lists recount individual leaders who are apparently quite prosperous and, more importantly, have numerous progeny. That alone provides a marked contrast with both Abimelech and Jephthah, who spent their lives in continual conflict and died childless.
Before Jephthah is introduced, the editors provide an extended review of the Israelites’ apostasy comparable to Judg. 2:1-5, 11-23 (10:6-18; Block 1999, 344). The Ammonite oppression leads to a beseeching cry for deliverance by the Israelites. Before God relents, there is a caustic retort that the Israelites should turn to the gods they had chosen to deliver them (compare Joash’s challenge to Baal in 6:31). Only after the Israelites cleanse themselves of their foreign worship can the search begin for someone to lead them in battle (10:17-18; cf. 1:2; 20:18).
What follows is a strange pedigree for a judge. Jephthah is an illegitimate son whose brothers have expelled him from his father’s household. Operating as a bandit chief out of the Gileadite city of Tob (11:1-3), his experience compares with David’s outlaw period (1 Sam. 22:1-2) and with the fifteenth-century-BCE king of Alalakh, Idrimi, who spent years living with the outcasts of society before regaining his throne (ANET 557–58). His outsider status and experience as a seasoned military leader make him a good choice as deliverer, and aids his negotiations aimed at being recognized as their legitimate leader (Judg. 11:6-10). Unlike Gideon, Jephthah is not a reluctant leader, but it is only when he is filled with God’s spirit that it is made clear he has divine sanction as a judge (11:29).
Before the conflict begins, there is an interesting diplomatic exchange between Jephthah and the Ammonites (11:12-28). Using the ancient Near Eastern lawsuit form (O’Connell, 195), his messenger recites the Israelites’ preconquest narrative of their dealings with the peoples of Transjordan (see Num. 21:21-31 and Numbers 22) while discounting Ammonite claims. Unable to find a diplomatic solution (cf. the failure to appease the Ephraimites in Judg.12:1-6), Jephthah attempts to negotiate with God to obtain a victory. He takes a rash vow promising to sacrifice the first member of his household to greet him after the battle (11:30-31). Some commentators have attempted to compare Jephthah’s sacrificial offer to the classical story of Agamemnon’s vow to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia, but there are too many variations to make this conclusive (Marcus, 40–43). More important is the parallel to Saul’s rash oath to execute anyone who eats during a battle with the Philistines (1 Sam. 14:24-45).
Jephthah does gain his victory, but it precipitates a poignant scene when his daughter rushes out to celebrate and he realizes he has condemned her to death. She demonstrates a stronger spirit than her father by insisting he must carry through rather than become an oath-breaker (Judg. 11:34-40). Thus Jephthah wins his battle and loses the chance to continue his line. Jephthah’s final episode is equally tragic. Although he is victorious over the greedy Ephraimites, his dialectal strategy of demanding that each man crossing the fords of the Jordan River pronounce the word shibboleth costs the Israelites a staggering toll of 42,000 lives (12:1-6).
Most interpreters focus on Jephthah’s vow and whether he actually sacrificed his daughter. Luther considers the text to be ambiguous, and Augustine argues against the possibility that an animal was meant. The Midrash Tanh.uma attempts to excuse Jephthah on the grounds that he was ignorant of the law allowing the substitution of payment for a human vowed to be sacrificed (Lev. 27:1-8; Marcus, 47). Josephus blames the daughter for “rushing out” to meet Jephthah and thus causing her father such distress (Ant. 5.265), but later interpreters see her in a more sympathetic light. Peter Abelard (twelfth century) considers her embracing of a sacrificial death a model for monastic women devoted to God, and Lord Byron (1814) portrays her as a cheerful martyr who wins her father’s freedom from his vow (Stewart, 133–37).
The narrator of the story of Jephthah’s unnamed daughter emphasizes her adherence to legal principles and her self-sacrifice (Judg. 11:37-40). However, that only serves the interests of the male-dominated society that approves her brave action while not questioning why God did not stop the sacrifice as in Gen. 22:10-12 (Exum, 74–77). Are children to be abused or used in this way when their parents make foolish choices or are governed by their own mental pathologies? Are they expendable resources, too weak to prevent becoming victims of their parents or other adults? The irony is that Jephthah must live on childless and be labeled as a fool, while his daughter’s memory lives on among her more compassionate female friends (Judg. 11:39-40).
With a brief tip of the hat to the Judges structure (citing disobedience as the cause for Philistine oppression—Judg. 13:1), Samson’s saga is launched with a remarkable birth narrative (cf. Moses in Exod. 2:1-10 and Samuel in 1 Samuel 1). The theophany and annunciation instruct Samson’s parents three times to maintain a strict Nazirite discipline (Num. 6:1-8) while his mother is pregnant (Judg. 13:2-14; cf. Luke 1:8-15). That holy discipline imposed on mother and son (Bal, 200) becomes the ironic foil to Samson’s decidedly un-Nazirite lifestyle. There is also an interesting dynamic between Manoah and his unnamed wife. The angel appears to her first, and she recognizes the messenger as a “man of God” with an angelic appearance (13:3-6). Manoah cannot simply accept her word and entreats God for further instructions. Lacking true perception (13:16), he is shocked to discover they have been in the presence of the divine and responds with frightened awe (13:22; cf. Jacob in Gen. 28:16-17), and has to be comforted by his wife’s logic (13:23). The interplay between the sexes will become a subtheme in the stories, as Samson is entrapped by his dealings with a series of women throughout his life.
There is a curious juxtaposition between Samson’s potential to accomplish great things (regular infusion of God’s spirit: Judg. 13:25; 14:6, 19; 15:14) and his carnal appetite, which continually draws him into the company of dangerous, foreign women (14:2; 16:1, 4). His dual character plays into the hero archetype, which places him in the company of other flawed strong men whose superhuman passions include feats of courage and strength and the need to demonstrate their virility with women (Gilgamesh and Hercules).
Contests and trickery also play heavily in these tales (Niditch, 153–54). The riddle game during his marriage feast is fraught with cultural conflict and ends with Samson being deceived by his Philistine wife and his slaughter of thirty Philistines to pay off his debt (14:12-19). In a similar manner, Samson’s taunting the Philistines by burning their fields leads to confrontation and slaughter (14:3-8) while demonstrating that he is merely acting alone without any consultation with tribal leaders (Wong, 178). The frightened elders of Judah are caught in the middle since they are under Philistine control and must turn him over to their masters (14:9-13). Samson plays both sides, using this opportunity to obtain a nonaggression pact with the Judahites and then breaking his bonds and killing a thousand Philistines with a donkey’s jawbone (14:12-16; cf. the surprise encounter at Gaza’s gate in 16:1-3). Like Ehud’s deception (3:21-22) and Jael’s slaying of Sisera (4:21), these bloody episodes appeal to the partisan, ancient Israelite audience and also provide some comic relief.
The final contest centers on Samson’s relationship with Delilah, the Philistines’ spy (16:4-21). Paid to discover the source of his strength, Delilah plays a fourfold game, cajoling and pleading with her lover and repeatedly frustrating the Philistines waiting in her back room to pounce on what they hope is a helpless victim. Samson appears to be enjoying both the game and Delilah’s growing anger. But like his first wife, who also nagged him incessantly (14:17; Ackerman, 232), Delilah’s repeated pleas for him to demonstrate his love by revealing his secret wears Samson down and he tells her the truth (16:16-17). It is not clear why Delilah believes him this time, although some structured folktales do have a limit on the number of times a deception can be spoken (Matthews, 160).
At the height of Samson’s despair over his capture and blinding, the storyteller injects the seed for ultimate revenge and reversal: his hair begins to grow back (16:22). The Philistines’ decision to display a potentially dangerous captive for their entertainment (16:23-25) is a match for Samson’s own hubris when he does not mention God in his victory hymn (15:16; Crenshaw, 36). The text does not contain a direct answer from God to Samson’s petition (16:18; cf. the etiological vignette in 15:18-19). Perhaps the regrown hair gave him the strength to pull down the Philistine temple, killing the celebrants and him in the bargain (16:28-30). Or, he may have been an unwitting participant in another contest between gods that gives Yahweh a victory over Dagon (cf. 1 Sam. 5:1-5). Samson’s career had begun with such hope, but ends with a destructive gesture and a simple epitaph noting he was buried in his father’s tomb (16:31). His story serves as a fitting metaphor for Israel’s unfaithfulness and self-centered behavior.
Most commentators have taken a more positive view of Samson’s exploits. Pope Gregory the Great and the sixth-century bishop Caesarius of Arles even see his carrying away of the gates of Gaza (16:3) as a metaphor for Christ’s breaking the gates of death and freeing the righteous souls from limbo. They are less kind to the women in his life, whose roles as temptresses or harlots lead Samson astray. Ambrose labels Delilah a prostitute and cautions that men should avoid marriages with those “outside the faith.” Milton (Samson Agonistes) first portrays Delilah as a penitent, asking for forgiveness and offering to care for the blind Samson, but when he spurns her she becomes the spiteful Philistine attempting to sting him with verbal abuse. Modern film (Cecile B. DeMille’s Samson and Delilah) romanticizes their relationship without offering much in the way of character development.
Samson is neither an unredeemable character nor a fictionalized figure drawn from various folklore strands. His reckless enthusiasms for women, adventure, and violence provide the ancient and modern audience with the consequences of the destructive actions of fools and a contrast with the wise, thinking person, who can be instructed (cf. Prov. 11:29-31; 14:16-17; Greene, 54). Similarly, the women in his life are not just sources of temptation. They often become victims of Samson’s appetites, being used and then cast away. Even the self-sufficient Delilah, who apparently makes her living without the benefit of a husband (Fewell, 73–74), serves as Samson’s unwitting, comedic foil until he plays the gambit once too often. Seemingly, the outlandish behavior by caped superheroes (Superman, Batman) seems excusable when hope emerges in the form of a champion. However, it is always dangerous to put too much confidence in them to change the world.
The Deuteronomic editors of the story of Micah’s idol create a “morality play” focused on lawbreaking and indifference to covenant obligations in a time before the rule of kings (Mueller, 76–82). The tale begins with Micah’s dishonorable theft of silver from his mother and his fearful return of the hoard to avoid a curse (17:2-3a; Amit, 324). She in turn “consecrates” the silver to the Lord so that it can be cast into an idol (17:3b). Like Aaron (Exod. 32:4) and King Jeroboam (1 Kgs. 12:28), neither Micah nor his mother can discern the difference between idols and Yahweh (McCann, 121). These three violations of the Decalogue (Exod. 20:4-5, 12, 15) provide the backdrop to Micah’s creation of a house shrine for his newly minted cultic objects, including an ephod and te˘rāphîm (cf. Gen. 31:19; 2 Kgs. 23:24). Providing yet another insight into religious practices in the village context, Micah initially installs one of his sons as the priest (17:4-5). However, that will change when an itinerant Levite from Bethlehem arrives in search of his own “place,” something not unusual prior to the establishment of the central shrine. Micah is quick to hire him to raise the social and cultic value of his shrine, and the Levite apparently has no qualms about serving before idols (Judg. 17:10; Niditch, 182).
Micah’s prideful attitude in acquiring a Levite for his household takes an ironic turn in the next scene, when the scouts from the tribe of Dan stop at his house and encounter the household’s live-in Levite. They ask for an oracle on the success of their mission to locate a new territory for their tribe (a further sign of Israel’s political decline; Butler, 389). The Levite obliges with an ambiguous benediction, “Go in peace,” noting that their efforts are “under the eye of the Lord,” but not suggesting they have divine sanction (18:4-6; Schneider, 237). Once the scouts complete their mission by spying out the vulnerable northern city of Laish (Butler, 394), they return to Micah’s house. Just as they later forcefully capture Laish and its lands, the Danites take the opportunity to steal Micah’s sacred objects (violating Deut. 7:25), and they hire away his Levite. The Levite makes the best of the situation (Mueller, 71), matching Micah’s avaricious nature and readily accepting the Danites’ offer to become the “priest to a tribe and clan” (18:14-20).
The source of Micah’s pride and boasting thus vanishes with these marauders (Judg. 17:13). Adding to the irony and the level of covenant disobedience is the creation of a tribal worship center at Laish (renamed Dan), with Jonathan son of Gershom, son of Moses, and his sons serving as priests for the tribe of Dan and its ill-begotten idols (18:30). Tying the Mosaic priestly line to what the Judeans would consider an illegitimate shrine serves as the editors’ justification for Israel’s destruction by the Assyrians in 721 BCE (Niditch, 184). It also reiterates the Deuteronomic polemic against the northern kingdom’s shrines at Dan and Bethel and its priests (1 Kgs. 12:29).
Some rabbinic sources (midrash Tanhuma, Yelammedenu 1:100) tie Micah to the exodus story and especially to Aaron’s construction of the golden calf (Exod. 32:4). Chapter 24 of the midrash Exodus Rabbah contends that Micah’s idol was created in Egypt and passed with the Israelites over the Red Sea. The Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 103b, however, says only the metals crossed the sea and were later cast into an idol. Protestant commentators, including Milton, use Micah’s idol as part of their polemic against the veneration of images in the Roman Catholic Church (Gunn, 234–35).
One of the admonitions included in police investigations is “follow the money.” If the audience follows the silver in Micah’s story, it is possible to see how the covetous desire (Exod. 20:17) for this precious metal becomes the catalyst for crime and covenant-breaking. Micah’s tale is not just about idolatry or the unfaithfulness of itinerant Levites or the migration of the tribe of Dan. From a single act of theft comes dishonor to one’s parent, the casting of idols, suborning of a Levite to serve in a house shrine dedicated to cultic images and the personal pride of the owner, and then theft on a grander scale and the transference of the crime of idolatry from a single household to an entire tribe. The narrative provides a warning to modern hedge fund managers and investors (foundations and individuals) to beware of the corrupting influence of ill-gotten riches at the expense of the public and the economy.
The editors of the final set of episodes in Judges recast the story of Lot in Sodom (Genesis 19; Lasine) using an unnamed Levite and his concubine as the narrative catalyst for a horrific tragedy. The Levite is presented as a failed husband (19:2), a traveler who exercises poor judgment (19:11-14), an ungrateful guest (19:16-20), and a coward who sacrifices the life of his concubine to preserve himself from a mob of lawless men in Gibeah (19:22-25). Hospitality protocols are turned upside down throughout the narrative (Matthews, 181–88). When the long night is over, the Levite shows no concern for his concubine’s brutal gang rape, not even crying out after finding her body lying on his host’s doorstep (19:27-28; Yee, 154–56). Instead, he bundles her onto his donkey, and when he arrives home he gruesomely carves her body into twelve pieces (cf. Saul’s butchering his oxen in 1 Sam. 11:7). Then the Levite sends these grisly items “throughout all the territory of Israel” with the inflammatory message “Has such a thing ever happened? . . . Consider it, take counsel, and speak out” (19:29-30).
Without questioning the Levite’s claims, all of the Israelite tribes gather at Mizpah, creating the only instance in the book when they are all gathered together (20:1; cf. 1 Sam. 7:5-7; 10:17). The Levite uses this opportunity to condemn Gibeah and the tribe of Benjamin while painting himself as a helpless victim. Similarly, the Benjaminites, when asked to “hand over those scoundrels in Gibeah” in order to “purge the evil from Israel” (20:13; cf. the stoning of Achan’s household in Josh. 7:16-26), absolutely refuse to comply and proceed to gather their own army (20:14-15). There is a mad dash to judgment and intemperate action on both sides. The result is a series of three battles, none of which need have occurred if wiser and cooler heads had intervened (cf. the negotiations in Josh. 22:10-34).
Two military defeats lead to the sole appearance in Judges of the ark of the covenant and a cameo appearance by Phinehas, a contemporary of Joshua, as the Levite in charge (see Num. 25:7-11; 31:1-12; Josh. 22:13-34). However, the Israelites’ desperation and the editors’ efforts to draw the combatants back to proper cultic procedures require the tribes to seek God’s help through proper channels (Judg. 20:19-25; cf. Num. 14:39-45; Butler, 445–47). Duly chastised, they receive not only the command to “Go up” but also the divine assurance that this time “I will give them into your hand” (cf. Josh. 7:8-9).
In the end, the tribe of Benjamin is decimated and is only able to survive through an artful avoidance of the stipulations of the tribal oath and the capture of women from Jabesh-gilead and Shiloh (Judges 21). These female captives, unable to protect themselves from the desperate Benjaminites who pursue them, form an inclusio with the Levite’s concubine, whose rape served as the cause célèbre for this destructive civil war (Keefe, 85–86).
Josephus, explaining why Israel needed to call on God for deliverers, places the Levite’s concubine incident prior to the rise of individual judges rather than after that sequence had begun (Ant. 5.2.8). The church fathers are less condemning of the Levite than modern commentators. The fourth-century bishop of Alexandria Athanasius merely describes this crime against the Levite’s concubine as an affront to her husband, and then points to her death as a small thing compared to the atrocities committed against the church. Milton saw the rape as a sign of civil unrest that could not go unpunished. However, the seventeenth-century cleric Robert Gomersall, facing the prospect of civil war and political chaos in England, argued against the type of inflammatory political rhetoric used by the Levite to stir up intemperate violence (Gunn, 260–61).
Contemporary readings of this text have most often centered on the theme of sexual violence against women and spousal abuse. Rape, damaging to the psyche as well as the body, must be addressed openly without transforming the victim into a harlot who provoked the attack. Perhaps by using this story as a pedagogical tool, it will be possible to strengthen the ability to confront the crime and its consequences publicly (Scholz, 7). Also contained here is an argument for mediation rather than unthinking, precipitate action (see Prov. 15:18). A reasoned approach that avoids the self-serving, shallow arguments of demagoguery can lead to reconciliation and a cooling of tempers (Prov. 7:27). Plus, a husband who sees his wife as an equal rather than as a sex object or as a trophy to his success is less likely to cause her to be harmed by inaction or inattention.
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Keel, Othmar, and Christoph Uehlinger. 1998. Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God in Ancient Israel. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.
Lasine, Stuart. 1984. “Guest and Host in Judges 19: Lot’s Hospitality in an Inverted World.” JSOT 29:37–59.
Leuchter, Mark. 2007. “ ‘Now There Was a [Certain] Man’: Compositional Chronology in Judges–1 Samuel.” CBQ 69:429–39.
Marcus, David. 1986. Jephthah and His Vow. Lubbock: Texas Tech Press.
Matthews, Victor H. 2004. Judges and Ruth. New Cambridge Bible Commentary Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
McCann, J. Clinton. 2002. Judges. IBC. Louisville: Westminster John Knox.
Mueller, E. Aydeet. 2001. The Micah Story: A Morality Tale in the Book of Judges. New York: Peter Lang.
Niditch, Susan. 2008. Judges. Louisville: Westminster John Knox.
Noth, Martin. 1981. Deuteronomistic History. JSOTSup 15. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. [2nd ed. first published in 1957]
Redditt, Paul L. 2007. “Themes in Haggai–Zechariah–Malachi.” Int 61, no. 2:184–97.
Sadler, Rodney S., Jr. 2006. “Cushan-Rishathaim.” New Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible, 1:812–13. Nashville: Abingdon.
Schneider, Tammi J. 2000. Judges. Berit Olam. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press.
Scholz, Susanne. 2010. Sacred Witness: Rape in the Hebrew Bible. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.
Stewart, Anne W. 2012. “Jephthah’s Daughter and Her Interpreters.” In Women’s Bible Commentary, edited by Carol A. Newson et al., 133–37. 3rd ed. Louisville: Westminster John Knox.
Wong, Gregory T. K. 2006. Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges: An Inductive, Rhetorical Study. Leiden: Brill.
Yee, Gale. 2007. “Ideological Criticism: Judges 17–21 and the Dismembered Body.” In Judges and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, edited by Gale Yee, 138–60. 2nd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress Press.
Younger, K. Lawson, Jr. 1994. “Judges 1 in Its Near Eastern Context.” In Faith, Tradition, and History: Old Testament Historiography in Its Near Eastern Context, edited by Alan R. Millard et al., 207–27. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.