Reading the Bible Like a Writer

Towards the end of my graduate student days, a scholar in another field asked me what my “methodology” was. I was stumped and had to fumble for an answer. The real answer, as I came to realize only much later, would have been this: reading, writing, and thinking. What I could not have said at the time was what I would now add: thinking like a writer. For me, thinking more like a writer has come to be a methodology of its own, or, more precisely, to supplement the various methodologies that scholars use.

When Beethoven writes a chromatic accidental—adding a note, such as a C♯, to a key that does not include a C♯—it is not enough to point that out analytically. We need to be on the alert to discover the reason we are hearing that note—how it serves to modulate or add tension to the melodic line.

Likewise, when I write, I change a word at the beginning of my sentence and then realize I must change a different word at the end of the sentence for reasons of sound or rhythm or, yes, sometimes sense. That same writerly quality belongs to many of the creators of our biblical texts. We may guess that a certain writer was a sage, a priest, or a prophet, but the one thing we know for certain about any of them is that he or she was a writer.^[1]

The following examples demonstrate what I mean by reading the Bible like a writer.

Joseph and the Shechemite Speak (In)formally

When Jacob sends his son Joseph to check on the flocks that Joseph’s brothers are tending at Shechem, a man finds him along the way. The “man” (who is the focus of most of the traditional commentary on this verse)^[2] uses an imperfect verb form to ask Joseph מַה תְּבַקֵּשׁ (mah tevakesh)?

^{בראשׁית לז:טו}וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ אִישׁ וְהִנֵּה תֹעֶה בַּשָּׂדֶה וַיִּשְׁאָלֵהוּ הָאִישׁ לֵאמֹר מַה תְּבַקֵּשׁ.

^{Gen 37:15} A man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, “What are you looking for (tevakesh)?”

Joseph replies with a participle of the same verb: אָנֹכִי מְבַקֵּשׁ (anokhi mevakesh). The NJPS translation conceals a difference in the two Hebrew verb forms by translating both as “looking for.”

^{בראשׁית לז:טז}וַיֹּאמֶר אֶת אַחַי אָנֹכִי מְבַקֵּשׁ הַגִּידָה נָּא לִי אֵיפֹה הֵם רֹעִים.

^37:16 He answered, “I am looking for (mevakesh) my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?”^[3]

Galia Hatav (University of Florida), a scholar of linguistics who has devoted some thought to why the verb forms differ, explains:

It seems to me that since, unlike Joseph, the man is not sure whether Joseph is looking for something or just having a walk, he does not ask him what he is looking for but IF he might be looking for something. In other words, the man wanted to express some modality, which necessitated the use of the modal form [the imperfect].^[4]

She calls this a “very intriguing” combination of tenses and translates the two phrases, respectively, as, “what would you be seeking?” and “I am seeking my brothers” (emphasis added). It seems more likely to me, however—reading like a writer—that this difference between verbal forms is better explained as a device used by the writer to indicate that the two characters had different manners of speech. That is indeed something that writers do, as is attested in Mark Twain’s explanatory note to Huckleberry Finn:

In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary “Pike County” dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.

I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.^[5]

In the Joseph story, the issue does not seem to be one of different dialects, though we are handicapped by not knowing nearly as much as we would like about how biblical characters are “supposed” to sound. The Hebrew of the northern kingdom of Israel, where we have a certain amount of biblical and inscriptional evidence, is the exception that proves the rule.^[6] Nonetheless, I am convinced that the writer of this story was not implying that “the man” was not sure whether Joseph was looking for something. He was painting another detail into the portrait of these two: perhaps the man’s formality or politeness contrasted with Joseph’s 17-year-old casualness?^[7]

The Deteriorating Treatment of Women in the Book of Judges

20^th-century Russian-American novelist Vladimir Nabokov offers another example of how writers themselves explain what they do. Regarding his novel Bend Sinister, Nabakov writes:

The plot starts to breed in the bright broth of a rain puddle… The oblong pool, shaped like a cell that is about to divide, reappears subthematically throughout the novel, as an ink blot in Chapter Four, an inkstain in Chapter Five, spilled milk in Chapter Eleven, the infusoria-like image of ciliated thought in Chapter Twelve, the footprint of a phosphorescent islander in Chapter Eighteen, and the imprint a soul leaves in the intimate texture of space in the closing paragraph.^[8]

Bend Sinister is not, in any sense, “about” this rain puddle; it is, as Nabokov writes, “subthematic.” I think of it as a sort of watermark left by the author.^[9]

To show how this kind of thinking can help us understand specific elements in the text of the Bible, I turn to Barak’s refusal to lead the Israelites in battle against the Canaanites unless Deborah, the prophet who was then leading Israel, will join him:

^{שופטים ד:ח} וַיֹּאמֶר אֵלֶיהָ בָּרָק אִם תֵּלְכִי עִמִּי וְהָלָכְתִּי וְאִם לֹא תֵלְכִי עִמִּי לֹא אֵלֵךְ.

^{Jud 4:8} Barak said to her, “If you go with me, I will go; if you do not go with me, I will not go.”^[10]

In a recent commentary, biblical scholar Jack Sasson (Professor Emeritus, Vanderbilt University) explains Barak’s declaration by saying:

[W]ithout Deborah, he would not know when to launch the war.… Baraq, therefore, is not being cowardly or skeptical of God’s promise.^[11]

And indeed, Deborah eventually tells him: זֶה הַיּוֹם, “This is the day!” (v. 14)

Scholars have long observed that Judges has been organized to show Israel deteriorating to a state where אֵין מֶלֶךְ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל אִישׁ הַיָּשָׁר בְּעֵינָיו יַעֲשֶׂה, “there was no king in Israel, [so] everyone could do whatever he thought was right” (Jud 21:25; cf. 17:6). One way that deterioration is shown is by a “rain puddle” that metamorphoses: the treatment of women.^[12]

I would call this thematic rather than subthematic, yet (like the puddle) it does not call attention to itself. Deborah is presented as Israel’s leader (in Judg 4:4) without explanation of how it happened, without the slightest suggestion that a woman’s leadership was unusual. Then, with every “judge” from Deborah on, the treatment of women deteriorates.

Once we become aware of that theme, the relationship between Barak and his commander-in-chief, Deborah, can be viewed as the high point from which the situation descends to the chaotic mass seizure of women in the aftermath of the story of the concubine at Gibeah (in Judg 21). That (to me) is the more important reason why Barak will not go unless Deborah comes with him.

We See Hannah’s Distress, but Eli Does Not

When Hannah, the eventual mother of Samuel, is unable to conceive a child with her husband Elkanah, she goes to the temple at Shiloh to pray:^[13]

^{שמואל א א:י} וְהִיא מָרַת נָפֶשׁ וַתִּתְפַּלֵּל עַל יְ־הֹוָה וּבָכֹה תִבְכֶּה.

^{1 Sam 1:10} In her wretchedness, she prayed to YHWH, weeping all the while.

The priest Eli mistakes her behavior as drunkenness and rebukes her (v. 14), but Hannah responds:

^{שמואל א א:טז} אַל תִּתֵּן אֶת אֲמָתְךָ לִפְנֵי בַּת בְּלִיָּעַל כִּי מֵרֹב שִׂיחִי וְכַעְסִי דִּבַּרְתִּי עַד הֵנָּה.

^{1 Sam 1:16} “Do not take your maidservant for a worthless woman; I have only been speaking to this extent out of sikhi ve-kaʿasi.”^[14]

Individually, the words שִׂיחִי וְכַעְסִי (sikhi ve-kaʿasi) are no more of a challenge to translate than any others. NJPS renders them, respectively, as “my anguish” and “my distress.”

These paired words, however, are better understood as a hendiadys—two words, joined by a conjunction, that together express a single, complex idea—“my distressed prayer.”^[15] As someone who is always thinking about how I might translate a particular Hebrew phrase, I was delighted when I realized that the English word “disquiet” combines both meanings of the two individual Hebrew words into a single term: “I have only gone on this long because of my disquiet.”

Unfortunately, thinking like a writer tells me not to use that translation. Why? The author deliberately used a hendiadys here, rather than choosing a single word, to make readers realize that we know something Eli does not. Eli saw only Hannah’s שׂיח, “anguish,” while we readers saw the כעס, “distress,” as well, in an earlier description of how Elkanah’s other wife Peninnah, mistreated Hannah:

^{שמואל א א:ו} וְכִעֲסַתָּה צָרָתָהּ גַּם כַּעַס בַּעֲבוּר הַרְּעִמָהּ כִּי סָגַר יְ־הֹוָה בְּעַד רַחְמָהּ.

^{1 Sam 1:6} Her rival wife would distress her distressingly, to enrage her, for YHWH had closed up her womb.

Eli’s being “in the dark” about things is an important theme here. The next chapters will reveal that he does not know that his own children are corrupt (ch. 2) and that he is literally losing his sight (ch. 3).

The two words of Hannah’s explanation of what pushed her to such intense prayer, שִׂיחִי וְכַעְסִי (sikhi ve-kaʿasi), clue us in to the writer’s intention that Eli is losing his sight religiously too. The fact that the chief priest of the temple of YHWH at Shiloh could not recognize that a woman was praying is presented to us with the added realization that we readers understand much more than he does.

The verse thus provides an example of how reading the Bible like a specific kind of writer—a translator—can also help us understand the Bible better.

Eli Grants a Wish; Hannah Receives a Prophecy

As the scene at the temple continues, Eli accepts Hannah’s claim that she is not drunk, and he responds:

^{שמואל א א:יז} וַיַּעַן עֵלִי וַיֹּאמֶר לְכִי לְשָׁלוֹם וֵאלֹהֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל יִתֵּן אֶת שֵׁלָתֵךְ אֲשֶׁר שָׁאַלְתְּ מֵעִמּוֹ.

^{1 Sam 1:17} “Then go in peace,” said Eli, “and the God of Israel yitten you the request you have requested of Him.”

The crucial verb in Eli’s speech is יִתֵּן (yitten), from the verb נתן, “to give.” The form yitten may be parsed in two different ways that foster two different interpretations. If the verb is a jussive, as it is normally translated, then Eli is expressing a wish or prayer: “may He [God] grant.” If the verb is an indicative, then Eli is speaking a prophecy: “He will grant.”^[16]

If the author had followed the typical word order for Biblical Hebrew narrative, with the verb preceding the subject, then the form of the verb נתן in the jussive would be וְיִתֵּן (ve-yitten; “may he grant”), but in the indicative it would be וְנָתַן (ve-natan; “he will grant”). In other words, Eli’s speech can only be ambiguous because the author inverted the normal word order, presenting the subject of נתן first. Thinking like a writer, I understand that this word order is meant to permit יִתֵּן to have both meanings.

Our author wanted Eli to say “may God grant,” as one normally would, and as clueless Eli would have to. But he wanted Hannah to hear “God will grant your request”—which she indeed does, because it is the chief priest at Shiloh (1 Sam 3) who has promised her that God will give her a child.

If we interviewed Eli, he would tell us: “I said no such thing. I wished her good luck.” But we know she understands him to have made a promise because we have been told earlier, quite explicitly, that in her distress, she had refused to eat and drink (vv. 7–8), but immediately after hearing Eli’s “wish,” she eats (v. 18). By putting the subject ahead of the verb, our author enabled Eli to say one thing and Hannah to hear something different.

The Literary Crescendo of the Flood Waters

The rise and fall of the waters in the flood story (Gen 6–9) shows us what things looked like from two different perspectives: down on the ground (if that is the appropriate word), and from a cosmic perspective, making clear that this is not just a lot of water but wiping the slate clean to make way for Earth 2.0.^[17] Readers who notice nothing more have all the information they need to understand the story. But an artistic perspective enriches our reading of the story in large and small ways.

The description of the flood is most easily compared to music. It does not take a genius to call the rise of the waters a crescendo. But it does take artistry to depict that crescendo in words:

^{בראשׁית ז:יז}וַיְהִי הַמַּבּוּל אַרְבָּעִים יוֹם עַל הָאָרֶץ וַיִּרְבּוּ הַמַּיִם וַיִּשְׂאוּ אֶת הַתֵּבָה וַתָּרׇם מֵעַל הָאָרֶץ. ^ז:יחוַיִּגְבְּרוּ הַמַּיִם וַיִּרְבּוּ מְאֹד עַל הָאָרֶץ וַתֵּלֶךְ הַתֵּבָה עַל פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם. ^ז:יטוְהַמַּיִם גָּבְרוּ מְאֹד מְאֹד עַל הָאָרֶץ וַיְכֻסּוּ כׇּל הֶהָרִים הַגְּבֹהִים אֲשֶׁר תַּחַת כׇּל הַשָּׁמָיִם. ^ז:כחֲמֵשׁ עֶשְׂרֵה אַמָּה מִלְמַעְלָה גָּבְרוּ הַמָּיִם וַיְכֻסּוּ הֶהָרִים.

^{Gen 7:17} The Flood continued forty days on the earth, and the waters increased and raised the ark so that it rose above the earth. ^7:18 The waters swelled and increased greatly upon the earth, and the ark drifted upon the waters. ^7:19 When the waters had swelled much more upon the earth, all the highest mountains everywhere under the sky were covered. ^7:20 Fifteen cubits higher did the waters swell, as the mountains were covered.

That crescendo of water is matched by a crescendo of death:

^{בראשׁית ז:כא}וַיִּגְוַע כׇּל בָּשָׂר הָרֹמֵשׂ עַל הָאָרֶץ בָּעוֹף וּבַבְּהֵמָה וּבַחַיָּה וּבְכׇל הַשֶּׁרֶץ הַשֹּׁרֵץ עַל הָאָרֶץ וְכֹל הָאָדָם. ^ז:כבכֹּל אֲשֶׁר נִשְׁמַת רוּחַ חַיִּים בְּאַפָּיו מִכֹּל אֲשֶׁר בֶּחָרָבָה מֵתוּ. ^ז:כגוַיִּמַח אֶת כׇּל הַיְקוּם אֲשֶׁר עַל פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה מֵאָדָם עַד בְּהֵמָה עַד רֶמֶשׂ וְעַד עוֹף הַשָּׁמַיִם וַיִּמָּחוּ מִן הָאָרֶץ וַיִּשָּׁאֶר אַךְ נֹחַ וַאֲשֶׁר אִתּוֹ בַּתֵּבָה.

^{Gen 7:21} And all flesh that stirred on earth breathed their last—birds, cattle, beasts, and all the things that swarmed upon the earth, and all mankind ^7:22 All in whose nostrils was the merest breath of life, all that was on dry land, died. ^7:23 All existence on earth was blotted out—man, cattle, creeping things, and birds of the sky; they were blotted out from the earth. Only Noah was left, and those with him in the ark.

The pair of verbs גוע (v. 21) and מות (v. 22), express the idea that first everything living “breathed their last,” and then they “died.” Wiping out all existence is, of course, the peak of the crescendo.

The crescendo of the waters is followed, naturally, by a decrescendo as the waters slowly subside (8:1–14). Ronald Hendel writes:

The repetition of verbs for “diminish,” “subside,” “dried,” and “dry” forms a counterpart for verbs to “grow strong,” “multiply,” “cover,” and “die” during the waters’ rise.^[18]

We can see the earth dry in just two verses:

^{בראשׁית ח:יג}וַיְהִי בְּאַחַת וְשֵׁשׁ מֵאוֹת שָׁנָה בָּרִאשׁוֹן בְּאֶחָד לַחֹדֶשׁ חָרְבוּ הַמַּיִם מֵעַל הָאָרֶץ וַיָּסַר נֹחַ אֶת מִכְסֵה הַתֵּבָה וַיַּרְא וְהִנֵּה חָרְבוּ פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה. ^ח:ידוּבַחֹדֶשׁ הַשֵּׁנִי בְּשִׁבְעָה וְעֶשְׂרִים יוֹם לַחֹדֶשׁ יָבְשָׁה הָאָרֶץ.

^{Gen 8:13} In the six hundred and first year, in the first month, on the first of the month, the waters began to dry from the earth; and when Noah removed the covering of the ark, he saw that the surface of the ground was drying. ^8:14 And in the second month, on the twenty-seventh day of the month, the earth was dry.

All of that is what anyone paying attention to the language of the text might see. If we are reading not for plot but to see what the writer is trying to accomplish, however, I also want an explanation for why the dove “came” (בוא) to Noah rather than returning (שׁוב) to him (8:11).

Diminishing Returns—the Water, the Raven, and the Dove

Five times in the account of the end of the flood (ch. 8) we find the verb שׁוב, “to return.”^[19] The verb occurs twice as the waters begin to recede, and the second instance is multiplied by the combination with הלוך, the infinitive absolute of הלך, “to go,” which makes the return ongoing.^[20]

^{בְּרֵאשִׁית ח:ג}וַיָּשֻׁבוּ הַמַּיִם מֵעַל הָאָרֶץ הָלוֹךְ וָשׁוֹב וַיַּחְסְרוּ הַמַּיִם מִקְצֵה חֲמִשִּׁים וּמְאַת יוֹם.

^{Gen 8:3} The waters returned from upon the earth, continually advancing and returning, and the waters diminished at the end of a hundred and fifty days.^[21]

The next time שׁוב occurs, it appears just once, when Noah sends out a raven to determine whether dry land has yet appeared on the earth. It is combined, however, with the infinitive absolute of יצא, which (absurdly) makes the bird’s departure ongoing, a pretext to have שׁוב cycling through the verse (as it did above, in verse 3).

^{בְּרֵאשִׁית ח:ז}וַיְשַׁלַּח אֶת הָעֹרֵב וַיֵּצֵא יָצוֹא וָשׁוֹב עַד יְבֹשֶׁת הַמַּיִם מֵעַל הָאָרֶץ.

^{Gen 8:7} [He] sent out a raven; it went off, going off and returning, until the waters were dried up from upon the earth.

The verb then appears just once when Noah sends a dove to seek dry land:

^{בְּרֵאשִׁית ח:ט}וְלֹא מָצְאָה הַיּוֹנָה מָנוֹחַ לְכַף רַגְלָהּ וַתָּשׇׁב אֵלָיו אֶל הַתֵּבָה כִּי מַיִם עַל פְּנֵי כׇל הָאָרֶץ וַיִּשְׁלַח יָדוֹ וַיִּקָּחֶהָ וַיָּבֵא אֹתָהּ אֵלָיו אֶל הַתֵּבָה.

^{Gen 8:9} But the dove found no resting-place for the sole of her foot, so she returned to him into the Ark, for there was water upon the face of all the earth. He sent forth his hand and took her, and brought her to him into the Ark.

When he sends the dove out again a week later, however, she does not return (שׁוב) to the ark, she “comes” (בוא) to it:

^{בְּרֵאשִׁית ח:יא}וַתָּבֹא אֵלָיו הַיּוֹנָה לְעֵת עֶרֶב וְהִנֵּה עֲלֵה זַיִת טָרָף בְּפִיהָ וַיֵּדַע נֹחַ כִּי קַלּוּ הַמַּיִם מֵעַל הָאָרֶץ.

^{Gen 8:11} The dove came back to him at eventime, and here—a freshly plucked olive leaf in her beak! So Noah knew that the waters had subsided from upon the earth.

Finally, when the dove finds dry land, she returns no more:

^{בְּרֵאשִׁית ח:יב}וַיִּיָּחֶל עוֹד שִׁבְעַת יָמִים אֲחֵרִים וַיְשַׁלַּח אֶת הַיּוֹנָה וְלֹא יָסְפָה שׁוּב אֵלָיו עוֹד.

^{Gen 8:12} Then he waited yet another seven days and sent out the dove, but she returned to him again no more.

Why does the dove come back the second time (v. 11), rather than returning as it did the first time (v. 9)? Some scholars find an explanation in the fact that the Bible likes variation,^[22] but that doesn’t explain anything, especially because the Bible also likes repetition. I think the crescendo and decrescendo of the waters provides a literary explanation for the missing שׁוב. What we are looking at is a case of diminishing returns (pun intended). “Returning” (שׁוב) vanishes along with the water.

To represent this sequence arithmetically:

v. 3 — שׁוב squared
v. 7 — multiple שׁוב
v. 9 — one שׁוב
v. 11 — zero שׁוב
v. 12 — negative שׁוב

The verb recedes along with the water. That is a very literary—I would even say writerly—way to tell a story.

The Biblical Authors Cared about Esthetics

It may be obvious from that last example, if it has not been obvious all along, that reading the Bible like a writer is not the kind of methodology that would have provided me with an answer to the question, “What is my methodology?” Indeed, it is not (really) even a method, not meant to replace any of the productive methodologies that scholars currently use. Rather, it is a natural extension of the basic thing that we all do: reading the Bible, writing about what we have read to clarify our own views to ourselves, and thinking about what we are reading and writing.

The biblical writers can no longer speak for themselves. Some scholars deny that any of the biblical writers intended to create what we call today literature.^[23] My perspective asserts that some of them indeed did. The “diminishing returns” of שׁוב in the flood story can hardly be anything but an esthetic choice.

We can speculate about why an ancient writer would make that kind of choice. Our responsibility as scholars is to convey as much as we can of what the ancient writers were trying to say—including the esthetic choices they made, even if most readers would never notice them.