As so often before, the concluding chapters of Judges puzzled me. Chapters 13 – 16 recount the Samson cycle; chapters 17 – 18 describe the migration of the tribe of Dan; and chapters 19 – 21 culminate in the grim story of the concubine of Gibeah and the ensuing civil war within Israel. But what did they wish to convey?
Before long, I wondered whether to contact Theophil to obtain his counsel. In the past, his manner – measured, observant, and sparing in speech – reflected discipline rather than detachment. I concluded that he would – once again – be a strong counterparty.
As I raised my eyes from the Koren bible, Theophil revealed his presence. Looking at me thoughtfully, he let his concern show.
“Peter’le,” he started, “you want to embark on a discussion of the closing chapters of Judges. But, to proceed, you have to come up with some surmises related to the composition of the book as a whole. If you refrain, you may build a house without a foundation. That won’t do.”
“Right you are,” I affirmed. “Back in secondary school the ethos was that the Hebrew Old Testament – better known as the Masoretic Text (‘MT’) – is sacred, constitutes an accurate historical record and should not be questioned.”
“But you rebelled against this doctrine even in those days,” he grinned. “So why do you want to depart from it now? Do you want to get embroiled in an ensuing debate carried on by scholars working in a field which you pursue as an outsider or amateur?”
“I have reflected on this, Maestro. But then, the Bible was meant to address ordinary people. So why keep out?”
Theophil tilted his head slightly, studying me with that familiar blend of patience and scrutiny. I knew that mankind – especially as Judaism developed and Christianity appeared – dubbed him Satan and regarded him the epitome of evil. To me, though, he had been kind and helpful: a reliable friend and a detached observer.
“And what direction would you take this time, Peter’le?” he asked quietly.
“I am considering,” I began, choosing my words with care, “whether to voice certain doubts – not about faith as such, but about the historical underpinnings of some of the narratives. In particular, the account of the Exodus.”
A faint smile crossed his face. “Ah. You are venturing into contested terrain.”
“Indeed,” I replied. “For many, the Exodus is not merely a story – it is the foundational narrative of liberation. But when one turns to archaeology and historical records, the evidence for a mass departure of slaves from Egypt – on the scale described – is, at best, elusive.”
Theophil did not interrupt. He simply motioned for me to continue.
“There are no clear Egyptian records,” I went on, “of such a large group of slaves escaping. Nor is there decisive archaeological evidence of a prolonged desert wandering by a substantial population. One would expect traces. Their absence is striking.”
“And this troubles you?” he asked.
“It does,” I admitted. “Not because I wish to dismantle belief, but because I struggle with the tension between the narrative as received and the findings of modern inquiry. If the historical basis is uncertain, what then are we to make of the story? And why and when did the story take shape?”
“It would seem unlikely, Peter’le, that a story of such magnitude arose without context. Some scholars suggest that it may have been formulated or substantially developed during the late monarchic period or even during the Babylonian exile, when questions of identity, loss, and restoration pressed themselves upon the people with particular urgency.”
Seeing me nod, he continued: “In such circumstances, a narrative of deliverance from bondage – culminating in covenant and land – would not merely recount a past; it would interpret a present and project a hope.”
“Basically, this answers the question,” I agreed. “Indeed, prophets such as Amos, Hosea, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel allude to the Exodus myth without elaboration, as though invoking a tradition already familiar to their audience. However, the detailed formulation of the episode is, as you say, post exilic.”
“But tell me, Peter’le, are you seeking to disprove the Exodus, or to understand its meaning?”
“I would say the latter,” I replied. “Yet I cannot ignore the former. If we present these texts as history, should they not withstand historical scrutiny?”
He nodded slowly.
“Let us assume,” he said, “that the archaeological record does not support a literal reading of a vast multitude leaving Egypt. Does it follow that the narrative is without value – or even without truth?”
“That depends, on what we mean by ‘truth,’ Maestro.”
“Precisely,” he responded. “Ancient texts often convey truths that cannot be reduced to empirical verification. The Exodus may reflect a smaller historical memory later shaped, expanded, and given theological significance.”
“So, you suggest,” I said, “that the narrative is not fabricated, but… transformed?”
“Refined,” he corrected gently. “Interpreted. Elevated. The question is not only ‘Did it happen exactly as written?’ but also ‘Why was it told this way?’ and ‘What did it come to mean?’”
“But” I replied after a pause, “if we acknowledge such transformation, don’t we risk undermining the authority of the text?”
“On the contrary, Peter’le we may begin to appreciate its depth. A text that survives generations often does so not because it records events with journalistic precision, but because it speaks to enduring human realities – bondage, liberation, identity, covenant.”
“Consider this,” he continued: “must faith rest solely on verifiable events? Or can it also draw strength from narratives that shape a people’s understanding of themselves and their place in the world?”
“You are asking me,” I said slowly, “to accept that meaning may outweigh historical certainty. This is the essence of Ahad Ha’Am’s article on Moses, which we have discussed on a previous occasion.”
“Quite so. And I am asking you,” he replied, “not to confuse the two. They intersect – but they are not identical.”
“Then perhaps,” I said after a pause, “my role is not to dismiss the Exodus because of the lack of evidence, but to question how it should be read – and what kind of truth it conveys.”
“That,” concluded Theophil and reclined his head, “would be a discussion worth having.”
“Which suggests, Maestro, that if we discard the Exodus as a historical or factual truth, we must come up with premises explaining the appearance of the Israelites as a cultural entity in the Levant: an entity bound by national perception and by faith.”
“We do,” he agreed.” “Based on linguistic and cultural evidence, many modern scholars aver that Israel likely developed within the region of Canaan. This perspective positions Israel not as an external import, but as an internal evolution within the Levant.”
“Let us then proceed on the basis of taking this as our starting point,” I replied readily. “Archaeology shows that small settlements began to form themselves in the hill country during the Late Bronze Age (c. 1550–1200 BCE).”
“Quite so,” nodded Theophil. “This period saw the rise of small hill-country communities that may have formed the early basis of Israelite society.”
“Is there any supporting evidence?” I wanted to know.
“There is! The Merneptah Stele is an Egyptian victory inscription dated to around 1208 BCE, that is, just before the Iron Age. It records a campaign in Canaan of Pharaoh Merneptah and contains the earliest known reference to “Israel” outside the Bible. Significantly, Israel is described not as a state or city but as a group, indicating a population rather than an organized kingdom.”
“Then tell me, Maestro,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “if these groups were not yet bound by a king or centralized authority – what, in fact, united them?”
Theophil regarded me for a moment, as if weighing how far to simplify a complex matter.
“It may be tempting,” he began, “to assume that unity requires structure – institutions, leadership, codified law. But in early societies, cohesion often rested on something less formal, yet no less potent.”
“You mean kinship?” I asked.
“In part,” he nodded. “Shared ancestry – whether real, constructed, or remembered – can provide a powerful sense of belonging. But it rarely suffices on its own.”
“Then what else?”
“A convergence of interests,” he replied. “Groups that occupy similar terrain, face comparable threats, and pursue overlapping aims will find it expedient to cooperate. They come to each other’s aid when it suits them; and such decisions are often taken on a case-by-case basis.”
“That sounds… fragile,” I observed. “More like an alliance of convenience than a people.”
“Indeed,” he said calmly. “And yet, over time, repeated cooperation can harden into expectation. What begins as expediency may evolve into custom; what is customary may, in turn, acquire moral weight.”
“So, you are suggesting,” I said slowly, “that identity can emerge from practice – from doing things together – rather than from an initial shared conviction?”
“Precisely. Identity is often the consequence, not the cause, of collective action.”
“Please sum up, Maestro,” I ventured.
“If the Exodus did not happen historically in the form described in the Bible, it was probably not a pure invention. Rather, it is best understood as a later national and theological synthesis of older memories and traditions. These may have included small-scale migrations, experiences of Egyptian contact, or memories preserved by groups within early Israel. Over time – especially during the monarchic period and then more fully in the exilic and post-exilic periods – these traditions were shaped, expanded, and woven together into a single, powerful origin story.”
“And the object?” I asked.
“The purpose of this story was to define Israel as a people rescued by their God. In short: the Exodus narrative is best seen as a theologically shaped memory of origins.”
“But would that be enough,” I pressed, “to sustain a sense of unity beyond immediate necessity? Cooperation in times of danger is one thing – but what binds people in times of relative peace?”
Theophil’s expression softened. “Here we must emphasise a specific element: Narrative.”
“Narrative?” I asked stupefied.
“Yes. Stories – about origins, about shared experiences, about divine encounters – can bind disparate groups into a perceived whole. Such stories provide a framework within which individuals understand themselves as part of something larger.”
“Then,” I said, “are you implying that the very texts we have been discussing – these traditions – may have played a role in forging that unity?”
He inclined his head slightly.
“And yet,” I said after a pause, “if these narratives emerged gradually, alongside the people themselves, we are faced with a circular process: the people shape the story, and the story shapes the people.”
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
“History is rarely linear, Peter’le. It is more often a weaving – threads crossing and recrossing, until a pattern becomes visible.”
“I take your point, Maestro. But now we have to turn to a thorny problem. How did the Israelites become monotheistic or, in other words, how did they come to worship Jehova [Yahwe] as the only God.”
“It is a delicate problem, Peter’le. You don’t want to offend your people; and I have no wish to criticise His standing. Well, what is your problem, my friend?”
“I find myself moving between two modes: participation, in which the tradition is lived, and analysis, in which it is questioned. The tension between them is real—but perhaps unavoidable.”
“But you do manage to alternate between them, Peter’le. So, in reality, the process does not present a problem.”
“With this in mind, Maestro, let us have a look of how Jehova became the Israelite’s sole God. Please tell me what scholars say.”
“Modern scholarship,” Theophil told me, “understands early Israelite religion as evolving rather than originating as strict monotheism. The earliest communities in Canaan likely shared many cultural and religious features with their neighbours, including a broader pantheon. Within this setting, the worship Jehova appears to have emerged as the dominant – though as yet not exclusive – focus of devotion (a stage often described as monolatry or henotheism). Under the influence of prophetic traditions and in response to political crises such as the Babylonian exile, this developed into a more explicit and exclusive monotheism, in which Jehova was affirmed as the only God.”
“It makes sense,” I added. “The Song of Deborah [Jud. 5] commences by telling us that God came from Edom or Seir. We find a similar statement in Moses’ blessing [Deut. 33:2] and in Habakkuk [2:3]. Unlike Akhnaton’s sun God, Jehova was, initially, a storm God.”
“Quite a lucid observation, Peter’le. And note that other nations had their own superior God, who gave them their own land.”
After pausing for a moment, he added: “Narratives of the type referred to above likely contributed not only to the formation of Israel as a people but also to the development of a religion.”
“Quite so, Maestro. And when the redactors of the MT edited the available texts, they revised them to ensure that they suited the theological framework put forward by them. So, in the ultimate, we can conclude that Jewish monotheism – like its national identity – developed gradually and reached its final form either during or shortly after the Babylonian exile.”
“So far, Peter’le, we have focused on the development of Israelite – later Jewish – identity and religion. Shall we now turn to the next issue?”