Rhetorical Structures and Cultural Themes

In the preceding chapters I took advantage of particular kinds of kinship and place reports to show formal relationships between narrative, historical construction, and kinship organization. The analysis relied upon a notion of “structure” which was only partly dependent on the text of Genesis. That is, I did not always tap the narrative system of Genesis in forming my broader arguments. Now I want to ask the questions: Does Genesis reflect an overall rhetorical structure? And if so, what is its form and what rules apply to the interpretation of narrative parts in the system? I contend that the answer to the first question is yes, and offer the redactional arguments of my first chapter as part of the evidence. But my more radical thesis is that the formal structure of Genesis is more well-ordered than most form critics would admit, and that it has been appreciated in part by various readers through the ages. Had such a structure not existed sufficiently to be seen, then Genesis would not have maintained its position in the Torah or maintained its power for non-Jewish readers. Hence, this chapter stresses my particular reading of the overall structure of Genesis, and the identification of rhetorical rules which seem to have inspired the narrative order we encounter.

I should now point out that an “ideal” structure for Genesis is consistent with the results of documentary theory, but that we are confronted with other signs of its presence every time we read and cite the text. The medieval divisions of the text, Christian and Jewish, mark the common sense of narrative organization in the book, providing us with a head start toward formal tracing of a broad systematic organization. As we have already observed, our “more-perfect” literary judgment might put us at variance with the details of Stephen Langton’s view of the text, but we would also be hard pressed to radically revise his scheme. As we shall see, Langton’s divisions make sense and are consistent with the marks of rabbinic reading when organized into an ideal pattern. My structural reading of Genesis is “new” only in that it assumes medieval readers saw something pertinent to an overall system and that it attempts to outline some of what they saw.

Once given a general structure, my interpretive direction is quite different from that of most criticism. I have tried to go beyond the task of outlining, or the historically interesting scrutiny of Stephen Langton’s mind, to link an ideal structure to the social and political conceptions already developed in earlier analyses. In this aspect of my reading, then, I remain convinced that Genesis is a very political book—a unified genealogy supported by carefully selected narrative. Since my stress stays with political themes, it remains for me to introduce some orienting points of methodology for cultural analysis, specifically Morris Opler’s “theory of themes.”

Several anthropologists have constructed theories of culture based in linguistic analogies. The structuralist circles inspired by the work of Claude Lévi-Strauss are notable mainly for a quasi-linguistic method. In his approach to myth analysis, Lévi-Strauss argues that only linguistics has developed a scientific method for analysis of cultural performance, and that the method should be extended to discourse to achieve similar precision in the study of cultural meanings. This form of structural analysis, however, has been soundly critiqued for its lack of operational connection between structure and meaning. The analyst, it seems, is left too free to give conjectures the aura of scientific precision. The late work of Clyde Kluckholn developed a similar formal linguistic metaphor, like Lévi-Strauss’s work inspired by the mathematical orientation to phonology of the Prague linguistic circle.³ Kluckholn, together with Ruth Benedict and Morris Opler, is generally associated with the analytic orientation in anthropology called “configurationalism.” This approach asserts that each society possesses a limited set of popularly shared orientations which are stated informally through behavior, or formally in anthropological descriptions as an array of premises, postulates, or, to use Opler’s term, “themes.” Though similar to structuralism in many ways, the configurationalist circle expresses a much stronger sense that cultural description bridges scientific explanation with humanistic understanding.

I draw from Opler’s conception of “themes” because he recognizes, more than any of the others, the distinction between elucidation of structure and interpretation of meanings.⁴ Structural elucidation in language studies is performed to show how meanings are produced rather than what meanings are possible. Linguists stress that the interpretation of meaning from structure rests almost entirely with the individual speaker/hearer. This essential semiotic point undermines the claims of some anthropologists that meaning can be derived directly from structure. In my view of themal analysis, one begins with structural study to determine how to read features of behavior, physical organization, or narrative, and then one proceeds to interpretations from other cultural backgrounds using structure to contain or guide the kinds of logical associations generating meanings. As applied to Genesis, I seek first to describe the rules of composition, then to read against each other the passages that are brought into systemic juxtaposition. In such analysis, meaning is derived from structure only in the sense that the broad pattern of the narrative suggests themal domains which deserve attention. I may share orientation with other readers from different times, places, and cultures, but any justification of how my meanings fit with theirs is a separate issue from the basic literary analysis.

My method may create uneasiness among many readers, since it joins the tasks of delimiting structural principles and circumscribing expressive domains appropriate to meanings. For this reason, I apply the term “reading” rather than “interpretation” to the result of the work. The idea of “reading” reminds us that no matter what elements of structure we formally recognize, even if they are blatantly intentional, they operate on a subconscious level in everyday encounters with the text. Normally, then, meanings of a scripture on successive readings can be different because of selections of scriptural context, the durations of each reading event, the nature of surrounding activities, or the effects of meanings derived from prior readings. And so the text is always the same, and never the same.⁵ But the method, far from dropping us into an abyss of uncertainty, invites us to consider the means we possess to formally trace the elements of our textual experience.

If we can trace the experience, then we have better hope of controlling it. We tend to be conditioned to think in linear ways, for example, moving from point to point and expecting cues of causality, connectedness in time, or explicit centrality of purpose. Other cultures often have quite different conceptions of how to structure an effective argument. Among many Native American groups, an argument designed to convince may not include any direct reference to the subject or specific logical connectors between points. The structure of such argument is said to be like a wheel with spokes—each spoke consists of an argument pertinent to the whole, the “hub” or central point remaining unstated, a matter for the hearer to fill into the formula. Similarly, arguments intended to persuade often include disclaimers of expertise as a means of authenticating individual authority. There are examples of similar practices in biblical literature, such as the introduction to the speeches of Elihu in Job 32:6–22. Such devices work because they are an expected part of the system of argumentation, understood tacitly by all the participants in the communicative setting.

Other signs of different rhetorical or literary practices in biblical literature include the apparent composition of legal proverbs, such as occur in Deuteronomy, under the inspiration of readings of Genesis narratives or other biblical writings.⁶ The resulting “laws” then replicate the interests of the narratives and hence jump from topic to topic without a clear topical order. We also encounter various “inversion” principles in the composition of prose and poetic material at several levels of narrative organization, the inversion patterns being cued by sound, word repetitions, reversal of phrasing or topic order, and even occasionally by nonfunctional “marker verses” or abrupt shifts in linguistic form. When a text includes such nonlinear cues, the “whole” organizational sense becomes very much more important to our understanding than the immediate linear order of units.⁷ Thus, when we formally approach Genesis, our “analysis” and “reading” are often fundamentally one activity.⁸ I must clearly concur in the view that the experience of reading the text should be a natural and active process—an activity in which the logical structure is not consciously overemphasized. On the other hand, it is nonsensical to say that any “analysis” of the text is destined to produce false meanings. An awareness of conventions of narrative structure is simply more likely to produce links between “scriptural events” which were intended logically to go together. The analytical process, then, is one of demystification, recognizing that mystical experience is the cultural realization of profound meanings without awareness of their conventional sources. Through a heavy application of common sense, in the end, we can turn mystery into a formal grasp of what was once perhaps quite obvious.

Structural Patterns in Genesis 1–14

We have observed already the ways genealogical material in Genesis is structured to create a life-cycle “punctuation” for the text, and how the substance of narrative contributes to the formation of ideal characterizations of social organization. On a larger scale, some of the same pattern-forming devices create parallels among story sections, contribute to theological meanings, generate a sense of anticipation and fulfillment, and develop irony. It would be absurd, of course, to argue that any one organizing principle is central to meanings in these scriptures; but it is fair for us to ask what structures account for basic meanings in long scriptural sequences. Should there not be some relatively simple, large-scale patterns running through the text?

Conventional treatment of the structure of Genesis posits four major units. First, the materials from Genesis 1–11 are recognized as quite distinct from the remainder of the book, comprising the “mythic” section as opposed to the supposedly “historical” sections commencing with the travels of Abraham. The second section is the Abraham story, beginning in Genesis 12 and continuing through Genesis 25. Third, the Jacob story includes chapters 25 through 36. Finally, the Joseph story completes the book in chapters 37 through 50. These textual divisions are supported, though imperfectly, by the toledoth formulae—the linguistic pattern usually glossed “these are the generations of’ or “this is the story of”—as well as by kinship reports we observed in detail in the first two chapters of this book.⁹

I want to argue now that these divisions are by no means so crisp as our usual treatment of narrative structure suggests, and that they form part of a larger, more regular narrative rhythm which unites all of Genesis. My discussion is divided into two parts. First, we will consider the structure of Genesis 1–14, a rather unconventional “unit” within the traditional view of the book. Second, we will move to a full treatment of Genesis, based on implications from the analysis of the first 14 chapters. Throughout, I shall use the Langton chapter divisions of Genesis, not because they offer a perfect system, but because they are convenient and commonly understood points of reference. Stephen Langton’s reading of the text, if the chapter divisions he introduced stand as its signs, seems to have tapped into many of the narrative unit breaks pertinent to essential story transformations of Genesis as a unity.

Several form critics have recently presented large-scale narrative structures for sections of Genesis, giving special attention to the literary device known as chiasmus.¹⁰ Chiasmus introduces a series of conditions and events as a linear sequence without necessarily bringing each element to an immediate logical conclusion. The series is formally “concluded” in inverted order. There are several ways to show such relationships graphically. For example, the sequence A, B, C, D . . . D’, C’, B’, A’ may be graphed in these two ways:

The lines show relationships among the nested story units.

The crossing pattern of the second graph is reminiscent of the Greek letter “chi”—hence the term “chiasmus” is applied. Such a graph helps us see the nonlinear connections of units in a long narrative sequence. The units of a story developed on such principles might be spoken of as a constellation. The meaning of any segment in the constellation, then, is more dependent upon the broad structural syntax than upon immediate juxtaposition with other segments in a linear sequence. Ideally, a chiastic reading of a text would seek to account for all of the material in a connected linear sequence. An alternative approach would account for relationships through reference to particular domains of representation, such as the organization of kinship reports presented in Figures 4 and 5. Since other kinds of linguistic structure cross-cut this kind of text construction, I have attempted to build arguments for chiastic organization on as consistent an application of stylistic, themal, or linguistic evidence as possible, offering a weight of evidence for the whole constellation.

When I began this work, there was no immediate textual reason for selecting Genesis 1 through 14 for analysis, although elements of inversion are clearly visible in the Noah story. The Hebrew text includes a major section mark at the end of chapter 11, as well as numerous minor division marks in chapters 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 11, and 12. There are also minor marks separating chapters 13–14 and 14–15, but the terminal mark of Genesis 14 is unexceptional. The next major Hebrew division comes after the Covenant of Circumcision in chapter 17.

Source critical considerations originally directed my attention to the Genesis 1–14 unit. The creation story and the story of Abram’s rescue of Lot are both attributed to the Priestly authors, although they individually represent quite different literary styles. But these stories offer opposing ideas, creation and upheaval, which parallel the themes of destruction and replenishment of the Noah story. Thus, what we encounter in the text—and what Stephen Langton apparently saw—are two groups of stories and genealogies beginning with fundamental events of creation/ replenishment, and ending with events of destruction/upheaval. Using the narrative junctures and topical connections of the pieces as a guide, these blocks became Genesis 1–7 and Genesis 8–14. The outer brackets of the structure punctuate the constellation, forming a pair of “order” to “chaos” oppositions:¹¹

The other elements in the two narrative blocks are brought into chiastic alignment centering on Genesis 4 and 11, the elements occupying the central point of the constellation. This contrasts three narrative segments: (a) the Adam sequence dealing with the creation and life in Eden, (b) the Noah story, (c) the stories of Abram’s travels outside Canaan from his central camp positions at Bethel/Ai and Hebron/Mamre. Precise elements of direct relationship between the two narrative blocks, viewed here as simple chapter oppositions, are graphically outlined in Figure 17. The figure stresses the vertical associations of the two texts, but note that the four punctuating units also operate independently by paralleling chapters 1 and 8, as opposed to 7 and 14. The first narrative block deals with a “macrocosmic” world, the locations within which are not firmly fixed, while the second block more carefully locates the patriarchs in a new, “microcosmic” terrain. The idea of cycles of birth and death, then, is introduced with striking forcefulness as a general principle in creation. The narrative moves from the chthonic existence of Genesis 1:1–2 to the world beyond history destroyed by the watery forces from which it emerged, to a world we can “know” in a very direct sense. The vertical links of the chiastic formula form a bridge between what is intended to be myth and history, showing how the character and situation of humanity is ultimately tied to the forces unleashed by the gods. Let us view these links in more detail.

Figure 17. Chiastic organization of Genesis 19.

Genesis 1 and 14

The story of the creation and the story in which Abram rescues his kinsman Lot possess no stylistic parallels. Indeed, Genesis 14 is one of the most distinctive stories in all of the patriarchal narratives, as we have observed with regard to its place references (see again Table 1). On a themal level, however, the stories can be related to each other. The creation represents an ordered process, and is clearly associated with a notion of good. The disorganization of warfare is not an absolute opposite of creation, as is the absolute destruction of Genesis 7; but the features of armies routed, captives taken, bloodshed, and tension between even those not at war, all serve as a contrast to the images of creation. Genesis 14 also introduces the idea of evil through the appearance of the king of Sodom and his treatment by Abram (Genesis 14:21–24):

Then the king of Sodom said to Abram, “Give me the people, and take the possessions for yourself.” But Abram said to the king of Sodom, “I swear to the Lord, God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth, that I will not take so much as a thread or a sandal strap, or anything that is yours, lest you say, “It is I who made Abram rich.” For me, nothing but what my servants have used up; as for the share of the men who went with me—Aner, Eshkol, and Mamre—let them take their share.

In addition to the mention of creation, we find also an appearance by Melchizedek (a theophoric name, “my king” [i.e., the diety] is sedeq) who blesses Abram in the name of God Most High (El Elyon). We may also note that the order!good and upheaval/evil opposition further implies a subtle interplay of themes in the broader narrative context: with the creation of man a potential “evil” is inserted into the primal world, while amid the chaos of Abram’s world there is potential righteousness. These ideas are strengthened in Abram’s intercession for Lot (Genesis 18), the promise of God after the flood which cites inherent human evil (Genesis 8:21), the curse of men before the flood (Genesis 6:5).

Genesis 2 and 13

The story of the garden in Eden is juxtaposed against the separation of Abram and Lot and the promise of the land to Abram and his descendants. The stories clearly possess parallel themes of “a place being provided” for the selected ones of God, a key element in the continuing territorial interests of Genesis. There are also some specific topical parallels between the two texts. The river in Eden is divided into four principal streams, and the “well watered” plain of Jordan is described as “like the garden of the Lord.” There is also mention of the four directions in the description of the land given to Abram. The streams span the length and breadth of the region, while Abram is told to travel throughout the whole region of Canaan. The creator forms Adam from the dust of the ground, and God tells Abram his seed will be as “the dust of the earth.” The Hebrew constructions in these references are different, but both carry out the association of earth and fertility. God blows the breath of life into Adam’s image of dust, a process alluding to impregnation commonly seen in myths, while the earth is used to cite Abram’s own fertility. There are also oppositions in the treatment of land and people, which continue the contrast of good and evil. The well-watered place is blessed and pure in Genesis 2, but is a place where wicked men live in Genesis 13. Finally, Abram’s separation from Lot implies the “giving” of a woman (see pp. 24–27), while Adam “receives” a woman by literally “giving” part of his body, providing a final emphasis to the fertility interests of the segments.

Genesis 3 and 12

The story of the deception of Pharaoh by Abram and Sarai in Egypt is set against the story of the fall of Adam and Eve. Parallels in these stories include the deception of a superior person (God and Pharaoh; also Adam by Eve and Eve by the Serpent) by a man and woman, the punishment for the deception by banishment, and material “reversals” of the banished pairs before they are sent away.¹² Adam and Eve are “clothed” and placed in poverty, while Abram and Sarai take away the valuable gifts they have received in Egypt. It is important to note the difference between Abram’s attitude in Egypt and his attitude when offered property by the King of Sodom. In this story he gives something which should not be given, namely Sarai as a wife to Pharaoh, and takes away goods which rightfully belonged to the Egyptian. Adam and Eve take something which should not be taken, namely the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and are given “clothes” symbolizing their change of status. The status is one of self-consciousness, something rightfully belonging to God. It is fair to say that the deception theme is most clearly played out in the actions of the serpent toward Eve. The intent of Adam and Eve toward God to hide their nakedness, however, is deception no less explicit than the implied revealing of Sarai’s nakedness to Pharaoh in Genesis 12. The fall story, then, beginning in a garden and ending in desolation, is in clear opposition to the Egyptian venture beginning in famine and ending in wealth. The common interpretation of Genesis 3 as representing the discovery of sexuality is nicely paralleled in the sexual implications of Genesis 12, and the punishments of the cases are related.¹³ The ground is cursed because of Adam, a clear negation of the “fertility” association of the earth obtaining to that point. Pharaoh’s house is cursed with a plague because of Abram and Sarai. The version of the deception of Genesis 20, involving Abraham, Sarah, and Abimelech, suggests a more specific form of curse—all of the women of Abimelech’s house are made barren (Genesis 20:17–18). Genesis 12 is not so specific, but the idea of plague is sufficient to remove the fertile bounty which is the implied reason for Abram’s trip to Egypt (Genesis 12:10). Like the character developments of Abram and Jacob, these stories develop a similar structure toward parallel and opposite images. The narratives thus present logical homologies of great importance to themal oppositions of fertility/barrenness, blessing/curse, poverty/wealth, and deception/justice. They also set the themal tone for the later situation of Israel in an Egypt where the Israelites are not allowed to leave, so richly described in the Deuteronomic oath (Deuteronomy 26:5–10):

My father was a wandering Aramaean. He went down to Egypt to find refuge there, few in numbers; but there he became a nation, great, mighty, and strong. The Egyptians ill-treated us, they gave us no peace and inflicted harsh slavery on us. But we called on Yahweh the God of our fathers. Yahweh heard our voice and saw our misery, our toil and our oppression; and Yahweh brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and outstretched arm, with great terror, and with signs and wonders. He brought us here and gave us this land, a land where milk and honey flow. Here then I bring the first fruits of the produce of the soil that you, Yahweh, have given me.

Adam and Abram

Taken together, Genesis 1–3 and 12–14 posit strong associations between the land promised in Canaan to the descendants of Abram, and the primeval Garden. The promised land is the return of Eden to the righteous. The treatment of territory is given near genealogical form in the narrative. Just as Abram’s blessed line represents the true descendants of Adam, carefully spelled out in the lineages presented within Genesis 1–14, Canaan is the true “descendant” of Eden, a fertile place where bounty exists without toil, God’s presence is felt, and human misery is undone. The death of the mythic world in the flood enables the birth of the historical world in which a new “garden of the Lord” can be placed.

Genesis 4 and 11

The story of Cain and Abel and the genealogy of Cain is opposed to the tower of Babel story and the genealogy of Shem. The genealogy of Cain also appends the brief segment reporting the births of Seth to Adam, and Enosh to Seth. The last part of Genesis 11, as we have already seen, connects the stylistically distinct genealogy of Terah to the priestly list from Shem to Abram, Nahor, and Haran. Thus, each chapter includes two distinct genealogical reports following a story. Substantive parallels are found in the two stories. Cain’s murder of his brother over their different treatment by God brings about a punishment of banishment “from the soil”—Cain is made a “wanderer on earth.” Cain’s offering to God was not noticed either because of his intent during the act of sacrifice, or simply because of an inexplicable act of divine preference.¹⁴ There is little in the story to suggest that Cain was unduly prideful, although the name Abel can be interpreted as “vanity.”¹⁵ But Lamech’s boast brings to the name of Cain a clear association with arrogance (Genesis 4:23–24):

Adah and Zillah, hear my voice;

Lamech’s wives, listen to what I say:

I killed a man for wounding me,

a boy for striking me.

If Cain is avenged sevenfold,

then Lamech seventy-sevenfold.

This parallels the story of Babel, in which arrogance is interrupted by God who scatters the people over the earth and confuses their language. In both cases the subjects of punishment are disrupted from their place, and in both cases they are physically transformed. The mark of Cain is not specified, but it is apparently intended to allow others to recognize him (Genesis 4:15): “The Lord said to him, Therefore, if anyone kills Cain, sevenfold vengeance shall be taken on him.’ And the Lord put a mark on Cain, lest anyone who met him should kill him.” The change of the people of Babel is the disruption of their ability to recognize each other’s speech. Pride and punishment are used as vehicles for differentiating the “unrighteous” in each story. In the genealogical segments, then, the families of Adam through Seth and the descendants of Terah among the Shemites occupy comparable positions. While the basic story development in Genesis 4 and 11 is about severing of human social ties and ties to God, the genealogical segmentation provides the key in each case to seeing the chosen people.

Genesis 5 and 10

Genesis 5 is the genealogy of Adam. It is opposed to the lists of descendants of Shem, Ham, and Japeth in Genesis 10. As previously noted, these genealogies are of different form, and relate to different social purposes in the broader text. From the point of view of chiastic opposition, however, the units are clearly comparable.

Genesis 6 and 9

The opening and closing segments of the Noah story are related by opposition of actions. Genesis 6 commences with the “disgrace” of God’s spirit in human flesh—an eight verse segment that has been the subject of diverse interpretations. The remaining fourteen verses of the chapter depict Noah as a righteous man, a lone obedient servant living among evil men who are cursed by God. Noah is promised a covenant and instructed to build the ark. The two chapter parts of Genesis 6 are neatly mirrored in Genesis 9. First, God blesses Noah and makes his covenant with all future generations. Second, Noah’s son Ham disgraces his father by seeing his nakedness, resulting in the curse of Canaan. The “nakedness” of Noah is indicative of a sexual crime by Ham, a disgrace comparable to the “divine beings” or “sons of God” taking the daughters of men as wives.¹⁶

Genesis 7 and 8

The core of the narrative chiasmus is centered on the flood and bracketed by entry and exit from the ark. The function of Genesis 7 in the overall structure is to achieve a negation of the creation. It should be noted that the creation involves manipulation of the waters, a primal element coexistent with God and darkness: “When God created the heaven and earth—the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and a wind from God sweeping over the water . . .” (Genesis 1:1–2; see also verses 6 and 9).¹⁷ This should be compared to the opening verse of Genesis 8: “God remembered Noah and all the beasts and all the cattle that were with him in the ark, and God caused a wind to blow across the earth, and the waters subsided.” Hence, the apex of the flood in the closing of Genesis 7 sets the stage for a full recreation of the initial conditions of the narrative. The inversion of action from entry into the ark, gradual building of the flood, gradual decline of the waters, and the discovery of new land and exit from the ark, is accomplished by careful source manipulation, as has long been recognized. Chiastic organization within the Noah cycle, then, is relatively uncontroversial.

Adam, Noah, and Abram

The tension created and then dissipated in the Noah story is much more straightforward than many other points in this narrative analysis. But should we expect that this kind of nonlinear literary device would be applied to only select parts of the text? Perhaps from a very dogmatic documentary perspective we might say yes. But in view of the parallels and oppositions outlined above, I think the answer is clearly no. Whether the narrative of Genesis 1 through 14 is built up from unrelated original sources or not, the compilation shows a careful matching of themes and content in what might otherwise be considered unrelated documents. Many of the parallels and oppositions noted in my treatment of Genesis 1–14 have been outlined or detailed by other authors. The problem is to determine the extent to which a particular reading is compelling. Within the limitations of chiastic reading, most of the meanings are suggested by using allied chapters as background for each other. Thus, the idea of “disgrace of Noah,” though clear enough in the Noah story, takes on specific meaning in the context of the stated situation of God’s disgrace in the counter-unit.¹⁸ But the structure provides only the initial clues, and fuller interpretation must be based upon a wider appreciation of the Genesis story and its functions in the Torah. The formality of this kind of reading yields understanding of the nature of God’s promises to the patriarchs in the composition, and a renewed confidence that the transition between Genesis 11 and 12, though important, does not represent a disordered tacking on of myths to a literary or “historical” narrative formed on different principles.

My uses of structure provide clues for examining meanings. In fact, any structural reading should work in this way, whether based in chiastic principles or not. It is clear also that less formal readings allow similar interpretations, but free association approaches to the text do not allow as much possibility for reconstruction of the original bases of textual interpretation. If we want to answer questions about literary purpose, including possible functions of recomposition from written or oral material, then we must develop means to make sense of such features as plot repetition, story segmentation, source conflation, language play, character archetypes, and the wide array of other structure-producing textual elements. Sometimes the features of one system interrupt those of another, changing the whole sense of the narrative. Sometimes it is even impossible to attend to competing systems simultaneously and come away with a feeling of unified reading accomplishment. But we can often find several sets of meaningful features working in complementation and yielding a very rich appreciation of the literary depth of the text.

In this context, let me note that chapter divisions and other quite late additions to Genesis, including Jewish section marks and names, seem more complementary than interruptive to the underlying literary structure of the book. Though chapter divisions are not the only key to analysis, providing as they do mainly some conventional points of textual reference, they are significant corroborations of a tradition of reading. We should not then expect that the chapters will have little to do with the principles of composition. Such an assumption implies that the 19th and 20th century mind has superior understanding of the text. On some technical and historical issues this may be true, but in general our readings of Genesis are filled with cultural difficulties far greater than many of the generations preceding us. It is probably fair to say that the seven-unit chiasmus suggested by the use of Genesis 1 through 14 as a narrative block would have satisfied the aesthetic and numerological interests of the priestly circle most of us associate with the composition. I cannot help but think that Stephan Langton and other medieval readers were not far off in their appraisal of the work of the person or persons who gave Genesis form. No matter that we can recognize some twenty-five independent stories, vignettes, genealogies, poems, and textual fragments in the narrative sequence of Genesis 1–14.

This leaves us at a methodological juncture. Might it not be possible to develop a unified structure for Genesis along similar lines? After all, the fifty chapters of Genesis come close to a seven-times-seven formula. I will not unduly push the idea that the present chapter structure is a perfect algorithm of compositional intention. On the other hand, we have very little to lose by taking advantage of the units as a starting point. This is totally consistent with a search for narrative order, and the approach also provides the practical benefit of not having to control the details of two referential systems. This is precisely why ordinary readers, and many professional students of the Bible too, do not like to read redaction criticism. Much biblical scholarship is like reliving Genesis 11.¹⁹

Toward a Unified Genesis Structure

No one who studies the Bible will question the idea that there are many levels of meaning inherent in Genesis, no matter how reading is achieved. A unified structural analysis of Genesis does not guarantee discovery of satisfying, central, or (for us at least) important meanings. On the other hand, neither does such analysis yield merely superficial cultural details. The validity of a structural reading, although it requires consistency of cultural and theological premises, does not require wide popular acceptance. The value of a reading, indeed, may become a matter of individual preference. But my purpose is to produce a substantively informative view of how Genesis works as a composition, and a view partially retracing my steps toward a model of the text.

We start, then, with the assumption that chapter divisions offer a reasonably sound narratology, that medieval readers had good reason to see the text as they did. It is not surprising that the number seven should be prominent in the scheme, in the middle ages or at the time of composition. The number is manifest in word repetitions, genealogical structure, verse organization, and other kinds of direct references throughout the book.²⁰ For these reasons, let us consider the organization of Genesis as a series of seven-chapter blocks, concluded with a chapter isolated in Genesis 50. The blocks are as follows:

The labeling of the list already suggests narrative symmetries. The central chapters of each block, however, are also worthy of special attention. These chapters would form the crossing points in a series of linked chiastic inversions. For example, as we have seen in Genesis 4 and 11, genealogies differentiate the lines of Seth and the family of Nahor, while narratives contrast evil men with the righteous. Continuing through the list, Genesis 18 and 25 begin the stories about Abraham (the transformed Abram) and recount Abraham’s death and burial together with the death of Ishmael and the births of Esau and Jacob. They thus bracket Abraham’s lifespan. Looking back between Genesis 11 and 18 we find the lifespan of Abram, and looking forward from chapter 25 to chapter 32 we have all of the stories about Jacob before he is renamed Israel. Continuing this line of association, Genesis 39 marks the beginning of Joseph’s experiences in Egypt, thus the chapter marks also the end of narrative about Israel’s family in Canaan. In Genesis 46 Israel arrives in Egypt, terminating the separation of Joseph from his father. It is noteworthy that in the following chapter Joseph’s character enslaves the people of Egypt, suggesting the kind of transformation symbolized for Abram and Jacob in name changes, and the status changes developed in the stories about Cain and Babel. We shall return to this point shortly, but for the moment we can recognize simply that the central units in the proposed organization block out genealogical segments of narrative.

Section marks in the Hebrew Bible fall close to the beginning, middle, and ending points of the seven-chapter blocks. Four kinds of marks appear in the text, not always at chapter junctures and not in any immediately apparent pattern. The minor divisions are noted with a single sāmekh () or pe ( ) character, while the major divisions are marked with character triplets of one of these two letters. The marks seem associated mainly with the sections of the text attributed to the priestly author; clusters of text divisions occur in Genesis 1, 5, 11, 35, 49, and the last part of chapter 3. Several of the major divisions conform to the locations of the toledoth formula in the text, with the exception of its occurrence in Genesis 2:4. The locations of the major marks, the toledoth feature, and the clusters of minor marks are shown in Figure 18.

Given that these marks represent a theologically independent reading of Genesis structure, their rough coordination with a chapter-based chiasmus is of particular interest. Figure 18 shows the “S” divisions of Genesis 28 and 44 in a very rough alignment with the toledoth point in Genesis 2. But since there is no section mark there, we must consider other possible pattern associations. Note that with an adjustment of one chapter, accomplished by compressing the material between Genesis 36 and 41, the “P” division at the end of chapter 40 comes into alignment with those of Genesis 11, 17–18, 25, and 32. If we slide the whole end of the text in this manner, then the “S” division of Genesis 44 falls into a better alignment with that of chapter 28, and chapter 50 no longer stands as an “extra” element.

Figure 18. Direct seven-level chapter chiasmus and section marks.

Turning our attention now to the “P” divisions of Genesis 22–23 and 36–37, the adjustment of the Joseph cycle creates parallel placement of the two “S” division points, and a rough linear alignment to the mark in the Noah story. Note that the “P” and “S” points on the ends of the blocks differ not only by sign, but also by placement. The “S” points divide chapters, serving as sensitive indicators of the shifting narrative content. Thus, in chapter 28, the mark separates Jacob’s conflict with Esau from his actual flight to the north; the division in chapter 44 marks Joseph’s revelation of identity to his brothers. The differences between the “P” and “S” points, then, suggest differences in function and potentially of placement in an ideal structure.

Two alternatives for resolving the structure are immediately available. First, we might slide the “S” marks into alignment with the creation toledoth, matching the placements of the “P” marks on the other side of the graph. Second, we might slide the “S” points the other way, using them to form the turning points in the chiasmus. I favor the latter approach for several reasons. Placement of the “S” marks on the ends of the blocks conforms well with their functions in a continuing narrative, as opposed to the more decisive topical breaks at the beginnings of chapters 23 and 37. Also, if we think in terms of the central alignment, the end placement of the “S” marks yields a 3–3-1 vertical pattern for the whole structure. This is appealing because of the occurrence of that pattern in the creation story: God takes three days to create particular “habitats,” three days to fill them, and one day for rest. This material appears in front of the first toledoth element, the only one not associated with a textual divider. Using a negative argument, I suggest that had the “S” points been intended to fall into alignment with chapter 2 in the final Genesis, the toledoth element there would have been marked. Of course, removal of the creation myth from its position in front of the stories of Eden would bring the toledoth formula into an initial position. Overall, then, the major textual marks look as if they were associated topically and structurally with the writing or editing process which linked the creation story to the stories about Adam and Eve.

My treatment of the right side of the structure, aside from sliding Genesis 50 into the final textual block, is more conservative. One could compress the Noah story to bring it into alignment with the other single-unit divisions, taking advantage of the story-genealogy combinations of chapters 4 and 11 to preserve the 3–3-1 vertical arrangement. Note, however, that the curses and blessings of Genesis 6 and 9 fall into vertical alignment with Israel’s blessings in chapter 49. Other themal associations also derive from the alignment as it stands, and I see no particular advantage in tightly compressing the Noah narrative. We may read the structure either way in any event.

This leaves the question of how to achieve the compression of Genesis 37–40 to produce meaningful chapter alignments. My solution is based upon the underlying kinship parallels in the narratives of Genesis 38 and 39, to be discussed in detail in Chapter 4 of this book. The solution also relies on the symmetries of birth and death reports running between the story of Judah and Tamar, and the story of Lot’s seduction by his daughters. These reports, shown with other significant birth-death symmetries in Figure 19, suggest that Genesis 38 must remain in the central position of whatever triplet units are developed. The question of whether Genesis 38 is intrusive to the Joseph story has been hotly debated in recent years. The comparison to the story of Lot is one more bit of evidence arguing that the Judah story is intrusive. Intrusive or not, I believe it is intended to be read in specific contrast to Genesis 39, and so I have placed the two chapters together in the central position of the structure. Finally, Genesis 39 and 40 could as easily be juxtaposed, since they deal with the condition of servitude and the causes of Joseph’s ultimate rise to power. The new alignment of central chapters in the Joseph cycle creates a contrast between Joseph’s own imprisonment and his later subjugation of the Egyptians. Genesis 39 also contains reference to a mark of status, the clothing kept by his master’s wife as he flees from her advances. This links well with the notion of marking in the stories of Cain and Babel, other central units, as well as to the notion of slavery which was sometimes signified by marking (Exodus 21:6; Deuteronomy 15:16–17).²¹

Figure 19. Symbolic genealogical associations of the adjusted chiastic narrative blocks in Genesis (cf. also Figures 4 and 5).

Figure 19, then, moves toward an ideal recursive textual organization of Genesis, turning mainly on points of major life-cycle events. Thus, in many respects, we observed major aspects of the overall narrative plan in Figures 4 and 5. The ideal plan based upon chiasmus is supported by George Coat’s discussion of the Joseph cycle.²² John Gammie and others have replicated chiastic structures in the Jacob narratives from independent analyses.²³ Their analyses might resolve the stretching and compression of textual units differently from my solutions. Given the idea of “chapter” chiasmus, divisions still loosely based in the natural flow of the narratives, it is probably less important to achieve precise alignments at this point than to develop a general sense of the structure.

The implications of multiple recursive elements are also quite different from those in a simple opposition of two strands of text. In his essay “The Structural Study of Myth,” Claude Lévi-Strauss outlined a method for vertical reading of narratives which is quite consistent with those implications.²⁴ His original treatments of myth, however, were faulted because one could never tell quite how the alignments and readings were implied in a narrative organization. The method employed here is to develop the narrative clues to structure, then perform a more general reading following the principles derived from the text. If I have imposed the “structure” of Figure 19, I am not the first to do so. When I read the structure, I shall probably engage in many kinds of interpretations which are quite specific to my background. Thus, the following readings offer only a beginning, an illustration of the potential of the method.

Themal Analysis

The overall symmetry of Figure 19 is striking, particularly in the division of chapter 25, but the distribution of births suggests that the first block of chapters is independent of the patriarchal life-cycle structure. The labeling of the figure formalizes some of the observations we have already made, but includes additional elements. The structurally “natural” division of mythic and “historical” worlds occurs with the flood. The original world is utterly destroyed, and the new world replacing it is one with placenames and regional associations we can locate on maps. As a literary construction, the mythic world is time before time, a generation in cosmology. The “historical” era replacing it is measured in human generations, specifically through the times of birth, death, and rites of passage or transformation of patriarchal characters. The earliest section of “historical” time, running beyond the usually recognized “mythic” section of Genesis to chapter 14, mirrors the events and formulations of the earlier intended mythic unit, as also do all of the following generational segments of the narrative structure. Thus, the most pertinent horizontal axis for reading narrative oppositions in “history” is defined by the “S” mark of chapter 28. The chapters dealing with the mythic world stand as a preface.

After the Noah story we become geographically focused on Mesopotamia until the death of Terah. This signals the beginning of territorial demarcations which we have already observed formally. In the structural symmetry produced by the center of “history,” the Mesopotamian focus of chapters 10 and 11 stand in perfect territorial opposition to chapters 47–49, the time of Israel as a social group living in Egypt. Noah’s drifting on the sea also mirrors the kinds of movements of Genesis 50, especially in its mention of places we cannot locate (Goren-ha-atad and Abel-mizraim). Similarly, Abram’s trip to Egypt is mirrored by the ultimate arrival of Israel in Egypt.

The genealogical divisions of the book beyond Genesis 11, then, are an Abram cycle (12–17), an Abraham cycle (18–25), a Jacob cycle (25–31), an Israel cycle (32–40), and a Joseph cycle (41–46). The full Joseph story is divided into four parts, technically ending with Genesis 49 and the death of Israel. These divisions recount (a) the opposition of Joseph to his brothers and his period of low status and power, (b) the period of Joseph’s leadership during which he is known to his family only as an Egyptian, (c) Joseph’s revelation to his family, and (d) the period of Israel’s occupancy in Egypt. Each of these divisions involves a transformation of Joseph’s character. Mention of his sacred and mystical powers are most closely tied to chapters 37, 39, 40, and 41 and give way gradually to a more secular imagery. The transformation of Genesis 41 brings Joseph from slavery and prison to leadership. His emotional tie to his father and brothers is revived in the powerful narrative of chapter 44. Real force is given to Joseph’s secular side in chapter 47, notable also for its juxtaposition with the arrival of Israel. My reading stresses this transformation and the possibility that Genesis is telling us that Joseph, not the Pharaoh of Exodus 1, brings Israel into the condition of slavery in Egypt. If nothing else, he certainly sets up the conditions for a retribution against the sons of his brothers after the death of Israel.

The chiastic oppositions of the Jacob cycle and its extensions to Genesis 22 and 35 are also strong. Genesis 23 involves the acquisition of land for a burial place at Mamre. This is paralleled by the acquisition of land by Israel at Shechem (the last part of Genesis 33) prior to the incident involving Dinah. Other minor points of detail form direct vertical links between the units. But the broad plan of the narrative opposes the four basic units: (a) replacement of Sarah with a new matriarch, Rebekah; (b) the conflict of Esau and Jacob; (c) the matrimonial service of Jacob to Laban, again providing a set of new matriarchs; and (d) resolution of the conflict between Esau and Jacob. The Jacob cycle and its extensions also spans the whole life of Isaac. Thus his character is given youth in chapter 24, and old age in chapter 27. His death is reported at the end of chapter 35 to close the section of narrative dealing with the conflict and contact of his sons. Jacob undergoes the counterpart transformation from a dependent youth (to Isaac in chapters 25–28, to Laban in chapters 28–31), to an independent patriarch at the opening of chapter 32.

Moving up to the Abram cycle, we again encounter direct lineal relationships running across several units between the flood and the expulsion of Ishmael after the birth of Isaac, but the most direct links are within the opposition of Genesis 10–11 and 18–19. The genealogies of chapter 10 seem to match the vertical association of other birth reports in chapters 19 and 38. On the other hand, the destruction of Babel and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah offer a more compelling parallel. As noted earlier, the genealogy-story-genealogy sequence of chapters 10 and 11 could be a basis for compressing the Noah narratives into a single unit’s width. Babel interrupts the genealogies in the same way Sodom and Gomorrah shift our attention away from Abraham and Sarah. If one follows the column down the structure, it is apparent that chapters 24, 33, and 38 accomplish a similar interruption of narrative. Isaac’s marriage is conducted by a servant of Abraham, taking us to Haran. The meeting of Esau and Jacob interrupts Jacob’s travel between Aramea and Canaan. Judah’s marriage narrative interrupts the Joseph story. Note that on the left side of the graph, similar functions occur in the centermost column, where chapter 12 takes us to Egypt, chapter 17 involves the detailed description of the Circumcision Covenant, and chapter 31 has Laban halting Jacob’s progress toward the south. The reason for the difference in column associations of this kind will become apparent in the expanded analysis, which will also explain why I want to maintain the vertical associations of chapters 6 and 9. Suffice it to say at this point that direct vertical relationships are less impressive than the crossing functions of the four broad narrative blocks: (a) Babel and the creation of language differences, (b) separation of Abram and Lot, (c) the conflict between Abram’s wives, (d) the final segmentation of Lot from association with the patriarchal line.

Viewing the associations of the three pairs of narrative blocks opening to the right side of the structure, an alternating focus is established. The two elements in the pattern are fraternal differentiation and matriarchal succession. Thus, beginning with Abram and Lot on the upper left, we follow the progression back and forth through the social differentiation of Abraham and Lot (18–20), the conflict of Esau and Jacob (26–28), the social differentiation of Israel and Esau the “Edomite” (32–34), and the negotiations of Joseph and his older brothers (42–44). Running counter to these blocks are the genealogy introducing Sarai (11), the conflict of Sarai and Hagar (15–17), the replacement of Sarah by Rebekah (23–25), the conflict of Leah and Rachel (29–30), the marriage of Judah and the incest avoidance of Joseph (38–39), and the revelation of Joseph to his brothers (44–46). I include the last block in this list because, as becomes more apparent in Genesis 48, Joseph is still treated as a “foreigner” by his family. He also maintains his role in Egyptian society, unlike Moses in the following elements of the Torah. We have already observed that Israel adopts only Manasseh and Ephraim, not Joseph’s other children. In this sense, Joseph is treated as the eponymous ancestor of a Rachelite subgroup, and obtains a status very like that of the women in the kinship association.

The connection of “women” and “foreigner” is common in biblical literature, since women from outside the social group were often taken as captives but turned into wives (Genesis 34, Deuteronomy 21:10–14, Proverbs 2:16–19, 5:20). From the perspective of Canaanite territorial association, all of the women in Genesis except Dinah (and possibly Tamar and Lot’s wife) are foreigners. The issue comes up in relation to foreign gods in Genesis 31, when Rachel seems hesitant to give up the spiritual symbols of her father’s house. But the idea of Joseph as a replacement for Rachel (and perhaps also even Leah), structurally implied by the alternating chiastic blocks, seems to be given voice in Israel’s words when he adopts Ephraim and Manasseh: “I do this because, when I was returning from Paddan, your mother Rachel died. . . .” (Genesis 48:7).

Considering the crossing pattern of block themes further, we should observe that the left-hand blocks introduce conflicts in general, while the right-hand units tend to resolve the conflicts or otherwise define the correct line of succession specifically. This puts special light on the status of the births of Perez and Judah. Tamar, by structural implication, is the right kind of woman (foreign or not), as opposed to Judah’s first wife who is “wrong” because of her Canaanite status. Or at least that is one interpretation. The symmetry of the Judah and Lot episodes can also imply the segmentation of Judah from the other brothers for his inappropriate marriage. Considering Joseph’s avoidance of relations with his master’s wife, only to return later to marry the daughter of an official with a similar title, then Genesis 39 parallels the general theme of marriage on the wrong generation. But Genesis 41 forms a contrast placing Joseph in a better light. We will discuss these issues in my next chapter, and note now that the adoption of Manasseh and Ephraim is no mere whim. The blessing of Joseph’s sons, taken alongside Genesis 49, resolves some of the conflict of Israel’s original twelve sons.

These structural preliminaries underscore the carefully controlled association of genealogy, territory, and social conception in Genesis narrative. They also help us understand the parallel functions of the single right-hand elements in the proposed chiastic structure. All of the right-hand units are associated with “unknown” places or places where aimless wandering occurs. The sea of the deluge recommits the world to its primal formless condition, hence Noah’s drifting is not controlled.²⁵ Similarly, we do not know where Moriah or Yahweh-yireh are located, since Genesis 22 does not specify a direction for Abram’s travel. The movement of Hagar and Ishmael in Genesis 21 is more directly stated within the region of Beersheba, but Hagar is said to “roam aimlessly” and Ishmael is placed in a “wilderness.” The places in the Edomite list, though intended to be in the southern district, are equally obscure. Only Genesis 35 provides relatively strong specificity, but Rachel’s death and Benjamin’s birth occur “on the way” rather than at Ephrath, and the point is a boundary between the two broad subterritories of Canaan. Finally, as noted earlier, the places in Genesis 50 are not locatable, and the process of burial for Israel does not involve direct movement to Mamre. It is as though the sons of Israel go to Canaan without being able to actually find the key points stressed in the rest of the narrative.

The right-hand elements, then, provide connection and emphasis of themes developed in each preceding block, much like the coda in a musical composition. For the Abram cycle and its extensions, we see the final resolution of the Sarah and Hagar controversy, accomplished through Isaac’s birth, Ishmael’s immediate expulsion, and Isaac’s immediate transformation of status in a rite of passage where he is called Abraham’s “only son.” Similarly, the conflict between Leah and Rachel is closed with Rachel’s death, and the sons of Israel are contrasted with the sons of Esau in Genesis 35–36. These resolutions look back to events toward the center of the structure, to the promise of a child to Sarah in Genesis 18 and the subtle announcement of Rachel’s pregnancy in Genesis 31:35. This helps us find key connections for the flood episode and Genesis 50. The flood looks back to the first sins of men against God (chapter 3) and of man against man (chapter 4), while Genesis 50 looks back to the process of enslavement. We understand, then, why Joseph’s brothers return with him to Egypt after burying Israel, instead of separating in the same way as Isaac and Ishmael or Jacob and Esau. We also understand why the mourning site is called “mourning of the Egyptians” or “water-course of the Egyptians” and lies beyond the Jordan. Israel too is “enslaved” by Joseph’s administrative acts. Israel is, for the time being, thoroughly Egyptian.

We have not yet directly considered the counter-chiastic associations of the Abraham and Israel cycles, the units opening to the left side of Figure 19 and paralleling the Genesis 1–14 blocks. Direct comparison of the four blocks in each of these narrative units shows the clear parallels of Sarai-Hagar/Leah-Rachel, Abraham-Lot/Israel-Esau, Isaac-Rebekah/Judah-Tamar, and Jacob-Esau/Joseph-brothers. The last unit mainly contrasts Joseph to Reuben and Judah, but also specifically mentions Benjamin and Simeon. We have also already noted the counter-symmetries of the birth reports which link the two outer blocks, and we recognize the two inner blocks as the Jacob cycle. A more satisfying sense of the overall set of ties among all of the units is achieved by a slightly different themal diagram (Figure 20).

Figure 20 graphs the connections of stories running down the textual blocks within each cycle. Like the broader themal alternation of the cycles themselves, a crossing pattern emerges on each side of the central column of chapters. These associations link mainly the second through the sixth divisions of the text, leaving the mythic time and the time of the reunited “Israel” in Egypt as bracketing blocks. As the labeling of the outer units of the first two blocks implies, following my earlier analysis of Genesis 1–14, the pairs of adjacent divisions form an uninterrupted series of vertical associations. We will observe first the symmetry of the enclosed core of the diagram, then the outer and center columns of each chiastic level.

The crossing lines on each side of the diagram connect stories about marriage and stories of conflict-separation. In the conflict-separation sequence on each side is one unusual unit, the transformation of Abram and Sarai through the Circumcision Covenant on the left, and the negotiation for a tomb on the right. These units have just the opposite sense of the majority of the conflict stories, namely, a contractual negotiation which spells out precise terms of relationship and obligation. The feature also occurs in the separation of Abram and Lot in Genesis 13, the strict obligation of hospitality stated by Lot when he offers his daughters in lieu of the angels in Genesis 19:6–9, the mutual oath of Laban and Jacob in chapter 31, the formally polite treatment of Esau and Jacob in Genesis 33, and the conditions (though deceptive) placed by Joseph on his brothers in chapter 42. We may also think of Abram’s circumcision as a formal separation from the Terahite connubium, though this is a weak argument given the continued marriages to Aramea following in the narrative.

Figure 20. Symmetrical strands of alliance and segmentation stories suggested by vertical reading of a modified Genesis narrative organization.

The marriage sequences alternate between false negotiations, accounting for the symmetrical placements of Genesis 12, 20, 26, and 34, and validated marriages signified either by the birth of children or brideservice/brideprice and countergifts. The marriage sequence draws parallels for Hagar and Leah/Rachel on the left, and Rebekah and Tamar on the right. The false “negotiation” of Genesis 39 and the marriage of Joseph break the legal/illegal alternation in the vertical system, leaving us in a legal quandary about the status of Joseph’s children. This feature is resolved by observing that the narrative order alternates between false and legitimate marriages, with Genesis 38, 39, and 41 conforming to the overall pattern. At the top of the structure, the creation of Eve provides the marriage precedent, while at the bottom the blessings of Israel, for reasons we amply observed in Chapter 2 (see pp. 49–52), can be reasonably linked to marriage circles.

Crossing associations similar to the creation-destruction/replenishment-warfare pattern of Genesis 1–14 are produced by each consecutive pair of narrative levels (numbered 1–7 on Figure 20). The second and third levels yield a parallel between Abram’s sacrifice of animals and the sacrifice of Noah after his exit from the ark. On the other axis, Abraham swears an oath not to deceive Abimelech after their groups are involved in fighting over wells, an obvious contrast to the war in Genesis 14, and the formal dealings between Abram and the king of Sodom (this narrative follows the banishment of Ishmael). The sacrifice theme continues on the next level, as does the theme of banishment. This time Jacob is “sent away” because he has stolen the blessing of the elder brother. We recall that Isaac sends his son to the place his own father would under no circumstances allow him to go. But Jacob “flees” the wrath of Esau as much as he follows his father’s direction to go north, and the notion of flight is carried across to the right hand unit of level five; Israel flees the potential anger of Canaanites living around Shechem after the killing of Hamor and the Shechemites by Simeon and Levi. In both these cases the flight is aided by divine action.

Returning to the themes of sacrifice running from Genesis 9 through 15 and 22, you will note on level five that Jacob’s situation can be seen as a form of capture. He performs long periods of brideservice plus additional labor for Laban before his ultimate escape from Aramea. This stresses the distinction between the processes through which Isaac and Jacob obtained their wives. Even after all his time with Laban, Jacob is forced to take the women “like war captives.” This is quite unlike the formal negotiations which brought Rebekah to Isaac. Thus, we see the echo of contrasts between contract and conflict/separation in the outer units of the pattern. The “capture” and “binding” elements from chapters 22 and 28–29 then are picked up again in the Joseph cycle. For this reason, the organization of chapters 36–40 in Figure 20 presents a refinement of the pattern observed in Figure 19. Genesis 37 is split between the right-hand block and the single unit formerly containing only the Edomite genealogies. Given the functions already cited for the single unit stories, we should note that Joseph’s travel to Egypt as a caravan prisoner satisfies the themal connections of “wandering” or “non-directed” movement; he is not in control of his movement.

The adjustment of Genesis 37 pulls the Judah and Tamar story partially into the third position of the right block. This adjustment works well as a replication of the contractual negotiation theme. Judah engages in a marriage contract involving a legal obligation. The obligation is formalized and complicated by his negotiations with the disguised Tamar, culminating in a pledge. The pledge becomes the sign of contractual obligation which Judah recognizes, passing judgment on himself. The story also involves a character transformation, since Judah begins by marrying a Canaanite woman, then consorts with a supposed prostitute, but finally shows honor in his obligation.

Only the essential fact of marriage in Judah’s case fits the matrimonial connections of the vertical reading, and this fact is brought into direct contrast with Joseph’s honor toward his master in chapter 39. Genesis 38, then, is also split between the second and third positions of the right-hand block on level 6 of the diagram. These alternative readings point out the building complexity of the narrative by the time one reaches the Joseph story. What begin as relatively simply-stated themes in the stories of the myth cycle and Abram/Abraham narratives come together with a forceful counterpoint as one moves toward the conclusion. This is a good example of how structural hermeneutics should work. We can begin by guessing at a likely organization, but the overall set of associations drawn from analysis should force some pattern readjustments. In the end, we must never assume that a particular diagram or logical algorithm will do justice to the richness of the narrative, precisely because such heuristic devices are “well-defined.”

The outer units of levels 6 and 7 present a superb set of oppositions. First, the capture and enslavement of Joseph is resolved through images of death and rebirth. Joseph is torn away from his father, and presumed literally torn by a beast. Calum Carmichael points out that Israel’s blessing of Judah links this deed to Judah, the Hebrew of Genesis 49:9 reading literally: “Judah, like a lion’s whelp, you have grown up on the prey of my son. . . .”

The major “S” division of Genesis 44 appears at verse 18, where Judah humbly implores Joseph to allow Benjamin to return to his father. Judah’s speech brings about Joseph’s change of character as he is at the brink of making Benjamin a slave, and incorporates the elements of tearing, and “binding” used in the sense of filial connection:

So your servant our father said to us, “You know that my wife bore me two children. When one left me, I said that he must have been torn to pieces. And I have not seen him to this day. If you take this one from me too and any harm comes to him, you will send me down to Sheol with my white head bowed in misery.” If I go to your servant my father now, and we have not the boy with us, he will die as soon as he sees the boy is not with us, for his heart is bound up with him (Genesis 44:27–30).

Judah also attempts to make good his promises to his father concerning Benjamin’s safety, thus pronouncing a sentence on himself—he offers to be enslaved in Benjamin’s place. Instead, he produces restitution. Not only does he save Benjamin, but he produces the return of the son “torn by a beast.” The “tearing away” of Joseph by his brothers also constituted an act of banishment, a replay of the strife-banishment sense of Jacob’s removal to the north in Genesis 28. Piled on these meanings is the notion of theft. Not only did the brothers in effect “steal” Joseph, but the Midianite caravan steals him from the brothers (chapter 37:28). If one prefers to have the Ishmaelites actually transporting Joseph to Egypt, as is implied in the text, then at least the sale of Joseph “steals” him again from Reuben (chapter 37:28b). Compare the situation, then, to the problems cited in the rules of the Mishpatim (Exodus 22:12):

When a man gives an ass, or an ox, or a sheep, or any animal to another for safekeeping, if it dies, or is injured or carried off, without anyone seeing it, an oath before the judges shall decide between the two of them, whether he did not lay hands on his neighbor’s property; the owner must accept the oath, and no restitution is to be made. But if the animal was stolen from him, he shall make restitution to its owner. If it was torn by beasts, he shall bring it as evidence, and he need not make restitution for the mangled animal.

The parallel of the rules is quite specific. Joseph was sent out to find his brothers, an act which effectively entrusts him to their care. This is specifically implied by Reuben’s concern for his own fate when Joseph is lost to him. The brothers’ act of taking him prisoner, because of the element of conspiracy, is a theft “without witnesses.” If Reuben were to make the charge of theft against the other brothers, lacking witnesses, he would be responsible to make restitution because of a lack of witnesses against the others. The act of presenting Joseph’s bloodied coat as evidence of his death, a false testimony in which all engage, protects Reuben from responsibility and hides the theft in general.

Recall now that it was at Judah’s instigation that Joseph was sold to the Ishmaelites. This introduces the notion of a formal transaction, an actual act of theft and banishment by the brothers that we may see as more serious than simply stealing his coat and throwing him into a pit (taking him prisoner). The Mishpatim rules immediately preceding those just cited (Exodus 22:6–8) offer further illumination:

When a man gives money or any article to another for safekeeping and it is stolen from the latter’s house, the thief, if caught, shall make twofold restitution. If the thief is not caught, the owner of the house shall appear in the court of justice, to show whether he has not put his hand to his neighbor’s property. In every case of offense, whether it concerns an ox, or an ass, or a sheep, or a garment, or any lost article, of which one says, ‘This is it,’ the case of both parties shall come before the court of justice; he whom the judges declare guilty shall pay double to the other.

In the narrative of Genesis 44, Judah and Joseph are immediately concerned with the punishment for a purported act of theft. After planting his “divining cup” in Benjamin’s sack, Joseph arranged for the capture and search which results in the group’s being returned to Joseph’s house. The brothers plead innocence and offer themselves as “slaves” by their presence in honor. To this Joseph threatens only to take Benjamin as a slave. Judah then argues their case in an eloquent and humble presentation of the “facts.”

The “thief” with whom Joseph is concerned, of course, is not Benjamin, but Judah. Judah has been brought to a court of justice, and has recounted to his victim the nature of the deception in which he and his brothers had engaged. Who better to relate the tale than Judah? And who better to stand with him as judge than the victim? We have seen Judah in this situation before, in the situation where his judgment of Tamar is shown to be incorrect by evidence she has “stolen” from him. We also know that he accepted that judgment honorably, accepting the idea that he had victimized Tamar more than she victimized him.

Thus, Judah is caught in his theft, becoming a victim in justice. The wording of Exodus 22:8 makes good sense of the situation. The theft could be of any article, but specifically listed are “. . . an ox, or an ass, or a sheep, or a garment, or any lost article. . . .”If the imagery of the rule is taken metaphorically, then we might see here “Israel” (an Ox) or a son of Rachel (“Ewe”); that is, we might see the favored son of Israel from the “father’s” perspective and from the point of view of a matrigroup reference. The Hebrew forms do not allow such a reading, though the structural parallel makes such glosses tempting.²⁶ On a more literal level, the rule seems to cite a pregnant series of associations: animals, “a garment,” or “any lost article, of which one says, ‘This is it’ . . .” As Genesis 44 unfolds, Joseph immediately identifies himself—he is the stolen brother; “this is it.” The rule also cites the theft of his garment. But another implication can be found for the animals. Recall that when Joseph went to find his brothers, they were not where Israel thought they were, having moved from Shechem to Dothan. The man who found Joseph wandering in the fields said only that he heard the brothers say “Let us go to Dothan.” From other elements of the narrative we believe that they clearly intended to go back. But from Joseph’s perspective, could men who engaged in the theft of a son be trusted with the flocks? Read against Exodus 6–8, is there not in Genesis 37 an implication that Joseph could have accused his brothers of stealing the flock, an act for which he had a potential witness beside himself?

The location of the incident, Shechem, recalls the place where Simeon and Levi killed Hamor (“Ass”) and took his goods and wives. This is the place Jacob had moved to after successfully stealing a blessing (Genesis 32), and his wives and flocks (Genesis 31). Given the blessings of Genesis 49 for Simeon and Levi, in which they are said to have “hamstrung an Ox and killed a man . . .”, namely Hamor, the incident over Dinah was a clear breach of patriarchal authority.²⁷ Even the allegation of stealing the flocks, much less the fact of having stolen a son of one’s own father, signals the depth of the political division between the Rachelite and Leahite groups. In the context of the rules of the Mishpatim cited here, I believe the opposition of units in Genesis 44 and 37 makes such an allegation.

The Exodus material concerning theft is generally supposed to be quite early, probably earlier than the Genesis narratives. Some of the rules, however, take a form suggestive of Deuteronomic legal forms.²⁸ Within the earlier form of rule statements, those beginning “When a man . . .” or “When an ox . . .” we may also make a distinction between those rules that include “the owner” in the formula for resolution (compare Exodus 21:33–36 and 22:45). Positioning of rules of these two forms in the collection of rules as a whole suggests that they may differ in historical context. I will not enter the debate over whether Exodus reflects on the Genesis narrative or Genesis was composed to incorporate the sense of the rules, though I favor the former view because of the complexity of the Genesis system. I suggest, however, that the interpretation across the two texts is in this case justified. Note, however, that the allegation of the theft of animals by Joseph’s brothers, though derived from my cross-reading of Genesis and the Mishpatim, is clearly not without precedent in the structure of Genesis or the plot cycles of the Jacob/Joseph division of the book. Let us read forward, then, in terms of the punishment suggested by the rules.

According to the rules, a party declared guilty is to make twofold restitution. Judah cannot produce another son for Israel. His twin sons, in fact, amount to restitution by Tamar for her “theft” of the symbols of his authority, the signs of his kingship in Genesis 49:10. They provide not one heir but two, one representing the ancestor of David within the broader collection of Judean lines. Judah’s saving of Benjamin merely fulfills his obligations to Israel, for he rather than Reuben was entrusted with Benjamin’s care. Joseph, however, has two Egyptian sons. Thus Judah embarks with his brothers to bring his father back to a place where restitution can be accomplished. As leader of Egypt, Joseph is never properly returned to Israel. Instead, Israel adopts Ephraim and Manasseh, enhancing the Rachelite offspring by his own statements, but taking no more than just restitution for his loss of Joseph by excluding any other progeny Joseph might produce.

But Judah and his brothers are punished in other ways for stealing a sign of his status, his garment, represented again in the false charge concerning Joseph’s cup. The punishment is enslavement, justified by another series of rules from Exodus 22:1–3 concerning theft and restitution:

If a thief is caught in the act of breaking in, and is struck a fatal blow, there is no guilt of blood in his case. But if after sunrise he is struck dead, there is bloodguilt. The thief must make restitution; if he has not the means, he shall be sold for his theft. If the stolen animal is found alive in his possession, whether it is an ox, an ass, or a sheep, he shall restore two animals for each one stolen.

The item stolen in this case is the sign of Joseph’s prominence. Joseph, destined for kingship as manifest in his dreams, and as indicated by his father’s favor, ends up in power only as a minister of Pharaoh. His kingship in Israel is stolen. This is apparent in the blessings in two ways. First, Joseph is heaped with praise and, as we have already seen, his fruitfulness in Israel through Manasseh and Ephraim is assured. But Judah gets a somewhat back-handed blessing, one citing his culpability in Joseph’s loss and “grudgingly” acknowledging his “royal” prominence.²⁹ At the point of the blessings, Judah is caught again with the goods, just as Benjamin was “caught” in Genesis 44. In the concern with the theft of Joseph’s entitlement the discovery of the thief occurs long after the act, at a time when killing the offender would incur bloodguilt. Thus Judah must make restitution, but as we find in the other comparable case of “stolen” blessing, Judah “has not the means” to make restitution. Recall Isaac’s words to Esau:

Then Esau said: “Is it because his name is Jacob that he has twice supplanted me? First he took away my birthright and now he has taken away my blessing.” Then he said: “Have you not kept a blessing for me?” Isaac answered Esau: “I have appointed him your lord, and I have given him all his brothers as servants, and with grain and wine I have sustained him. What then can I do for you, my son?” (Genesis 27:36–38)

There is nothing to be done, at least insofar as the blessing is concerned. In Esau’s case, he could only weep aloud.

We find Joseph weeping too at his father’s deathbed. The narrative clearly has this weeping stand as a sign of loss. But what is the loss? Has Joseph not also been twice supplanted, robbed first of his “birthright” (the favor of his father) and then of his blessing? Has not Judah’s blessing been steeped in the images of wine, and have not his brothers been made his servants? And for his loss, what is the penalty? “If he has not the means, he shall be sold for his theft.” Joseph, then, a powerful man in Egypt, has a claim on his brother Judah and all that he possesses. The crossing members of the final chiasmus show Joseph unrecognized by his brothers in Genesis 42–44; in fact, he is specifically seen as an Egyptian. In the counter-unit, Genesis 50, we find the whole of “Israel” unrecognized in Canaan, and specifically recognized as “Egyptians.” Israel is captured, paralleling the earlier near-enslavement of Benjamin and actualizing the statement of his brothers that “they stand as his slaves.”³⁰

This reading is a start, I believe, toward a sense of the unified narrative potentials of Genesis. We find in the culmination of the book some powerful images, prefigured in the precise structural oppositions of stories involving conflict, enslavement, escape, theft, retribution, and blessing. All of these elements are woven together through symbolic uses of the “life cycle” as a metaphor for political succession. The social contract is also symbolized in the covenant promises made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But with God as with man, the bonds of the covenant are elusive. They are as elusive as the filial ties of fathers and sons, or the cooperative bonds of brothers and sisters. So the bonds of the covenant can be the result of formality and respect, or of conflict and strife. In the center of Genesis, in the elements of chapters 18 and 32, we find Abraham interceding for Lot and Jacob wrestling a man. Abraham talks to a God in human form, speaking as formally and carefully as does Judah to Joseph at the turning point of the conflict between the brothers. Abraham has just been given a special blessing, the notification that his wife Sarah will bear Isaac. Jacob wrestles a man who will not say his name; and he demands a blessing from the man before he will let him go. The man blesses him saying: “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you strove with the divine and men, and have prevailed” (Genesis 32:29). Jacob “struggles against” God’s strength, then, and for his trouble receives both a blessing and a disjointed hip. Some may be reminded of Oedipus, who prevails against his father, is called “swollen foot” and made lame by being hung by his foot in a tree, and who has sons brought into a deep conflict. We are reminded, then, that Genesis is a special kind of literary form, akin to myth but more developed, more complex, and more connected to the other traditions of which it forms a part. As readers, we are confronted with choices of our own, whether to tear the manuscript to pieces in analysis, or establish our own covenant with the text. Like the patriarchs, though, we must be prepared for the covenant to be an elusive one, sometimes held right before us and sometimes disappearing into a cloud of doubts.

Holism and Reductionism as Hermeneutic Principles

The human mind can accommodate a host of cues—more than we usually admit. But a document can precisely accommodate even more. The transformation from spoken to written tradition entails a kind of quantum leap in the human potential to create compelling, culturally-specific explanations of the world. What makes early written traditions such as Genesis last as “meaningful” experience is the way the symmetries of narrative structure work on the mind. Our contemporary history is content oriented, but the earliest histories were structure oriented. It is striking that the logical capabilities we associate with our most formal mathematics—topology and symbolic logic—are the hallmark of the human species. These capabilities have been with man since the evolution of our species—since the beginning. Only recently have we developed the arithmetic and probabilistic tools that help our minds work for us in more precise, not necessarily more refined, ways.

On a substantive level, a particular structure for the entire book of Genesis does not answer all our questions about meanings. No single model can even scratch the surface of “meaning.” The skeleton of structure we have observed above demonstrates how rich are the interrelationships of genealogy, narrative, politics, law, and theology. The structure is “useful” to the critical pursuit we call form analysis. Biblical source criticism, an almost purely “reductionist” analytical direction, identifies pieces of scripture with different circles of theology, geographic association, and historical movements. Source critics also attempt to explain meanings through the interpretation of immediately juxtaposed segments, or sometimes with reference to blocks of text presumed to have a common origin in the editing process underlying Genesis.³¹ These are important aims, deserving more careful attention by structuralist scholars studying the Bible.

A “structural hermeneutic,” on the other hand, can pursue meaning without serious consideration of sources. When such analyses are completed, however, they often carry implications as to why particular sources appear where they do in narrative sequence. If structuralism can inform the Genesis construction debates in this way, it deserves more careful scrutiny by form critics. As a relative “foreigner” to the inner circles of biblical studies, I can appreciate the anxiety created by radical revisions of academic worldview. I realize too that my introduction of structuralist kinship orientation into the interpretation of Genesis is something of a radical departure from what are usually recognized as “anthropological” readings of the text. One must keep in mind that working with such a text, as opposed to oral tradition, is also a radical departure from Lévi-Straussian structuralism. It is not, however, a departure from the thrust of semiotics in general, nor are the form and content of the analysis inappropriate to the subject matter.

Our understanding of the world always profits from the tensions between our tendencies to generalize and operate holistically, and explanations which reduce a phenomenon to its component parts. It is therefore appropriate that as we move to understand the nature of minimal subunits of Genesis, employing an essentially reductionist method, we should always keep in mind the concept of the “whole” we bring under analysis. These two ends of inquiry should always serve each other. Each methodical reading of Genesis may still retain its unique potentials. Stress of the whole text certainly generates its own qualities and values, and its own problems. On other levels of textual organization, quite different cultural and historical concerns, quite different aspects of theology or cultural expression, may surely be discovered. Structural hermeneutics is merely one method of narrative analysis holding the potential to work in the directions of reduction and holism in one process. Let us remember that “parts” and “wholes” are fundamentally important concepts in the sciences. Marc Bloch eloquently stated the essential problem of paying too much attention to one line of analysis, and casts a proper parallel between the concepts guiding science and the humanities:³²

Science dissects reality only in order to observe it better by virtue of a play of converging searchlights whose beams continually intermingle and interpenetrate each other. Danger threatens only when each searchlight operator claims to see everything by himself, when each canton of learning pretends to national sovereignty. . . . we must beware of postulating any false geometric parallels between the sciences of nature and the science of man. . . . For in the last analysis it is human consciousness which is the subject-matter of history. The interrelations, confusions, and infections of human consciousness are, for history, reality itself.

Still, physicists cannot discuss the cosmos without reference to sub-atomic particles, and interpreters cannot discuss meaning without reference to structure, word, and event. In the science of signs, we must face the struggle with the balance between details of expression and the full potentials of the word.