Caring for the Dead in the Israelite Household

For many years, biblical conceptions of death and dying have captivated scholars.^[1] What interests me in the topic is what interests me more broadly about the study of religion in the ancient world. I am fascinated by the stories people tell about themselves and how various non-obvious beings, such as deities, demons, and the dead, structure and expand the horizons of those stories. On this point, I’m reminded of the provocative opening of Thomas Laqueur’s book The Work of the Dead:

[T]he dead body matters, everywhere and across time, as well as in particular times and particular places…It matters because the living need the dead more than the dead need the living. It matters because the dead make social worlds. It matters because we cannot bear to live at the borders of our mortality.^[2]

In the case of the Hebrew Bible, what is the work of the dead in this literature? Where do the dead appear—in narrative texts, ritual prescriptions, legal material, or other genres? How are they treated—both by characters in biblical stories and by the biblical writers themselves? What are the assumptions in these texts about what the dead can do and the influence they exert on the realms of the living? The more we delve into these seemingly straightforward questions, we find that the answers are anything but straightforward. In fact, there remains today much debate among scholars of the Hebrew Bible about how to best understand texts that talk about the dead and what these texts reflect more generally about the religion of ancient Israel.

My book, Caring for the Dead in Ancient Israel (SBL Press, 2020), focuses on some of the persistent problems in the scholarly discourse surrounding conceptions of the dead in the Hebrew Bible and Israelite religion. First, how do we define the terms referring to ritual care and commemoration of the dead? Is this phenomenon “ancestor cult”? “Cult of the dead”? Or something else? And what’s at stake in the terminology and categories we use? In other words, how might our categories and attempts at classification reflect underlying (and sometimes unacknowledged) assumptions about religion in the ancient world? Second, what are the parameters of this phenomenon? What kinds of practices does it entail? Who engages in these practices, both ideally and pragmatically? For instance, are women altogether excluded from the cult, as many previous studies suggest? And, third, what is the relationship between this ritual care and other forms of Israelite religion, particularly the Yahwistic religion prescribed by biblical writers and epitomized by the cultic apparatus of the Jerusalem temple? Are these religious spheres as antithetical as previous scholarship proposes, or are there other paradigms that more accurately reflect and illuminate our evidence?

A fundamental issue that arises in discussions of this material concerns the nature of the biblical evidence for the care and commemoration of the dead. Why, for instance, don’t we have explicit prescriptive texts in the Hebrew Bible about these phenomena? The answer is unclear, but this lacuna in biblical literature has led to different conclusions among scholars: (1) the cult of dead kin was intentionally suppressed by biblical writers, (2) it was only marginally important, or (3) it was simply beyond the scope of interest of most biblical writers. My analysis tends toward the third option. The anthology of the Hebrew Bible is not a comprehensive handbook for religious life in ancient Israel, and it’s relatively narrow in its focus—often skewed toward royal and elite perspectives and primarily concerned with matters of national identity and crisis. This limited scope inevitably leads to gaps in the literature concerning common, everyday practices. In fact, it is possible that the mundane ubiquity of practices and ideologies of family and household religion makes explicit discourse about them less appealing to biblical writers. Perhaps these are elements of daily life that the biblical writers simply take for granted and thus, for the most part, refer to them obliquely in texts focused on other, more exceptional matters. For example, progeny is very important to many biblical characters and narratives, but there are no prescriptive texts in the Hebrew Bible about how to deliver a baby or what to do right after it has been born. Are we to assume that there were no such rituals surrounding pregnancy, birth, and early infant care? That proposition seems unlikely. The same goes for death—there are no prescriptive texts about how to mourn, bury, or commemorate someone.

In his influential study of kinship and property, Herbert Chanan Brichto offers a vivid analogy for the absence of such explicit discourse in the Hebrew Bible: “The Hebrew Bible is the visible tip of the iceberg; the mass below the surface, respecting quantity, distribution and contours, lends itself not to precise knowledge but to informed guesses.”^[3] As I note in the book, it seems that the bulk of family religion and, thus, the vast majority of ancient Israelites’ engagement with religious practice lies below the surface of the biblical text. Yet, we may still discern some of those underlying practices and ideologies from the ways in which the text moves over and around it.

The Contours of the Cult of Dead Kin

In his study of various forms of religious activity, Jonathan Z. Smith argues that the ubiquity of family and household religion has historically contributed to a relative lack of interest among scholars:

Considered globally, domestic religion is the most widespread form of religious activity; perhaps due to its very ubiquity, it is also the least studied. This is especially true of domestic religion of the past. Being largely nondramatic in nature and largely oral in transmission, domestic religion does not present itself to us as marked off as ‘religious’ in any forceful manner.^[4]

Fortunately, the past few decades of biblical scholarship have shown a growing interest in the religious lives of the Israelite family. Rather than focusing solely on so-called “official” or “centralized” forms of religion prescribed by biblical writers and epitomized by the cult of the Jerusalem temple, scholars have increasingly focused on the practices and ideologies that prevail in the household and among family members. This “turn to the family” has helped shed light on the religious lives of groups underrepresented in the biblical text and, thus, enriched our understanding of Israelite religion. My book builds on this work, which emphasizes the status of the household as the primary social, economic, and religious unit in the ancient world.^[5] This framing helps orient the book’s approach to the cult of dead kin in ancient Israel, viewing it as a fundamental aspect of religious life in the family and household and not merely as an example of illicit, syncretistic, or superstitious practice pitted against the cult of the Jerusalem temple and the ideologies espoused by certain biblical writers.

Because filial piety was an essential component of patriarchal societies in ancient West Asia, the cult of dead kin constitutes a key aspect of that social fabric, both in and outside of Israel. As previous studies have demonstrated, comparative analysis with evidence from outside of Israel, particularly from ancient Mesopotamia, provides an invaluable resource for reconstructing the broader religious landscape of ancient West Asia from which biblical writers drew in order to formulate their own conceptions of death and ritual commemoration. Though there are many parallels between regional manifestations of ritual care for the dead, biblical scholars have often focused on similarities between the Israelite cult of dead kin and the Mesopotamian kispu. The kispu could consist of a broad range of ritual acts, including offering food and drink, invoking the name of the dead, erecting a commemorative monument, and protecting human remains.

Notably, these ritual acts for the dead also appear in the Hebrew Bible: food and drink offerings (Deut 26:14),^[6] commemorative monuments and invocation of the name of the dead (Gen 35:20; 2 Sam 18:18; 2 Sam 14:7; Isa 56:3–5; and Ruth 4:10), and the protection and repatriation of human remains (Gen 49:29–32; 50:12–14; Josh 24:32; Judg 16:31; 2 Sam 2:31; 21:10, 12–14; Neh 2:3, 5). This last aspect of the cult, which focuses on the treatment of the dead body, has been overlooked by previous studies but is well attested in both biblical and extra-biblical sources. Preserving the integrity of the body and burial site was highly valued, as was the location of the burial site in one’s ancestral territory. The reference to feeding the dead in Deut 26:14 has also been misunderstood. Often cited as evidence of a biblical prohibition against feeding the dead and, more broadly, as condemnation of the cult of dead kin, the passage does nothing of the sort. It is concerned with the sanctity of the tithe, which could be polluted through contact with a corpse. It is a mistake to think that this concern with corpse pollution is motivated by an attempt to undermine the care and commemoration of the dead. Anxiety about corpse pollution is not equivalent to condemnation of cultic care for the dead. In fact, ethnographic studies offer helpful comparative models for the coexistence of concepts of corpse pollution and ongoing interest in caring for the dead.^[7]

Necromancy and the Cult of Dead Kin

This argument that biblical writers sought to undermine the cult of dead kin is quite prevalent in the scholarly literature on conceptions of death in the Hebrew Bible, and it often draws upon biblical polemic against necromancy for support. Caring for the Dead in Ancient Israel reexamines the evidence for necromancy and its relationship with the cult of dead kin and other death-related practices. For instance, it analyzes the cultic categories “necromancy” and “cult of dead kin” and argues that these are separate religious phenomena in ancient Israel and in ancient West Asia more broadly. Why does this matter? Because these categories are often conflated in scholarly treatments of the dead in the Hebrew Bible, and necromancy is condemned quite forcefully by several biblical writers (e.g., Deut 18, Isa 8:19). Often in scholarship concerning the biblical dead, this staunch polemic against necromancy is projected onto other forms of death-related ritual, especially the cult of dead kin. However, there’s good reason to separate necromancy from the cult of dead kin in the Hebrew Bible and Israelite religion. As far as we can tell from the biblical evidence, the participants in necromancy are emphatically not members of the same kin group. In other words, it’s not at all clear that someone would summon their dead relative in a necromantic encounter. In fact, in our only biblical example of a named dead person summoned in necromancy, the participants in this ritual are not kin.

I am referring, of course, to the famous story about the so-called “witch” of Endor in 1 Sam 28. In the story, Saul is desperate for advice about his imminent battle with the Philistines, but Yahweh his god has refused to answer him. After other methods of divination fail, Saul seeks out a female necromancer to summon the dead prophet Samuel. After being ritually summoned, Samuel tells Saul that he has lost divine favor and that he and his sons will soon die. This is a complex story with a rich history of interpretation, but the most pertinent aspect of the story for our present discussion is the fact that none of the participants in the necromantic ritual are kin. Neither the terminology in the passage nor the participants in the ritual resemble what we know of the cult of dead kin. If anything, the term Samuel uses for rousing him (rgz) in 1 Sam 28:15 is more closely associated with grave robbery, the antithesis of care for the dead.^[8] Ultimately, there exists no explicit polemic against the cult of dead kin, certainly nothing so staunch as the Deuteronomistic views of necromancy.^[9] Further, because these appear to be separate religious phenomena, biblical attitudes toward one should not be conflated with attitudes toward the other.

Gender and the Cult of Dead Kin

We must also re-examine the roles of women in depictions of the cult of dead kin in ancient West Asia, particularly the extent to which women were involved in the cult. While previous studies often argue that women were entirely excluded from participation in the Israelite cult of dead kin, Caring for the Dead in Ancient Israel argues that women could be both caregivers and recipients of that care—that they were active in the transmission of tradition, genealogical descent, and the ritual observance of the cult of dead kin.^[10] Consider the following biblical episodes: Jacob commemorates his dead wife Rachel by erecting a stele (Gen 35:20); the eunuch in Isa 56:5 lacks sons and daughters to commemorate him in death; Rizpah defends the exposed remains of her dead sons and other members of the Saulide dynasty (2 Sam 21:10); and Ps 106:28 interprets the cultic activity of Moabite women in Num 25:2 as sacrifices for the dead. Though the cult of dead kin was often patriarchal and concerned primarily with male ritual actors in ancient West Asia, women did occupy important positions within this cult, which have been largely overlooked in biblical texts and cognate literatures. The role of women as caregivers for the dead is particularly well attested in moments of crisis, when social and political order has been disrupted in various ways.

One example from Mesopotamia appears in an inscription attributed to Adad-guppi, the mother of the Neo-Babylonian king Nabonidus. This text depicts a crisis scenario in which the dead kings Nebuchadnezzar and Neriglissar lack a cultic caregiver. Adad-guppi, a woman with no kinship ties (by birth) to the dead, steps in and offers them the kispu, the technical term for the cult of dead kin in Akkadian. Of course, this is a valuable rhetorical strategy: Adad-guppi is able to claim a kind of familial tie to the dead kings through her performance of the cult, thus bolstering the legitimacy of the kingship of her son Nabonidus. In doing so, Adad-guppi may help alleviate the political tension caused by the ascent of Nabonidus, who had no dynastic claim to the throne. This case vividly demonstrates the construction of kinship through the performance of cult. By administering the kispu, Adad-guppi grafts herself and, by extension, her son onto the family tree of the previous dynasty. In such moments of crisis, women are depicted as fulfilling the demands of the cult of dead kin, often stepping into the role of caregiver when others have failed to do so. This is a feature of ancient Mediterranean literature more broadly, including the avenging sister Anat in the Baal Epic from the Late Bronze city-state of Ugarit, the Isis and Osiris myth from Egypt, and Sophocles’ tragedy featuring Antigone and her slain brothers.

Yahweh as Divine Caregiver for the Dead in Exilic Literature

Building on the previous chapters, Caring for the Dead in Ancient Israel culminates in a reevaluation of the Israelite cult of dead kin and its relationship to both the Jerusalem temple and the Yahwistic ideologies of the biblical writers. I argue that the biblical depiction of Yahweh as divine caregiver for the dead draws upon the cult of dead kin in order to demonstrate the ongoing relationship between Yahweh and his people, Israel, especially in the post-exilic period. Thus, rather than understanding locally based forms of religious activity as inherently antithetical to more centralized forms of religious activity, we must instead appreciate the reciprocity between these spheres. This framing helps us recognize how biblical writers actually leverage the practices and ideologies of family and household religion in order to articulate changing ideas about covenant and national identity.

Throughout the Hebrew Bible, the performance of the cult of dead kin is used to create, affirm, or challenge relationships between the living and the dead. This strategy of making kin through cult is particularly relevant in texts dating to the exilic and post-exilic periods, when biblical writers often refer to the exiles in Babylon as figuratively “dead.” The trauma of exile cast doubt onto preexisting ideologies, particularly the covenant between Yahweh and Israel and the inviolability of Jerusalem and its temple. The forced migration of elite Judahites to Babylon further challenged these notions and made biblical writers question whether Yahweh had been defeated by a foreign power—if not, why would the national god of Israel willfully abandon his people? Some biblical texts go so far as to question whether the exiles may continue to worship Yahweh in a foreign land (e.g., Ps 137:4).

Two prophetic texts from the post-exilic period—Ezek 37:11–14 and Isa 56:3–5—respond to these anxieties using the imagery of the cult of dead kin and casting Yahweh in the role of caregiver to the dead. In Ezekiel’s famous Valley of Dry Bones scene (37:11–14), the deity exhumes and repatriates the remains of the figuratively “dead” Israelites in exile. This mode of care for one’s dead kin also appears in the stories of prominent biblical figures, including Jacob (Gen 49:29–32; 50:12–14) and Samson (Judg 16:31). Here, my analysis builds on the arguments of Saul Olyan, who has written about this passage in connection with tomb opening.^[11] He argues persuasively that this text is depicting an act of benevolent tomb opening, and that Yahweh himself is the one who will exhume the remains of the figuratively dead exiles and repatriate them back to the land of Israel. I argue further that these beneficent acts by the deity himself leverage the imagery, practices, and ideologies of the cult of dead kin. And the text is doing this in order to make a point about covenant in the period following the Babylonian Exile. This is Ezekiel’s way of asserting the ongoing covenantal status between Yahweh and Israel. Yahweh continues to act as a kinsman on behalf of his people, much like he does for the eunuch in the Book of Isaiah. In Isa 56:3–5, the deity constructs a stele for the childless eunuch, thus commemorating the dead in place of his offspring. By depicting Yahweh in this way, these texts show that the covenant between Yahweh and Israel is still valid. Both the exiles and the eunuch, who seemingly have no hope of receiving commemoration and care in death, are still under the power and protection of Yahweh.

In fact, this topos—in which a deity or king acts as a cultic caregiver for the dead in a time of crisis—is attested outside of the Hebrew Bible as well. For instance, the topos appears in a text from Mesopotamia called the Genealogy of the Hammurapi Dynasty.^[12] In this text, the new king, Ammiṣaduqa, offers the kispu to different groups who lack someone to care for them in death, including those who have died abroad on military campaign. Through this care for the untended dead, the king demonstrates his beneficence—and perhaps his interest in preserving order and preventing the malevolent behavior of hungry, restless ghosts—by standing in for absent cultic custodians. The performance of the kispu by the king suggests the significance of the cult of dead kin in both royal and non-royal spheres. Further, the king uses this cultic care to demonstrate the qualities of an ideal ruler, thus bolstering his cultic and political authority. Much like Yahweh in Ezek 37 and Isa 56, Ammiṣaduqa steps into the role of caregiver for the dead when others have failed to do so and, through his beneficence, affirms his power and his affiliations with different groups.

Recognizing that certain biblical texts draw upon the cult of dead kin challenges previous reconstructions that posit a reduced status for the cult in the post-exilic period. Rather than indicating the subversion or marginalization of the cult of dead kin in this period, these texts suggest instead that biblical writers assume the existence of the cult and evaluate it positively—to such an extent that Yahweh himself is portrayed as the practitioner par excellence. In light of such observations, we must also reconsider another prevalent paradigm in biblical scholarship—that centralized cult and local forms of cult, such as the cult of dead kin, must be in opposition. The depiction of Yahweh as divine caregiver for the dead in the post-exilic period troubles this central-versus-local binary. In fact, it shows that the biblical writers draw heavily on the imagery and practices of family religion to articulate their ideologies about the national deity, including notions of covenant and divine sovereignty. After all, both Ezek 37 and Isa 56 draw upon the cult of dead kin in order to formulate their views of national identity and covenant in the post-exilic period. Because Yahweh acts as a caregiver for the “dead” Israelites, the covenant (which some thought was broken forever) is still valid. This, to me, challenges the common argument in previous scholarship that biblical writers, especially in this period, are trying to subvert or marginalize the cult of dead kin. Instead, I posit that those reconstructions of Israelite religion that emphasize a movement away from certain practices, particularly the cult of dead kin, often depend on an evolutionary model of religion that has been mistakenly applied to the Hebrew Bible and biblical ways of thinking about the dead.

Conclusion

Putting all this together, what can we say more generally about the work of the dead and the conceptions of death in the Hebrew Bible? We may note that both families and nations are in a constant state of making and un-making themselves, always losing and gaining new members. It is the ongoing project of both social groups to maintain some degree of continuity in spite of this constant change. This project of maintaining social cohesion greatly depends on rhetorical strategies that treat that cohesion as natural, self-evident, something taken for granted rather than asserted or overtly challenged. Ritual, then, is a particularly potent tool in this discourse. The rituals constitutive of the cult of dead kin in the Hebrew Bible offered richly symbolic ways to create, affirm, or contest affiliations in different spheres of Israelite society, including the internal hierarchies of families, the politics of kings, and the relationship between Israel and its national deity. Following the trauma and political crisis of the Babylonian Exile, the cult of dead kin became a particularly resonant discursive tool in biblical literature. In the midst of widespread social rupture, these rituals create a sense of continuity—social, political, and religious continuity—that helped biblical writers articulate their visions of Israel’s future.