Developing the Definition of the Modern Prophet

There exist a select few in each generation with a distinct ability to shed important insight on the world around them. In ancient Israel, as recorded in the Bible, a group of divinely inspired prophets both celebrated and criticized the societies around them. At once conservative and progressive, Israelite prophets maintained a largely religious bent, and often focused on Israel’s impending doom due to the abandonment of divine covenant obligations. In the modern era, others have been described (controversially) as prophets. Greta Thunberg, the 18-year-old Swedish environmental activist, is one such figure. In an essay on prophecy, W. Sibley Towner explains that any investigation of prophecy itself amounts to our larger “quest” for the modern locus of authoritative moral and religious guidance (496). In a world deeply scarred by environmental disaster, among other crises, finding and assigning this modern “locus” of moral authority involves the important task of defining prophecy. In this short essay, I will establish a working definition of modern prophecy based on various scholars’ conception of prophecy in the ancient Near East. Throughout, I will argue that despite replacing G-d with earth as her inspiration, Thunberg serves as a modern prophet in her actions which amplify societal issues.  

To start, it is critical to highlight that biblical prophecy was largely grounded in direct communion with the divine presence. The examples abound, but I will turn to Jeremiah due to its rich bounty of evidence about this relationship. The book opens with the divine election of Jeremiah as prophet: “Now the word of the LORD came to me saying, / ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew / you, / and before you were born I consecrated / you; / I appointed you a prophet to the nations’” (Jeremiah 1:4-5). This portion sets up the rest of the book, which is largely a work of “ethical and redemptive” content during and after the fall of Judah in 587 BCE (Attridge 999-1000). Clearly, Jeremiah’s actions and prophesying are deeply related to his divine election. But human morality and hope for redemption did not disappear in the dusk of Y-hwistic revelation. As I will go on to argue, it is distinct prophetic actions which allow us to draw clear connections between the ancient prophets of the Bible and modern figures like Greta Thunberg, or Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK). 

Towner suggests four distinct characteristics of prophetism in the Hebrew Bible, starting with style, and Thunberg matches all of them in a modern way. To start, Towner explains that prophets gained notoriety due to their “flamboyance of style,” and “abrasiveness,” often expressed in socially unacceptable ways (Towner 497). This flamboyance of style, evident throughout the prophetic works, comes to life in Ezekiel. The prophet claims to see “visions of G-d” while among the exiles at the river Chebar (Ezekiel 1:1). His description is hard to picture, but it involves moving components of animalistic creatures, fire, “the spirit,” and wheels (1:4-21). Since the world of ancient prophets remains in biblical literature, the text conveys their eccentric actions and unique style through particularly exciting passages. Meanwhile, Thunberg demonstrates a modern flamboyance in her style. In the fall of 2019, for example, she traveled across the Atlantic to New York “by boat” to address the U.N Climate Action Summit (Remix). Such an eccentric move commanded the world’s attention and fits the nonconformist prophetic style which Towner understands as a “badge of integrity” and “unwillingness to be silenced” (498). Thunberg meets these characteristics in her climate activism but fails to dedicate such a style to any total personal commitment to the divine word (498). Thus, we begin to see that the thread which ties together prophets across the ages is related to their actions, not necessarily the inspiration for their beliefs. 

Thunberg also embodies the other aspects of Towner’s prophetic “style,” which include a wide public audience and utter conviction in her statements. We can uncover multiple similarities between Thunberg and the prophet Amos, who prophesied in the Northern Kingdom in the late eighth century BCE (Attridge 1216). Amos’ words, like Thunberg’s, are “direct” and “uncompromising” in their condemnation of his fellow Israelites’ transgressions and the implications of their departure from the covenant (1217). He shares his criticism with a wide audience. For example, he opens one of his speeches saying, “Hear this word that I take up over you in lamentation, O house of Israel,” before going on to criticize those who “trample on the poor” and “push aside the needy,” among other social ills (Amos 5:1; 5:11-12). In her U.N. address, Thunberg use of the word “you” serves as an address to the wide audience of both U.N. representatives and those whom they represent (Remix). Thus, it is a wide audience, like Amos’ call to “O house of Israel,” that receives Thunberg’s statement that people are “suffering” and “dying” (Remix). While Thunberg’s style may evade the repetitive “says the LORD” of Amos and other ancient prophets, her personal eccentricity, wide audience, and conviction illustrate her modern prophetic style. So, I will include those three descriptors in my definition of the modern prophet.  

This close look at language ties into rhetoric, the next topic of examination in line with Towner’s characteristics of biblical prophets. In Towner’s discussion of MLK, the author notes that MLK’s message of racial equality was “couched” in biblical language designed to arouse “group hopes and convictions” that lie deep in Americans’ hearts (501). For men like MLK, the rhetorical style of the prophets provided a means to connect generations later with Americans on new topics. While Thunberg’s language is farther from that of the prophets than MLK, a career preacher, her rhetoric does arouse group hopes and convictions. For example, she condemns adults for stealing her childhood and dreams in their contribution to climate change (Remix). Her words suggest a common humanity: the shared experience of childhood, and dreams of a better life. Towner also notes, critically, that the same “clarity” and “professional skill” have always been critical tools for outspoken social critics, ancient or modern (501). Both biblical and modern prophets employ such tools to strengthen their clear condemnations of certain aspects of society. These qualities, then, now add to our growing understanding of modern prophecy. 

Towner’s third characteristic of ancient prophets as highly institutionalized is harder to pair with my modern definition and may very well be left out. Towner notes that we have “little warrant” to see ancient Israelite prophets as radicals who exist on the periphery (504). Instead, in his conception, it is their very existence within ancient societal institutions like the cult and kingdom which gives them the platform to prophesy to a large audience. Thunberg on the other hand, who started her activism as a child, hardly represents existing institutions. Instead, it is precisely her outsider identity which makes her such a strong voice for change. In a scathing rejection of Thunberg as a modern prophet, one historian writes that “the best way to think of Thunberg is to simply think of her as a child” (Boucher). It is her youth, according to Boucher, that leads Thunberg to see the world in binary terms and criticize the so-called “moral flexibility” that serves as a refuge of adult inaction (Boucher). So too was Amos an outsider in two ways. First, he was a southerner preaching in the Northern Kingdom (Attridge 1216). But more importantly, he set himself apart from fellow prophets during his famous row with the priest, Amaziah. Fed up with Amos’ miserable prophesying at the Bethel cult center, the sullen Amaziah commands Amos to return to Judah and leave the “king’s sanctuary” and “temple” of the Northern Kingdom at Bethel (Amos 7:12-13). Amos’ response is highly instructive, as he responds that he is “no prophet, nor a prophet’s son” (Amos 7:14). No, Amos is but a “herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees” (Amos 7:14). This mere agricultural worker and herdsman is the antithesis of Towner’s definition of the institutional prophet. He is at odds with the institution in which he operates but convinced of his truths. Though modern prophets can certainly be institutional players, they can also follow in Amos’ anti-institutional footsteps. 

Next, I would like to focus on the prophetic tone of suffering and redemption which extends from the Bible into modern prophecy. One truth in Towner’s institutional argument is that at the widest level, both the ancient and modern prophets suffer because their lives are intricately tied to the actions of their contemporaries. Towner argues that biblical prophets’ social responsibility forces them into a suffering role, because they share in the “disaster” of the very establishments subject to their criticism (504). Of course, for the ancients, the suffering derives from a tortured relationship to serve G-d to the dismay of peers. Jeremiah cries out “O LORD, you have enticed me, / and I was enticed; / you have overpowered me … I have become a laughingstock all day / long; everyone mocks me” (Jeremiah 20:7). The prophet is forced into this position, but due to utter conviction in the truth of his message, holds fast to his goal. For example, just a few verses later, Jeremiah praises G-d for delivering “the life of the needy / from the hands of evildoers” (Jeremiah 20:13). Thunberg emphasizes her own suffering to inspire others, claiming in her 2019 speech: “I shouldn’t be up here. I should be back in school on the other side of the ocean” (Remix). Her choice to speak to the U.N. instead of sitting quietly in class, though, demonstrates personal sacrifice in the name of a greater good. This serves as a good rhetorical strategy, but more broadly shows both biblical and modern prophets tie their personal suffering to hopes for a better world. 

So too do prophets throughout time stress the suffering of their fellow man while highlighting a future redemption. Isaiah, likely prophesying during the initial return to Judah from exile in Babylon, sums up the prophetic tropes of suffering and redemption (Attridge 914). He exclaims that his mission is to bring “good news to the / oppressed” and “proclaim liberty to the captives” (Isaiah 61:1). The prophet goes on to illustrate a future of “gladness,” “riches,” and “glory” in Zion (Isaiah 61:3; 61:6). Similarly, Thunberg explains: “We are at the beginning of a mass extinction” (Remix). Thus, she paints an image of not only a suffering man, but a suffering earth. Key to her argument, too, is the unspoken promise of a future where this “beginning” is somehow reversed through environmental action: a scientific redemption of past wrongs. Modern prophecy thus ties together suffering with hope for the future. 

Next, I would like to tie my definition of modern prophecy to the act of healing. In Patrick D. Miller’s book, The Religion of Ancient Israel, he makes a point of describing the ancient prophets’ intercessory acts of healing. For example, in I Kings, Elijah brings an ill child back to life after “there was no breath left in him” (I Kings 17:17). Isaiah also has a hand in healing, but his patient is King Hezekiah of Judah. After the king “had been sick” and recovered from his illness, the text explains that Isaiah had instructed the king to apply a “lump of figs” to his boils, so that the monarch could recover (Isaiah 38:9; 38:21). Again, as we have seen, the healing practices conducted by the ancient prophets are ascribed to the divine presence. In modern times, secular prophets like Thunberg argue that it is humans (i.e., powerful adults) who can heal a sick world. Healing societal ills is a key component of modern prophecy, though the agency to do so for modern prophets like Thunberg is not from the divine, but entirely human.  

Now, I will draw some conclusions about modern prophecy from Towner’s fourth biblical characteristic: message. That is, outside of style, rhetoric, and institutions, prophets’ messages must have some internal truth which resounds with the audience (505). Towner highlights the importance of Israelite prophets’ ability to “indict corruption” at whatever personal cost. The author cites Amos’ exclamation: “Alas [Woe] for those who are at ease in Zion,” as an example of Amos’ indictment of the overly comfortable élite (Amos 6:1). It is easy to draw a direct parallel between the ancients in this regard to modern prophets like Thunberg, who routinely indicts adults for their environmental inaction. She exclaims that all adults can talk about is “money,” and “fairy tales of eternal economic growth” (Remix). “How dare you!” she reproaches them, in near-biblical terms (Remix). This willingness among prophets to indict those in power relates to Miller’s description of the Hebrew word for prophet, nābî’, which comes from the Semitic root nābā’, “to call, proclaim, name” (Miller 178). That is, to proclaim or name things which others may not. There is something resonant throughout the ages about a figure willing to take on the establishment because they know there is some truth to their message. 

Finally, I would like to discuss the importance of ingenuity in prophecy. One major critique of Thunberg, which could be extended to other modern prophets, is Boucher’s claim that the Swedish activist is telling us “what we already know” (Boucher). That is, it is the widespread scientific consensus that humans are causing environmental issues. As I have explained, Boucher ascribes Thunberg’s passion to her binary approach to adult issues. But, as I have tried to argue, even Biblical outsiders have been named as prophets, and engaged in important acts of nābā’. The biblical prophets’ demands of return to the covenant are not entirely new, either. As Towner points out, there is a “conservative principle intrinsic” to our understanding of prophetism (509). That is, the biblical prophets call on society to return to the (conservative) covenant values with which, according to the Bible itself, it had been entrusted (509). Indeed, prophets like Amos’ frequent references to early Israelite history, like his discussion of Exodus (2:10; 9:7), demonstrate such a conservatism. Amos did not create the story of Exodus or the covenant, but he took it upon himself to amplify it. Thus, we can start to break down Boucher’s argument that repeating something we know disqualifies one from prophecy. A brief replacement of G-d with earth, and worship with environmental practices, suddenly transforms many biblical passages into direct corollaries for Thunberg’s actions. For example, Miller points out that “critique” of peer worship practices was a frequent theme of prophetic oracles (188). In the Bible, such critique would have been focused on the pagan worship of Baal, the Queen of Heaven, Tammuz, or other deities besides the G-d of Israel (188). If we replace the G-d of Israel with earth, and Baal with say, corporate finance, suddenly we have a direct parallel between biblical prophets and Thunberg. Even if just in amplification, modern prophets’ unique ability to command style and rhetoric (among other means) to provide necessary introspection is reason enough to call them prophets in the Hebrew sense of the word. 

The modern prophet commands the powerful style and rhetoric known to biblical prophets to convey important issues. Individuals like Thunberg, though drawing their inspiration from science and human ability instead of divine revelation, still match this new working sense of the modern prophet. While biblical messengers like Isaiah or Jeremiah viewed themselves as heralds of the divine word, so too do modern prophets like Thunberg work to translate important information into a message accessible to the masses. Just as biblical prophets called for a return to covenant obligations, so too does Thunberg inspire common people with her actions to return to a more harmonious relationship with the earth and one another. 

Works Cited

Attridge, Harold W. Harper Collins Study Bible. New York, NY, HarperOne, 2006. Print.  

Boucher, Ellen. “The Dangers of Depicting Greta Thunberg as a Prophet,” The Conversation, 

            December 12, 2019. https://theconversation.com/the-dangers-of-depicting-greta-

thunberg-as-a-prophet-128813.

Miller, Patrick D. The Religion of Ancient Israel. Louisville, KY, SPCK, 2000. Print. 

Remix News. “Former Archbishop of Canterbury compares Greta Thunberg to biblical prophet.” 

August 5, 2021. https://rmx.news/article/former-archbishop-of-canterbury-compares-

greta-thunberg-to-biblical-prophets/.

Towner, W. Sibley. “On Calling People ‘Prophets’ in 1970.” Interpretation 24.4, 1970. Web.

Biblical Trade Stigma in Medieval Times

A Jewish maxim teaches that the Bible, and its many values and moral constructs, were realized by those who lived before us as modeled in the Divine image, recorded, and passed down. So too did Medieval clergy look to Scripture, and other sources from antiquity, to strongly guide their moralization of labor. Certain stigmas about licit and illicit trade practices, recorded in the Pentateuch and which likely even pre-dated the Israelites, have continued to hold sway over thinkers even into today. In this essay, using Jacques LeGoff’s essay “Licit and Illicit Trades in the Medieval West” as a guide, I will show how Medieval ways of moralizing labor were largely based on similar ancient stigmas and taboos. Looking to the Pentateuch and touching on Greek thought, I will try to show that Biblical stigmas about mercantile trade and currency, among other taboos about purity and societal division, made their way into Medieval thought.

To start, the ethno-centric rules surrounding usury and other commercial activities presented in Deuteronomy tinge mercantile trade from the outset as something to be shunned, especially when dealing with clients in one’s own society. This tinge made its way to Medieval society in widespread bans on usury, money-handling and other forms of commercialism. This ethno- centric ancient Israelite view is represented in Deuteronomy 15:3, where different rules are drawn for exacting foreigners of their debt, and special care in the next verse paid to making sure there are no poor among “you.” “You,” in this sense, being the ancient Israelites. The merchant, reaching across societies to make money, is hardly working to help those among their own, and are instead contributing to their own coffers and the bank account of foreigners. The Book of Deuteronomy understands that poverty is inherent in groups of societies, noting that poor will“never cease” in the land, and that the Israelite needy require charity, help and brotherhood to overcome their woes. Clearly, a merchant who straddles the divide between one’s mother society and foreign societies, and merely to make money at that, will be looked down upon in this construct. In Medieval times, when Christian ideals of charity, salvation and brotherhood were at the forefront (at least for theologians), mercantile trade from a philanthropic perspective is filledwith issues. For example, LeGoff notes that Medieval commercial trade was “proscribed when conducted with an eye to profit,” but permitted in more charitable circumstances (58). Though the passages in Deuteronomy which we read did not outright ban mercantile activity, it was clearly looked down upon as less righteous than activities which either helped fellow men within Israelite society or at least involved infusing one’s own labor into their earnings. This view passed down to Medieval thinkers, who were grounded in ancient Israelite Scripture.

An ancient distinction made between work which is the result of human passion and work which results from the trade of others’ goods also continued through Medieval times. This emphasis on labor, and thus stigmatization of merchants, is highlighted in the Book of Proverbs. In the Proverbs, it is written that wealth accumulated in the name of vanity will vanish, while true labor leads to increased wealth. In pre-modern societies, long before refrigerators and other luxuries graced households, much trade between societies was likely based in luxury goods, food additives and other items not essential to survival. It is unlikely that premodern societies such as the ancient Israelites imported vast quantities of their foodstuffs and other goods as we do today, instead growing it themselves in fields governed by strict religious law. Thus, the merchant would likely trade in vain means, whether it be jewelry, art, or other luxurious items. And merchants trade the products of other’s labor. The same animosity which the left in the United States directs towards the insulated office-bound CEO, CFO and other businesspeople parallels this ancient dislike of merchants, in that people looked to others who traded the products of their own labor with disdain and frustration. Also notable is LeGoff’s critical realization that since man’s work in Medieval times was supposed to be like that of the Divine, which is recorded in Genesis and is remarkably productive and clearly labor-intensive, mercantile trade which simply benefits off of others’ labor is inherently inferior and un-G-dly.

The popular Medieval conception of wrongdoing in mercantile commerce lies not only in Deuteronomy and Proverbs, but in the Book of Sirach, which was key to Christian thinkers (it is not in the Jewish canon). It says in the Book of Sirach that merchants cannot keep themselves from doing wrong, as sin inserts itself into buying and selling. This conception, especially coming from early sources, makes sense. In a time before regulations could crack down on unstructured trades, and without the Internet or newspapers to communicate common prices, merchants could likely inflate prices to unreasonable measures, among other kinds of lies. The Book of Sirach is included in the canon of several Christian sects for several reasons, including that it reinforces Christian ideals of honesty and charity. The Book of Sirach’s dislike of currency and metal-based wealth, as opposed to what it views as the more honest labor of agriculture, sheds indirect disdain on merchants too. That is, the book notes that gold ruins people, destroying the fools who engage with it and corrupting those who follow it (31:5 – 31:7). This suggests again that merchants, whose trades of others’ material goods can leave them only with gold or other currency, are caught up in gold’s enticing vices. The final excerpts we read in class from the Book of Sirach further suggest that trades which allow humans to apply their passions and labor to objects are most desirable, leading to diligent careers and honorable. Merchants, excluded from such activities, are clearly also excluded from such honor.

The next similarity between medieval and ancient conceptions of moralizing labor is the distinction between which groups are permitted to engage in which kind of labor. LeGoff notes in his essay that certain activities were forbidden to Medieval clerics and religious authorities (58). This mirrors conceptions of class purity found in ancient Israelite societies, when priests and high priests were banned from engaging in impure activities, lest their holiness be muddied. Of course, as LeGoff rightfully notes, this thus lends a certain stigma to those laymen who do participate in the activities unfit for their holier brethren (59). This idea of purity serves as a clear link to the argument that medieval conceptions of moralizing labor mirrored the that of the ancients. LeGoff notes the blood taboo, which affects primarily those practitioners of death: executioners, butchers, even soldiers. So too, in ancient Israelite times, did an entire corpus of law emerge on how to properly cleanse those Priests who had to touch the unclean dead or work with dying animals. The link between ancient and Medieval, in taboos and ensuring purity of their clergy, is clear.

The component which worried me about arguing the ancient and medieval conceptions of moralizing labor were similar is their different view of asceticism, at least on paper. While the ancient Israelites and other ancient writers recognized a natural progression into social classes, with renowned works such as Plato’s The Republic developing schemes which divided society into different classes, this outlook clashes ideologically with Christian belief. In Christianity, “avarice,” “greed,” “gluttony” and innumerable other keywords associated with luxury were roundly condemned by church elders and the clergy. This condemnation is based on fundamental Christian tenets, including the inherent purity of man in his natural state, and thus the soil of trade and other activities, according to LeGoff. And, the idea that all people, rich or poor, are children of Christ and worthy of his salvation. In such a worldview, any desires to self- aggrandize or otherwise improve one’s net worth or belongings, on paper, was sinful. Now, regardless of this theological position, it is well-known, and supported by a quick glance at the bloody history, ruined châteaux and crumbling castles of medieval Europe, that despite theological inclinations to the contrary, Europeans in Medieval times still sought out money, worked to build defensible (and thus economically viable) estates and engaged in other forms of feudal commercialism.

In a way, though, ancient ways of moralizing economic activity continued in medieval times even after the transition to a widely accepted view that various types of trade were compatible, not exclusive from, Christian salvation. LeGoff notes that ancient views of various trades making up different parts of the society’s “body,” and thus each a key component, became popular (67). This “anthropomorphic image,” taken from the ancients and propagated by medieval theologians, is key. Clearly, ancient ideals can be twisted or renegotiated to fit a variety of needs. Lastly, ancient Greek and Roman techniques of associating certain trades and occupations with Divinity certainly resonate with the Medieval Christian tradition of patron sainthood for different trades and guilds (68).

In this short essay I sought to show a link between ancient modes of thought about licit and illicit practices in commercial activity. I drew a connection between various stigmas associated with trade which made their way from the Bible into (especially early) Medieval conceptions of moral labor, the ancient emphasis on purity, and a variety of brief ideas and images taken from the ancients and employed in Medieval thought, each of which can provide a book’s worth of exploration and elaboration.

* Page numbers refer to class reader from GOVT 20.03, Political Economy and Morality. References are to Jacques LeGoff’s essay “Licit and Illicit Trades in the Medieval West,” and the Bible.

Sacred Spaces: Differing Displays of Monotheism in Jerusalem

The spread of monotheism engendered new and difficult questions for rulers and architects in the Near East. No longer could religious justification for local political power be demonstrated in, say, a ziggurat to the city patron-deity (Taylor 48-49). With the growth of Abrahamic faith, which condemned idolatry and emphasized the universality and unknowable nature of the Divine, rulers needed to envision other ways of capturing man’s natural impulse to divide the sacred from the mundane. Few spots display the strategies used to obtain this effect better than the Temple Mount, the Jerusalem location holy to Jews, Muslims and Christians. In this paper, I will use examples from Jewish and Islamic religious structures on the Temple Mount to demonstrate how rulers and architects emphasize monotheism and religious justification through differing visual means. In Herod’s grand Second Temple, the mystery of the Divine was simulated through abstract, symbolic architectural elements, while the fashioners of the later Muslim Dome of the Rock did not shy away from heavier use of text and images in their design.

Historical and liturgical texts are all that remain of the destroyed Second Temple, but they paint an image in the modern reader’s mind of a space filled with abstract symbols of monotheism. In the Temple, visitors first entered the Court of the Gentiles, which was open to everybody (Armstrong 9). As the faithful proceeded inwards, “notices warned foreigners not to proceed further, on pain of death” (9). For the pious ancient Israelite, to pass through such a purity checkpoint undoubtedly provided a major boost in religious fervor — like permission to move into a higher level of spiritual awareness. This mood was conveyed through architectural means: sanctity represented by spatial division. Josephus Flavious wrote of these notices in ​Wars of the Jews,​ noting that upon one of the Temple’s inner partitions stood pillars, at equal distances from one another, declaring the law of purity, some in Greek, and some in Roman letters, that “no foreigner should go within that sanctuary” (5.194). Yet, besides these brief purity guidelines, a visitor to the Temple would not have encountered heavy text or imagery on the walls to guide their thoughts. Notably, earlier in his description, Josephus notes that the “magnificence” and “prospect” of the Temple was conveyed without paintings or engravings (5.191). One religious scholar highlights this distinction, explaining that through using beautiful metals and embroidery instead, the fashioners of the Temple avoided “threatening three-dimensional decorations such as carvings and statuary” (Elledge 46). According to Elledge, the positive impression that Herod’s Temple left on Josephus Flavius suggests that the veils and other ornaments of the Jewish structure offered an inoffensive and aesthetically pleasing architectural experience even to the most austere, aniconic monotheist (46). Armstrong sums up this architectural holiness created with minimal human expression: “Sacred space could still yield a powerful experience of a presence which transcended all anthropomorphic expression” (10). As we will see, the later Islamic Dome of the Rock embraces monothesism with more allowance of anthropomorphic artistic expression, including politicized text and visual art.

The currently standing Dome of the Rock represents monotheistic belief with different design elements than those described in the Second Temple. Inscriptions on its interior walls, like religious street signs, guide worshippers toward a proper state of mind, adding a flair of holiness and legitimacy. The inscriptions include powerful descriptions of Islamic monotheism, such as Verse III, “And say: praise be to God, Who has not taken unto Himself a son, and Who has no partner in Sovereignty, nor has He any protector on account of weakness” (Grabar 53). The implicit criticism of Jesus’ (“a son”) divinity is evident, a clear rebuke to Jerusalem’s Byzantine Christian character at the time of the Dome of the Rock’s construction. Inscriptions on the walls further guided believers towards the ​Islamic v​ iew of monotheism, outwardly criticizing Christianity’s three-pronged view of the Divine with quotes referring to Jesus as “only an apostle of God … God is only one God” (Grabar 53). It also warns Jews and Christians with a direct command, “O People of the Book! Do not exaggerate in your religion” (Islamic Awareness). So, while in the Second Temple, designers used abstract veils, empty spaces and other means to symbolize the untouchability of the Divine, in the Dome of the Rock designers looked to textual inscriptions to cement clear ideological views in the minds of visitors. Mosaics depicting vegetal motives, vases, cornucopias and wearable jewels also adorn the interior of the Dome of the Rock, to which Grabar assigns both political and socio-religious significance (47-48). He suggests that in using the aforementioned images, which are found in contemporaneous Byzantine and Persian artwork, the Umayyad decorators of this Islamic sanctuary intentionally employed “symbols belonging to the subdued or to the still active enemies of the Muslim state,” in a display of victory (48). It appears that the designers of the Dome of the Rock heavily considered their rejection of antecedent Abrahamic faiths and political victory while commissioning the building’s scriptural inscriptions. Though the quotes call for monotheistic thought (“God is only one God”), they are paired with earthly responses to Christianity and Judaism.

It is critical to remain aware of the different ideological aims​ o​ f the builders of the Jewish Second Temple and the Islamic Dome of the Rock. The fashioners of the Second Temple imbued the visiting faithful with symbolism in movement and vestment. Armstrong explains that visitors moved from the “ordinary mundane world” (outside) into the marginal realm of chaos, the so-called “primal sea,” to the ordered world inside the Temple that God had created (10). Instead of reading scriptural reminders of monotheism on the wall, visitors would physically “ascend” through ever-holier spaces of the Temple in preparation for their visit to the central sacrificial altar, surrounded by priests adorned with tunics symbolizing heaven, earth and the four natural elements (10). Given Judaism’s role in the Abrahamic story as the first major statement of monotheism, Second Temple architects may have felt less compelled to justify beliefs and usurp others’ views. Grabar notes the ​double​ task faced by the Islamic designers of the Dome of the Rock, of both encouraging monotheism and the universality of God and making clear that their faith has usurped previous attempts, like that of the Second Temple (55). Grabar describes the inscriptions as having a “missionary character,” accepting Christian and Hebrew forerunners but asserting the vitality of the “new faith” and the nascent state based on it (55).

Finally, it is rather difficult to pair Islam’s extreme monotheism with political pageantry and architecture in the Dome of the Rock, a dimension which Grabar examines. He argues that later pious Islamic accounts of churches and ornate Christian religious representations offered an air of ambivalence: impression without persuasian (55). But, the earliest Muslims and fashioners of the religion may have been more affected by Byzantine displays of grandeur than later documenters wanted to admit (55-56). The extent to which Islamic designers of the Dome were comfortable appropriating the ornate decorations of their Christian forerunners, especially given that its builder Abd al-Malik sought to “build for the Muslims a mosque that should be unique and a wonder to the world,” remains a topic for further inquiry (55). It is clear, though, that the designers of the Dome of the Rock were comfortable incorporating images and inscriptions into their structure — whatever their religious or political aims.

This brief glance at the Second Temple and the later Dome of the Rock show different ways in which architects fashioned their buildings in order to convey fundamental religious ideas. The Second Temple’s spatial planning moved pilgrims through ascending layers of holiness, largely free of textual inscription. Instead, visual stimulation was provided with elaborate curtains and vestments (Armstrong 8). The Dome of the Rock has fewer spaces; visitors do not experience a “move” towards the Divine presence through their footsteps. Instead, faithful are offered Quranic reminders of major tenets of their faith. Interestingly, thousands of years after the Temple period, Jewish synagogues regularly incorporate textual inscriptions on the walls. From prayers to scriptural quotes, these artistic inscriptions may be due to a lack of readily available prayerbooks during the Diaspora, or efforts to counter religious illiteracy among the general populace. The readiness with which diasporic Jewish institutions inscribe their walls and decorate their surfaces remain a topic for further study outside of this essay’s purview.

Works Cited

Armstrong, Karen.​Jerusalem: One City, Three Faiths.​*

Elledge, Casey D., et al. “The Veils of the Second Temple: Architecture and Tradition in the Herodian Sanctuary.”Eretz-Israel: Archaeological, Historical and Geographical Studies. 2015, pp. 40*-50*. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/24433090. Accessed 24 Jan. 2021.

Flavius, Josephus. ​The Wars of the Jews. ​Translated by William Whiston, 1737, 5.191-5.194, ​https://lexundria.com/j_bj/5.184-5.247/wst​. Accessed 24 Jan. 2021.

Grabar, Oleg. “The Umayyad Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem.” Ars Orientalis, vol. 3, 1959, pp. 33–62. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/4629098. Accessed 24 Jan. 2021.

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