AJECS 093 John M. Vonder Bruegge - Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John - Critical Geography and The Construction of An Ancient Space 2016 PDF

Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John
Ancient Judaism and

Early Christianity
Arbeiten zur Geschichte des antiken Judentums
und des Urchristentums
Founding Editor
Martin Hengel † (Tübingen)
Executive Editors
Cilliers Breytenbach (Berlin)

Martin Goodman (Oxford)
Editorial Board
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Tal Ilan (Berlin) – Judith Lieu (Cambridge)
Tessa Rajak (Reading/Oxford ) – Daniel R. Schwartz ( Jerusalem)
Seth Schwartz (New York)
VOLUME 93
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ajec

Mapping Galilee in Josephus,
Luke, and John
Critical Geography and the Construction
of an Ancient Space
By
John M. Vonder Bruegge
LEIDEN | BOSTON
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Vonder Bruegge, John M., author.

Title: Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John : critical geography and
the construction of an ancient space / by John M. Vonder Bruegge.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2016. | Series: Ancient Judaism and
early Christianity, ISSN 1871-6636 ; VOLUME 93 | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016019086 (print) | LCCN 2016023071 (ebook) | ISBN
9789004317321 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9789004317345 (E-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Galilee (Israel)—Historical geography. | Galilee
(Israel)—History. | Josephus, Flavius—Criticism and interpretation. |
Bible. New Testament—Geography.
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911/.3345—dc23
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For Heno Head and Bart Renkoski
∵
Contents
Acknowledgments ix
List of Figures x
1 Galilee and Critical Geography: The Lay of the Land 1

Introduction 1
Trajectory #1: Critical Geography 4
Trajectory #2: Galilee in History 11
The Point of Intersection 17
Galilee, by Way of Critical Geography 20
Mapping Galilee 29
2 Josephus’ Galilee 32
Introduction 32
Review of Scholarship 34
Josephus and Critical Geography 46
Josephus’ Galilee as “Firstspace” 51
Josephus’ Galilee as “Secondspace” 60
Josephus’ Galilee as “Thirdspace” 70
Josephus’ Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications 87
3 Luke’s Galilee 91
Introduction 91
Luke and Critical Geography 114
Luke’s Galilee as “Imaginative Geography” 117
Luke’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications 133
4 John’s Galilee 139
Introduction 139
John and Critical Geography 152
John’s Galilee and “Cartographic Meaning” 156
John’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications 175
viii CONTENTS
5 Galilee and Critical Geography: A New “Spatial Turn” 180

Challenge #1: Utilizing Critical Geography 181
Challenge #2: Understanding Ancient Space 186
Conclusion: The Quest for the Geographical Galilee 192
Bibliography 197
Index of Modern Authors 214
Index of Ancient Sources 218
Index of Geographical Features and Locales 229
Index of Subjects 233
Acknowledgments
This study is an adaptation of my 2011 Yale University dissertation and happily

retains the imprints and impressions of so many who had a hand in bringing
it to completion. Primary thanks go to my esteemed professors at Yale: Harold
Attridge, Wayne Meeks, Dale Martin, and Adela Yarbro Collins; and visiting
professors Jürgen Zangenberg and Paul Anderson. The somewhat eclectic
nature of this project draws upon all of them and would not have been pos-
sible without the wide range of expertise they brought together into one place.
Secondary thanks go to dear friends and colleagues at both Yale and
Northwestern College in Iowa. In particular, George Parsenios, Jeremy Hultin,
Emma Wasserman, Ward Blanton, Jim Mead, and Tara Woodward provided
stimulating conversations and thoughtful questions that helped me to view
the subject matter from different perspectives.
Special thanks go to those who were instrumental in preparing the man-
uscript for publication. Tessa Schild, Mattie Kuiper, and Maaike Langerak at
Brill guided the process from start to finish with acuity and alacrity. I would
certainly be remiss if I did not also acknowledge my outstanding student assis-
tants over the years at Northwestern College: Erin Vander Stelt, Abby Korthals,
Stephanie Grieme, and Kali Jo Wolkow. Kali Jo, in particular, put in long hours
on the manuscript and prevented countless oversights and inconsistencies
from ever reaching the printed page. Any shortcomings that remain are, of
course, my own.
Ultimate thanks go to God and family for support and sustenance of all
kinds. I am especially grateful to my parents, Roger and Linda Vonder Bruegge,
expert mapmakers who have taught me to opt for heaven while at the same
time not forsake the earth.
January 2016
Orange City, Iowa
List of Figures
3.1 Palestine in the first century CE: The conventional map 108

3.2 Palestine in the first century CE: A hypothetical map according
to Pliny 121
to Strabo 125
to Luke-Acts 129
CHAPTER 1
Galilee and Critical Geography: The Lay of the Land
Introduction
The topic of this project is Galilee. Although its boundaries have undergone
some fluctuation over time, it is largely the same territorial space today that it
has been for millennia, occupying an area extending east-west from the east-
ern shores of Lake Tiberias and the Jordan River to the outlying sections of
the Mediterranean coast and north-south from the Hula Basin to the Jezreel
Valley. Anywhere within that global space between roughly 32°40’–33°10’ N lat-
itude and 35°10’–35°40’ E longitude, Galilee is visible, its landscape and physi-
cal features: Mt. Meron/Jebel Jarmac (the area’s highest peak at 1,208 m), the
Rift Valley, the cliffs of Arbel, the famed Sea of Galilee itself. In fact, with the
exception of a major project in the 1950’s, when engineers drained the marshy
Lake Hula and altered the course of the Upper Jordan in order to create more
space for agriculture, the physical geography of Galilee has changed very little.
The land where Jesus taught and ministered, where Josephus fended off his
rivals and took his stand against the Roman army, where Christian pilgrims
gleaned inspiration by following in the footsteps of their spiritual forebears,
is still largely the same place that it was centuries ago. Galilee is a real place.
Ernest Renan went there in the early 1860s. Based upon his travels and his
extensive firsthand knowledge of the territory, he was able to pen detailed
descriptions of Galilee, which he then handed down to the reading public of
Europe in his popular 1863 publication, The Life of Jesus. In contradistinction
to the region around Jerusalem, which was “the saddest country in the world,”
Renan’s Galilee was a veritable locus amoenus:
Galilee . . . was a very green, shady, smiling district, the true home of the
Song of Songs, and the songs of the well-beloved. During the two months
of March and April, the country forms a carpet of flowers of an incom-
parable variety of colors. The animals are small, and extremely gentle—
delicate and lively turtle-doves, blue-birds so light that they rest on a
blade of grass without bending it. . . . In no country in the world do the
mountains spread themselves out with more harmony, or inspire higher
thoughts. . . . [E]verything which man cannot destroy breathes an air of
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004317345_002

2 CHAPTER 1
freedom, mildness, and tenderness, and at the time of Jesus it overflowed

with happiness and prosperity.1
Renan backed up his description by citing Josephus.

Renan’s formidable knowledge of ancient texts notwithstanding, Albert
Schweitzer was less than impressed. In his discussion of Renan in The Quest
of the Historical Jesus, he acknowledged that Renan “had the skill to make [his
readers] see blue skies, seas of waving corn, distant mountains, gleaming lilies,
in a landscape with Lake Gennesaret for its center, and to hear with him in the
whispering of the reeds the eternal melody of the Sermon on the Mount.”2 But
this was not so much an admission as an indictment. Part of Renan’s problem,
according to Schweitzer, was that his poetic depiction of Jesus’ life in Galilee
was simply in bad taste, a work of art on about the same level as a wax-image
shop-front display.3 His primary criticism of Renan, however, went further. For
Schweitzer, Renan’s most glaring artistic shortcoming epitomized French art
as a whole, “which in painting grasps nature with a directness and vigour, with
an objectivity” but “has in poetry treated it in a fashion which scarcely ever
goes beyond the lyrical and sentimental, the artificial (Ger. gemacht).”4 To put
it simply, Schweitzer did not favor Renan’s Galilee, because he had “made” it
himself and poorly at that, “perfum[ing] it with sentimentality”5 and with a
lyricism so intoxicating that it caused even the most educated readers to forget
that it simply was not real.
What is the “real” Galilee? Historians have long done away with the notion
that any historical account can be taken simply at face value, as a crystal clear
recounting of events in chronological order free from obfuscation, editorial-
izing, or bias. History is a construct, a container for ideologies, a product of
selective memory or even the invention whole cloth of a new tradition, and
the traditional task of the historian has been to take history, strip away all
that is fiction or filler, and make it “historical” again. Historical criticism is so
1 Ernest Renan, The Life of Jesus (New York: The Modern Library, 1927), 114–15.
2 Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus (ed. John Bowden; Minneapolis: Fortress
Press, 2001), 159.
3 Ibid., 159–60.
4 Ibid., 159, emphasis added. The passage quoted betrays a much deeper rift between German
and French scholarship at the time, the details of which it is not necessary to review here.
Certainly, Schweitzer was subject to a “German bias,” which would have influenced his opin-
ions about Renan. Eben Scheffler (“Ernest Renan’s Jesus: An appraisal,” Neot 33:1 [1999]:
179–97) argues that Renan’s contribution to historical Jesus scholarship has been given inad-
equate attention to this day in large part because of Schweitzer’s scathing critique.
5 Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus, 167.
Galilee And Critical Geography: The Lay Of The Land 3
pervasive that it even has the ability to strong-arm other critical approaches,
with the frequent result that fainter voices are silenced before they can make
their presence known at all.
Recently, however, new critical theories pertaining to geography and spa-
tiality have been gaining a hearing. Although no unifying theory has won the
day, the panoply of approaches has spun out of a growing felt need to recast
geography as a critical discipline, one every bit as critical as history. Along
these lines, a renewed interest in the geography of ancient texts has arisen,
which goes beyond the considerations previously given to space. Notions of
space, boundary, and regionalism are entering the mainstream of scholarship
pertaining to the ancient world, advocating a new, spatially-oriented look at
even the most traditional of sources in the process: “There is a geography of
Virgil, of Horace, and of Ovid. Indeed nearly all literature is open to a geo-
graphic reading, particularly history.”6 Such “geographic reading,” however, is
not the same as “historical geography.” A geographic reading involves less the
spatial and regional reality than the perception of that reality in the mind of
the author, manifest in narration and in the interaction of the main characters
with that space. Jonathan Z. Smith, in his study of place and ritual, goes so
far as to espouse a distinction between space and place: space becomes place
when it is filled with meaning.7
Again, the topic of this project is “Galilee,” a designation, both ancient and
modern, for a spatial construct that has gripped the collective imagination of
scholars in recent years. As such, this project must deal with two major intel-
lectual trajectories: one dedicated to the theorization of space, to the devel-
opment of a critical spatiality, to the creative geographic reading of texts; the
other devoted to the representation of 1st c. Galilee, to a thorough understand-
ing of its people and culture, to a responsible historical reading of texts. The
goal of this first chapter is not merely to occupy the space where these two
trajectories intersect, but to deliberately route them in such a way as to make
them collide.
6 Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, Mich.:
University of Michigan Press, 1991), 8.
7 Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1987), 28.
4 CHAPTER 1
Trajectory #1: Critical Geography
In 1971, Ronald Abler, John Adams, and Peter Gould made a distinction between
“geographical thinking” and “geography.”8 It was a distinction they felt could be
traced back for millennia, the former being well-represented in the ancient
world by such figures as Pausanias, the latter typified in the work of Ptolemy.
At the heart of their distinction, however, was a thoroughly modern(ist) con-
cept: the notion that “geography” was a science, inherently superior for estab-
lishing “absolute location” in a world begging to be mapped and mapped with
accuracy. To put it another way, the science of geography was more adept
at answering the discipline’s two great questions: where? and what is where?
There have been, of course, some setbacks to the development of scientific
geography over the centuries. Theological bias, in particular, contributed to its
deterioration during the Middle Ages, because it furnished “answers to where
questions, which, by modern standards, are not only erroneous but positively
disastrous.”9 Happily, however, the science of geography endured, spurred on
by the steady stream of explorers who were sent forth into “uncharted” ter-
ritories and saddled with the responsibility of “filling the world map with
places and names,” a task that has kept geographers busy for the better part of
2000 years.10
That was 1971. Arguably, Abler, Adams and Gould’s account of scientific geog-
raphy is even more “disastrous” (by postmodern standards, that is) than any
geography that emerged from the misguided, superstition-choked Christians
of the Middle Ages. What one gleans from Abler, Adams and Gould by reading
between the lines is less a sense of what geography encompassed throughout
its history since Ptolemy, and more a sense of what encompassed geography
during the middle of the 20th c.: a predisposition for the accumulation of spa-
tial knowledge through empirical means and the quantitative and mathemati-
cal description of patterns within spatial data. In 1971, however, geography was
teetering on the brink of a critical explosion that would challenge lingering dis-
ciplinary claims to being, “if not quite a consort to the Queen of the Sciences,
then at least prominent among her courtiers.”11 More than four decades later,
geography continues to develop its own critical discourse, one that began as
8 Ronald Abler, John S. Adams, and Peter Gould, Spatial Organization: The Geographer’s
View of the World (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1971), 70–71.
9 Ibid., 65.
10 Ibid., 62.
11 Derek Gregory, Ideology, Science and Human Geography (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1978), 38.
an import from other disciplines but is now being exported throughout the
social sciences and the humanities in the form of a new critical spatiality.
What follows is not intended to be a complete overview of the history of
“critical geography,” a term that, for the purposes of this study, is somewhat
loosely applied as an umbrella concept for a number of related spatially-
oriented approaches.12 Nevertheless, certain highlights deserve mention in
order to give a sense of the field’s trajectory and the importance of develop-
ments in recent decades.
The Roots of “Involution”

Immanuel Kant’s primary claim to fame as the founder of critical philosophy
is not likely to be challenged by even the most fervent rekindling of interest
in his geographical thought, but it is worth noting at the outset that he lec-
tured on geography nearly 50 times over the course of his august career.13 In
his Inaugural Dissertation of 1770, “On the Form and Principles of the Sensible
and Intelligible World,” he argued that a priori knowledge of time and space
was possible because both were essentially empty concepts of “pure intuition,”
subjective “conditions” presupposed by the mind and unavoidably catego-
rized through experience.14 The distinction that evolved from this, between
12 As such, it overlaps considerably with other terms like “human geography” (Trevor
J. Barnes and James S. Duncan, “Introduction,” in Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and
Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape [ed. Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan;
New York: Routledge, 1992], 2) and “imaginative mapping” (Dean Bechard, “Paul Among
the Rustics: the Lystran Episode [Acts 14:8–20] and Lucan Apologetic,” CBQ 63:1 [Jan
2001]: 87 n.10). For other helpful, brief, and accessible overviews of key moments and key
players in the development of geography as a critical discipline, see James W. Flanagan,
“Ancient Perceptions of Space/Perceptions of Ancient Space,” Semeia 87 (1999): 15–44,
especially 21–30; Michael C. Frank, “Imaginative Geography as a Travelling Concept:
Foucault, Said, and the spatial turn,” in European Journal of English Studies 13:1 (April
2009): 61–77, particularly 66–68; John Holmes, “Fifty Years of Disciplinary Flux within
Human Geography: changing sociocognitive subdisciplines and subcultures,” Australian
Geographer 40:4 (Dec 2009): 387–407; Stephan Günzel, “Space and Cultural Geography,”
in Travelling Concepts for the Study of Culture. Vol. 2 of Concepts for the Study of Culture,
(ed. Birgit Neumann and Ansgar Nünning; New York: De Gruyter, 2012), 307–320; Beat
Kümin and Cornelie Usborne, “At Home and in the Workplace: A Historical Introduction
to the ‘Spatial Turn,’ ” History and Theory 52 (Oct 2013): 305–318, especially 311–314 for the
summary of feminist theorizing about space.
13 Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory
(New York: Verso, 1989): 36 n.5.
14 Immanuel Kant, Kant’s Inaugural Dissertation of 1770 and Early Writings on Space. (trans.
John Handyside; Chicago: The Open Court Publishing Co., 1929), 56, 60. Cf. J.A. May,
6 CHAPTER 1
the chorological science of geography and the chronological science of history,

developed into an “intellectual division of labor,” which was to hold sway for
the next 200 years.15 Edward Soja teases out Kant’s legacy even further: not
only did Kant set the divide between space and time, but in the first half of the
20th c., it was temporal sequence, as opposed to spatial analysis, that became
the preferred platform for discourse within social theory.16 Thus, history and
geography theoretically divided, and it was geography that was relegated to the
background while the historical imagination took center stage. Nestled snugly
within this “neo-Kantian cocoon,” geography was content to go about its busi-
ness wearing theoretical blinders.17
Kant is not alone, however, in the bestowal of an isolated and thereby dis-
tinctively a-theoretical legacy upon geographical thought. Auguste Comte’s
positivism has also been influential. The positivist insistence upon the “real”
along with the privileging of direct experience, which inhibited more critical
reflection in the sciences in general, led eventually to the declaration of geog-
raphy as a “positive science” by Carl Sauer in 1925.18 In his study of geography’s
Comtean legacy during this period, Derek Gregory articulated these epistemo-
logical foundations, contending that geography had gone far too long without
critical self-reflection.19 Its positivist outlook was not intentionally Comtean;
in fact, it was not intentional at all.
Curiously, Soja makes no mention of Comte, and Gregory makes no mention
of Kant. But their assessments are essentially the same: with rare exception,
the state of geography during the first half of the 20th c. is one of theoretical
passivity, “totally dependent on constructs developed in other disciplines,”20
Kant’s Concept of Geography and its Relation to Recent Geographical Thought (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1970), 111–12.
15 Anthony Giddens, Social Theory and Modern Sociology (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987),
142; Allan Pred, Making Histories and Constructing Human Geographies: the Local
Transformation of Practice, Power Relations, and Consciousness (Boulder: Westview Press,
1990), 6. Both Giddens and Pred allude to the fact that, although the distinction may be
traced back to Kant, Kant’s writings about space are admittedly inconsistent. Cf. May,
Kant’s Concept of Geography, 124–25.
16 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 36.
17 Ibid., 37.
18 Derek Gregory, Ideology, 25–29. Gregory discusses the influence of Comtean positivism in
considerable detail but is careful to distinguish between Comte’s influence broadly stated
and a wholesale acceptance of Comte’s precepts by individual geographers.
19 Ibid., 47–48.
20 Ibid., 38.
and relying upon “processes whose deeper theorization was left to others.”21
By the 1970’s, however, as geography struggled to shake free from its Kantian/
Comtean roots,22 the climate began to change. The older standards of quanti-
tative analysis and areal differentiation, practices that occupied the front lines
of geography during its mid-century “involution,”23 resulted in a backlash of
discontent and a groundswell of interest among geographers who wanted to
reassert their own discipline into the broader realm of theoretical discourse.
The hope was that geography would not only open itself up to more critical
influences, but that others, in turn, might also begin to realize simply that
“geography makes a difference.”24
To a limited degree, these changes were already underway. In Germany, for
example, the academy had already embraced concepts like Städtegeschichte
and Landesgeschichte, integrating them into university structures, but these
concepts were a long way from the emerging theoretical views of space.25
During the mid-20th c., Carl Schmitt developed his concept of Landnahme in
the context of his discussion of European law. The term was a deliberate homo-
phonic wordplay on the Greek word nomos, which for Schmitt went beyond
its usual sense of a “sollens” enacted into law.26 Nomos was something more
fundamental and more fundamentally spatial. As an embodiment of the polis,
it derived its meaning from “dem inneren Maß eines konstituierenden, rau-
mordnenden Ur-Aktes.”27 In other words, land-taking formed an essential part
of culture-making.
In social theory, the reassertion of geography as a critical discipline had
an even more significant impact, most notably through the work of Marxist

22 Gregory’s own study (Ideology), published in 1978, is a direct result of this struggle. It is,
in essence, a venting of frustrations and a declaration of a new critical geography, one
which “will not be able to stumble blindly along corridors cut by practitioners from other
disciplines” (54). See also Derek Gregory, Ron Martin and Graham Smith, eds., Human
Geography: Society, Space, and Social Science (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota
Press, 1994), 3.
23 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 35: a term Soja uses in order to capture the way in which
geographical analysis turned inward and limited its theoretical engagement with other
social disciplines.
24 Doreen Massey, “Issues and Debates,” in Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey,
John Allen and Philip Sarre; Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 7.
25 Kümin and Usborne, “At Home and in the Workplace,” 308.
26 Carl Schmitt, Der Nomos der Erde im Völkerrecht des Jus Publicum Europeaum (2. Auf.;
Berlin: Denker & Humblot, 1950, 1974), 47.
27 Ibid.
8 CHAPTER 1
geographers such as David Harvey, Edward Soja, and Mike Davis. The inaugura-
tion of this new direction in Marxist critical geography is what has been called
in retrospect the Marxist “spatial turn.”28
The Spatial Turn

There is no easy way to outline in simple terms the development or current
state of critical Marxist geography. Nevertheless, the developing two-way
street that crosses the boundary between geography and social theory, where
geography has become increasingly “theorized” and social theory has become
increasingly “spatialized,” is due in large part to those engaged in this process
of “mapping on the left.”29 Geography during the 1970’s could lay no unique
claim to Marxist ideology; it was, as usual, following trends established in
other disciplines, and at least at the outset, its application of Marxist theory
was hardly ambitious. Even so, new interest in the construction of spaces that
were reflective of dominant power structures (and in the political power of
space to support or undermine such structures) arose from a number of geog-
raphers, David Harvey perhaps being foremost among them, who identified
themselves in Marxist terms.30 Harvey’s forays into critical spatiality helped
lay the groundwork for the intriguing and at times uncomfortable fusing of
geography and western Marxism.
Harvey, however, had an important precursor. At roughly the same time as
the emergence of Harvey’s Marxist geography, the French Marxist tradition,
which had been evolving in the context of an ongoing spatial discourse har-
kening back to Cubism, the Surrealist movement, and the Annales School, was
finally gaining recognition in North America through the writings of Henri
Lefebvre.31 Though it is difficult to boil down Lefebvre’s influence into just a few
28 Edward Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” in
Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey, John Allen and Philip Sarre; Cambridge:
Polity Press, 1999), 262; Massey, “Issues,” 11. Gregory et al. (Human Geography, 3) refer to
the same phenomenon as simply the “Marxist turn.”
29 Brian Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies: The Geographical Imagination in Contemporary
American Culture (London: Pluto Press, 1998), 42–50.
30 It is difficult to overstate Harvey’s influence, since his own Marxist “turn” was rather
abrupt, punctuating his later ideology all the more. Compare the largely traditional,
empirical approach of Harvey’s Explanation in Geography (New York: St. Martin’s Press)
published in 1969 to the overtly Marxist outlook of Social Justice and the City (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins UP) published four years later. Cf. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 52.
31 The delay of Lefebvre’s influence, according to Soja (Postmodern Geographies, 46), is
explainable in terms of the differences between the surging Marxism of the English
speaking world, which featured a consistently anti-spatial bias, and that which followed
salient points, for the purposes of this discussion he is responsible for two sig-
nificant trends that became well integrated into contemporary spatial theory.
The first is the spatialization of western Marxist theory. Unfettered by the need
to defend a specifically historicist reading of Marx, Lefebvre’s Marxism was dis-
tinctively anti-reductionist, flexible and malleable, as his criticisms of what
he deemed totalizing trends, such as Sartre’s existentialism and Althusser’s
structuralism, revealed.32 His own assessment of the capitalist production of
space, of the way in which all space, whether inside or outside urban areas, was
becoming increasingly “urbanized,” led to his insistence that the production of
space come under more critical scrutiny, even if that meant shifting the locus
of discussion away from historical processes.33 The result was a challenge to
the foundational historicism of the traditional Marxist critique; Marxism was
becoming increasingly spatialized.
The association of such disparate terms as “Marxism” and “geography,” how-
ever, was not the only strange combination to spring from Lefebvre’s spatial-
izing social theory. Another term, notoriously problematic in whatever setting,
was thrown into the mix: postmodernism. If postmodernism and Marxism
have been conceptually at odds with one another within social theory in the
main, geography has in the last several years openly courted both in such a
way as to challenge their traditional (binary?) opposition. Lefebvre’s work,
particularly in his masterwork The Production of Space,34 is important in this
respect, especially for its influence upon Soja, who now, as much as any other,
serves as the standard-bearer for this strange blend of epithets.35 As a result,
Soja, who stands in a direct line with Lefebvre’s spatialized Marxism, would go
in the tradition of French socialism. Thus, “the distinctively French debates on the theo-
rization of space rarely penetrated the more historicist armour of the other, non-Latin
Marxisms.” (Ibid., 47).
32 Henri Lefebvre, Au-delà du structuralisme. (Paris: Editions Anthropos, 1971), 313ff; cf.
Stuart Eldon, “Mondialisation before globalization: Lefebvre and Axelos,” in Space,
Difference, Everyday Life: Reading Henri Lefebvre (eds. Kanishka Goonewardena, Stefan
Kipfer, Richard Milgrom, Christian Schmid; New York: Routledge, 2008), 86.
33 Henri Lefebvre, The Survival of Capitalism: Production of the Relations of Production.
(trans. Frank Bryant; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976), 17.
34 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith; Oxford:
Blackwell, 1991).
35 Humorously, Soja himself recently listed over 15 different qualifiers that have been
applied to his brand of geography over the years. Without showing favoritism, he does
acknowledge that the unadorned title of “geographer no longer seems enough.” Edward
Soja, “Taking Space Personally,” in The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives
(ed. Barney Warf and Santa Arias; New York: Routledge, 2009), 11.
10 CHAPTER 1
on to produce one of the most important manifestoes of spatial theory under

the title Postmodern Geographies in 1989. The specifics of Soja’s geographical
thought will be discussed in further detail below.
Marxist geography was not without its critics, however, even from within
the field of geography itself. Margaret Fitzsimmons used the platform of the
“journal of radical geography,” Antipode, to criticize Marxist geography for the
lack of attention paid to nature and environmental concerns.36 For Jon May
and Nigel Thrift, the “spatial turn” remained bogged down in the language of
metaphor in part due to its over-isolation of spatial concepts.37 Marxist geogra-
phy had also neglected to draw upon the concurrent advances of feminist geog-
raphy, which, as Gillian Rose pointed out in her review of Soja’s Postmodern
Geographies, had itself been chipping away at the hegemony of historicism.38
The fact that aspects of traditional Marxism, particularly the Marxist historical
narrative, have undergone a degree of scrutinization and criticism in recent
decades is also understood by some to be a key factor in the “spatial turn”: the
very survival of a Marxist perspective called for serious adaptation.39 Whether
or not this is the case is an open question, but whatever the cause-and-effect
relationship, the surge of interest in a geographically-oriented Marxism sub-
sequently combined with its perceived declining cache has resulted in a cru-
cial step forward for all aspects of spatial theory. The lines of communication
between geography and other discourses, notably critical social theory, were
open for the first time in decades, and geography was finally in a position to
make a difference to those outside of its traditional disciplinary pale. A devel-
oping body of critical spatial theory was waiting in the wings, ready to diffuse
itself throughout the humanities and social sciences in the form of a new spa-
tialized discourse.
The New Human Geography

Geography has long recognized a bifurcation of interests within its own dis-
ciplinary boundaries, commonly divided along the lines of “physical” and
36 Margaret Fitzsimmons, “The Matter of Nature,” Antipode 21:2 (1989): 106–20.
37 Jon May and Nigel Thrift, “Introduction,” in Timespace: Geographies of Temporality
(ed. May and Thrift; New York: Routledge, 2001), 5.
38 Gillian Rose, “Review of Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies and David Harvey, The
Condition of Postmodernity,” Journal of Historical Geography 17:1 (1991), 118.
39 Gregory, Martin and Smith, Human Geography, 4; Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies,
45. Soja’s own discomfort with this wedding of terms may be evident in a section of
Postmodern Geographies entitled, “The postmodernization of Marxist geography,” where,
by the end, “Marxist” is dropped altogether, and the preferred nomenclature that emerges
is “postmodern critical human geography.”
“human.” Although the field of “Human Geography” is hardly a recent develop-

ment, it nevertheless has become the umbrella term for the amalgam of critical
geographies that have burgeoned in recent years. In the interest of “lowering
the capitals”40 and discarding along with them former notions of disciplin-
ary territorialism, the new critical human geography has chosen to embrace
a pluralism of approaches among geographical theorists as well as to invite
those who have been traditionally deemed as outsiders to participate in the
dialogue. The recognition that, to put it simply, “geography matters,” is perhaps
the best way to describe how the current unsettled nature of human geography
is holding itself together.41 Gregory has tried to map out how various social
theory approaches have interacted and influenced one another and, in turn,
influenced human geography.42 He cites and discusses a number of these: clas-
sical Marxism, western Marxism, feminist theory, structuration theory, post-
modernism, and poststructuralism. After exploring the intricacies of each, the
bottom line, according to Gregory, is that the multiple voices are indeed more
of a cacophony than a chorus, but neither should these voices be silenced. We
are to live with the “theoretical dissonance.”43
Trajectory #2: Galilee in History
Whereas geography has embraced a critical and theoretical discourse about

space in recent years, even challenging the long-held hegemony of historicism,
Galilee scholarship on the whole has been moving in the opposite direction.
Even a cursory overview of biblical scholarship indicates that a noticeable
surge of interest in the history of Galilee has occurred within the past few
decades. Sean Freyne’s 1980 opus magnum, Galilee: From Alexander the Great
to Hadrian, serves as a symbolic icebreaker for this most recent push, allow-
ing numerous others to make their own forays into the research while floating
somewhat freely within its wake. The sheer volume of information culled from
40 Gregory, Martin and Smith, Human Geography, 4. The “capitals” to which they refer
are the capital letters often placed at the beginning of disciplinary designations (e.g.
“Geography” as opposed to “geography”), a phenomenon reinforced by the departmental
organization of the university. These capitals imply a hegemonic approach to knowledge,
where knowledge is classified neatly within and governed by different academic fields,
highlighting the boundaries that restrict interdisciplinary dialogue.
41 Massey, “Issues,” 6.
42 Derek Gregory, “Social Theory and Human Geography,” in Gregory, Martin and Smith,
eds., Human Geography, 78–109.
43 Ibid., 105.
12 CHAPTER 1
the ancient sources, especially Josephus, and coalesced into a flowing narra-
tive of historical inquiry is invaluable in itself, but it was also a benchmark and
a sounding board, something that scholars could enlist in their own historical
reconstructions of Galilee, whether in support or in critique.
Early Exploration of Galilee

The western, post-biblical fascination with Galilee, however, has a much longer
and richer history than what has occurred in the past few decades. Comments
on the Galilee region made their way into early Christian pilgrimage accounts,
though not initially.44 The Bordeaux Pilgrim does not include any, perhaps
because there was nothing of note to see in comparison with Jerusalem, but
Egeria creates something meaningful out of the apparently limited remains.45
When she sees the dilapidated state of the synagogue in Capernaum, she
explains it in terms of Jesus’ curse against the city (Matt 11:23; Luke 10:15).
The Piacenza Pilgrim also comments on Galilee, emphasizing its fertility in
a manner somewhat akin to Josephus’ geographical excursuses,46 but on the
whole, Galilee was not the primary focus of those traveling to the “holy land.”
Jerusalem occupied center stage while Galilee remained in the shadows.47
This situation remained largely unchanged through most of the modern
era of biblical scholarship, but the establishment of foundations dedicated to
the exploration of the holy land fostered at least a sustained, if still derivative,
interest in Galilee. The Palestine Exploration Fund was created by the British
in 1865 under the leadership of Charles Warren,48 and German counterparts,
the Deutscher Palästina-Verein and the Deutsches Evangelisches Institut für
Altertumswissenschaft, were established by the end of the century.49 The
44 Blake Leyerle, “Pilgrims in the Land: Early Christian Perceptions of the Galilee,” in
Galilee Through the Centuries: Confluence of Cultures (ed. Eric Meyers; Winona Lake,
Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 345–57; cf. eadem, “Landscape as Cartography in Early Christian
Pilgrimage Narratives,” JAAR 64:1 (1996): 119–43.
45 Leyerle, “Pilgrims in the Land,” 351. See also Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy:
Palestine in Christian History and Thought (New Haven: Yale UP, 1992), 110, who mentions
that the Bordeaux Pilgrim may have had a Jewish guide, another possible reason for the
focus on Jerusalem.
46 Leyerle, “Pilgrims in the Land,” 353.
47 Wilken, The Land Called Holy, 105.
48 Graham I. Davies, “British Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An
Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and
J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 37.
49 Sean Freyne, “Galilean Studies: Problems and Prospects,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected
Essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 3.
French eventually founded the École Biblique in 1920.50 Freyne points out
that these institutions grew out of a desire to combine religious dedication
with the rigors of scholarship and inspired a number of scholars to harmonize
the biblical texts with the biblical landscape.51 The emphasis on viewing the
land apologetically in support of the historicity of the biblical narrative was
partially a response to the 19th c. liberal lives of Jesus, but it was also a rush
to fill a vacuum left by those same accounts of Jesus, which, on the whole,
paid little attention to the cultural backdrop in an attempt to universalize the
ethical message understood to be the epitome of Jesus’ preaching.
Meanwhile, Jewish scholarship in Europe, inspired in part by the rabbinic
ties to Galilee that began in the 2nd c. CE, began taking its own interest in
Galilee’s history.52 By the middle of the 20th c., Jewish scholars were instru-
mental in training the first generation of Israeli archaeologists. The Institute of
Archaeology at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, founded by Eleazar Sukenik,
eventually took up this task, and Sukenik’s son, Yigael Yadin, pioneered the
substantial excavations at Hazor.53
The Archaeology of Galilee

By the middle of the 20th c., archaeology was changing significantly as a dis-
cipline, and the development of more advanced archaeological techniques
had resulted in its near-canonization as a “science.” Old models included tech-
niques such as the “shaft-and-tunnel” method, based directly on military min-
ing handbooks.54 Although the newer methods did not necessarily preclude
the religious concerns of the discipline’s early pioneers, William F. Albright
being perhaps the most famous among them, they were a definite improve-
ment. Archaeology took great strides in developing more reliable dating
methods based upon stratigraphic analysis during this time. With Kathleen
Kenyon’s excavation of Jericho, archaeology as a whole began to adopt both
a more reliable methodology and a more historical critical tone. As a result
of Kenyon’s improved methods, the shortcomings of John Garstang’s previous
50 Pierre Benoit, OP, “French Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An
J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 63.
51 Sean Freyne, “Galilean Studies,” 3.
52 Ibid., 5–6.
53 Amihai Mazar, “Israeli Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction
to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F. Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell
Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 110.
54 Davies, “British Archaeologists,” 37.
14 CHAPTER 1
work at Jericho became apparent.55 Archaeology was asserting itself as a dis-

cipline that could not just fill in the gaps but even provide a corrective to the
traditional understandings of historical narratives. The relationship between
spade and text continues to be a tenuous one, but the pride of place tradition-
ally given to ancient texts has yielded to an increased sense of both disciplin-
ary independence and interpretive interdependence.
Although full-scale excavations of significant “textbook” sites continue,
archaeology in recent decades has become increasingly less site-specific.
Survey methods had their precursors in French and German cartographic
interests of the 19th c.,56 but in their more modern manifestation as proven
archaeological techniques, they tend to emphasize breadth rather than depth
in an effort to read the archaeological record at the regional as well as the local
level. In Galilee specifically, the greatest initial strides in taking a regional
approach came from a series of surveys and synagogue excavations by the
Meiron Excavation Project sponsored by Duke University during the 1970’s.57
Based upon a growing sense of diversity within early Judaism in general as
well as the emerging archaeological evidence, Eric Meyers advised resistance
to any oversimplified portrait of Galilee that would characterize it as a place of
unsettled religious foment and ignorance of the Law. In an announcement that
would contribute significantly to subsequent analyses of Galilean history and
social situation, Meyers stated rather definitively that, “to view Galilee as one
region with one culture is simply no longer possible.”58 The primary division,
one between Upper Galilee and Lower Galilee, was not new—both Josephus
and the Mishnah make the same distinction—but it was now recognized as
being something more than just a historical breakdown. Upper Galilee had
remained less affected by Roman influences, including urbanization, and
showed more affinities with the Golan region than with Lower Galilee.59 None
of this, however, mitigated the fact that 1st c. Galilee, whether Upper or Lower,
was according to Meyers essentially Jewish. He enlisted different strands of
archaeological evidence to support this view, the most important of which
55 Ibid., 48–50.

56 Freyne, “Galilean Studies,” 4.
57 Philip J. King, “American Archaeologists,” in Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An
J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 33–34.
58 Meyers, “Cultural Setting,” 693.
59 Idem, “Reappraisal,” 115–31; idem, “Jesus and His Galilean Context,” in Archaeology and
the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R.
Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 58–59.
were the distribution of finds such as miqva’ot, stone vessels, and aniconic
coinage, which would indicate widespread halakhic concerns.60
Excavations and surveys since the Meiron Excavation Project have largely
confirmed Meyers’ characterization. James F. Strange’s work at Sepphoris has
led him to similar conclusions regarding Galilee’s strident support for purity
laws and Temple authority.61 Mark Chancey, based on extensive study of the
archaeological evidence across a number of Galilean sites, dismissed the notion
of a “Gentile Galilee,” arguing instead that Gentile influences remained on the
periphery of Galilee until the 2nd c. CE when there was an influx of Roman
soldiers.62 Archaeological surface surveys of Galilee conducted by Zvi Gal63
and, later, Uzi Leibner,64 have demonstrated that whereas Galilee declined in
population following the Assyrian conquest, it experienced significant growth
following the Hasmonean conquest. According to Leibner, these settlement
patterns are best understood as evidence of Jewish migration from Judea in
the south during the Hasmonean period, lending credence to the notion that
Galilee in the 1st c. remained connected to Temple cult and concerns. Izchak
Magen’s study of stone vessels in Galilee seems to confirm the interest in purity
regulations.65 Roland Deines, in his discussion of Pharisaic influence on Galilee
in the late Second Temple Period, summarizes: “The general picture . . . does
60 Eric M. Meyers and A. Thomas Kraabel, “Archaeology, Iconography, and non-Literary
Written Remains,” in Early Judaism and Its Modern Interpreters (ed. Robert A. Kraft and
George W.E. Nickelsburg; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 175–210.
61 James F. Strange, “First Century Galilee from Archaeology and from the Texts,” in
Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine
Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press,
1997), 43–45.
62 Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002), 28–62,
but also chs. 3 and 4, in which he covers the archaeological data in detail.
63 Zvi Gal, Lower Galilee During the Iron Age, (ASOR Dissertation Series 8; Winona Lake:
Eisenbrauns, 1992), 108–109.
64 Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee: An
Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism 127
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009,) 319–326.
65 Izchak Magen, The Stone Vessel Industry in the Second Temple Period: Excavations at Ḥimza
and the Jerusalem Temple Mount (Judea and Samaria Publications 1; Jerusalem: Israel
Exploration Society, Israel Antiquities Authority, 2002) 160–161. Purity concerns were not
only geographically diverse, but they were also resistant to social stratification. Both stone
vessels and miqva’ot were utilized by the poor as well as the elite. See Susan Haber, “Going
Up to Jerusalem: Pilgrimage, Purity, and the Historical Jesus,” in Travel and Religion in
Antiquity (Studies in Christianity and Judaism/Études sur le christianisme et le judaïsme
21; ed. Philip A. Harland; Waterloo, Ont.: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2011,) 56.
16 CHAPTER 1
not allow for a separate Galilean religious practice or identity against Judea.”66
Archaeology, however, has not been the only voice.
The Historical Jesus in Galilee

Although there is no doubt that archaeology has been a significant driver
of Galilee research over the past few decades, a number of important stud-
ies have been driven by broader historical questions. Representative among
these would be Sean Freyne’s monograph from 1980, mentioned above, which
remains the standard overview of the history of Galilee. After its publication,
Meyers criticized Freyne’s relatively poor handling of archaeological evidence,67
but it is noteworthy that, in the end, they agreed on the question of Galilee’s
predominantly Jewish character.
In the years that followed, however, not everyone agreed over the interpre-
tation of the historical data. It is no coincidence that the interest in Galilee has
arisen at the same time as the latest surge in historical Jesus research.68 Nor is
it a coincidence that depictions of Galilee are as numerous and varied as depic-
tions of the historical Jesus. In the service of a Cynic Jesus, Galilee is portrayed
as heavily hellenized and fundamentally urban.69 In the service of a “Jewish”
Jesus, Galilee is nearly untouched by hellenizing influences and largely rural.70
In the service of a “revolutionary” Jesus, the population of Galilee is both
urban and rural, and the two groups do not get along.71 All of these positions
rely on appeals to a variety of archaeological and textual evidence. In terms
66 Roland Deines, “Religious Practices and Religious Movements in Galilee: 100 BCE–
200 CE,” in Vol. 1 of Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods: Life, Culture,
and Society (ed. David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014,) 95.
67 Meyers, “Galilean Regionalism,” 119.
68 For a more detailed overview of the close connections between Galilean and historical
Jesus studies, see Roland Deines, “Galilee and the Historical Jesus in Recent Research,” in
Vol. 1 of Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods: Life, Culture, and Society
(ed. David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 11–48.
69 See for example F. Gerald Downing, Christ and the Cynics: Jesus and other Radical
Preachers in the First Century Tradition (Sheffield, Eng.: JSOT Press, 1988); Burton Mack,
A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988).
70 See for example Sean Freyne, especially in Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian
323 BCE to 135 CE (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980); Mark A.
Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002).
71 See for example Richard Horsley, Sociology and the Jesus Movement (2nd ed.; New
York: Continuum, 1994); Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press
International, 1995); idem, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social Context
of Jesus and the Rabbis. (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996).
of economics, social structure, hellenization, language, culture, affinity for

Jerusalem, population, ethnicity, and urbanization, Galilee has the uncanny
ability to reflect every point along the spectrum. Within the last 20 years espe-
cially, Galilee has been characterized in yet another way: as the home of the
Q community.72 Within the last 10 years, another analytical lens has taken cen-
ter stage: the urbanization program of Herod Antipas.73 Salivating historical
Jesus scholars were quick to add these weapons to their arsenals as well.
Jonathan Reed has argued that scholarship has reached a consensus regard-
ing the ethnicity of 1st c. CE Galilee: as both Meyers and Freyne contended
decades ago, it was predominantly Jewish.74 Yet the concern with portraying
a Galilee that reflects available historical evidence while retaining the brush-
strokes of criticism, one which provides a fitting stage upon which the dra-
mas of nascent Christianity and rabbinic Judaism can unfold, shows no signs
of abating. If, however, historical Jesus scholarship has traditionally been the
force behind Galilee scholarship, a reversal of roles has occurred in recent
years. In essence, the quest for the historical Jesus has evolved into “a quest for
the historical Galilee.”75
The Point of Intersection
The phrase bears repeating, with emphasis: “a quest for the historical Galilee.”
What emerges from an overview of Galilee in history is in many ways parallel
to the trajectory taken by geography in its more positivistic, physical mani-
festation, only with an ironic twist: it has gravitated toward the accumulation
and arrangement of evidence, which in turn forms the basis of an accurate
reflection of history. Recall once again the name of Sean Freyne’s magisterial
72 See for example Jonathan L. Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of
the Evidence (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 170–96; John S. Kloppenborg
Verbin, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark,
2000), 170–75.
73 See for example Morton Hørning Jensen, Herod Antipas in Galilee: The Literary and
Archaeological Sources on the Reign of Herod Antipas and its Socio-Economic Impact on
Galilee, WUNT2 215 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 242–251.
74 Jonathan L. Reed, “Instability in Jesus’ Galilee: A Demographic Perspective,” JBL 129:2
(2010): 343.
75 Sean Freyne, “The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee,” in Studying the Historical
Jesus: Evaluations of the State of Current Research (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans;
New York: E.J. Brill, 1994), 76; cf. Halvor Moxnes, “The construction of Galilee as a place for
the historical Jesus—Part I,” BTB 31:1 (2001): 26; Reed, “Instability,” 343.
18 CHAPTER 1
tome Galilee—subtitled not from the regions around Ptolemais to the Jordan
River, but from Alexander the Great to Hadrian. The dominant ethos of the
past 40 years of research on Galilee might be aptly summarized in this way: it
remains a historical endeavor. The proper way to study a space, in other words,
is through time. Just as the “spatial turn” cut directly into the scientific under-
pinnings of physical geography and the historicist hegemony of social theory,
it is similarly poised to intersect with any ancient text when it is read geo-
graphically and to produce parallel results. The Galilee of our ancient texts is,
after all, a spatial concept. For the purposes of this project, however, it will not
suffice merely to assume that geography, like the “history” of historical criti-
cism, has been misrepresented and should be recast in an effort to recover a
lost original. The geographical criticism employed here assumes not that there
is a map to be stripped away in order to reveal true territory, but that all ter-
ritory is inescapably mapped and should be analyzed in terms of how maps
both reflect and shape socially constructed spaces. As much as any other “area”
currently under the scrutinizing gaze of biblical studies, 1st c. Galilee is ripe for
the methodological picking.
What happens at the point of intersection when a spatial discipline recently
emboldened to challenge history’s dominance collides with the study of a
space that has for decades been dominated by historical criticism? It is worth
noting that critical human geography has not always received the warmest of
welcomes from those with whom it requests a hearing. Within geography’s
sub-specialty of cartography, the animosity can be even more palpable when-
ever the objectivity of the mapping process is challenged. J.B. Harley notes that
if a map can be exposed for “bending the rules,” for betraying bias or distor-
tion, it may be written off as inferior and even removed from the category of
“true” cartography altogether.76 Technological improvements have reinforced
the perception that a more accurate map is a more “innocent” map. There is
a belief in “linear progress: that, by the application of science, ever more pre-
cise representations of reality can be produced,”77 and, furthermore, that those
ever more precise representations can be “value-free.”78 At a fundamental level,
critical approaches to geography collide with more positivistic approaches at
precisely this point: the former rejects the notion that “science” or “scientific
76 J.B. Harley, “Deconstructing the Map,” in Writing Worlds: Discourse, Text and Metaphor
in the Representation of Landscape (ed. Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan; New York:
Routledge, 1992), 231.
77 Ibid., 234.
78 Ibid., 236.
improvements” go hand-in-hand with “neutrality,” or that neutrality is even a

thing to be grasped.79
The contention here is that Galilee scholarship is open to a similar critique
in terms of the way that it has approached issues of territory and space: its pri-
mary concern (even if it has not yet been fully realized) is the accurate reading/
interpretation of the map. The critique might begin with archaeology, which
has played a crucial role in the current wave of research, because it illustrates
how progress in terms of technique does not necessarily yield, as has some-
times been argued, “a simple line of increasing objectivity”80 in the interpreta-
tion of territory. Archaeology is just as open to ideological bias when it reads
territory through ground penetrating radar and neutron-activation analysis as
when it moves the earth with shovels and picks.81 The critique also extends
to the interpretation of texts that are crucial for the understanding of 1st c.
Galilee. No matter how careful the method of analysis or how comprehensive
the body of research, the texts may not be so easily mined for pieces of the his-
torical Galilee if Galilee is read through them as a socially constructed space.
Understanding mapped territories as texts which can be read and subjected
to critical interpretation has become a favorite metaphor among critical human
geographers,82 although it is not without its problems. Inherent in geography is
a fundamental simultaneity, the notion that two spaces may exist side by side
without sequence at the same period in time. Texts, by way of contrast, imply
79 The tension between geography’s “quantitative” and “qualitative” branches continues.
See Daniel Sui and Dydia DeLyser, “Crossing the qualitative-quantitative chasm I: Hybrid
geographies, the spatial turn, and volunteered geographic information (VGI),” Progress in
Human Geography 36:1 (2012), 111–124. The two authors represent both sides of the divide,
but in hopes of coalescing physical and human geography, they argue in favor of a “new
turn” toward synthesis. See also Flanagan (“Ancient Perceptions of Space,” 21), who argues
that the divide reflects “modern” vs. “postmodern” outlooks.
80 King, “American Archaeologists,” 36.
81 See, for example, the critique of “New Archaeology” (a theoretical approach to the disci-
pline that became current in the 1960s and 1970s) and the advocacy of “post-processual
archaeology” in Ian Hodder, Reading the Past: Current Approaches to Interpretation in
Archaeology (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1991), 1–18, 156–81. Cf. Colin Renfrew
and Paul Bahn, Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice (3rd ed.; London: Thames
and Hudson, 2000), 483–91; William G. Dever “Impact of the ‘New Archaeology,’ ” in
Benchmarks in Time and Culture: An Introduction to Palestinian Archaeology (ed. Joel F.
Drinkard, Jr., Gerald R. Mattingly, and J. Maxwell Miller; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988),
337–52.
82 The collection of essays edited by Trevor Barnes and James Duncan, Writing Worlds, cen-
ters on the investigation of how the landscape might be read in terms of text, discourse,
and metaphor.
20 CHAPTER 1
a linear flow of language, a sequential succession that is inherently tied to

historicality but not spatiality—what Soja laments as “linguistic despair.”83
However, when “text” takes on the expanded sense of “a collection of culturally
bound codes,” it becomes a relevant and useful metaphor for the mapping of
territories. Barnes and Duncan argue in favor of using this metaphor, follow-
ing Paul Ricoeur’s textual model for the social sciences, since landscapes, like
texts, are social and cultural productions.84 Not only do their meanings persist
beyond their original mappings, but those meanings can be extended into and
altered in light of different situations. Furthermore, the metaphor of the text
allows for an intertextual approach to multiple mappings, one which recog-
nizes that all mapping is part of a larger cultural discourse. As a result, Harley
can speak of a “rhetorical cartography” that views all maps as persuasive com-
munication, and that should not, as some critics would have it, be confined
only to the artistic, aesthetic fringes (often in a literal, spatial sense) of the
mapping process. In the aftermath of the collision between critical human
geography and more positivist approaches to Galilee’s history, a space has
been created for the “textuality” of the mapped territory. Both theorists and
their critics “are beginning to allude to the notion of a rhetorical cartography,
but what is still lacking—with a few notable exceptions—is a rhetorical close
reading of maps.”85 That is precisely what this study aims to do.
Galilee, by Way of Critical Geography
While there have been a few important forays into more consciously critical
and theoretical readings of geography in early Jewish and Christian texts,86
there is still ample room for a project that focuses on 1st c. Galilee from a spatial
83 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2; cf. Harley, “Deconstructing,” 238.

84 Barnes and Duncan, Writing Worlds, 6.
85 Harley, “Deconstructing,” 242.
86 I.e. projects that go beyond historical geography, land theology, geographical symbol-
ism, and use a deliberately crafted theoretical approach to space: for example, Leyerle,
“Landscape as Cartography”; Jamie Scott and Paul Simpson-Housley, eds., Sacred Places
and Profane Spaces: Essays in the Geographics of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (New
York: Greenwood Press, 1991); Dean Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s
Socio-Geographical Universalism in Acts 14:8–20 (Rome: Editrice Pontificio Instituto
Biblico, 2000); James M. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity: The Book of
Jubilees (SNTSMS 113; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002); Matthew Sleeman, Geography
and the Ascension Narrative in Acts (SNTSMS 146; New York: Cambridge UP, 2009).
perspective.87 What follows is a sampling of voices, some of which belong to

individuals for whom the title “geographer” would be inappropriately applied.
They are included here because they have made significant contributions to
the current wave of interest in spatializing discourse, and the concepts they
introduce will provide the theoretical armature for the rhetorical, close read-
ings of Galilee in successive chapters.88
Soja, by Way of Lefebvre, and Thirdspace

Although he may not have been the first to do so, Edward Soja has made a
name for himself over the past 25 years by exposing to the English-speaking
world the historical hegemony inherent in the social sciences and humanities.
In fact, he treats it as a necessary precursor to any spatial theorizing, lest the
historicist’s eye pass over his work without giving it a second look. He states
his goal succinctly at the outset of Postmodern Geographies: “to spatialize the
historical narrative, to attach to durée an enduring critical human geography.”89
It is integral to his explicit agenda of deconstructing and reconstructing the
history-centered Marxist narrative, but its intent is more far-reaching. His
opening statement in Thirdspace gives a glimpse of the bigger picture:
My objective . . . can be simply stated. It is to encourage you to think dif-

ferently about the meanings and significance of space and those related
concepts that compose and comprise the inherent spatiality of human
life: place, location, locality, landscape, environment, home, city, region,
territory, and geography. In encouraging you to think differently, I am not
suggesting that you discard your old and familiar ways of thinking about
space and spatiality, but rather that you question them in new ways that
87 Instructive here is the helpful and wide-ranging essay by John Corrigan (“Spatiality
and Religion,” in Barney Warf and Santa Arias, eds., The Spatial Turn: Interdisciplinary
Perspectives [New York: Routledge, 2009, 157–172), both for what it says and for what it
does not say. He discusses a number of ways in which space may be seen as intersecting
with religion, including imaginative worlds, pilgrimage, migration, and ritual, among oth-
ers. Ironically, he does not create a category such as “land” or “region” or even “historical
geography” in which a space like “Galilee” might be included.
88 Besides those already mentioned, I point to Allan Pred (Making Histories and Constructing
Human Geographies) to justify what some might perceive as laziness with respect to tax-
onomizing. He begins his first chapter with a selection of 12 different quotations culled
from 10 different authors, presented in no identifiable order and without commentary
under the heading, “Fragments from a Discourse in the Making.”
22 CHAPTER 1
are aimed at opening up and expanding the scope and critical sensibility
of your already established spatial or geographical imaginations.90
For Soja, the reassertion of space into critical discourse is something of a mis-
sion, a message of spatial enlightenment going out to those who have lived
and thought for too long under a blanket of “historicality.”91 This should not,
however, be read as a statement against historicism per se. Rather it is a reac-
tion to “an overdeveloped historical contextualization of social life and social
theory that actively submerges and peripheralizes the geographical or spatial
imagination.”92 His geographical and spatial affirmative action recommends
the prioritization of space for the time being, given the fact that, relative to
history, it has been a neglected part of critical thinking. Therefore, in Soja, the
“spatial turn” has given way to a full-blown “ontological shift,” one in which
scholars begin to take proper notice of space as a source and destination of
critical insight.93
To limit the discussion to the opposition between the historical and the
spatial, however, is to misrepresent another important aspect of Soja’s agenda.
Whereas the historical has typically occupied first chair, the “sociality of being”
has also earned a place within critical discourse. Thus, spatiality, according to
Soja, is a way to overcome the currently reigning duality of critical discourse,
one that has been dominated by temporal sequence and social relations. Two
terms are inadequate, and in a move reminiscent of Derrida’s poststructural-
ism, a third term is introduced, one that does not simply occupy an interme-
diary position—in Soja’s own words, a “critical thirding-as-Othering.”94 Thus,
Soja is able to approach critical theory “trialectically,” via a “trialectics of being,”
where historicality, sociality, and spatiality intertwine, in every discipline and
every discourse.95 Despite the traditional hegemony of historicality and the
pride of place that Soja gives to spatiality as a counterbalance, none has an
intrinsic priority over the others.
Soja proposes his “trialectics of being” with an eye toward expanding and
surpassing the traditionally historical dialectics of both Hegel and Marx.
90 Edward Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places
(Cambridge, Mass: Blackwell, 1996), 1.
91 Ibid., 16.
93 Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding,” 261.
94 Ibid., 268. The capital “O” utilized here is intentional. It deliberately harkens back to
Lefebvre’s un-category of l’Autre.
95 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 47, 69–70.
Thinking trialectically not only allows one to move past the order of tempo-
ral sequencing, but it also allows one to get beyond the concept of synthesis.
Instead, the introduction of a third element precipitates disruption, disorder,
and deconstruction: “It shifts the rhythm of dialectical thinking from a tempo-
ral to a more spatial mode, from a linear or diachronic sequencing to . . . config-
urative simultaneities and synchronies.”96 The result, if this is done correctly,
should be an “epistemological openness” rather than a “holy trinity” that stops
at just one “thirding.”97
In this vein, the “trialectics of being” is not the only trialectic that Soja pro-
poses. He moves on to propose a “trialectics of spatiality” and in doing so bor-
rows heavily from Lefebvre. In The Production of Space, what David Harvey
described as the “culminating work” in his series of discussions on space,98
Lefebvre also makes explicit his own discomfort with a philosophical duality
that only allows for discussion in terms of oppositions:
Relations with two elements boil down to oppositions, contrasts or

antagonisms. They are defined by significant effects: echoes, repercus-
sions, mirror effects. . . . Such a system can have neither materiality nor
loose ends: it is a ‘perfect’ system whose rationality is supposed, when
subjected to mental scrutiny, to be self-evident. This paradigm appar-
ently has the magic power to turn obscurity into transparency and to
move the ‘object’ out of the shadows into the light merely by articulating
it. In short, it has the power to decrypt.99
Thus, if the “trialectics of being” lies at the heart of Soja’s attempt to decon-
struct critical social theory, then the essence of his deconstructive move with
regard to geography, his attempt to disrupt the perfect system, lies in his “tri-
alectics of spatiality.” The binary pitfall that Soja seeks to avoid through this
trialectic is one in which conceptions of space vacillate between “opaqueness”
and “transparency.”100 By opaqueness, Soja is referring to a myopic concep-
tion of space “that sees only superficial materiality,” one that is “fixed, dead,
undialectical.” On the other hand, a transparent conception of space has the

97 Ibid., 269.
98 David Harvey, afterword to The Production of Space, by Henri Lefebvre (trans. Donald
Nicholson-Smith; Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), 430.
99 Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 39–40.
24 CHAPTER 1
effect of dematerializing space, of relegating it to the realm of “pure ideation.”101

In order to break up the dualism between the “real” and the “imagined” that
epitomizes the illusion of opaqueness and transparency, Soja introduces what
he calls “Thirdspace.”
Thirdspace breaks up the familiar bipolarization of material spatiality (“real”
space, that which is empirically measurable and mappable, “Firstspace”) and
representational spatiality (“imagined” space, that which is conceptual and
symbolic, “Secondspace”). Again, Soja is heavily indebted to Lefebvre, whose
triad of “perceived,” “conceived,” and “lived” space sets the pattern for Soja’s
trialectics of spatiality. Neither Soja’s “Thirdspace” nor Lefebvre’s “lived” space
should be understood as something altogether different from material and rep-
resentational space, nor does either one represent some sort of synthesized
middle ground. Rather, each holds forth space as something that is both real-
and-imagined (or even “realandimagined”102), touting the simultaneity of a
space’s material and ideological aspects. Thirdspace is a place of posturing, a
platform for the wielding of power or for the subversion of the powers-that-be,
a position of social action. It confounds any tendency for discourse to remain
solely within the imagination, constantly re-grounding it in the material and
spatial. Soja summarizes:
If Firstspace is explored primarily through its readable texts and contexts,

and Secondspace through its prevailing representational discourses,
then the exploration of Thirdspace must be additionally guided by some
form of potentially emancipatory praxis, the translation of knowledge
into action in a conscious—and consciously spatial—effort to improve
the world in some significant way.103
Thirdspace is the lens by which space is shown to be inherently political,

“simultaneously a social product and a shaping force in social life.”104
Said, by Way of Foucault, and Imaginative Geography

The idea that a territory can be constructed, often times falsely so, lies at
the heart of Edward Said’s pathbreaking Orientalism.105 According to Said,
“Orientalism” was a construct of the West, one which served the West in its
101 Ibid.
102 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 10–11.
103 Ibid., 22.
105 Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978).
imperialistic endeavors, conceived for the purpose of maintaining control over

an area ideologically and, by extension, practically. Although knowledge of
the Orient has always been politically charged and culturally mandated, such
conditions should not be viewed as built-in limitations. Said argues that “we
can better understand the persistence and durability of saturating hegemonic
systems like culture when we realize that their internal constraints upon writ-
ers and thinkers were productive, not unilaterally inhibiting.”106 In the end,
however, what is produced must be recognized as representation, rather than a
“natural” depiction of the area in question. The sense given to these representa-
tions is dependent upon the West, not the East; in other words, Orientalism as
a field of study says far more about the Orientalist than the Oriental. It makes
no difference that the depiction does not correspond very well, or even at all,
with what is “on the ground.” Such representations make the Orient “visible,
clear, and ‘there’ in discourse . . . and rely upon institutions, traditions, conven-
tions, agreed-upon codes of understanding for their effects, not upon a distant
and amorphous Orient.”107 They are an exercise in “imaginative geography.”
One of the offshoots of imaginative geography is the apparent arbitrariness
of certain geographical distinctions, but in fact these distinctions are never
without a purpose:108
Imaginative geography . . . legitimates a vocabulary, a universe of repre-

sentative discourse peculiar to the discussion. . . . In other words, we need
not look for correspondence between the language used to depict the
Orient and the Orient itself, not so much because the language is inac-
curate but because it is not even trying to be accurate.109
Read as geographical texts, these vocabularies are generative. Or, to put it

another way, “It is Europe that articulates the Orient; this articulation is the
prerogative, not of a puppet master, but of a genuine creator.”110
Explicit in Said’s text is a general indebtedness to Michel Foucault and partic-
ularly to the relationship between knowledge and power laid out in Foucault’s
The Archaeology of Knowledge.111 Essentially Said has adopted Foucault’s
106 Ibid., 4.
107 Ibid., 22.
108 Ibid., 54.
109 Ibid., 71.
110 Ibid., 57.
111 Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith; New York:
Routledge, 1972; Routledge Classic ed. 2002), 23–33.
26 CHAPTER 1
characterization of knowledge as discourse, recognizing that an understand-

ing of the network of interests inherent in Orientalist discourse plays a cru-
cial role in the management and production of the concept of “Orient.” This
squares with Foucault’s emphasis on geography over history: “Temporal mod-
els cannot adequately portray the role of power in the formation of discourses.
Spatial metaphors better convey the strategic aspect of knowledge.”112 Yet he
does not adopt Foucault blindly. He also adapts the notion of discourse in such
a way that he is more willing to pay attention to the contributions of individual
authors, even individual texts, in the discursive formation of Orientalism as
opposed to “the otherwise anonymous collective body of texts.”113 Said’s adap-
tation is in the interest of doing “close textual readings,” which inform and are
informed by the broader systems of knowledge and power.114
Said’s spatial legacy is not limited, however, to the introduction of a new con-
ceptual framework for discussing colonialism or even to the phrase “imagina-
tive geography” itself, which numerous geographical writings have employed
since the publication of Orientalism. His persuasive case for imaginative geog-
raphy was a crucial step forward in the legitimization of a mode of spatial anal-
ysis “that does not owe its place simply to the constitution of reason.”115 Said
was not necessarily the first in this respect; Peter Gould and Rodney White,
for example, were already discussing “spatial bias” in their study of “mental
maps” published a few years earlier.116 Said’s Orientalism, however, coming
from outside the field, re-oriented geographers toward a fuller appreciation for
the partiality and situatedness of geographical knowledge. A given space can
“make sense” even if it is not fully or fairly represented, as long as that “sense”
is understood as deriving from the observer and not what is being observed.
In the end, Said offers the valuable reminder that part of human geogra-
phy entails reflecting upon how human beings are responsible for inventing
geography—a geography that defines others and defines the self in terms
of others.117
112 From a 1976 interview with Foucault cited in Vincent J. Miller, “History or Geography?
Gadamer, Foucault, and Theologies of Tradition,” in Theology and the New Histories
(ed. Gary Macy; Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1998), 67.
113 Said, Orientalism, 23.
114 Ibid., 24.
115 Massey, “Issues,” 43.
116 Peter Gould and Rodney White, Mental Maps (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1974), 40.
117 Gill Valentine, “Imagined Geographies: Geographical Knowledges of Self and Other in
Everyday Life,” in Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey, John Allen and Philip
Sarre. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 47.
King, by Way of Baudrillard, and Cartographic Meaning

Central to Geoff King’s program is an attempt to destabilize the notion that
maps serve as objective reflections of territory. His 1996 publication Mapping
Reality118 is a criticism of the process of mapping to be sure, and although it
culminates in a discussion on the deconstruction of maps, it does not start
there. He actually begins by deconstructing the territory and in so doing priori-
tizes what traditionally has been viewed as derivative:
In the modernist experience, it is argued, the notion of representation in

general came under more concerted question. As representational forms
became more autonomous they began to take on a distinct opacity and
became disconnected from everyday reality. In the postmodern, it is real-
ity itself that is said to have become problematic. Representations, for-
merly understood as secondary elements, become central to the fabric
of our lives.119
In implying that the map is preserved while the territory is lost, it is not dif-
ficult to see the work of Jean Baudrillard lurking in the background. In a world
where representation has given way to simulation, the “sovereign difference”
between representation and reality is also lost, the very thing that was “the
charm of abstraction.”120 The idea of the smooth transfer of real world to
mapped image, where map and territory are separable yet coextensive, is dis-
missed by Baudrillard as “the cartographer’s mad project.”121
But even in Baudrillard, whose pronouncements of the “loss of the real”
have on occasion induced severe criticism, the real is not so much lost as
subsumed into the simulation itself. The map not only takes precedent over
the territory, it engenders it,122 something that King is careful to preserve in
his admonition against drawing a clear line between map and territory. They
cannot ultimately be separated from one another. Territory is that which is
“always already” mapped.123 Furthermore, mapped territories are cultural
productions, and as such they are subject to certain conventions, stemming
118 Geoff King, Mapping Reality (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996).
119 Ibid., 5.
120 Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (trans. Sheila Faria Glaser; Ann Arbor, Mich.:
121 Ibid., 2.
122 Ibid., 1.
123 Alluding to Baudrillard’s definition of the “hyperreal” (ibid., 108), viz., which is “always
already” simulation.
28 CHAPTER 1
more from that particular culture’s perceptions of territory than from some
pre-existing territorial reality. Maps are created in accordance with the choices
made about them, choices about inclusion and omission, choices that create
“cartographic meaning.”124
To put it another way, maps become tools for imposing meaning upon the
world, making it manageable, decipherable, navigable, or conquerable. King
notes that modern improvements in cartographic techniques may create the
illusion of reality, but there is no such thing as neutrality when it comes to
mapping at any stage in the history of cartography.125 The reason for this is
that all maps incorporate distortion. However, it is important to distinguish
“distortion” from any notion of miscommunication that, first, presupposes the
separability of map and territory and, second, extols an unadulterated accu-
racy as its sole virtue. Distortion is not secondary “noise” that intrudes upon
and muffles or garbles an otherwise clear transfer of information. Maps do not
communicate in spite of distortion but through it.126
It may be tempting to assume that an understanding of maps like the one
King advocates would lead invariably to the capricious redrawing of maps, to
the production of maps suited to every whim and fancy. Maps can be redrawn,
but because the power of maps to shape cultural attitudes is also constrained
by cultural attitudes, it is not always easy to do so—map and territory remain
inextricably bound. Interpreted, however, as social space, no map is fixed
and unchangeable, nor can it be exclusive. The fusion of map and territory is
not necessarily a one-to-one arrangement. It is possible for multiple maps to
exist simultaneously, each utilizing its own system of distortions and creating
its own cartographic meaning.127 Landscape then becomes “a palimpsest of
different mappings.”128 By the same token, a map’s provisionality should not
be conflated with some sort of cartographic humility. The more “provisional”
the map, that is, in terms of its weaker correspondence to a given cultural per-
ception, often the more vigorously—and even violently—it is defended. Wars
may be fought over invisible lines inscribed upon the land, but it is often their
provisionality, rather than their permanence, which gives rise to disputes.129
124 King, Mapping Reality, 18.

125 Ibid., 33.
126 Ibid., 37.
127 Cf. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2.
129 Ibid., 41. Derek Gregory (“Social Theory,” 81) applies this principle specifically to the acad-
emy: “It is always possible to provide (historical) reasons for drawing the boundaries this
way rather than that. But once those boundaries are established they usually become
Nevertheless, because of the power of maps to influence and to affect change,

their provisionality, their ability to be redrawn or overwritten, must remain
intact. According to King, “Everything that becomes meaningful does so by
being fitted into, or challenging, some existing map.”130
Mapping Galilee
This study is not an exercise in historical geography as it relates to Galilee but

rather an investigation into the process of applying a deliberately spatial cri-
tique to Galilee (or rather to multiple Galilees), and what this might mean to
the modern reader of particular ancient texts. The chapters that follow address
three different and roughly contemporaneous texts—Josephus, the Gospel of
Luke, and the Gospel of John—each of which maps Galilee in its own way.
Previous studies have covered this terrain from the standpoint of amassing
evidence and drawing conclusions using the tools of historical criticism.131 The
unique approach being used here, however, is the deliberate application of
critical geography to the study of Galilee. Because the array of methodologies
making up critical geography is so vast, a specific theoretical approach has
been selected for each text. In chapter 2, Josephus, especially via J.W. and the
Life, will be analyzed through the lens of Edward Soja’s concept of “Thirdspace”
in order to demonstrate how Josephus constructs Galilee as a platform for his
own actions and as an apologetic for his own purposes. In chapter 3, Edward
Said’s “imaginative geography” will be applied to the Gospel of Luke for the
purpose of showing how Luke’s portrait of Galilee specifically (and ancient
Palestine as a whole) aptly serves his narrative, even if its utility is not always
recognized by modern interpreters. Chapter 4 is a study of the Fourth Gospel
using a method of analysis drawn from Geoff King’s concept of “cartographic
meaning,” which advocates for the provisionality of maps and how their simul-
taneity can be crucial to the communicative process. Chapter 5 will provide
final reflections on the application of critical geography to the study of Galilee
as an ancient space and its relevance for current trends in scholarship.
institutionalized. All the apparatus of the academy—teachers, courses, journals, texts,

academic societies—is mobilized to mark and, on occasion, to police them.”
131 For a very helpful study along precisely these lines see Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus and
the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress
Press, 1988).
30 CHAPTER 1
No rules govern which theory should be applied to which ancient text, and
a case could be made that any of the theoretical approaches used here could
be fruitfully applied to any number of ancient writings. Nevertheless, these
methodological/textual pairings have been carefully chosen (as will hope-
fully become clear in each case) with the intent of proceeding cautiously.132
Admittedly, each of these theoretical approaches can lay claim to the label
“postmodern,” but the target of this study is still, in a sense, “premodern.” In
other words, the goal is to apply these analytical lenses to Galilee so as to
amplify what each of these texts is actually doing with Galilee as a constructed
space. I make no claims of interpretive neutrality, but my intent is to leave
the construction of Galilee to the ancient authors. My desire is that this study
will be of use to those who have no interest in (deliberately) doing a spatial
critique, but who share the same fundamental goal: a better understanding of
the Galilee(s) of these texts. Even though it does not claim to be another entry
into the quest for the historical Galilee, the hope is that it still may be of ser-
vice to those who have made the historical Galilee their aim. The contribution,
however, will be in the form of problematizing the quest from a geographical
perspective, inasmuch as it calls into question the historical Galilee itself as
something that can be recovered or even rescued from the texts in question.
When Josephus writes about the war between the Jews and the Romans, he
does not merely give glimpses of the “true” Galilee, but glimpses of maps that
impose meaning upon Galilee. Thus, if the quest for the historical Galilee asks
“What was first century Galilee really like?” this project asks “How does Galilee
as a spatial construct function within this text?”
By analyzing 1st c. Galilee in terms of critical geography, the intention is
not to supplant other critical approaches to the texts in question or to Galilee
as an area of research. The same air of superiority exuded by more positivis-
tic approaches to Galilee and geography based upon their perceived progres-
sion toward accuracy and realism can easily be transferred to other critical
approaches that challenge the presuppositions of the status quo. They become
the new vehicle for progressing beyond the “old” ways of thinking. There is
132 I take seriously the skepticism of Amy-Jill Levine, “Theory, Apologetic, History: Reviewing
Jesus’ Jewish Context,” ABR 55 (2007): 57–78, who challenges the notion that social scien-
tific models alone, apart from textual analysis and archaeology, can provide an unbiased
explanation of Galilee. They are meant to introduce an element of objectivity but often
do the opposite. If the critique is valid for social-scientific models, it is valid for spatial
models as well.
a danger in the corresponding “triumphalistic”133 tone which characterizes

much of scholarship, and it pays no respect to theoretical leanings. Jarvis’ study
of postmodernism’s effects on the mapping process, in answer to the work’s
fundamental question, carefully notes that despite the way geography has
changed by virtue of new theoretical approaches, the process of mapping has
not. He concludes that “postmodern cartographies . . . do not then constitute
a decisive break from the dominant traditions of landscape representation.”134
In other words, people have been “mapping” all along; the new approach has
merely reinscribed those processes within different theoretical frameworks.
With this in mind, the intention here is to tread lightly with respect to those
who have advanced our understanding of Galilee over the centuries, offering
a challenge to their theoretical outlook while at the same time taking a place
humbly alongside them.
A final word on terminology is in order before moving forward. Throughout
this study, the words “geography” and “geographical” will be used in their
broadest possible senses. One could make the case that the study of Galilee
is not “geography” at all but is closer to the 2nd c. CE geographer Ptolemy’s
category of “chorography,” that is, the study of a particular χώρα or region.135
Nevertheless, certain linguistic liberties will be taken, and a strict distinction
of these categories will not be observed. “Geography” in this study covers a
wide range of regional-level spatialities including chorography, topography,
and cartography, although when such terms are more appropriate they will be
used also.
In the chapters that follow, extended English quotations of the Bible have
been taken from the NRSV, and quotations from Greco-Roman literature have
been taken from their respective Loeb Classical Library translations unless
otherwise indicated. With regard to the authors of NT texts, proper names such
as “Luke” and “John” will be used on occasion as a matter of convenience and
should not be interpreted as assumptions about authorship.
133 John Rennie Short, “Alternative Geographies: From Cosmography to Geography,” in Sacred
Landscapes and Cultural Politics (ed. Philip P. Arnold and Ann Grodzins Gold; Aldershop,
Eng.: Ashgate Publications, Ltd., 2001), 27–28.
134 Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies, 188.
135 Ptolemy, Geogr. 1.1. Even in the ancient world, this term was fluid, however. Pomponius
Mela’s De chorographia (ca. 37–41 CE) surveyed the entire known world, not just one
region. See Daniela Dueck, Geography in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge UP,
2012) 47.
CHAPTER 2
Josephus’ Galilee
Introduction
Interpretations of Josephus are subject to pitfalls and difficulties even without

the addition of Galilee as yet another point of contention. Although the study
of Galilee has become a key battleground for theories pertaining to the histori-
cal Jesus in recent years, it is still Josephus, rather than the Gospels, that reigns
supreme among ancient authors for providing information about Galilee’s his-
tory, culture, and character during the 1st c. CE. All four of Josephus’ works con-
tain important references to his geographical insight and outlook, but J.W. and
the Life are of special significance for Galilee, the former for its summary of
events that took place there during the early stages of the conflict with Rome
(particularly Books 2 and 3), and the latter for the conspicuously dispropor-
tionate focus that it places on Josephus’ tenure there after being commissioned
to oversee the district before the war broke out. Galilee as a topic of scholarly
discussion has hardly been left in the dark. With the ascendancy of archaeol-
ogy in the Galilean region over the past few decades, scholars who are inter-
ested in the nature of Galilee have found in Josephus an invaluable dialogue
partner in the attempt to maintain the delicate balance between text and
trench.1 In addition, standard, very helpful overviews of Josephus abound,2
1 “[Josephus] is our most important guide to the geography, topography, and monuments
of Palestine, so that the archaeologist must dig with a spade in one hand and a copy of
Josephus in the other.” Louis H. Feldman, introduction to Josephus, the Bible, and History
(ed. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1989), 18. For a detailed treatment
of the archaeological evidence pertaining to Galilee, see Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a
Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002). As the title implies, Chancey’s primary
goal is to rebut those statements, rather pervasive in scholarly literature, that claim Galilee
was mostly, largely, or significantly Gentile. Cf. Eric Meyers, “Identifying Religious and Ethnic
Groups through Archaeology,” in Biblical Archaeology Today, 1990: Proceedings of the Second
International Congress on Biblical Archaeology, Jerusalem, Je-Jl 1990 (ed. Avraham Biran and
Alan Paris-Shadur; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1993), 738–45.
2 For general introductions, see Per Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome:
His Life, His Works, and Their Importance (JSPSup 2; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988); Louis H.
Feldman, “Flavius Josephus Revisited: The Man, His Writings, and His Significance,” ANRW
2.21.2:763–862; Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Flavius Josèphe: Le Juif de Rome (Paris: Fayard, 1989);

Josephus ’ Galilee 33
each of which recognizes Josephus’ frequent contradictions and the confound-

ing questions they pose to modern readers; that Galilee serves as one of the
primary staging grounds for such conundrums in Josephus’ narratives is obvi-
ous enough.3 More specific issues such as those pertaining to the “Galileans”—
who they were and what role they played—have also received their share
of attention.4
On the whole, however, Josephus’ spatial sensibilities and his function as a
geographer, mapper, and creator of space, have received far less attention. As
an example, in a parting shot at the end of his Josephus and the New Testament,
Steve Mason readily admits that with regard to Galilean history and geography,
“[w]e said almost nothing.”5 Josephus the historian has long had a place at the
table, but Josephus the geographer is a relative newcomer. Exceptions exist, of
course, but not enough to form a body of work in which one can identify defin-
itive lines of argument or major bearings in scholarship. Josephus’ geography,
at least in the traditional sense of boundaries, population centers, regions, and
topographical descriptions, does merit its share of comments, but deliberate
reflection upon him as a geographer is comparatively rare. Those who attempt
to utilize emerging theoretical trends from spatial disciplines and apply them
to Josephus are rarer still. Nevertheless, a review of some of the more impor-
tant contributors to this discussion can be helpful. At this point, the intention
is not to give an overview of scholars who are interested in the character of
1st c. Galilee,6 but to give consideration to those who have made Josephus’
geography (or Josephus qua geographer) their primary aim.
Steve Mason, Josephus and the New Testament (2nd ed.; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003);
idem, Understanding Josephus (JSPSup 32; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998); Tessa
Rajak, Josephus: The Historian and His Society (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984).
3 Shaye J.D. Cohen wastes no time in confronting one of the most widely discussed problems
in the entire Josephan corpus: in many respects, J.W. and the Life simply disagree as to what
Josephus is doing in Galilee. Broadly speaking, in J.W. he serves as a warring patriot, sent to
Galilee to prepare it for battle; in Life he represents the moderate faction, sent to Galilee to
maintain peace. In ch. 1 of Cohen’s Josephus in Galilee and Rome: His Vita and Development
as a Historian (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1979), he lays out an extensive history of scholarship on
this question.
4 Most notably in Life, which has more than double the references to the “Galileans” (44 total)
than does J.W. (20 total) despite being only about one tenth as long. See, in particular, Sean
Freyne, “The Galileans in Light of Josephus’ Life,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays
(ed. S. Freyne; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 27–44.
5 Mason, Josephus and the New Testament, 297–98.
6 Many of these will be discussed throughout.
34 CHAPTER 2
Review of Scholarship
It is no coincidence that interest in Josephus’ geography has paralleled two

other rising trends: 1) Galilean archaeology and 2) the latest historical Jesus
quest. The initial result was a pursuit of geographical data that could be used
in the service of a largely historical-critical approach. Michael Avi-Yonah’s
1974 article7 serves as a good starting point, and as with most scholars who
analyze Josephus’ geography, it is inclusive of 1st c. Galilee but not necessar-
ily Galilee- or 1st c.-specific. In this article, Avi-Yonah gives an overview of the
history of Palestine from the perspective of geographical regions, ruling dynas-
ties, and territorial divisions. Rather than organize his study around geographi-
cal regions, however, he opts for a breakdown according to historical periods:
Persian, Hellenistic, Hasmonean, Herodian, and the time of Jesus. His primary
source materials are the works of Josephus, and although he is suitably criti-
cal at times, he does not theorize about Josephus as a geographer. Avi-Yonah’s
interest is in mining Josephus for information that can help the modern reader
construct a historical geography of the region.
Ze’ev Safrai’s 1989 article, “The Description of the Land of Israel in Josephus’
Works,” is still primarily historical-critical, but he does begin to ask questions
about what lies behind Josephus’ geographical descriptions, particularly in
terms of parallels found in other ancient writings. He lists references to other
historiographers who include geographical excursuses in their writings, but
the comparison ends there.8 He also draws connections between Galilee as
described in J.W., Book 3 and Talmudic literature.9 However, such scattered
observations, although helpful, play only a minor role; his goal is to evaluate
Josephus’ reliability as a reporter of geographical data, not his geographical
methods.10 When Safrai, for example, examines J.W. 3.57, he explains that
Josephus is incorrect when he says Agrippa’s kingdom extended “as far as Julias
7 Michael Avi-Yonah, “Historical Geography,” in Vol. 1 of Jewish People in the First Century:
Historical Geography, Political History, Social, Cultural and Religious Life and Institutions
(ed. Shemuel Safrai and Menahem Stern; Assen, Netherlands: Van Gorcum, 1974), 78–116.
8 Ze’ev Safrai, “The Description of the Land of Israel in Josephus’ Works,” in Josephus, the
Bible, and History (ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1989),
295–324. These include Julius Caesar, Bell. gall. 1.1; Tacitus, Hist. 5.1; Herodotus, Hist. 4.1–9;
and Arrian, Anab. 5.6, 7.10–12.
9 Safrai, “Description of the Land,” 299–301.
10 As emphasized in one of his opening statements: “The reliability of [Josephus’] composi-
tions, his sources and the manner in which he utilized them, and his objectives and those
of his sources are among the most important issues for the study of Jewish history at the
end of the Second Temple period” (295).
[Bethsaida]” since, in fact, it also included Tiberias. His concern is to point out
that Josephus is inconsistent but not to ask why.11
A significant step forward in the study of Josephus’ geography came with
Per Bilde’s 1994 article focusing on Josephus’ geographical excursuses.12 In iso-
lating these excursuses for consideration and analysis, Bilde moves beyond the
notion that Josephus’ writings can be mined for geographical information; at
the very least, he also isolates Josephus the geographer. The article considers
27 such passages, giving a brief summary of each one (and admitting that there
are many other examples and parallels that could have been included). Bilde
then offers summary comments and observations, but he does not attempt
a theoretical explanation of Josephus as a geographer. For example, he com-
ments that Josephus shows “a curious interest in climatology,”13 but he does
not explore what motivation Josephus might have had for including such
information.14 To be fair to Bilde, uncovering Josephus’ theoretical approach
to space and place was not his aim. Nevertheless, his article does make a cru-
cial contribution to those who wish to explore Josephan geography, regardless
of the methodological approach. According to Bilde, Josephus’ geographical
excursuses are original to him and not derived from another source, since
they are consistent with other passages that are unquestionably Josephan
compositions.15 This conclusion is a significant one, given the trend going back
to Wilhelm Weber that viewed the excursuses as borrowed from Vespasian’s
11 While Safrai is technically correct, the misstep is hardly a blatant one and may be rather
easily explained. Agrippa had been originally given the territory formerly belonging to
Philip on the east side of the upper Jordan. Only later were Tiberias and Tarichaeae, on
the west side of the Sea of Galilee, added to his jurisdiction by Nero ( J.W. 2.252). It is true
that by the time Josephus reaches the point in his narrative where he summarizes the
geography of Galilee and surrounding districts ( J.W. 3.35–43) Agrippa already has over-
sight of Tiberias, but given the fact that the boundary line in question is a natural (Jordan
River), territorial (Gaulanitis vs. Galilee), and administrative (Philip vs. Antipas) one,
Josephus can be easily forgiven here.
12 Per Bilde, “The Geographical Excursuses in Josephus,” in Josephus and the History of the
Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith (ed. Fausto Parente and Joseph
Sievers; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 247–62. The article follows up on some limited specu-
lation on Josephus’ geographical excursuses in Pere Villalba i Varneda, The Historical
Method in Flavius Josephus (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1986).
13 Bilde, “Geographical Excursuses,” 260.
14 Josephus is likely following a historiographical commonplace. Cf. Hippocrates, Airs,
Waters, Places 13.8–17. This will be discussed further below.
15 Bilde, “Geographical Excursuses,” 261. Cf. Villalba i Varneda, The Historical Method in
Flavius Josephus, 123.
36 CHAPTER 2
military commentaries.16 If the excursuses are indeed Josephus’ own, then the
geography is likely Josephus’ as well.
Bilde makes one further observation that is pertinent to this study. He com-
ments at the outset of his article that very little analysis had been done on
Josephus’ geography to that point, and virtually nothing had been published
on the subject of his geographical excursuses specifically.17 Within a few years,
however, this would begin to change. Two articles by Ben-Zion Rosenfeld have
not only taken up Josephan geography in earnest but have also made a foray
into a more theoretical approach, arguing that Josephus’ geography is fused
with ideology and should not be read merely as a window into the histori-
cal geography of the period.18 His main concern is with Roman Palestine as a
whole—which includes but is not limited to Galilee—and particularly with
Palestine’s 1st c. coastal regions. According to Rosenfeld, Josephus’ descriptions
can be varied and even inconsistent, sometimes revealing a Josephan “national
geography” and other times a “realistic geography.”19 When speaking of Judea,
Rosenfeld argues that Josephus has multiple definitions depending upon
his needs at the moment. “Judea” can refer to the Roman province of Judea
(a more “realistic geography”), the land that is inhabited by Jews even if it lies
outside of the province (a mixture of “realistic” and “national geography”), or
“the land of the Jews” reflecting a biblical perspective of eretz Israel regardless of
its inhabitants in Josephus’ day (a more “national geography”).20 Furthermore,
Josephus will even modify biblical borders “according to the realities of his
time.”21 Perhaps the best example of this is in Ag. Ap. 1.60–63, one of Josephus’
most intriguing commentaries on Judean geography despite its occurrence in
what is arguably his least “geographical” work:
16 Wilhelm Weber, Josephus und Vespasian: Untersuchungen zu dem Jüdischen Krieg
des Flavius Josephus (Hildesheim, NY: G. Olms, 1921, 1973), 145. Josephus does refer to
Vespasian’s Commentaries in Life 342, though no reference is made to geographical infor-
mation. It is worth noting that J.W. does not refer to sources as a rule, so the lack of a
reference in Josephus’ geographical excursuses specifically was not problematic for
Weber. Bilde’s study, therefore, is that much more important.
17 Bilde, “Geographical Excursuses,” 248.
18 Ben-Zion Rosenfeld, “Flavius Josephus and His Portrayal of the Coast (Paralia) of
Contemporary Roman Palestine: Geography and Ideology,” JQR 91:1/2 (2000): 143–83; Ben-
Zion Rosenfeld, “Josephus and the Mishnah: Two Views on the Outline of the Map of
Palestine in the First Two Centuries A.D.,” RevEtudJui 163:3/4 (2004) 415–28.
19 Rosenfeld, “Flavius Josephus and His Portrayal of the Coast,” 144.
20 Ibid., 145.
21 Ibid., 152.
Well, ours is not a maritime country; neither commerce nor the inter-
course which it promotes with the outside world has any attraction for
us. Our cities are built inland, remote from the sea; and we devote our-
selves to the cultivation of the productive country with which we are
blessed. Above all we pride ourselves on the education of our children,
and regard as the most essential task in life the observance of our laws
and of the pious practices, based thereupon, which we have inherited.
(Josephus, AgAp 1.60)
The picture of contented isolation and separation from invading cultural forces
painted here, however, is not supported by another important geographical
passage from Josephus, this time in J.W. After explaining that Judea’s breadth
“stretches from the river Jordan to Joppa [a city on the Mediterranean coast],”22
Josephus comments further that Judea is in fact “not cut off from the amenities
of the sea, because it slopes down towards the coast on a ridge extending as
far as Ptolemais.”23 Rosenfeld, as a result, adds another category to his previ-
ously specified categories of “realistic” and “national” geographies. This time,
Josephus is utilizing a “cultural geography.” Rosenfeld explains:
Josephus’ treatment of the coast here is based not on national geography,

nor on a geography reflecting political reality, but rather on the differing
cultural perceptions of the coastal inhabitants and of those living inland.
This cultural geography reflects both the reality and an ancient ideologi-
cal tradition, extending back to biblical times, of keeping a distance from
the sea. . . . Josephus thus reflects a sort of internal tension which covets
the coast and at the same time is repulsed by it.24
Josephus’ geographical information will vary depending upon which “geogra-

phy” he is employing at the time.25 Geography, therefore, becomes a tool to be
manipulated or a container for his own ideology.
22 Josephus, J.W. 3.51.

23 Ibid., 3.53.
24 Rosenfeld, “Flavius Josephus and His Portrayal of the Coast,” 170.
25 Although Rosenfeld does not comment further, there is also more than just “geography”
influencing Josephus in this instance. Some of Josephus’ apologetic tendencies may be
more disguised than others, but the motivation behind AgAp is clear. Josephus is rebut-
ting claims that the Jews lack antiquity as a race since they are largely unknown to ancient
historians. Not only is this not exactly true, argues Josephus, but to the extent that it is
true, it is also easily explainable. Landlocked countries would not be as widely known as
coastal countries with robust maritime activity (such as the Phoenicians).
38 CHAPTER 2
Rosenfeld’s breakdown of different geographies is far from being a recognized

standard for evaluating Josephus’ construction of space, but his contributions
should not be overlooked. He takes seriously Josephus’ role as a geographer,
understands the broader historical context, yet still attempts to break new
ground in theorizing about Josephus’ ideologically infused geographical infor-
mation. Whether his brand of theorizing becomes commonplace is not really
the issue, especially given the aversion among critical geographers to adopt a
single theoretical framework that would only produce a new hermeneutical
hegemony.26 Far more important is the fact that he has looked at Josephus’
geography through a lens that allows him to move beyond the object of study
(in this case, Judea) as a thing to be discovered in Josephus’ writings. Josephus
does not just describe space, he creates it.
By far the most important contribution to the study of Josephus’ geography
to date has come from Yuval Shahar. His 2004 publication, Josephus Geographi-
cus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus, began as a research project
into the question of how one might read Josephus’ geographical passages in
the light of Greco-Roman geography. He opens his book with a clear indication
of the difficulty of the task. Looking to classical scholarship for a summary of
how space and geography functioned in ancient historiographers so that he
might have a point of comparison to Josephus’ writings, he found, to his cha-
grin, that “there was no such textbook.”27 Shahar’s work, therefore, serves as a
primer on the development of the ideological underpinnings of classical geog-
raphy beginning with Homer but with an eye toward Josephus as its endpoint.
His primary contribution is the identification of various lines of geographi-
cal thought, their most important individual proponents, and how those lines
are then passed on to and reflected in Josephus. Shahar discusses four early
classical geographical concepts that Herodotus (5th c. BCE) inherited, most
likely from Hecataeus of Miletus, and utilized to a greater or lesser extent:
1) the notion of the “inhabited world” or oikoumenē; 2) Homer as the father
of geography; 3) the curious lack of a geography of Greece despite a strong
26 See Derek Gregory et al., eds., Human Geography: Society, Space, and Social Science
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 4.
27 Yuval Shahar, Josephus Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 1. Shahar does acknowledge predecessors who have done
important studies on particular aspects of classical geography. See, for example, Claude
Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, Mich.:
U of Michigan Press, 1991); James S. Romm, The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought:
Geography, Exploration, and Fiction (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1992); Katherine Clarke,
Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1999), who focuses principally, but not exclusively, on Strabo.
Greek geographical tradition; and 4) the use of “linear geography” as was per-
petuated in travel literature.28 Of these, the oikoumenē and the Greek geog-
raphy/geography of Greece dichotomy are the most important, especially
when they are allowed to collide in Herodotus’ geographical descriptions.29
For Herodotus, the oikoumenē is fundamentally balanced; geography functions
as a meaningful barometer for the measurement of human action and human
culture.30 This is visible first in the way Herodotus characterizes those who do
not respect this balance. For example, when Croesus crosses the Halys River by
digging a channel, dividing the river into two streams and thus making it ford-
able, it represents for Herodotus the manipulation of a natural boundary and
is therefore a sure sign of hubris.31 Second, the balance of the oikoumenē mani-
fests itself in its inhabitants in such a way that aspects of geography are reflected
in the cultures of its various people groups. Perhaps the best example of this
can be found in Herodotus’ ethnographic description of the Egyptians. Many
aspects of Egyptian culture are backward compared to Greek customs: not
only is the Egyptian language written from right to left,32 but Egyptian women
are involved in trade, carry loads on their shoulders, and urinate while stand-
ing, while men weave, carry loads on their heads, and urinate while sitting.33
For Herodotus, however, all of this is explainable: “Just as the Egyptians have
a climate peculiar to themselves, and their river is different in its nature from
28 See in particular ch. 1, “Early Spatial Concepts,” 8–48. “Linear geography” refers to the
predominance of a one-dimensional approach to space that is applicable in travel and
itineraries. What is important is the progression of locales, not necessarily their two-
dimensional spatial layout.
29 My suggestion, not Shahar’s.
30 The work of Thomas Harrison is instructive here. He contends that the link between land
and inhabitants is actually one of several Herodotean “schematisms,” which also include
geographical scale, symmetry, and ethnocentrism. See idem, “The Place of Geography in
Herodotus’ Histories,” in Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the
Near East (ed. Colin Adams and Jim Roy; Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2007), 44–52.
31 Herodotus, Hist. 1.75.2–5. Obviously the primary offenders for Herodotus are the Persians.
“The Persian position [according to Herodotus] does not believe in the just balance of
the oikoumenē. Their concept of space is opposed to the recognition of boundaries and
their restrictions and always pushes the Persians to disturb the cosmic order. Herodotus
presents, time after time, the yawning gap between the boundaries and the extent of the
oikoumenē and the Persian ambitions for expansion. Thus, he sets the complexity of the
geographical reality against the unsuitable preparations of the Persians for their expedi-
tions of conquest and shows us the distance between the great dreams and the enormity
of loss” (Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 59).
32 Herodotus, Hist. 2.36.4.
33 Ibid. 2.35.2–3. The section on Egyptian customs is replete with similar examples.
40 CHAPTER 2
all other rivers, so, too, have they instituted customs and laws contrary for the
most part to those of the rest of mankind.”34 Given that Herodotus predates
any writings on the geography of Greece specifically, he applies his under-
standing of geography only to non-Greeks.35 Ethnography, with its close ties to
geography, was a way of contemplating the “other.”
Not all Greek historiographers followed Herodotus’ lead when it came
to using geography, however. An important dissenter was Thucydides
(late 5th–early 4th c. BCE), who, according to Shahar, showed no real inter-
est in ethnography. This may be a bit of an overstatement; short ethnographic
digressions do occur.36 Regardless, his geographical passages focus only on
those details that are pertinent to battle narratives.37 Some of the Greek/non-
Greek dichotomy of Herodotus is retained, in that Thucydides does not include
geographical passages covering mainland Greece.38 His geography covers only
outlying areas. The function of his geographical passages, however, is virtually
opposite to that of Herodotus. Herodotus uses a telescope; Thucydides uses
a microscope.39
With Polybius (2nd c. BCE), an important decision arises: whether to follow
Herodotus’ approach to geography with its larger brush strokes or to follow
Thucydides’ finer, more detailed lines in the service of battle descriptions. His
solution, according to Shahar, is to utilize both.40 Not all of Shahar’s observa-
tions are relevant here, but important among them is a distinction between
“regional” geography and “military” geography.41 Polybius’ regional geogra-
phy is featured in passages that draw upon Herodotus’ ethnographic sections,
34 Ibid. 2.35.2. The Nile’s chief difference, of course, is that it floods in the summer but dries
up during the winter (2.19.2).
35 Shahar (52–54) attributes this at least in part to the notion that Herodotus viewed geog-
raphy as an inadequate lens for understanding Greece. Individual city-states necessi-
tated a political explanation. The result is a more pronounced divide between Greek and
barbarian.
36 Vassiliki Pothou, La Place et la role de la digression dans l’oeuvre de Thucydide (Historia
203; Stuttgart: Fran Steiner, 2009), 67. One example of an ethnographic digression can
be found in Peloponnesian War 7.29.4 where the Thracians are noted for their brutality,
though the digression amounts only to a single sentence.
37 A good example would be Thucydides’ description of the harbor at Pylos (Peloponnesian
War 4.8.6). The position of the island of Sphacteria, situated in the mouth of the harbor,
is described at some length since it plays a role in the ensuing naval battle.
38 Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 91–92.
39 Ibid., 129.
40 Ibid., 130, 168.
41 Ibid., 161. Shahar also includes, as a third type, Polybius’ treatment of the entire oikoumenē.
though admittedly without the same level of amplification.42 Their more

limited scope may be due to the fact that Polybius devoted all of Book 34 (now
lost) of his Histories to geography in order to minimize interruptions.43 As a
result, an interest in peoples and places is still apparent, but obviously the stark
Greek exceptionalism underscored by Herodotus’ geographical discourses is
missing given Polybius’ interest in the ascendancy of Rome.44 Meanwhile, his
military geography imitates Thucydides’ use of territory as an important fea-
ture of battle narratives.45 The result is a synthesis of geographical traditions
within the same texts.
One of the most important figures with regard to ancient geographical
thought is Strabo (late 1st c. BCE–early 1st c. CE), whose 17-volume Geography
continues largely in the synthesized tradition of Polybius.46 Shahar’s primary
interest in Strabo lies in demonstrating that he is Josephus’ “chief guide” when
it comes to writing about places and also his primary interlocutor with regard
to Palestine in particular. Not only does he see evidence of Strabo’s geographi-
cal outlines as being programmatic for Josephus,47 he also argues for a “hid-
den dialogue” with Strabo and more specifically with Strabo’s Geography.48
Although Josephus acknowledges Strabo as a source in Ant.,49 Shahar contends,
against most scholars, that Josephus also must have been aware of Strabo’s
42 See, for example, his description of the χώρα of Artabazanes in Hist. 5.55.6–8. This short
passage includes both ethnographic details (“a large and warlike population”) and cor-
responding regional descriptions (“natural resources [that] provide every kind of warlike
material”).
43 See Daniela Dueck, Geography in Classical Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2012) 42.
44 Admittedly, this is a more complex issue. There is disagreement over whether Polybius
was pro-Roman or pro-Greek; see the discussion in Clarke, Between Geography and
History, 98–99. Regarding Polybius’ geographical passages specifically there is further
debate. F.W. Walbank (Polybius [Berkeley: U of California Press, 1972], 47) assumes his
excursuses came from an outside source. Clarke (104) disagrees.
45 See, for example, Polybius’ description of New Carthage in Hist. 10.9.8–10.13. He prefaces
his excursus by saying, “Now that I am about to narrate the siege and capture of the place,
I think it behoves me to make my readers acquainted to some extent with its surround-
ings and actual position.” The description that follows makes no mention of its people or
their relation to the geography.
46 Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 190.
47 Ibid., 207. In Geogr. 1.1.15–16, Strabo explains the main points of any good geographical
description, including size of country, terrain, and peculiarities, all of which are features
of Josephus’ geographical descriptions as well.
48 Ibid., 238–53.
49 Strabo is mentioned several times in books 13 & 14.
42 CHAPTER 2
description of the region (Geogr. 16.2) when writing J.W. and even “gently
corrects” it at times.50
Less of an emphasis in Shahar’s study but also worthy of note is the way in
which geographical thought is transmitted to Josephus through the Polybius/
Strabo lineage. Given that Strabo’s work is a geographical overview of the
Roman Empire (and therefore a sympathetic witness to its magnitude) rather
than a narrative history of events, his approach to space can differ substan-
tially from Polybius’ military geography. Strabo’s focus is primarily on descrip-
tions of regions and their peoples, which at first glance might appear to be
a throwback to Herodotus’ ethnography. In reality though, the ideology that
drove Herodotus is altogether absent from both Polybius and Strabo. Polybius
does not perpetuate the notion of assigning moral significance to natural
boundaries;51 Strabo goes a step further and articulates the opposite of
Herodotus’ approach:
[F]or the scene of the activities of states is land and sea, the dwelling
place of man. The scene is small when the activities are of small impor-
tance, and large when they are of large importance; and the largest is the
scene that embraces all the rest (which we call by the special name of
“the inhabited world”), and this, therefore, would be the scene of activi-
ties of the largest importance. Moreover, the greatest generals are with-
out exception men who are able to hold sway over land and sea, and to
unite nations and cities under one government and political administra-
tion. (Strabo, Geogr. 1.1.16)
Josephus’ regional descriptions descend from this tradition, showing much

more in common with Strabo than with Herodotus. Furthermore, the clear
distinction between “regional” and “military” geography that character-
izes Polybius’ work, although somewhat muted in Strabo, makes a return in
Josephus.52 He, like Polybius, is a “synthesizer”53 when it comes to geography.
Shahar’s book ends with the admission that there is a need for further study
of the geographical traditions influencing Josephus, and he announces his
own plan to write a second volume focusing on Jewish geography. It is true
that “Land Theology” in the Judeo-Christian tradition is not new to biblical
50 Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 240. Josephus does not mention Strabo as a source in
J.W., but as previously mentioned, J.W. does not include information about sources.
52 See the discussion under “Josephus’ Galilee as Firstspace” below.
scholarship,54 but little has been done with regard to Josephus’ land theology
in particular. One important exception would be the work of Betsy Halpern-
Amaru.55 She concludes that although the concept of the land as a significant
aspect of the covenant was prevalent in the Hebrew Scriptures, it is simply
not present in Josephus. Instead, Josephus downplays the “promissorial” func-
tion of the land covenant when discussing the patriarchs and replaces it with a
“predictive” approach.56 As the centrality of the promised land is diminished,
the people of the covenant then take on a more prominent role.57 Josephus
also develops an “alliance” theme whereby the people retain possession of the
land through their own exploits, but only so long as they remain allied with
God through observance of the law.58 For Josephus, God is the “ally of those
who are martially prepared.”59 The conspicuous absence of land theology is
also evident in the way that Josephus omits any notion of the land being pure
and intolerant of pollution, a theme found in Lev 18–20.60 It is further exempli-
fied in Josephus’ recounting of Balaam’s prophecy, where he claims that the
people will not only be fruitful and dwell in the land of promise, but that they
shall eventually inhabit all lands:61
Marvel ye then, blessed army, that from a single sire ye have grown so
great? Nay, those numbers now are small and shall be contained by
the land of Canaan; but the habitable world, be sure, lies before you
as an eternal habitation, and your multitudes shall find abode on
54 See, for example, Robert L. Wilken, The Land Called Holy: Palestine in Christian History
and Thought (New Haven: Yale UP, 1992); Norman C. Habel, The Land is Mine: Six Biblical
Land Ideologies (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995); Alain Marchadour and David Neuhaus, The
Land, the Bible, and History: Toward a Land That I Will Show You (New York: Fordham UP,
2007).
55 Betsy Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” JQR 71 (1980): 201–
29; eadem, “Land Theology in Philo and Josephus,” in The Land of Israel: Jewish Perspectives
(ed. Lawrence A. Hoffman; Notre Dame, Ind.: U of Notre Dame Press, 1986), 65–93; eadem,
Rewriting the Bible: Land and Covenant in Postbiblical Jewish Literature (Valley Forge, Pa.:
Trinity Press International, 1994).
56 Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” 207.
57 Ibid., 211.
58 Ibid., 216–18. Halpern-Amaru cites Joshua’s speech in Ant. 5.93–98, warning the people
that should they forsake God’s laws, the alliance would be dissolved.
60 Ibid., 212.
61 Ibid., 225–6.
44 CHAPTER 2
islands and continent, more numerous even than the stars in heaven.
(Josephus, Ant. 4.116)
Thus, “Josephus . . . constructs, or reconstructs from the biblical text, a context

for diaspora living.”62 That Josephus, given his Roman postwar context, would
pursue such a goal in his writings is not surprising. Halpern-Amaru, however,
argues that Josephus’ outlook is quite consistent with other postbiblical Jewish
authors. Philo, for example, in a manner that is congruous with his own overall
interpretive schema, views the land allegorically. The acquisition of promised
land in the biblical narrative is therefore replaced with “the gradual acquisition
of wisdom and virtue.”63 In other words, although the reasons and motivations
may vary from one writer to the next, the attenuation of biblical land theology
in Josephus is not unique to him.64
Halpern-Amaru’s conclusions are largely substantiated in the earlier work
of W.D. Davies. Although Davies makes scant mention of Galilee in his study
of land doctrine in the Jewish tradition, he acknowledges the trend toward
a more symbolic interpretive method, particularly in works like T. Job and
Philo’s Moses. Philo’s turn away from a literal understanding of land doctrine
leads to an increased emphasis on the law.65 Overall, this common tendency
“to detach . . . from ‘place’ ” resulted in the Jewish view of the land becoming
increasingly “contextual,”66 allowing for some diversity in the way land doc-
trine is appropriated.67
One more study of Josephus’ use of space is deserving of comment. In
2012, following two volumes devoted respectively to narrator and time, Brill
published a third volume in its Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative series focus-
ing on the concept of space. In their chapter on Josephus for this volume,
L. Huitink and J.W. van Henten look into the way that space functions nar-
ratologically in J.W.68 Following Shahar, they recognize the Herodotean and

63 Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Philo and Josephus,” 76.
64 In Rewriting the Bible, Halpern-Amaru also discusses Jub., T. Mos., and Ps-Philo’s Bib. Ant.,
but the overall conclusion is the same for each: land theology is minimized or missing
(116).
65 W.D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land: Early Christianity and Jewish Territorial Doctrine
(Berkeley: U of California Press, 1974; repr., Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), 121.
66 Ibid., 130f.
67 Ibid., 157–58.
68 L. Huitink and J.W. van Henten, “Josephus,” in Space in Ancient Greek Literature (Vol. 3 of
Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative; ed. Irene J.F. de Jong; Leiden: Brill, 2012) 199–217.
Thucydidean influences on Josephus’ excursuses,69 but their investigation of

the Josephus’ use of space goes well beyond geography. For example, by con-
trasting the sense of order typical of the Roman encampment with the civil
strife characteristic of the Jewish population, they argue that Josephus places
at least part of the blame for the fall of Jerusalem on the inhabitants’ misuse
of space.70 Although their study is a helpful look into the broader function
of space within Josephan narrative, it should be noted that their interpretive
lens is one of literary criticism, not spatial criticism. Furthermore, like past
treatments of Josephan geography, their primary focus is on Jerusalem rather
than Galilee.
Several salient observations from the preceding review of scholarship can
serve as a useful foundation for further analysis. Josephus, like numerous histo-
riographers before him, does acknowledge the importance of geography when
writing history, and modern scholars are heavily indebted to him for their
understanding of 1st c. CE. Palestine, including Galilee, despite the fact that he
can be inconsistent at times. Deliberate theorizing about Josephus the geog-
rapher is still in its infancy, but each foray breaks new ground. When isolat-
ing pertinent passages, it becomes evident that Josephus the geographer is no
more a passive observer than Josephus the historian. He does not just record
information about places; he creates spaces that suit his needs. This is par-
ticularly evident when comparing his writings to parallel biblical passages, but
there is no reason to assume that he refrains from doing so at other times. Most
importantly, Josephus does appear to be the heir of a developing geographi-
cal tradition. He utilizes geographical tropes and commonplaces that can be
found in the Greco-Roman historians and geographers that predate him, with-
out (obviously) sharing the same outlook concerning Greece like some of his
earliest forebears. Herodotus’ interest in ethnography has been passed on to
him through Polybius and Strabo, but he has no vested interest in character-
izing the “other” as Herodotus did. Josephus’ geographical concerns, especially
in J.W., are directed toward his own πατρίς. Likewise, he stands squarely within
a postbiblical Jewish tradition concerning the land as a whole that has mini-
mized the covenantal function so prevalent in the Hebrew Scriptures.
Significant gaps remain, however, particularly with reference to the goals
of this study. Although there is an abundance of interest in Josephus’ infor-
mation about Galilee, and while notable progress has been made with regard
to Josephus as a 1st c. CE geographer, Josephus as a geographer of Galilee is
virtually unexplored territory. Furthermore, it is apparent that Josephus adopts
69 Ibid., 205.

70 Ibid., 206–208.
46 CHAPTER 2
the geographical templates of previous writers without necessarily adopting

the ideologies deposited into past geographies. Yet this does not mean that
Josephus’ concept of place is devoid of all ideology. If Josephus does not utilize
the Greek exceptionalism of earlier Greek historians or the covenantal land
theology of earlier Hebrew writers, what ideas does he infuse into his concept
of space? When he writes about Galilee, in particular, how does it become a
container for new ideologies? What sort of Galilee does Josephus not only map
but also create?
Josephus and Critical Geography
As explained in chapter 1 above, one of the most intriguing aspects of critical

geography is that, of the panoply of theoretical approaches, no single method
has won the day. Before selecting a lens through which to view Josephus’ geog-
raphy, it should be emphasized that this is not an attempt to advocate a par-
ticular method as the “right” method, elevating it above all others or as the
“only” method that can result in a fruitful analysis. In fact, many of the cur-
rent theoretical frameworks, by their very nature, overlap and converse with
other approaches, mitigating any need to draw stark boundary lines between
them. This does not mean, however, that all theoretical approaches rank as
equals in their application to Josephus. On the one hand, Geoff King’s concept
of “cartographic meaning,” which focuses on the priority of map over territory
and the provisionality of maps in relation to territory,71 might provide a wel-
come challenge to current understandings of Josephus’ Galilee. On the other
hand, Josephus is probably not the best place to apply Edward Said’s “imagi-
native geography,” which is primarily concerned with how the outsider (in
Said’s case, the westerner) conceives of and maps the territory of the “other.”72
Such an approach might be a natural fit for an evaluation of Herodotus’
ethnographically-oriented geographies of non-Greek regions, but not neces-
sarily for Josephus, who is far more concerned with mapping his own πατρίς
and his own ὁμόφυλοι, even if he does it from within a Roman milieu. Both King
and Said can speak of engendering territory through the mapping process,73
but what they do with that concept varies widely enough to suggest different
applications. One suits Josephus the geographer well; the other does not.
71 Geoff King, Mapping Reality (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 18; see ch. 1 above.
72 Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978), 22, 54; again, see ch. 1 above.
73 King, Mapping Reality, 5; Said, Orientalism, 40.
The primary evaluative lens chosen for this particular study, however, is the
critical geography of Edward Soja with noticeable overtones from the spatial
theory of Henri Lefebvre. Soja’s main contribution to geographical theory is his
notion of “Thirdspace,” and as the term implies, its definition necessarily draws
upon the related concepts of “Firstspace” and “Secondspace.” If Firstspace
refers to “real” space, the territory itself that is measurable and mappable,
and Secondspace refers to “imagined” space, the representation of that terri-
tory not only pictorially in conventional maps but also imaginatively in social
discourse, Thirdspace is “realandimagined,” a position of understanding and
experiencing space that draws upon both First- and Secondspace.74 Yet Soja is
adamant that Thirdspace not be considered merely a combination, a subsidiary
synthesis of two predecessors. The point is to introduce a critical “thirding-as-
Othering,”75 a disruptive third element into what would otherwise be a closed,
tidy, and moribund binary system. Soja’s concern is that a given place, viewed
only as Firstspace, is susceptible to the “illusion of opaqueness, . . . a myopia
that sees only superficial materiality.”76 Likewise, Secondspace can create an
“illusion of transparency . . . [the] pure ideation of space.”77 Once these illu-
sions are removed, the result is an interpretive geography that is neither bound
to an undialectical view of space nor disassociated due to a dematerialized
view of space. As such, Thirdspace is a deliberately constructed platform for
“the translation of knowledge into action.”78 The crucial influence of Lefebvre
cannot be overlooked in this regard. Soja’s trialectic of space is a deliberate
echo of Lefebvre’s own triad of “perceived,” “conceived,” and “lived” space.79
Thus, for Soja, Thirdspace “can be mapped but never captured in conventional
cartographies; it can be creatively imagined but obtains meaning only when it
is practised and fully lived.”80
74 See ch. 1 above. Probably Soja’s most accessible and concise explanation of these con-
cepts can be found in Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined
Places (Cambridge, Mass: Blackwell, 1996), 10–11.
75 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 5.
76 Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory
(New York: Verso, 1989), 7.
77 Ibid.
78 Ibid., 22.
79 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith; Oxford:
Blackwell, 1991), 40.
80 Edward Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” in
Human Geography Today (ed. Doreen Massey et al.; Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999), 276;
emphasis his.
48 CHAPTER 2
Soja’s concept of “Thirdspace,” therefore, is not just an intra-disciplinary

theory; it is a full-blown interdisciplinary agenda, a deliberate attempt at theo-
rizing about space with an eye toward expanding geography’s imaginative and
critical function. As such, it acts as a critique of space, of spatial disciplines,
and beyond. Geography is squarely in the crosshairs, but it is not Soja’s only, or
even most important, target. Soja summarizes Lefebvre’s insistence on making
space a part of critical theory:
That ‘everything’ occurs in time and is inherently historical, that our

actions always play a part . . . in constructing sequential temporality and
making histories, in the construction of individual and societal ‘biogra-
phies,’ seems unremarkably true, even if frequently outside of our con-
scious awareness or submerged in enfolding ideologies. What Lefebvre
is arguing for is a similar action-oriented and politicized ontology and
epistemology for space: ‘everything’ also occurs in space, not merely inci-
dentally but as a vital part of lived experience, as part of the (social) pro-
duction of (social) space,81 the construction of individual and societal
spatialities. . . . Space was too important to be left only to the specialized
spatial disciplines (Geography, Architecture, Urban Studies) or merely
added on as a gap-filler or factual background for historians, social scien-
tists, or Marxist sociologists. The spatiality of human life, like its histori-
cality and sociality, infused every discipline and discourse.82
In other words, theorizing about space is not only necessary for geography,
but for all disciplines, including (and most importantly for the purposes of
this study) history. Soja’s theorization about space is an intentional back-
lash against “an overdeveloped historical contextualization of social life and
social theory that actively submerges and peripheralizes the geographical or
spatial imagination.”83
What might Soja’s critical geography look like when applied to Josephus?
First and foremost, it is a means of setting Josephus’ spatial imagination free
from his historiography. Though this may seem a rather simple undertaking
at first glance, there are potentially unique pitfalls lurking that are rooted in
the nature of historiography itself. Soja describes (laments?) what he calls
81 Note the parallel to Lefebvre’s statement (Space, 30) “that (social) space is a (social)
product.”
“linguistic despair,”84 the unavoidability of temporal sequence that is inherent

in the practice of writing. “Language dictates . . . a linear flow” in a way that is
conducive to historiography but serves as a “temporal prisonhouse” for spatial
hermeneutic.85 Geography, as opposed to history (and language), is charac-
terized by simultaneity.86 If history is a manuscript, then space is a “palimp-
sest,” one that is “being constantly reinscribed, erased, and reinscribed again.”87
Unlocking Josephus’ geography from his historiography is not necessarily an
easy task. According to Soja, “we are constrained by language much more than
we know . . . the spatiality of social life is stubbornly simultaneous, but what
we write down is successive, because language is successive.”88
There is a sense, however, in which the pairing of Soja and Josephus does not
necessarily result in a perfect match. To be fair to Soja’s vision for Thirdspace,
it should be clearly stated that he would almost certainly be disappointed in
Josephus’ Galilee (or perhaps more accurately just in Josephus). Soja’s and
Lefebvre’s overt Marxisms might be fruitfully applied to a study of ancient
Galilee, but Josephus had obviously never read either one. It should not be
surprising, therefore, that Josephus’ vision of Galilee is not necessarily crafted
according to Soja’s ideal vision of Thirdspace. Can Thirdspace be a place of pol-
iticking and posturing even when not in the service of a deliberately Marxist
agenda? For the purposes of this study, it can.89 Soja’s approach is, above all
else, a method of reasserting spatial categories in critical discourse, a recogni-
tion that the deliberately scripted historical drama that unfolds before us takes
place upon a willfully constructed stage. The intent here is to look closely at
Josephus’ production of Galilee, not (hypothetically) Soja’s.
84 Ibid., 2.
85 Ibid., 1–2.
86 Ibid., 2.
87 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 18; cf. King, Mapping Reality, 73, who (apparently indepen-
dently) refers to landscape as “a palimpsest of different mappings.”
89 While this would likely be less than ideal in Soja’s thinking, a Thirdspace that can only
subvert hegemonic power structures is counterintuitive. Other theorists have in fact
gone in very different directions with regard to the relationship between space and
action. In her “Performing Space,” (in Human Geography Today [ed. Doreen Massey et al.;
Cambridge: Polity Press, 1999], 249), Gillian Rose argues, “If space is a performance of
power and we are all performers in our everyday relationalities, the project of interpret-
ing space critically cannot claim to be an effort to escape power.” Rose’s argument is not
intended as a rebuttal of Soja, but her unique approach shows that the combination of
space and action is a malleable one.
50 CHAPTER 2
Along with the potential pitfalls, however, come opportunities. Taking a

fresh look at Josephus’ writings through a deliberately spatial lens can yield
new observations. If Josephus’ history is laden with his own ideologies, is there
any reason to assume that his geography is not? Josephus the geographer may
indeed be a rather new concept (given the review of scholarship above), but it
is also one that is ripe for analysis. The present study, then, in taking a careful
look at how Josephus constructs space and in particular how he constructs
Galilee, shares something in common with Lefebvre’s approach:
The production of space, having attained the conceptual and linguistic

level, acts retroactively upon the past, disclosing aspects and moments
of it hitherto uncomprehended. The past appears in a different light, and
hence the process whereby that past becomes the present also takes on
another aspect.90
As Josephus’ Galilee is opened up to reconsideration through Soja’s criti-

cal geography, the hope is that current discussions on the nature of 1st c. CE
Galilee will benefit.
Another reason exists for applying the Lefebvre/Soja line of critique to
Josephus, particularly when he is compared to other ancient authors who
wrote about 1st c. Galilee. As stated above, integral to the idea of Thirdspace
is the dual notion that action is incomplete without reflection upon space,
and reflection upon space is incomplete without action. It must be “lived”
space. Although there is no reason to insist that this attains validity only when
the “living” takes place in a literal sense, of all our ancient historiographers,
Josephus is the only one to have experienced Galilee extensively and directly,
to have lived in its space and to have acted in it and upon it. Thus, his produc-
tion of Galilean space is more than just a literary exercise, a projection of an
author’s imagination. It is for Josephus both real and imagined, a space that he
both perceives and conceives and that becomes a platform for his own activity.
As he, a commissioned general and leader of the populace, serves the needs
of Galilee, so Galilee, a palimpsest of simultaneously created places, comes to
serve his own.
90 Lefebvre, Space, 65.

Josephus’ Galilee as “Firstspace”
Soja’s Firstspace might seem initially to be nothing more than the territory
itself—accurate, objective spatial reality—but the key to understanding the
concept of Firstspace lies not with the territory but with the methodology
that underpins the study of territory. In other words, it has as much to do with
conventional geography as with actual space. Firstspace spatial analysis con-
sists of more than simple mapping; it also includes a wide variety of method-
ological approaches that find common ground in quantitative measurement.
According to Soja, as conventional geography adopted more of these meth-
ods, the result was twofold. Not only did they usher in a “so-called quantita-
tive ‘revolution’ in geography,”91 but they also coalesced into “a fundamentally
positivist ‘spatial science’ ”92 that left the geographer in a position of theoreti-
cal stagnancy. The epistemologies of Firstspace may indeed be “incomplete
and partial,”93 but they are nevertheless epistemologies, attempts at under-
standing space. Thus, Firstspace’s fascination with the “real” should not be
confused with objective reality. Firstspace is real space—measurable and
mappable—as it is perceived94 by the geographer.
When applying this principle to Josephus’ Galilee, therefore, the goal is not
to distill the accurate geographical information from the inaccuracies in his
account and call it Firstspace. The goal instead is to identify those aspects of
his description of Galilee that are largely neutral with regard to his own theo-
rization about that space, regardless of accuracy. Josephus may be inaccurate
when giving the measurements of the Lake of Gennesar ( J.W. 3.506) as approx-
imately 5 miles wide and 18 miles long,95 but it is difficult to argue that his error
is due to an ideological bias, whether intentional or unintentional. Strabo does
instruct geographers to call the east-west dimension “length,” corresponding

92 Ibid., 75.
93 Ibid., 78.
94 In Lefebvre’s sense of the “perception” (as opposed to the “conception”) of space; see
Lefebvre, Space, 40.
95 He is indeed incorrect, at least by today’s dimensions (7 miles wide by 12 miles long). It
is worth remembering that today’s shoreline is not identical to what it was in the past,
though Josephus is off by a far wider margin. See Mendel Nun, Ancient Anchorages
and Harbours Around the Sea of Galilee (Kibbutz Ein Gev, Israel: Kinnereth Sailing Co.,
1988); John F. Shroder, Jr. and Moshe Inbar, “Geologic and Geographic Background to the
Bethsaida Excavations,” in Bethsaida: A City by the North Shore of the Sea of Galilee (eds.
Rami Arav and Richard A. Fruend; vol. 1 of Bethsaida Excavations Project Reports and
Contextual Studies; Kirksville, MO: Thomas Jefferson University Press, 1995), 92–93.
52 CHAPTER 2
to the longer dimension of the oikoumenē, and the north-south dimension

“width,” the shorter dimension of the oikoumenē,96 but even when Josephus
breaks with this tradition he is still being “conventional.” For Josephus the
geographer, the longer measurement is always called the “length” regardless
of its orientation (and even Strabo himself will at times break his own rule).97
Although Josephus’ accuracy is often paramount when evaluating his history98
or his geography,99 it is not the primary issue here. When Josephus dons the
cap of the “conventional” geographer with regard to the basics of the region
(keeping in mind that his conventions may not match modern ones), that is
when Galilee becomes Firstspace.
Amassing the sum total of Josephus’ geographical information pertinent to
Galilee is not necessary for this study, but an overview of his Firstspace Galilee
according to three broad categories—boundaries, features, and production—
can provide a baseline for further discussion.
Boundaries
Josephus’ favorite spatial descriptor for Galilee is the rather generic term χώρα
(see, for starters, Life 78, 102, 205, 244; J.W. 1.29, 128), which implies that he
might have conceived of Galilee in loose territorial terms. In fact, Josephus was
fully aware that Galilee was a rather well-defined space. His rendering of the
extent of Galilee’s borders is well-known, and besides illustrating Josephus’
awareness of a common ancient geographical tradition,100 it also serves as an
important reference point for modern scholars’ understanding of the region
during the 1st c. CE.
Galilee, with its two divisions known as Upper and Lower Galilee, is
enveloped by Phoenicia and Syria. Its western frontiers are the outlying
territory of Ptolemais and Carmel, a mountain once belonging to Galilee,
and now to Tyre; . . . On the south the country is bounded by Samaria and
the territory of Scythopolis up to the waters of Jordan; on the east by the
96 Strabo, Geogr. 2.1.32. The “longer” and “shorter” dimensions are obviously an ancient per-
ception. See ch. 5 below.
98 E.g., Uriel Rappaport, “Where Was Josephus Lying—in his Life or in the War?” in Josephus
and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith (ed. Fausto
Parente and Joseph Sievers; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994), 279–89.
99 See the discussion of Safrai’s “The Description of the Land of Israel in Josephus’ Works”
above.
100 Both Polybius (Hist. 12.25e.1–2) and Strabo (Geogr. 1.1.15) advocate summarizing distances
and spatial dimensions when discussing a particular region.
territory of Hippos, Gadara, and Gaulanitis, the frontier-line of Agrippa’s

kingdom; on the north is Tyre and its dependent district mark its limits.
( J.W. 3.35–38)
Thus, Josephus is not only aware of boundaries, but even how those bound-
aries have changed over time, as is the case with Carmel. His discussion of
borders does not stop here, however. He continues by delineating an impor-
tant border within the region, namely, the boundary between Upper and
Lower Galilee:
Lower Galilee extends in length from Tiberias to Chabulon, which is not

far from Ptolemais on the coast; in breadth, from a village in the Great
Plain called Xaloth to Bersabe. At this point begins Upper Galilee, which
extends in breadth to the village of Baca, the frontier of Tyrian territory;
in length, it reaches from the village of Thella, near the Jordan, to Meroth.
( J.W. 3.38–40)101
Josephus frequently uses Galilee’s borders as reference points for cities and
villages, particularly in the Life: the Great Plain (Esdraelon), for example, is
said to lie in between Galilee and Samaria, but certain villages can be located
within one region or the other. Dabaritta, for example, is in Galilee (Life 318),
but Ginae is in Samaria (Ant. 20.118).102
Although acknowledging that some of Josephus’ biases may be shining
through when he discusses Galilee’s neighbors, he does nevertheless convey
helpful information about the historically tense relations between Galileans
and those from surrounding districts. The Samaria/Galilee rivalry, well known
to biblical scholarship and a likely outgrowth of the conquest of Samaria by
the Hasmoneans ( J.W. 1.64–65; Ant. 13.254f),103 apparently featured enough
animosity to boil over into violence ( J.W. 2.232–33; Ant. 20.118; cf. Tacitus,
101 C f. J.W. 1.21–22; 2.568. The distinction between Upper and Lower Galilee is not part of the
biblical tradition, but it is not unique to Josephus. It is also present in rabbinic sources
(m. Šeb. 9:2–3, which adds a third region around the lake; b. Sanh. 11b, which recognizes
Upper and Lower Galilee only) and later echoed by Eusebius (Onomastikon 72.18–21). Eric
Meyers (“The Cultural Setting of Galilee: The Case for Regionalism and Early Judaism,”
ANRW 2.19.1:693–98) uses this ancient distinction as a starting point for his own study of
the differences between the two regions.
102 “Gema,” J.W. 2.232, but see J.W. 3.48 where “Ginaea” is, more ambiguously, said to lie on
Samaria’s frontier.
103 Jürgen Zangenberg, “Between Jerusalem and the Galilee,” in Jesus and Archaeology
(ed. James H. Charlesworth; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 404, 430.
54 CHAPTER 2
Ann. 12.54).104 Josephus traces frictions with Tyre, evident during the period
just before the war (Life 44), as far back as Herod the Great ( J.W. 1.238;
Ant. 14.239), although the Phoenician architecture of Chabulon ( J.W. 2.503),
a Galilean town near Ptolemais, would indicate that at least some of the cul-
tural exchange was less belligerent. Latent tensions with other cities and dis-
tricts could also explode into violence. J.W. 2.457–60 is an interesting passage
speaking to both the borders of Galilee and the caustic clashes that sometimes
took place there. Josephus reports that following a massacre of the Jewish
population at Caesarea, retaliatory strikes against Syrian districts broke out in
all directions. When Josephus reports this, however, he uses the ancient geo-
graphical method of listing place names according to the back and forth pat-
tern of a ploughed field (boustrophēdon),105 starting in the Decapolis, moving
north along the east side of the Sea of Galilee, crossing west into Phoenicia,
then following the coastline south. The result is a nearly complete circuit
around Galilee corresponding to the borders he will outline later in Book 3.
The subsequent Syrian reprisals are listed by Josephus in J.W. 2.477 using the
same method but in reverse order. In sum, Josephus is not only aware of the
importance of delineating the borders of Galilee, but he does so using the typi-
cal methods of an ancient geographer.
Features
Polybius reminds his readers that spatial details are fundamental to his his-
toriography and lists several items that were expected of any good geographi-
cal description: “cities, places, rivers, lakes, and in general all the peculiar
features of land and sea.”106 In the same vein, Josephus’ narrative is rich with
information about specific features and locales within Galilee. One signifi-
cant topographical feature for Josephus is the rugged landscape (Life 187).
It is conspicuously absent from his geographical overview of the region, but
104 Although Tacitus recognizes a tension between Jews and Samaritans similar to that
described in Josephus, it is unlikely that he is using Josephus as a source. Tacitus claims
that Felix and Cumanus served as procurators in the region simultaneously (Felix over-
seeing Samaria and Cumanus overseeing Galilee), whereas Josephus clearly states that
Felix became procurator over Judea, Samaria, and Galilee only after Claudius had ban-
ished Cumanus. The question of Tacitus’ sources concerning Judea and the Jews is still an
open one, but it is likely that he used a variety of accounts both from older works and eye
witnesses (Hist. 5.6). See Silvia Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” in Religion,
Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg
et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 75–76, in particular n. 29 where she lists a number
of studies supporting this view.
105 Shahar, Josephus Geographicus, 236–37.
106 Polybius, Hist. 12.25e.1–2.
it is included in numerous descriptions of specific—and sometimes rather

obvious—places (Sepphoris, J.W. 2.511–12; Jotapata, J.W. 3.158–60; Tiberias,
J.W. 3.486, Life 322; Tabor, J.W. 4.57). As one would expect, Josephus also
includes several comments on Galilee’s sources of water, the region’s other
significant natural feature. Both the lake and the Jordan River are described
in a geographical excursus devoted to them in J.W. 3.506–21, explaining the
source and nature of their waters as well as the spring-fed plain of Gennesar
at the lake’s northwest corner. Not all of his information is trustworthy. Where
there are obvious inaccuracies resulting from commonly held but misguided
traditions rather than Josephus’ own biases, however, his perception of Galilee
may still be described as Firstspace. For example, when Josephus affirms the
erroneous notion that the actual source of the Jordan was at the distant pool
of Phiale rather than at Panion107 ( J.W. 3.509–13), there is no need to assume
he harbors an ideologically charged motive. He is merely taking at face value
the tradition about Philip the tetrarch throwing chaff into Phiale only to see it
surface later at Panion’s famous grotto spring.108
In addition to natural features, Josephus also includes information about
various locales within Galilee, especially cities, villages, and fortifications.109
Of the 204 settlements of Galilee (Life 235), the three largest cities were Sepphoris,
Tiberias, and Gabara (Life 123; cf. 346). Sepphoris was Galilee’s “chief city”
(Life 38) during Josephus’ tenure there due primarily to the redistricting by
Nero that made it the main administrative center of the area ( J.W. 2.252;
Ant. 20.159; Life 37–38), but its reputation as “the ornament of Galilee”
(Ant. 18.27) was also bolstered by its strategic central location ( J.W. 2.511) and
easily defensible position ( J.W. 3.34). Nero’s redistricting resulted in a natural
rivalry between Sepphoris and Galilee’s former capital, Tiberias, which was
founded by Antipas only a few decades earlier (Ant. 18.36) and boasted both
his royal palace (Life 65) and a stadium (Life 92). Less is said about Gabara, but
it is at the center of one of Josephus’ more intriguing geographical statements.
In Life 240, Josephus speaks of “guard[ing] the routes leading from Gabara into
107 Panion (Paneas/Banias), being near Caesarea Philippi, is technically outside of Galilee,
but it is an important part of Josephus’ description of the Jordan, Galilee’s most important
river.
108 Not all of Josephus’ erroneous material is so easily explained, as will be discussed below.
109 Population statistics aside, Josephus’ identification of cities and villages is considered reli-
able. However, he attributes a number of the fortifications to his own doing ( J.W. 2.573–
74; Life 187–88) when many of these likely date to the Hellenistic period. The notable
exception is Jotapata, which shows signs of being heavily fortified within a short period
of time immediately prior to the war. See Mordechai Aviam, Jews, Pagans, and Christians
in the Galilee: 25 Years of Archaeological Excavations and Surveys, Hellenistic to Byzantine
Periods; (vol. 1 of Land of Galilee; Rochester, N.Y.: U. of Rochester Press, 2004), 92–105.
56 CHAPTER 2
Galilee” as though Gabara were located outside the Galilean borders. The odd
phrasing likely stems from his understanding that larger cities like Gabara
oversaw their own toparchies and therefore retained an integral connection
with and a measure of independent authority over their surrounding territory.
Josephus does not use the term τοπαρχία in this passage, but he does apply it
to other cities, notably Tiberias ( J.W. 2.252; cf. 3.54). He also refers to Tiberias’
χώρα (Life 120, 155) with much the same force and even hints that it might have
extended to the other side of the lake: Crispus of Tiberias owned land across
the Jordan (Life 33); villages belonging to Gadara and Hippos can be said to
lie “on the frontiers (μεθόριοι) of Tiberias” (Life 42). Furthermore, Tiberias had
its own βουλή (Life 64, 69, 169, 279, 284, 300, 313, 381; J.W. 2.639), and Jesus son
of Sapphias is called an ἄρχων (Life 134, 294). The result is a Tiberian territory
that is in some sense distinguishable from the rest of Galilee (Life 121?), yet for
reasons other than Nero’s redistricting.110
The significance of these cities for Josephus’ narratives is obvious, but from
the strict standpoint of Josephus’ geography they pale in comparison to some
of the smaller Galilean towns and fortifications. In J.W., Jotapata (3.158–60)
and Mt. Tabor (4.54–55) both receive their own short geographical excursuses
describing their position and terrain. Likewise, the excursus covering the lake,
the river, and the Gennesaret plain is a function of its context, coming in the
midst of Josephus’ account of the Roman attack on Tarichaeae, a substantial
city in its own right111 located on the shore where the plain meets the lake.
The fact that Josephus chose to highlight these particular locales may be
ideologically motivated, but the reason they receive their own geographical
excursuses is not. Josephus is doing what would be expected of him as a his-
toriographer, particularly one that writes about war. Prior to his excursus on
Sparta, Polybius reiterates why spatial descriptions are necessary and what they
should include. What he lays out is in many ways programmatic for Josephus:
But lest owing to ignorance of the localities my narrative tend to become

vague and meaningless, I must describe their natural features and relative
110 A similar distinction can be made with Gamala and Gaulanitis. Even though Gamala lies
within Gaulanitis ( J.W. 2.547), Josephus can also speak of “Gamalitic” (Γαμαλιτικός) ter-
ritory as a space that is distinguishable from Gaulanitis ( J.W. 3.56). See also Dennis E.
Groh, “The Clash Between Literary and Archaeological Models of Provincial Palestine,”
in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine
Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and Thomas McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 31.
111 Tarichaeae was large enough to hold a sizeable population ( J.W. 1.180) and to have its own
hippodrome ( J.W. 2.599; Life 134).
positions. . . . [W]e must by no means neglect to illustrate by local descrip-

tions events of any sort, and least of all those of war, nor must we hesi-
tate to adopt as landmarks harbours, seas, and islands, or again temples,
mountains, and local names of districts (χῶραι), and finally differences in
climate. . . . For this . . . is the only way of making readers acquainted with
places of which they are ignorant. (Polybius, Hist. 5.21.3–9)
Josephus’ excursus on the area surrounding Tarichaeae does not include an

example of every landmark mentioned above, but neither does Polybius’
description of Sparta which immediately follows. There is more than enough
overlap, however, to show that Josephus’ excursus reflects a common tradition:
he speaks of both the territory (χώρα) and the lake of Gennesar, because the
battle at Tarichaeae began in the plain ( J.W. 3.485–91) and continued as a naval
battle on the lake; he includes otherwise obscure climatic details such as the
effects of the cold night air on the water and the unique temperateness that
allows a wide array of plant species to grow in the plain ( J.W. 3.508, 516–19);
though he mentions no specific temples or structures by name,112 he tells of
Agrippa’s enhancement of Panion at his own expense. All of these details find
echoes in Polybius’ statement.
In fact, Josephus seems to be well aware of the distinction between “regional”
and “military” geography in the Polybius/Strabo tradition as proposed by
Shahar,113 and he reflects this understanding in different kinds of excursuses.
Regional excursuses are intended to be more chorographic, more fully devel-
oped in terms of historical traditions associated with a particular region or the
natural peculiarities of that region. Strabo’s description of Judea is such an
example; it includes common Hellenistic (not Jewish) traditions about Moses
and explanations for the “fiery” nature of the land around Masada114 as well
as peculiar features like the balsam sap at Jericho that can cure cataracts or
the fetid waters of Gadaris that can cause animals to lose their hair, hooves,
and horns.115 Polybius’ description of Byzantium, in which he explains that
the reason for its “singular prosperity” (εὐπορία) has more to do with the
112 Cf. Ant. 15.364, a parallel digression on Panion where Josephus reports that Herod had
built a temple to Augustus in the vicinity. Panion’s picturesque cave would have been
broadly associated with veneration (cf. Seneca, Lucil. 41.3). See also Peregrine Horden and
Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell,
2000), 412–17.
114 Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.35–36, 44.
115 Ibid., 16.2.41, 45.
58 CHAPTER 2
natural currents of the Hellespont than the well-known fertility of the soil, is
another example of regional geography.116 In addition to Josephus’ geographi-
cal excursuses on Ptolemais ( J.W. 2.188–91), Jericho and the lower Jordan valley
( J.W. 4.452–75), and Lake Asphaltitis (i.e., the Dead Sea; J.W. 4.476–85), those
on Galilee and its surrounding districts ( J.W. 3.35–58) and the Gennesar dis-
trict ( J.W. 3.506–21) belong in this category.
Other excursuses, having a more limited topographical focus and particu-
larly those dealing with smaller locales, are better categorized as “military”
geography. The tradition can be traced back to Thucydides and is exemplified
in passages such as his comments on Oeniadae, which he describes as being
surrounded by lakes formed by the alluvial deposits of the Achelous River.
Given the difficulties of the terrain, the Athenians under Phormio postpone
their attack until after winter.117 Polybius’ sketch of New Carthage follows suit;
it is essentially a topographical overview with descriptions of its harbor and
the surrounding hills including a few landmarks, all for the purpose of making
his account of the ensuing battle easier to follow.118 The most notable Galilean
example of “military” geography in J.W. is the excursus on Jotapata (3.158–60),
which is intended to illustrate only the strength of its position. The descrip-
tions of Tabor (4.54–56) and Gamala in Gaulanitis (4.4–8), as well as Jerusalem
in a very lengthy excursus about its layout, walls, and fortifications (5.136–247),
are of the same ilk.
That Josephus is actively identifying with these broader geographical tradi-
tions is also evident in the formulaic statements that conclude the majority of
his excursuses, whether “regional” or “military.” There is considerable variation
in wording, but they all serve the same purpose: to close out the excursus and
continue the historical narrative. His simple declaration in J.W. 3.521, “Such is
the nature of these things” (ταῦτα μὲν [οὖν] οὕτως φύσεως ἔχει), is typical119 and
parallels similar statements found in Polybius120 and Pliny.121
116 Polybius, Hist. 4.38.13.

117 Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 2.102.2.
118 Polybius, Hist. 10.9.8–10.13.
119 My translation. See similar statements in J.W. 2.191 (Ptolemais); 3.58 (Galilee, Judea, etc.);
3.160 (Jotapata); 4.475 (Jericho and the lower Jordan valley); 4.485 (Lake Asphaltitis); and
5.247 (Jerusalem). The descriptions of Gamala, Tabor, and Masada do not feature a con-
cluding statement.
120 See, for example, Polybius, Hist. 10.11.1. After his description of New Carthage, he writes:
“Such being the situation of the place” (τοιαύτης δ᾽ ὑπαρχούσης τῆς διαθέσεως τῶν τόπων)
and resumes his account of the battle.
121 Pliny, Nat. 5.17: “Et hactenus Iudaea est.”
Production
According to Strabo, another vital part of ancient geography was the “ter-
restrial history” (ἡ ἐπίγειον ἱστορία) of a given region, namely, “the history
of animals and plants and everything useful or harmful that is produced by
land or sea.”122 His own description of Judea and its surroundings in Book 16
does cover some of the natural and cultivated produce of the area, but only
a few remarks pertain specifically to Galilee: the vegetation around the lake,
including reeds and balsam, and the pickled fish of Tarichaeae.123 Josephus
also incorporates this “terrestrial history” into his own geographical passages,
sometimes in his regional excursuses and other times simply in the course of
his narrative. Galilee was “a special home of the olive” and its oil was plenti-
ful ( J.W. 2.592); according to Josephus’ account of the siege of Jotapata, there
was oil in enough abundance to be boiled and used as a scalding weapon
( J.W. 3.271). Grain, another important agricultural product, was stored in large
quantities by both the Romans (Life 71) and the Herodians (Life 119). Other fruits
of the region, particularly in the fertile Gennesar plain, included dates, grapes,
and walnuts ( J.W. 3.517–19).124 Josephus certainly has less to say about the fish-
ing industry of the lake district than the Gospel writers, but he does acknowl-
edge it offhandedly ( J.W. 3.508, 520), and it is probably safe to assume that the
primary purpose of the many boats on the lake was not, in fact, martial despite
their function in Josephus’ narratives ( J.W. 3.522–31; Life 163–69). Livestock was
also present in Galilee ( J.W. 3.62), although perhaps not in the same measure
as the neighboring districts of Samaria ( J.W. 3.50) and Gaulanitis (Life 58).
In terms of the general fertility of the area, Josephus may have an ulterior
motive for extolling it so highly, but it is nevertheless substantiated to a degree
by the fact that Antipas’ tetrarchy yielded twice the income of Philip’s ( J.W. 2.95;
Ant. 17.318–19).
Josephus’ reports on the agricultural production of Galilee no doubt come
from firsthand experience, especially given the paucity of such information
about contemporary Galilee in other historians and geographers.125 Once again,
it must be acknowledged that some of the details in Josephus’ descriptions of
122 Strabo, Geogr. 1.1.16.

123 Ibid., 16.2.16, 45. Strabo does call the lake “Gennesaritis,” but there is some debate over
whether he has confused it with Lake Semechonitis (Huleh) further to the north. See
Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 70. Strabo may be incorrect on a number of
other counts as well; see ch. 3 below.
124 Cf. b. Meg. 6a.
125 According to Cappelletti (“Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 69), “Hellenistic historians
apparently ignored Galilee’s existence.”
60 CHAPTER 2
the land may be guilty of inaccuracy or, occasionally, even bias. What is clear,
however, is that Josephus is following the literary conventions of those who
wrote about regions and localities before him, both historians and geogra-
phers, especially Polybius and Strabo. As a historian himself, he is responsible
for perceiving the land and giving expression to that in his writings. What he
perceives is Firstspace.
Josephus’ Galilee as “Secondspace”
In Soja’s trialectic, if Firstspace refers to “real” space as it is perceived, then

Secondspace is “imagined” space, the characterization or even the produc-
tion of space in the mind of the one working with space.126 As with Firstspace,
Secondspace on initial glance is open to misinterpretation. Soja insists that
Secondspace is not “secondary” space, a conceptualization of space that is
only derivative of “real” space, but rather differs from Firstspace in the qual-
ity of its approach, being more conceptual and symbolic than materialist.127
Thus, ideology is an important component in Secondspace. The goal of evalu-
ating Josephus’ Galilee as Secondspace, however, is not only to identify how
Galilee becomes a vehicle for Josephus’ ideology, but also to recognize that
Josephus’ ideology needs a space. Lefebvre, like Soja, is not just advocating
a novel approach to the study of space, but the infusion of spatiality into
social discourse:
What is an ideology without a space to which it refers, a space which it

describes, whose vocabulary and links it makes use of, and whose code
it embodies? . . . [W]hat we call ideology only achieves consistency by
intervening in social space and in its production, and thus by taking on
body therein.128
With Secondspace, therefore, ideology alone will not suffice; the goal is not to
distill ideology from space. Instead, the goal is to identify what Lefebvre calls
a “representation of space” or a “conceptualized space”129 that is “shot through
with knowledge (savoir)—i.e. a mixture of understanding (connaissance) and

129 Ibid., 38.
ideology.”130 Representation, the point at which these two elements become

“barely distinguishable” from one another, becomes the proper tool for analyz-
ing space.131 Thus, when using a Secondspace approach to Josephus’ Galilee, it
is imperative to look not just at ideology, but also how that ideology is embod-
ied (represented) in the land itself.
A good place to begin is Josephus’ excursus on Galilee in J.W. 3.35–44.
Technically, it is the first part of a larger geographical digression on “the
country of the Jews and their surrounding neighbors” (τῆς Ἰουδαίων τε καὶ
πέριξ χώρας; J.W. 3.58), including Perea, Samaria, Judea, and Jewish portions
of Agrippa’s kingdom. Galilee is the first battleground in the war, and this is
no doubt a significant (though perhaps not the only) factor in why it receives
pride of place. Josephus starts the digression with a recounting of Galilee’s
borders, which, in and of themselves as guidelines for mapping (Firstspace),
present few problems. In terms of a representation of space (Secondspace),
however, boundaries again play an essential role. According to James Romm,
“Perhaps the most fundamental act by which the archaic Greeks defined their
world was to give it boundaries, marking off a finite stretch of earth from the
otherwise formless expanse surrounding it.”132 Rivers, including “Ocean,” were
commonly viewed as borders, whether at the level of the entire oikoumenē133
or the smaller scale of a specific region.134 Agrippa demarcates the extent of
the Roman Empire in similar fashion:
For, not content with having for their frontiers on the east the Euphrates,
on the north the Ister [i.e. the Danube], on the south Libya explored into
desert regions, on the west Gades, they have sought a new world beyond
the ocean (ἀλλ᾽ὑπὲρ ὠκεανὸν ἑτέραν ἐζήτησαν οἰκουμένην) and carried their
arms as far as the Britons, previously unknown in history. ( J.W. 2.363)
A parallel account can be found in Josephus’ excursus describing the Roman

army and the reasons for the vastness of Roman territory:
130 Ibid., 41.

131 Ibid., 45.
132 Romm, The Edges of the Earth, 10.
133 Later interpreters of Homer credited him as the first to teach that the inhabited world was
surrounded by Ocean, a great river flowing around the whole earth and feeding all other
rivers (cf. Il. 21.190–99). Herodotus (Hist. 2.21–23; 4.8, 36) acknowledges the idea but scoffs
at it; Strabo comes to Homer’s defense (Geogr. 1.1.3, 8). Polybius does not discuss Ocean,
but in his division of the oikoumenē the Tanais and Nile Rivers function as the Europe-
Asia and Asia-Africa boundaries, respectively (Hist. 3.37.3).
134 Romm, The Edges of the Earth, 12.
62 CHAPTER 2
Where counsel thus precedes active operations, where the leaders’ plan
of campaign is followed up by so efficient an army, no wonder that the
Empire has extended its boundaries on the east to the Euphrates, on the
west to the ocean (ὠκεανὸς δὲ πρὸς ἑσπέραν), on the south to the most
fertile tracts of Libya, on the north to the Ister and the Rhine. ( J.W. 3.107)
With this in mind, coupled with the fact that Josephus cites the Jordan as a bor-
der for both Perea and Judea ( J.W. 3.47, 51), the minimal role that it plays as a
border for Galilee may be significant. He explains that the southern boundary
of Galilee extends as far as east as the Jordan ( J.W. 3.37), but the eastern bound-
ary itself is defined by the territories of Hippos, Gadara, and Gaulanitis and not
the waters of the Jordan River which, as he explicitly states later, bisect the lake
( J.W. 3.515). His reasons for doing so are partly due to the function of the lake:
unlike a river, it served as a connector more than a divider.135 Yet by citing these
three locales on the eastern border, along with Ptolemais to the west, Samaria
and Scythopolis to the south, and Tyre to the north, it also allows Josephus to
define Galilee as first and foremost an area that is “surrounded by such power-
ful foreign nations” ( J.W. 3.41).
Following his discussion of borders, Josephus takes the next step in develop-
ing his representation of Galilee by discussing three important aspects of the
territory in J.W. 3.41–43. First, he explains that “the two Galilees have always
resisted any hostile invasion,” not because the terrain is rugged or inaccessible
(though in some places such as Jotapata it was), but because the inhabitants,
who are lauded for their courage and mettle, were “from infancy inured to
war.” Second, the land itself is extremely fertile, “rich in soil and pasturage” and
capable of supporting such a wide variety of agricultural pursuits that even
the laziest among the population felt compelled to work every last parcel.136
Third, the region is densely inhabited, replete with numerous cities and
well-populated villages, all due to the area’s general productivity (εὐθηνία).
Surrounded by powerful nations, well-populated with an indomitable and
industrious people, and abundantly productive, Josephus’ representation of
Galilee is beginning to take shape in a way that goes far beyond the placement
of its borders.
135 I am grateful to Jürgen Zangenberg for this helpful reminder. See also Horden and Purcell,
The Corrupting Sea, 21.
136 Cf. J.W. 3.44. Unlike Perea, Galilee “is entirely under cultivation and produces crops from
one end to the other.”
Already Josephus’ own interests are beginning to bleed through,137 but those
interests are not necessarily the sole impetus behind this depiction. In fact, the
excursus in J.W. 3.35–44 is a rather conventional one given the geographical
tradition in which he stands. Correlation between land and population is part
of a broader ethno-geographical tradition. An earlier form of this tradition can
be seen in Herodotus, who frequently connects a territory and its climate with
the character of the inhabitants. With regard to a people’s suitability for war,
however, the correlation is a negative one. Herodotus comments favorably on
Cyrus’ declaration, “Soft lands breed soft men; wondrous fruits of the earth and
valiant warriors grow not from the same soil.”138 A parallel to Herodotus can be
found in Hippocrates: more warlike peoples come from places that have more
extreme climates and difficult terrain.139 Strabo, on the other hand, represents
a later form of the tradition positively correlating land and inhabitants. He
is much closer to Josephus when describing Cispadana, a region in northern
Italy: “As for the excellence of the regions, it is evidenced by their godly store of
men, the size of the cities and their wealth.”140 The most notable application of
this principle in Strabo can be found in his representation of Italy as a whole.
Its balanced and favorable position within the oikoumenē—defensibility, mod-
erate climate, fertile soil, plentiful water (including both cold and hot springs),
abundant natural resources—makes it a fitting place from which to rule:
Further, since it lies intermediate between the largest races on the one
hand, and Greece and the best parts of Libya on the other, it not only
is naturally well-suited to hegemony, because it surpasses the coun-
tries that surround it both in the valour of its people and in size, but
also can easily avail itself of their services, because it is close to them.
(Strabo, Geogr. 6.4.1)141
137 Contra Rosenfeld (“Josephus and the Mishnah: Two Views on the Outline of the Map of
Palestine in the First Two Centuries A.D.,” 418) who categorizes J.W. 3.35–58 as “realistic
geography” because Josephus has not derived his description from scripture.
138 Herodotus, Hist. 9.122.3.
139 Hippocrates, Airs, Waters, Places 13.8–17; 16.3–16.
141 This tradition is also evident in Vitruvius, De Arch. 6.1.6–11. The temperament of the
world’s peoples is determined by its geography. To the south, since in those regions there
is less distance to the heavens, the peoples have higher-pitched voices (similar to the
shortest strings on a musical instrument), more intellect, and less courage. To the north,
in regions that lie further from the heavens, the peoples have lower-pitched voices, less
intellect, and more courage. Rome is perfectly situated in the middle so as to be properly
voiced and properly balanced between mental and physical. “Thus the divine mind has
64 CHAPTER 2
In other words, place is an important factor in determining the character and

quality of a people. Josephus conveys the same idea, particularly when com-
paring his portrayal of Galilee to the other districts in the region. Perea, being
too rugged and too wild, is less productive than Galilee ( J.W. 3.44). Judea and
Samaria, two very similar territories in terms of terrain, receive more glowing
evaluations owing to their abundant rainfall and well-watered lands. Josephus
makes no mention of the people of Perea; regarding Judea and Samaria, how-
ever, he claims that “the surest testimony to the virtues (ἀρετή [sing.]) and
thriving condition (εὐθηνία) of the two countries is that both have a dense
population” ( J.W. 3.50).
It comes as little surprise that Thucydides does not stand within this tradi-
tion, since his interest in geography was limited to its role in military strat-
egies and outcomes.142 Polybius, however, does. His description of Media is
indicative and serves as an intriguing parallel to Josephus’ excursus on Galilee.
It is productive, containing vast amounts of horses, cattle, and corn; it is sur-
rounded by formidable foes such as the Persians and Parthians and including
“the Cossaei, Corbrenae, Carchi and other barbarous tribes with a high reputa-
tion for their warlike qualities,” and it is crisscrossed by mountains and plains
that are “full of towns and villages.”143 Furthermore, Media is at the center of a
revolt, having rebelled against Antiochus the Great under the instigation of his
former satrap, Molon, who “being master of this country . . . seemed absolutely
terrible and irresistible to all the inhabitants of Asia.”144 Each of the major ele-
ments of Josephus’ Galilee is also present in Polybius’ Media. This general cor-
relation between land and people is also present in Polybius’ comments on the
district of Artabazanes145 and the Italian city of Croton.146
The point is not to imply that Josephus deliberately patterned his Galilee
after the details in Polybius’ description of Media, but to show that the ele-
ments of his portrayal are common to other Hellenistic geographers and his-
torians. Notable similarities also exist in the description of the Jewish territory
allotted to the Roman state an excellent and temperate region in order to rule the world.”
(6.1.11). See also Clarke, Between Geography and History, 218–19.
142 Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 1.10.1–3. Mycenae, after all, was small, and Sparta, despite
the city’s poor first impression, ruled two-fifths of the Peloponnese. Athens, by contrast,
looked as if it should be twice as powerful as it was.
143 Polybius, Hist. 5.44.1–11.
144 Ibid., 5.45.1–2.
145 Ibid., 5.55.6–8: “It . . . has a large and warlike population chiefly mounted, while its natural
resources provide every kind of warlike material.”
146 Ibid., 10.1.6: “One can form some idea of the advantages of its situation from the prosperity
of the people.”
given in the Letter of Aristeas 107–18, though the author does not single out
Galilee specifically. Ps-Aristeas offers parallels to some of the characteristics of
Galilee discussed above such as numerous inhabitants, extensive cultivation
of the land, and resistance to invasion. However, what makes the Jewish terri-
tory difficult to attack is the mountainous terrain, and there is no mention of
borders or the Spartan qualities of the inhabitants. Given that Josephus used
Let. Aris. as a source in Ant., his familiarity with it prior to writing J.W. is possi-
ble. If he is drawing upon Ps-Aristeas’ description, however, he has packaged it
in the terms of Greco-Roman geographical tradition. When he depicts Galilee
the way he does, he is first and foremost following well-known conventions.
This does not mean, however, that Josephus’ Galilee is neutral in its repre-
sentation. Galilee as Secondspace is a product of his own knowledge fused with
ideology. It is important to note, however, that Secondspace, as a general rule,
is not to be understood as a personal or purely subjective approach to space.
Since it is explored inevitably via its connections with “prevailing representa-
tional discourses,” it is simultaneously an individual conception and a social
product.147 According to Lefebvre, “Representations of space are certainly
abstract, but they also play a part in social and political practice: established
relations between objects and people in represented space are subordinate
to a logic which will sooner or later break them up because of their lack of
consistency.”148 As a result, perhaps ironically, it is actually Firstspace that is
potentially less coherent in the sense that it is not always, as Lefebvre puts
it, “intellectually worked out.”149 Secondspace, however, in part because it is a
representational system that is “intellectually worked out,” reflects the broader
social function of a space.
Although this is the prevailing tendency for presentations of Secondspace,
there are exceptions to the rule,150 an important idea to keep in mind when
evaluating Josephus. In one sense, as the above discussion demonstrates,
Josephus is undeniably participating in a broader social discourse about space,
utilizing the language of that discourse, in fact, with minimal variation or even
imagination. In another sense, however, Josephus is showing signs of break-
ing free from that discourse to produce a unique space called Galilee, a space
that has no suitable parallel in ancient texts. One of the chief difficulties in
exploring Josephus’ Galilee as Secondspace stems from the dearth of informa-
tion specific to Galilee that can be found in other comparable literary sources.

149 Ibid., 38.
150 Lefebvre (Ibid., 39) acknowledges this.
66 CHAPTER 2
That Galilee is, to some degree, Josephus’ individual conception is not in doubt,
but the warp and woof of Galilee as a social product of Josephus’ own milieu
is elusive. A survey of Greco-Roman historians and geographers from whom
Josephus borrows heavily in terms of his method does indicate that there were
commonly held notions, most likely stemming from ps-Hecataeus’ excursus
on the Jews,151 about the nature of Judea (including its inhabitants).152 The
unsavory character of the Jewish people,153 stories about their origins,154 oddi-
ties of their customs and worship practices,155 and the strange nature of the
Dead Sea156 are recognizable tropes in geographical passages. Galilee, how-
ever, is either passed over, subsumed into the broader regional whole, or
treated with extreme brevity. Polybius, while recounting a military campaign
of Antiochus III in 218 BCE, narrates his successes in Philoteria “off the shore
of the lake [Gennesar] into which the river Jordan falls,” in Scythopolis, and at
Tabor, “a conical hill.”157 The victories gave Antiochus confidence of continued
good fortune, particularly since this newly acquired territory was “capable of
supplying his whole army with food.”158 Strabo (as discussed above) is aware
of the Jordan River, the lake and the vegetation around it, and the fish industry
of Tarichaeae. Pliny, who refers to Galilee by name, also mentions the
Jordan River and the lake, along with the cities of Julias, Hippo (located across
the lake in the Decapolis, though Pliny does not mention this), Tarichaeae,
and Tiberias.159 Reconstructing a spatial discourse about Galilee from these
151 Hecataeus of Abdera’s work Aigyptiaka is no longer extant, but the excursus, usu-
ally assumed to have been reworked at a later date, has been preserved in Diodorus,
Bibl. 40.3.1–8; cf. 40.4.1. Bazalel Bar-Kochva (Pseudo-Hecataeus, On the Jews: Legitimizing
the Jewish Diaspora [Berkeley: U of California Press, 1996], 211–17) discusses the influence
of the excursus on Strabo and Tacitus in particular and even asserts that “it became a vul-
gate in Greco-Roman literature” (19) with regard to Jewish history and customs.
152 The modest goal here is to discuss how representative Greco-Roman authors with
an interest in geography conceive of Galilee in passages with a geographical outlook.
For a fuller treatment of how non-Jews viewed Jews in general, see Louis H. Feldman,
Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World: Attitudes and Interactions from Alexander to Justinian
(Princeton: Princeton UP, 1993), particularly chs. 1–8.
153 Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.28, 37; Tacitus, Hist. 5.3–5, 8.
154 Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34; Tacitus, Hist. 5.2–3; Diodorus, Bibl. 40.3.1–8.
155 Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.35–37; Tacitus, Hist. 5.4–5; Diodorus, Bibl. 34/5.1.1–5; Pliny, Nat. 5.17 (on
the Essenes only).
156 Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.32, 34, 42 (erroneously called “Lake Sirbonis”); Tacitus, Hist. 5.6–7; Pliny,
Nat. 5.16.
157 Polybius, Hist. 5.70.3–12.
158 Ibid., 5.70.5. Polybius does not use the term “Galilee.”
159 Pliny, Nat. 5.15.
meager scraps is difficult, however. Silvia Cappelletti, in her study of non-

Jewish authors on Galilee, concludes, “In the eyes of the Roman world, Galilee
was a marginal region.”160
Regarding Galilee as Secondspace, the one ostensibly ideological comment
among these authors pertaining to Galilee comes from Strabo, who implies
that Scythopolis, “in the neighborhood of Galilee,” is one of several locales
featuring bands of robbers (τὰ λῃστήρια).161 Josephus is aware of objection-
able elements among the Galilean population, including “brigands” (λῃσταί;
J.W. 1.304–5; 2.511, 593; Life 78), but his overall casting of Galilee is not con-
sistent with Strabo’s predominantly negative outlook or even what generally
served as Greco-Roman stereotypes about the Jews. In other words, Josephus’
characterization of Galilee is clearly not in sync with those, particularly Strabo,
with whom he shares a broader geographical tradition.
Jewish writings from within Josephus’ orbit are on the whole not much
different from their non-Jewish counterparts, with a few notable exceptions.
Josephus may be making use of Jub. 8–9 in his own recasting of the Table of
Nations tradition (Ant. 1.122–47; J.W. 3.52),162 but this has little effect on his
portrait of Galilee. Philo makes only one explicit reference to Galilee, but other
than its addition to Agrippa I’s kingdom, he gives no further information.163 The
revelatory experience narrated in 1 Enoch 12–16 takes place in a clearly speci-
fied location: near the waters of Dan, southwest of Mt. Hermon (13:7). George
Nickelsburg points out that the sacred character of this territory is evident in
both the textual traditions and the archaeological remains,164 but it should be
kept in mind that for Josephus this area lies outside both his clearly delineated
boundaries for Upper Galilee ( J.W. 3.39–40) and the jurisdiction assigned to
him during his commissioning ( J.W. 2.568).
These texts offer only minor contributions, however, especially when com-
pared to the rabbinic corpus. Rabbinic comments about Galilee are diverse
and not easily systematized. The tradition recognizes Galilee’s subregions,
160 Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 81.

161 Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.40. It should also be noted that the brief allusion to Galileans as a fear-
less group in Epictetus, Diatr. 4.7.6 has long been considered a reference to Christians as
a whole rather than inhabitants of Galilee. See John Lancaster Spalding, introduction to
Discourses of Epictetus, by George Long (New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1904), xiii.
162 James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman
Setting (ed. David W. Gill and Conrad Gempf; vol. 2 of The Book of Acts in Its First Century
Setting; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 511–12.
163 Philo, Legat. 326.
164 George Nickelsburg, “Enoch, Levi, and Peter: Recipients of Revelation in Upper Galilee,”
JBL 100/4 (Dec. 1981): 583.
68 CHAPTER 2
whether by dividing it simply into Upper and Lower Galilee (b. San. 11b) as
Josephus does or by adding a third subregion around Tiberias (m. Šeb. 9:2–3).
The sweet fruits of Galilee, particularly those produced in the Gennesaret
plain, were famously eaten to excess (b. Meg. 6a; b. Ber. 44a), and the region’s
olive production was well known (Gen. Rab. 20:6). Galileans are characterized
as being interested in certain, but not all ( y. Šabb. 81a–b), aspects of the law,
even if there was disagreement about its application when compared to Judea
(m. Ned. 2:4; b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 23a–b; b. Pesaḥ. 55a).165 In fact, relations between
Galilee and Jerusalem were hostile at times (b. B. Bat. 38a–b), which likely fed
into the Galilean reputation for being quarrelsome (b. Ned. 48a). Thus, there
are some parallels to Josephus’ Galilee in the rabbinic tradition, but there are
also substantial problems from the standpoint of using them to evaluate the
broader social discourse about Galilee in Josephus’ day. Aharon Oppenheimer,
for example, has questioned the longstanding idea of associating the Talmudic
concept of the ‘ammei ha-aretz, those stigmatized and loathed by the rabbis
for being uneducated and ignorant of the law (b. Pesaḥ. 49a–b), exclusively
with the people of Galilee. He argues instead that the ‘ammei ha-aretz could
be found in either Judea or Galilee and should be understood apart from their
geographical locale.166 Furthermore, as with any other concept, the Galilee of
the rabbis must be understood ultimately as a product of the period of final
editing rather than a historical snapshot of rabbinic ideology at the time of
Josephus.167 This appears to be substantiated by Josephus’ representation of
Galilee. He has his dialogue partners, but the rabbinic tradition is not signifi-
cant among them.
More important to Josephus’ Galilee is 1 Macc, in large part because Josephus
uses it as a source in the Ant. Two observations are pertinent. First, although
1 Macc is replete with geographical references, the geographical common-
places found in the Hellenistic tradition, such as descriptions of terrain and
agriculture or even the use of excursuses, are absent. It indicates that, unlike
writers such as Polybius and Strabo, 1 Macc had little influence on Josephus
165 See Laurence H. Schiffman, “Was There a Galilean Halakhah?” in The Galilee in Late
Antiquity (ed. Lee I. Levine; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America;
Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1992), 143–56.
166 Aharon Oppenheimer, The ‘Am Ha-Aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People
in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1977), 203.
167 Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical Investiga-
tions (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 213–16; Joshua Ezra Burns, “The Archaeology
of Rabbinic Literature and the Study of Jewish-Christian Relations in Late Antiquity:
A Methodological Evolution,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee (ed. Jürgen
Zangenberg et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 407–8.
qua geographer. Second, 1 Macc does have one significant element in common
with the Hellenistic writers: Josephus in both cases feels free to depart from
his sources when it comes to the characterization of Galilee depicted in his
writings. His divergence from 1 Macc may be more subtle, but it is still telling.
In several passages of the Ant., Josephus explicitly refers to Galilee even
when it does not appear in his sources. Curiously, these passages tend to revolve
around battle narratives and their principal characters. Joshua’s exploits rep-
resent the first of these, having faced an immense Canaanite/Philistine army
which had assembled, as Josephus is quick to point out, in Galilee: “[The
Canaanites and Philistines] encamped at Berothe, a city of Upper Galilee, not
far away from Kedesh—this also being the district of the Galileans” (Ant. 5.63).
Despite Joshua being grossly outnumbered, God showed him favor and the
battle was a rout, but what is noteworthy is how Josephus edits his source,
Josh 11. Not only does he substitute Berothe, a city he himself fortified prior to
Vespasian’s attack,168 for Josh 11:5’s “waters of Merom” (LXX Μαρρων),169 but he
also mentions “Galilee” specifically when Josh 11 does not. His redaction serves
a simple explanatory purpose evoking two references to “Kedesh in Galilee” in
Josh 20:7 and 21:32 (cf. Ant. 5.91), but it is also indicative of an emerging pattern.
This pattern resurfaces with Josephus’ use of 1 Macc. Simon, the brother
of Judas Maccabeus, also experienced military success in Galilee, having been
sent there to repel the forces of Ptolemais, Tyre, and Sidon (Ant. 12.331–334).
That Josephus mentions Galilee in this context should not come as a surprise;
he is rather slavishly following his source, 1 Macc 5. What is somewhat surpris-
ing, however, is that Simon, the champion of Galilee, is later mentioned in the
context of signing of a peace treaty with (of all nations) Rome:
The decree was signed by Eupolemus, son of John, and by Jason, son of
Eleazar, when Judas was high priest of the nation and his brother Simon
was commander. It was in this way that the first friendship and alliance
between the Romans and the Jews came into being. (Ant. 12.419)
Not only is the reference to Simon a Josephan addition to the information found
in 1 Macc 8:17–32, but it appears to overemphasize the role of Simon, Galilee’s
most recent hero. Following the death of Judas Maccabeus, it is Jonathan, not
168 On the assumption that Berothe is the same locale as Mero ( J.W. 2.573)/Meroth
( J.W. 3.39)/Ameroth (Life 188).
169 For Josephus’ use of the LXX rather than the Hebrew Scriptures, see Eugene Ulrich,
“Josephus’ Biblical Text for the Books of Samuel,” in Josephus, the Bible, and History
(ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1989), 81–96.
70 CHAPTER 2
Simon, who is appointed as the new commander of the nation (1 Macc 9:28–31;
Ant. 13.6). The pattern continues in Ant. 12.420–21, where Josephus apparently
corrects an erroneous reference to Gilgal in 1 Macc 9:2 and replaces it with
“Galilee.” The emendation, which allows for the proper location of Arbela
near the Gennesar plain, is not enough, however. As part of his embellish-
ment of the skirmish only briefly recorded in 1 Macc, he spotlights the caves
in the cliffs nearby, information absent from his source but well known from
another skirmish that takes place there during the tenure of Herod the Great
(Ant. 14.415–30; J.W. 1.302–15; cf. Life 188).170
In summary, a Secondspace analysis of Josephus’ Galilee reveals that
although he is heavily indebted to the Hellenistic geographical tradition for
his method of presenting Galilee, he is not always following in those footsteps
with regard to the characterization of Galilee. Furthermore, his characteriza-
tion does not appear to be directly dependent upon Jewish texts of the period
either. Overlap between Greco-Roman authors, Jewish authors, and Josephus
himself does occur, but only in a somewhat restricted area limited primarily
to certain geographical features (the Jordan River, the lake of Gennesar) and
agricultural highlights (the fruits of the Gennesar plain, olive production, the
fishing industry). Possible hints of a broader social discourse about Galilee
may also be evident in the way Galileans are characterized. The brigandage
throughout Palestine as recorded by Strabo, the general contemptibility of the
Jews according to Tacitus, and the disagreeable nature of the Galileans in the
rabbinic tradition all show shades of similarity with Josephus’ characterization
of the people’s feistiness and fortitude, but without a doubt his portrayal goes
much further. Josephus’ Galilee emerges from Secondspace, not as a trouble-
some backwater, but in its own humble way as a military stronghold and a mili-
tary man’s dream. In fact, on a fundamental level Josephus’ Galilee has more in
common with Polybius’ Media or even with Strabo’s Italy than with any other
ancient representation of Galilee. As such, it is evident that he is departing
from the discursive approach to space that is a typically characteristic, though
not compulsory, aspect of Secondspace. As he goes outside the bounds of that
discourse on Galilee, he enters Thirdspace.
Josephus’ Galilee as “Thirdspace”
For Soja, neither Firstspace with its predominant focus on the perception of
“real” space nor Secondspace with its discursive approach to the conception
170 See the note by Marcus (LCL; Ant. XII–XIII, 220).

of “imagined” space captures the full potentiality of space. When the “real” of
Firstspace and the “imagined” of Secondspace collide, however, they are capa-
ble of producing something that is more than the sum of its parts, something
that is “not to be comfortably poured back into old containers.”171 Thirdspace’s
“realandimagined” quality emanates from the fact that it is “lived” space, in
Lefebvre’s words the space of the “inhabitant” or the “user.”172 The result is
space that is “simultaneously objective and subjective, material and meta-
phorical, . . . empirical and theorizable.”173 It dispenses with the notion that
space is unpolemical or a thing that is “naively given.”174 Rather than serving
as the passive backdrop or fixed stage for the historical narrative, Thirdspace
involves creative processes that produce set and scenery: “It overlays physical
space, making symbolic use of its objects” and in so doing “seeks to change and
appropriate” space.175
When analyzing Josephus’ Galilee as Thirdspace, the goal is to identify the
ways in which Josephus has changed and appropriated that space and for
what purpose. Josephus in this sense adopts the role not of a conventional
geographer or cartographer, but of an artist who communicates through
symbols that transcend the lines and shapes from which they are made. In
other words, it is not enough to look merely at Josephus’ descriptive language
about Galilee, but also how he positions himself within and through Galilee.
Whereas Secondspaces exert pressure to be consistent with prevailing social
discourses, Thirdspaces “need obey no rules of consistency or cohesiveness.”176
Thus, Josephus can appeal, in his own construction of Galilee, to that which
interests him, even apart from coexisting Secondspace representations. In the
analysis of Secondspace above, it became apparent that although Josephus
has adopted the language of Greco-Roman geography, he has also broken free
from the (admittedly minimal) discursive representations of Galilee. From
Secondspace began to emerge something that was non-Secondspace or extra-
Secondspace, namely, a self-produced platform for his own activity in Galilee
as its military commander.
That Josephus has apologetic purposes is hardly a new concept, but the fol-
lowing discussion provides a different analytical lens, one that focuses spe-
cifically on Galilee as a vehicle for his apologetic. A special emphasis will be

174 Ibid., 169.
176 Ibid., 41.
72 CHAPTER 2
put on Josephus’ two primary sources on Galilee, the Life and J.W. It will be
argued that Josephus produces two Galilees, one specific to the Life and the
other specific to J.W., that are parallel but not identical. In the Life, Galilee
becomes Josephus’ legitimate sphere of activity as military commander; in
J.W., it becomes his ideal sphere of activity as military commander. The results
will not necessarily coincide in all respects with a prototypical historical analy-
sis, but such discrepancies are due more to differences in methodology than
contradictory conclusions. Nevertheless, it is hoped that historical analyses
might benefit from a deliberately spatial approach. The decision to analyze the
Life first, despite the fact that it was written after J.W., is intentional. Not only
does it serve as a reminder that history/historiography need not always take
precedence over geography—the Galilees depicted in the Life and in J.W. were
in fact experienced by Josephus simultaneously even if they were written down
successively—but it also allows the Life to serve as a baseline of argumenta-
tion. The reason for this is not based on any assumption that the Life is the
more genuine account;177 rather, the depiction of Galilee in the Life, with the
inordinately large amount of attention it receives in Josephus “autobiography”178
and with its special emphasis on the “Galileans,” is often the starting point for
the study of Galilee in Josephus’ writings.
Thirdspace in the Life

Despite the prominence of Galilee as the setting for most of the work, the
Life is devoid of formal geographical descriptions similar to those found in
J.W. There are no excursuses detailing Galilee’s characteristics, boundaries, or
natural features, but by this point the reasons for these ostensible omissions
should be clear. Geographical digressions were an expected historiographical
element in J.W., and Josephus even followed typical geographical conventions,
but there were no such expectations in his autobiographical Life.179 It is a stark
177 There is considerable difference of opinion on this issue. See reviews of scholarship in
Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, ch. 1; Tessa Rajak, “Josephus and Justus of Tiberias,”
in Josephus, Judaism, and Christianity (ed. Louis H. Feldman and Gohei Hata; Detroit:
Wayne State UP, 1987) 81–94; Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome: His Life,
His Works, and Their Importance, 174–76.
178 Cohen (Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 101–4) insists that, without true parallels in Jewish
literature, the Life must be examined in light of Greco-Roman biography. What is atypical
about the Life is that one part of Josephus’ life, his tenure in Galilee, occupies so much
of the work. For Cohen, Josephus’ variance from the biographical tradition is primarily
apologetic.
179 Cf. Sean Freyne, “The Galileans,” 29: “The question of Josephus’ authority is the central
issue in the Life, yet surprisingly we do not find any detailed geographical description of
difference between the two texts and a reminder that in some sense we are
dealing with two different Galilees. In terms of Firstspace and Secondspace,
the Galilees of the Life and J.W. are, if not completely identical, at least
essentially compatible; in terms of Thirdspace, however, those differences
become pronounced. The Galilee of the Life is not the same staging ground for
Josephus’ storyline as the Galilee in J.W.
If Thirdspace involves the appropriation of physical space objects as sym-
bols, the symbol par excellence in the Life is the “Galileans.” The debate over
the character of the Galileans is a long one, but for the purposes of this study
Martin Hengel’s Die Zeloten provides a useful starting point. In his attempt to
unpack the Jewish ethos that gave rise to the revolt, Hengel argued that the
Galileans could be viewed as a revolutionary group.180 Die Zeloten was received
well as “an authoritative basis for all future study”181 by some, but it was not
without its critics. Solomon Zeitlin claimed that Hengel had too easily con-
flated the Zealots and the Sicarii, had not taken into account the differences in
their ideological underpinnings, and had erroneously linked the Zealots with
messianism.182 Morton Smith criticized Hengel’s association of the Zealots
and the Sicarii with Galileans, locating both groups in Judea instead.183
However, these denouncements of Hengel did not necessarily overturn his
basic premise that the Galileans should be viewed as revolutionaries. Zeitlin, in
a later article, argued that the term “Galileans” in the Life should be recognized
as being devoid of any geographical connotation whatsoever and understood
purely as a designation for a separate revolutionary party with characteristics
similar to the Zealots and a “philosophy” similar to the Sicarii.184 Francis Loftus
gave a similarly rebellious characterization to both the “Galilean contingent”
in Jerusalem ( J.W. 4.558)185 and Galilee itself.186
Such analyses, ironically, have helped to sustain a common understanding
of the Galileans as a subset of, another name for, or parallel to the Zealots.
the territory entrusted to him, similar to JW 3, 35–39.” The reason for the difference lies
with the expectations associated with the two literary genres.
180 Martin Hengel, Die Zeloten: Untersuchungen zur Jüdischen Freiheitsbewegung in der Zeit
von Herodes I bis 70 n. Chr. (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1961), 57–61.
181 Shimon Applebaum, “The Zealots: The Case for Revaluation,” JRS 61 (1971): 156.
182 Solomon Zeitlin, “Zealots and Sicarii,” JBL 81:4 (Dec 1962): 395–98.
183 Morton Smith, “Zealots and Sicarii, Their Origins and Relation,” HTR 64:1 (Jan 1971): 15–19.
184 Solomon Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans? New Light on Josephus’ Activities in Galilee,”
JQR 64:3 (Jan 1974): 193, 195–96, 200–1.
185 Francis Loftus, “A Note on Σύνταγμα τῶν Γαλιλαίων B.J. iv 558,” JQR 65:3 (Jan 1975): 182–83.
See also Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 196.
186 Loftus, “The Anti-Roman Revolts of the Jews and Galileans,” JQR 68:2 (Oct 1977): 78–98.
74 CHAPTER 2
The irony lies not in the conclusions themselves—there are defensible argu-
ments underlying them—but in the fact that the term “Galileans,” when used
as an “appellative name”187 for an identifiable group, is a concept derived
almost exclusively from the Life, a work that contains not a single reference
to the Zealots. Meanwhile in J.W., where the Zealots show up with frequency,
there is not a single reference to their activity in Galilee. These simple facts
are sometime overlooked by the best of scholars. Shimon Applebaum, when
commenting on difficulties associated with studying the Zealot movement,
states that “the only work furnishing anything like a comprehensive series
of reports [about the Zealots] are by Flavius Josephus—the Jewish War, the
Jewish Antiquities, and his Life,” as though references to the Zealots are evenly
scattered throughout the corpus.188 Louis Feldman, although critical of
those who equate the Galileans with a distinct revolutionary group, makes
no distinction in his own analysis of the term “Galileans” between its use in
the Life and in J.W.189 It is no wonder that Richard Horsley concluded that a
comparison of the modern scholarly conceptualization of the Zealots and
the textual accounts upon which they were supposedly based (i.e. Josephus)
revealed “serious discrepancies.”190 In a response to Zeitlin, Sean Freyne not
only challenged the common conception of the Galileans as Zealots, but he
also implicitly recognized that their depiction in the Life is best understood
independently of Josephus’ other writings: “Josephus, it seems, has a particular
interest in portraying the Galileans in colours corresponding to his own self-
portrayal in both works.”191 A Thirdspace analysis leads to a similar position,
albeit by a different route.
Steve Mason has argued that the Life should be understood primarily as a
conclusion to the Ant. showing the character of the author and not as a refu-
tation of Justus’ rival historical account.192 The disproportionate amount of
attention given to the Galilee phase of his career is due to the fact that Galilee
is the primary location where his character is on public display. Mason offers
a helpful corrective, but his argument does not necessarily run counter to
187 Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 193.

188 Applebaum, “The Zealots,” 156. Like Life, both Ant. and Ag.Ap. lack any reference to the
Zealots.
189 Louis H. Feldman, “The Term ‘Galileans’ in Josephus,” JQR 72:1 (Jul 1981): 50–52.
190 Richard A. Horsley, “The Zealots: Their Origin, Relationships, and Importance in the
Jewish Revolt,” NovT 28:2 (Apr 1986): 160.
191 Freyne, “The Galileans,” 42.
192 Steve Mason, “Josephus and Judaism,” The Encyclopedia of Judaism 2:556; idem, Josephus
and the New Testament, 123, 131.
Josephus’ apologetic aims. If his ultimate purpose in writing the Life is not
to defend J.W., at the very least it does serve as a defense of his character.
Thus, Cohen is probably too harsh in attributing so many of the distortions in
Josephus’ narrative to his “vanity,”193 given that his character has been attacked
in Justus’ published history (Life 338, 340, 352). The Life, therefore, devotes so
much space to his Galilean tenure, because Justus had assailed his character
specifically in terms of his fitness to command. It is no coincidence, then, that
the “Galileans” serve as Josephus’ main line of defense (in more ways than
one). Despite Zeitlin’s contention to the contrary, the geographical dimension
of the term “Galileans” in the Life is integral to understanding how they func-
tion symbolically for Josephus.194
In fact, the Galileans display six different qualities in the Life with consider-
able consistency:
1. The Galileans are provincial. In most cases, the Galileans are distinguished
from the residents of the major cities within Galilee, notably the
Sepphorites (Σεπφωρῖται; 30, 39, 108, 396), the Tiberians (Τιβεριεῖς; 66, 108,
143), and the inhabitants of Gabara (οἱ . . . Γάβαρα κατοικοῦντες; 124).195
Along these lines, the Galileans are predominantly anti-city in their out-
look, even though the inhabitants of those cities are their ὁμόφυλοι (376–
77). They have a healthy dislike for Sepphoris (39, 375)196 and Tiberias
(384, 392), and they strike fear in the hearts of the Gabarans (124–25).
It should be noted, however, that the overarching, urban-rural tension
that emerges from such passages is not without exceptions. The
Tarichaeans (Ταριχεῶται; 99, 143), too, are routinely distinguished from
193 Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 123. Tessa Rajak, in her review of Cohen ( Josephus in
Galilee and Rome: His Vita and Development as a Historian, The Classical Review 31:2 [1981]:
250–53), offers a similar criticism.
194 See Morton Hørning Jensen, Herod Antipas in Galilee: The Literary and Archaeological
Sources on the Reign of Herod Antipas and its Socio-Economic Impact on Galilee, WUNT2
215 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006) 88–89, who offers a brief survey of the issue and a
similar critique.
195 Freyne (“The Galileans,” 33–34) adds Gischala to this list due to its (John’s?) hostility
toward Josephus, and Josephus himself does include it with the other three cities in
J.W. 2.629. It should be noted that Gischala is never explicitly classified as a πόλις in the
Life, though Josephus does refer at one point to its πολῖται (43).
196 The enmity the Galileans harbored for the city of Sepphoris was extreme enough that
they apparently avoided going there. In one skirmish, their ignorance of the layout of the
city was a key factor in limiting their success (396).
76 CHAPTER 2
the Galileans, but they also welcome the Galileans as allies (99).197 The
πόλις of Asochis is not only hospitable to Josephus, whom it backed in the
rivalry with Jonathan of Jerusalem (233), but it also serves as the Galileans’
rallying point prior to their planned attack on Tiberias (384). Josephus
even makes an offhanded reference to the Galileans’ πόλεις (84), though
he does not specify which ones they are. Thus, the tension is not primarily
characterized as the economic oppression of rural peasantry by wealthy
urban land-holding elites. Josephus does allude at one point to suffering
inflicted on the Galileans by Justus prior to the war (392), but the nature
of those injustices goes unexplored. The point is that Josephus does not
utilize the socio-economic dimension of this rivalry, to whatever degree
it existed. The Galileans’ animus toward these cities is differently cast.
2. The Galileans are anti-Roman. When Josephus first arrives in Galilee, he
finds that the Galileans are threatening to plunder the Sepphorites
“because of their leanings towards the Romans and the overtures of loy-
alty and allegiance which they had made to Cestius Gallus, the governor
of Syria” (30; cf. 39).198 The Tiberians’ security is also jeopardized by
Galileans “loudly denouncing them as traitors” for showing loyalty to
Agrippa, Rome’s client king (384). In one instance, Josephus himself has
to reckon with the Galileans’ resentment after a rumor had spread that he
intended to betray the χώρα of Galilee to the Romans (132, 143). Josephus
has no interest in explaining the various revolutionary groups in the Life
as he does in J.W.; in both Jerusalem (28, 46–47) and Galilee (77, 105–6,
145, 175, 206) he is content to call such elements λῃσταί. However, for
Josephus the anti-Roman sentiment of the Galileans is not the same as
the revolutionary posture of the brigands. The brigands, whom Josephus
was commissioned to disarm (30, 77), are not only distinct from but also
in opposition to the Galileans.199
197 Cohen (Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 209) may be correct that Tarichaeae’s pro-Josephus/
pro-Galilean posture stems from the fact that it was a “native Galilean town” in contrast
to Tiberias, but neither its Galilean roots nor its fealty to the Galilean cause qualifies its
residents to be called “Galileans.”
198 Sepphoris’ allegiance to Rome was such that the city had no interest in taking sides on
whether Josephus was fit to command Galilee (232).
199 Zeitlin’s argument (“Who Were the Galileans,” 193) certainly breaks down here. He looks
at two passages in which the Galileans and the brigands are mentioned in close proximity
(Life 78–79, 175–77) and then conflates the two groups. In what can only be a gross over-
sight, he does not mention at all two passages in which they are clearly distinguished (Life
105–7, 206).
3. The Galileans are impassioned. As indicated by their seething antipathy

for both Sepphoris and Tiberias (384), the Galileans have a reputation for
brash behavior. They also dislike Gabara (125) and Gischala (102) and
prove a threat to both; their participation in the destruction of Herod’s
palace in Tiberias results in excessive plundering (66–67); and they
nearly kill the Jerusalem delegates sent to depose Josephus (262). When
Josephus wants to intimidate Justus and his father Pistus, he reminds
them that the Galileans had once been responsible for cutting off Justus’
brother’s hand (177). Yet despite their penchant for unruliness, Josephus
succeeds in restraining their passions time and time again, sometimes by
his own authority (31), sometimes by persuasion (100, 307), and some-
times by σόφισμα (380). If Josephus proves his mettle by how he handles
his enemies in J.W., in the Life it is proven by how he handles his
own troops.
4. The Galileans are passionately devoted to Josephus. Nowhere is Josephus’
personal apologetic more evident than in the deep affection constantly
lavished upon him by the Galileans. In only one instance do they show
opposition to him, when he was accused of betraying Galilee to Rome
(143). Both before this incident (84, 125) and especially after its resolution
(207–10, 250–52), the Galileans display fierce loyalty to Josephus. He is at
home in their villages such as Cana (86), Simonias (115), Chabolo/
Chabulon (213), Japha (270), and Arbela (311), even when the rival dele-
gates from Jerusalem are not (230–31). Josephus is so popular among the
Galileans, in fact, that their concern for him was greater than their con-
cern for their own safety (84). They plead for him not to leave when his
position is threatened (207), and after rallying to his aid they hail him as
“benefactor and savior” (244, 259). Dramatic overtones are detectable in
Josephus’ account of the climactic confrontation between himself and
the Jerusalem delegates (256–58). Instead of producing the traditional
“two or three witnesses” to testify to his good character, he instead pro-
duces a throng of Galileans filling the plain opposite Gabaroth and
implores them “to conceal nothing of the truth, but to declare in the pres-
ence of these men, as before judges in court, whether I have done any-
thing amiss” (258).
5. The Galileans are pro-Jerusalem.200 The tension between Galilee and
Jerusalem found in later rabbinic tradition is, overall, not a significant
factor in the Life. On two occasions the Galileans express dissatisfaction
200 See Chancey, The Myth of a Gentile Galilee (mentioned in fn. 1 above) for an extensive
overview of the archaeological evidence supporting a generally “Jewish” Galilee.
78 CHAPTER 2
with Jerusalem, but in both instances the reason is clear: they are upset
with the Jerusalem delegation’s attempts to depose Josephus (211, 311).
Otherwise, Jerusalem’s authority over the affairs of Galilee is generally
recognized, whether in Josephus’ own commissioning (28; cf. 341, 393) or
in the several appeals to Jerusalem leaders made by both sides of the
developing rivalry (Josephus in 62, 266 and his challengers in 190, 237).
When Jonathan’s assembly is sent from Jerusalem to depose Josephus,
they are instructed to appeal to the Galileans by citing their own creden-
tials as Jerusalemites, experts in the law, and priests (198). The Galileans’
sensitivity to matters of law and tradition is evident in their tithing to the
Jerusalem priests who accompany Josephus (63, 80) and the apparent
widespread observance of the Sabbath (159, 162).201 The oft cited account
of the Galileans’ participation in the destruction of Antipas’ Tiberian pal-
ace may also have been inspired by their respect for Jewish law, but it is
just as important to note that this did not begin as an impromptu popular
uprising. The command to destroy the palace was handed down from
Jerusalem (65).
6. The Galileans represent the province. From the standpoint of Josephus’
military command, the Galileans are synonymous with Galilee itself.
Galilee is described as “their province” (210–11, 244, 311), and when
Josephus gives “the Galileans” orders to join him at Gabaroth, a village of
Galilee, he reports that they rallied in large numbers “from Galilee” (243).
The implication is not that Gabaroth lies outside of Galilee, but that the
Galileans come from all over the district. Furthermore, Josephus’ response
to the charges against his “conduct in Galilee” is to produce a crowd of
“Galileans” as character witnesses (257–58).202 The Galileans serve as rep-
resentatives of Galilee. An important passage in this regard is Life 190–93
where “the Galileans” and “Galilee” are used interchangeably. When John
of Gischala sends representatives to Jerusalem for the purpose of “depriv-
ing [Josephus] of the command of the Galileans” (τὴν ἀρχὴν ἀφελομένους . . .
τῶν Γαλιλαίων; 190), Josephus summarizes the argument made against
him by Simon, John’s close friend: “[He was] saying it would be advanta-
geous to them if I were deprived of Galilee” (συνοίσειν αὐτοῖς λέγων εἰ τῆς
201 Some liberty has been taken here. The references are to Sabbath observance in Tarichaeae;
the Galileans are not specifically mentioned. Sabbath traditions were also observed in
Tiberias (275–79). In the case of the refugees from Trachonitis, it is “the Jews” or “the
masses” in Tarichaeae that take offense at their uncircumcision (112–13, 149–54).
202 The irony is obvious; see Steve Mason, Josephus, Judea, and Christian Origins: Methods and
Categories (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson Publishers Inc., 2009), 98.
Γαλιλαίας ἀφαιρεθείην; 193). The use of ἀφαιρέω in both places underscores

the equivalence. The close link between Galilee and the Galileans may
seem rather obvious, but it needs to be made explicit given the opposing
viewpoint that “the term ‘Galilean’ in Life cannot have a geographical
connotation.”203
An analysis of these characteristics yields a glimpse of Josephus’ apologetic.

The first three characteristics, when considered by themselves, do not make a
direct contribution to Josephus’ defense of his honor as military commander.
He does not share the Galileans’ animosity toward the cities (#1) upon his
arrival. In fact, his first stop after being commissioned to Galilee is in Sepphoris
(30, 64), a city that only later becomes a target of his military raids. His later
difficulties with other cities develop as a result of opposition to him directly.
He does not profit from the Galileans taking an avid anti-Roman stance (#2) or
from their impetuous behavior (#3). Each of these qualities, however, allows for
an indirect apologetic. The urban-rural rivalry (#1) in the Life is cast primarily
in political-nationalistic rather than socio-economic terms. Almost certainly
the socio-economic dimension was greater than Josephus lets on,204 but it is
not in his interest to explore it. While the anti-Roman sentiment (#2) may not
be Josephus’ ideal, he is careful to distinguish the Galileans’ nationalism from
the impious insurrectionism and/or opportunism of the brigands. Likewise,
the Galileans’ penchant for unbridled fervor (#3) causes Josephus problems
at times, but it also serves as a juxtaposition to his own moderation and an
opportunity to illustrate his ability to impose restraint.
These qualities also work in conjunction with the final three characteristics,
which do have a more direct apologetic function for Josephus. The impassioned
Galileans (#3) channel that passion most conspicuously toward Josephus him-
self, their general (#4). Their affection for him becomes one of the clearest jus-
tifications for his military oversight in Galilee, despite rivals like Justus and
203 As argued by Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 195. See comments above.
204 This is the primary evaluative lens for Richard Horsley who argues that the “tributive”
economic system of Galilee would have resulted in a steady flow of resources from the
poorer, agricultural villages to the wealthier, administrative cities (Archaeology, History,
and Society in Galilee: The Social Context of Jesus and the Rabbis [Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity
Press International, 1996], 76–85). Sean Freyne, who is often on the opposite side of the
debate as Horsley, does concede that the Galilean urban-rural rivalry probably had an
economic aspect (“The Galileans,” 31). These elements also emerge in his Jesus a Jewish
Galilean: a new reading of the Jesus-story (New York: T&T Clark International, 2004), par-
ticularly in ch. 2. The point to be made here, however, is that such a characterization is not
part of Josephus’ rhetoric in Life.
80 CHAPTER 2
Jesus of Tiberias and John of Gischala. If the Galileans display anti-Roman

nationalism (#2), it only accentuates the pro-Jerusalem posture (#5), which
plays a significant role in their devotion to him as Jerusalem’s legitimate rep-
resentative. Perhaps the most important apologetic derives from the fact that
the people who vouch so strongly for Josephus’ character and position are not
“Sepphorites” or “Tiberians” or even “Tarichaeans” but “Galileans” (#1). Other
sources (rabbinic literature, the Gospel of John) make use of the “Galileans”
as well, but what Josephus does with that designation in the Life is unparal-
leled, not only compared to other ancient authors but even to his own corpus.
He has used a common word to coin a unique term. To speak of Galileans as
opposed to Sepphorites or Tiberians is, on the surface, nonsensical, but only
until Josephus is allowed to define them as his unique creation. In the Life, he
does not define them as revolutionaries; he does not define them as the peas-
ant class; rather, he defines them as loyal subjects of his military command.
Thus, Freyne is not quite correct when he says, “ ‘Galilee’ is synonymous with
the places which support Josephus.”205 More precisely, the Galileans are syn-
onymous with the place that supports Josephus (#6). Every time the Galileans
are invoked in his narrative, they evoke Josephus’ lived space.
To put it another way, Zeitlin ironically has a point when he argues that the
term “Galileans” in the Life is not actually geographical—not all Galileans (e.g.
Sepphorites, Tiberians, Gabarans) are “Galileans”—but this is only true from
the rather narrow standpoint of Firstspace. From the standpoint of Thirdspace,
the term’s geographical dimension is not only essential but deliberately pro-
vocative. The “Galileans” are not Galileans; they are Galilee, Josephus’ own
lived space, his legitimate sphere of command.
Thirdspace in the Jewish War

Having discussed how Josephus depicts the Galileans in the Life, it remains to
be seen whether the same depiction can be found in J.W. The first indication
that these depictions are at variance with one another is visible not only in
the far fewer uses of the term “Galileans” in J.W. as a whole206 but even more
starkly in the noticeable lack of references to the “Galileans” in J.W. 2.569–647.
In this section, which covers the period from Josephus’ commissioning to his
declaration of the end of civil (ἐμφύλιος) discord in Galilee (i.e. the same period
covered in the Life), the term “Galileans” is used only once (2.622). Thus, the
205 Freyne, “The Galileans,” 34.

206 The word Γαλιλαῖος appears 20 times total in J.W., 16 times in the plural and four times in
the singular. Of the four singular uses, two function as the surname of Judas “the Galilean”
(2.118, 433).
“Galileans” simply cannot have the same function in J.W. as in the Life. Even
the brief glimpse that this single passage affords points to inconsistencies.
Although the Galileans do rally to Josephus’ aid against John of Gischala, a role
they share in the Life, they stream to him from the various cities (κατὰ πόλεις).
In fact, taken as a whole, there is no indication in J.W. that the “Galileans” are
being presented as predominantly rural. Despite a fundamentally agricultural
Galilee, the Galileans were so numerous that their district was replete with
cities and sizable villages (3.42–43). Thackeray’s translation of οἱ . . . ἀπὸ τῆς
χώρας as “the country-folk” in 2.602 (cf. 3.199), therefore, is unhelpful especially
given the similar phrase οἱ . . . ἀνὰ τὴν πέριξ χώραν in 2.621 where the reference
is clearly to those who flocked to Josephus from the cities.207 A subtler hint of
this inconsistency with the Life can be found in J.W. 2.570–72. The “Galileans”
are not specifically mentioned there, but the appointment of 70 elders from
Galilee, obviously referring to the same 70 “Galileans” in Life 79, are granted
direct authority over the seven additional appointees “in each city” (ἐν ἑκάστῃ
πόλει). Furthermore, the antipathy of the Galileans in the Life toward Sepphoris
is almost entirely absent in J.W. In short, these are not the Life’s “Galileans.”
Some of the qualities of the Galileans in J.W. do overlap with those in the
Life, but this does not mean they have the same function in Josephus’ per-
sonal apologetic. The prime example is the Galileans’ anti-Roman stance. In
both works, they are characterized by a nationalistic pride that puts them at
odds with Rome yet without being revolutionaries. In the Life, when viewed in
conjunction with other attributes of the Galileans, it allows Josephus to por-
tray them as having proper allegiances—to Jerusalem rather than Rome, to
Josephus rather than his rivals. In J.W., however, it is put to a different use, par-
ticularly when combined with other qualities. In the Secondspace discussion
above, it became apparent that Josephus’ geographical excursus on Galilee
in 3.35–43 followed a rather quintessential Greco-Roman template. It also
became clear that while following that template, he deliberately broke with
207 L CL 203, pages 555, 561. Thackeray’s translation “the inhabitants of the district” at 2.621
is an improvement over 2.602. Cf. J.W. 2.170 where the references to “townspeople” and
“country-folk” are also probably unwarranted. The sense is that the people of Jerusalem
who were upset over the erection of standards within the city were joined by the people
from the rest of the district (of Judea), not just by rustics. Perhaps the worst infraction
is in J.W. 3.62 where he renders διαρπάζοντες τὰ ἐπὶ τῆς χώρας κτήματα as “pillag[ing] the
property of the country-folk.” William Whiston’s translation, although on the whole infe-
rior, is preferable in this case: “stealing away the cattle that were in the country.” It may be
worth noting that Thackeray’s translation of the Life was published prior to his translation
of J.W. Though purely speculative, this may indicate that he has imported connotations
from the Life into his subsequent work on J.W.
82 CHAPTER 2
other conceptions of Galilee that were circulating in broader social discourse.

Galilee was known to other ancient writers, but Galilee as a military utopia is
a distinctly Josephan creation. The uniqueness does not end there, however.
In J.W. 3.35–43, Galilee is exceptional even when compared to other regions in
the same passage. In no other geographical digression does Josephus speak of
the bellicose ethos of the region or the warlike qualities of the inhabitants; this
is specific to Galilee.208 The impression given is of a territory teeming with sol-
diers who spend their time in between battles dutifully working the land. Even
the “thickly distributed” towns (3.43) have been aggrandized. Josephus is not
always consistent with his terminology,209 but he does display a definite trend:
in the Life, Jotapata (188), Chabolo/Chabulon (213), Japha (230), and Garis (395,
412) are classified as κῶμαι, whereas in J.W. each is a πόλις.210 Thus, when the
Galileans’ anti-Roman stance combines with their serviceability in battle, the
result is a veritable and venerable war machine under Josephus’ command.
To be content with this depiction of the Galileans in J.W., however, still
misses the point. The conceptual elements that will eventually blossom into
the “Galileans” in the Life, where “Galileans” becomes something of a termi-
nus technicus, are either absent or only germinating in J.W. Their role in the
Life is akin to the chorus of a Greek play;211 their dramatic function is to help
carry the storyline and provide information (viz., Josephus is the legitimate
commander of Galilee) that is helpful to the audience, and they are deliber-
ately inserted into the narrative when such functions are needed. This is not,
however, the role that the Galileans play in J.W. where they are merely an out-
growth of Galilee rather than tantamount to it, as in the Life. The Galileans
spring from Galilee’s fertile soil like vegetation, industrious and battle ready
from infancy ( J.W. 3.42). They are not members of the cast; they are part of
the specially designed set. It is on this stage that Josephus lives out his role
as the “ideal general” whose ingenuity almost singlehandedly keeps the Romans
208 The term Josephus uses to describe the Galileans is μάχιμος. Contrast this with the fact
that Gabara (assuming correct emendations in the LCL at 2.629 and 3.132), one of the
cities that had rejected Josephus’ command, is easily overrun by the Romans since it was
bereft of any of the μάχιμοι (3.132).
209 Besara, for example, is called both a κώμη and a πόλις in the same sentence (Life 118).
210 For Chabulon, see 2.503; for Japha, 3.289; for Garis, 5.474 and perhaps 3.129. For Jotapata,
although its classification in the Life is inconsistent (cf. 322), it is exclusively called a πόλις
throughout the battle narrative in J.W. (3.111ff).
211 Cf. Freyne, “The Galileans,” 35, who makes a similar analogy.
at bay.212 It is Galilee itself that becomes the willfully constructed platform for
the staging of Josephus’ own military experiences.
This also is evident in the far fewer uses of the term “Galileans” in J.W. when
compared to the Life, but once again it is the specific contexts from which they
are missing that offer the clearest testimonies. Just as they were conspicuously
absent from J.W. 2.569–647, the period of overlap with the Life, they are also
missing from, of all places, Jotapata, the one locale where Josephus’ military
prowess is put on prominent display. Other than a few heroic soldiers (3.229–
33), it is not Γαλιλαῖοι who fight at Jotapata but Ἰουδαῖοι (3.113, 130, 142, 320, 355).213
The preference for “Jews” at Jotapata might at first glance seem out of place
with what Josephus has presented thus far in J.W., but only if Galileans are
expected to be the prominent cast members that they were in the Life. When
not viewed through that lens, the “Jews,” the general term for the combatants
at all of the major battles (Jotapata, Gamala, Jerusalem, and Masada) through-
out “the war of the Jews against the Romans” (1.1), can function in Jotapata and
elsewhere as something more than just inhabitants of Judea.214
There are three passages in the Jotapata narrative that might indicate an
intentional differentiation between Jews and Galileans, but on closer analysis
these apparent contrasts are mitigated.
1. J.W. 3.199: In this passage, Josephus suggests to the besieged people of

Jotapata that an appeal to “the Galileans from the country” (τούς . . . ἐκ τῆς
χώρας Γαλιλαίους) might bring alleviation. They could create a distraction
that would draw off the Roman troops. It is tempting to read Thackeray’s
LCL translation in light of 3.229–33, which describes three combat heroes
that hail from Galilean villages (see below), and assume an urban-rural
dichotomy similar to the one found in the Life where the term “Galileans”
has a provincial flavor. This would require reading the Jotapata narrative
selectively, however, since Japha, “a town (πόλις) in the vicinity of
Jotapata” (3.289), was also peopled with Galileans (3.293, 301, 306).215
212 Cohen (Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 70, 91–100) cites Cicero as the creator of the model
general. Josephus’ military skill is exemplified by several tricks common to ancient war-
fare (e.g. pouring boiled fenugreek on the gangplanks so that the Romans would slip,
3.277) that give the impression that Josephus is a master strategist.
213 On occasion Josephus also designates the combatants of Jotapata as Ἰωταπατηνοὶ, but
both 3.112–13 and 3.157 clearly show that he is using the terms interchangeably.
214 As per Cohen, Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 207. He assumes, against Zeitlin, that the
term “Galilean” is used as a contradistinction for “Judeans,” those living in Judea proper.
215 It should be clear at this point that the classification of Japha as a village (κώμη) in
Life 230, albeit “the largest village in Galilee,” is not relevant to its classification in J.W.
84 CHAPTER 2
A better translation of 3.199 would be simply “the Galileans from the dis-
trict,” i.e., from the rest of Galilee around Jotapata.
2. J.W. 3.229–33. The potential dichotomy in the previous passage between
the Jews of Jotapata and the Galileans from the surrounding district is
further minimized when J.W. 3.229–33 is more closely analyzed. Again, at
first glance, it might appear that these war heroes are purposely desig-
nated as “Galileans” to distinguish them from the “Jews” of Jotapata.
Eleazar is described as “a native of Saba in Galilee” (Σαβὰ . . . πατρὶς αὐτῷ
τῆς Γαλιλαίας); Netiras and Philip, “also Galileans” (Γαλιλαῖοι καὶ αὐτοί),
are from the village of Ruma. However, Eleazar, who is technically not
called a “Galilean,” is in fact referred to as one of the “Jews” (ἀνήρ
τις . . . Ἰουδαίων) in the same passage. Thus, even though they are all
Galileans from villages outside Jotapata, their specific designation as
such is not intended to distinguish them from the rest of the Jews.
The terms are essentially interchangeable and there is no need to infuse
the “Galileans” in J.W. with a function or purpose they do not possess.216
3. J.W. 3.289–306. While still in the midst of the Jotapata narrative, Josephus
changes scenes to recount the Roman victory at Japha. Structurally, the
digression parallels a similar interruption in the siege of Gamala cover-
ing the fall of Mt. Tabor (4.54–61). Spatially, with the change in scenery
comes an additional transposition: the “Jews” of Jotapata are conspicu-
ously displaced by the “Galileans” of Japha. Although it appears that
Josephus’ distinction between the Jews and the Galileans is rooted in
ethnic or ethnographic concerns, his purposes are actually geographical
The Jotapata/Japha juxtaposition is independent of the urban/rural dichotomy present in

the Life. Josephus should be allowed to imagine his geography differently from one work
to the next. That he is in fact “imagining” is evident when looking at the archaeological
record. Japha was approximately double the size of Jotapata (Jonathan Reed, Archaeology
and the Galilean Jesus [Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 2000], 82), making
Japha’s “Galileans” substantially more urban than Jotapata’s “Jews.”
216 Other passages outside of the Jotapata narrative confirm that Josephus did not intend
a stark distinction between Jews and Galileans in J.W. In 2.232, Samaritans murder
“a Galilean, one of a large company of Jews” travelling to Jerusalem. When the Sepphorites
pledge their allegiance to Vespasian, they do so for fear of their ὁμόφυλοι, specified as Jews
in 3.32–33 but Galileans in 3.61. It is also significant that in Josephus’ speech to John of
Gischala during the Jerusalem siege, he calls John a “Jew” and appeals to him on the basis
of shared tradition (6.102, 107). He sees no ethnic distinction between them despite each
having a different πατρίς (cf. Life 372, 417–18). Although John is not called a “Galilean”
specifically (he is always John “of Gischala”), the Gischalans are referred to as Galileans
(4.92; cf. 4.104–5, 558).
and historiographical. The key to understanding these purposes comes

from the passage immediately following. Before returning to the siege
of Jotapata, Josephus changes scenes again, this time to Mt. Gerizim:
“The Samaritans, too, did not escape their share of calamity” (3.307).
The depictions do vary significantly, reflecting Josephus’ creation of
Thirdspace (the Galileans, valiant fighters on the whole, are not so much
defeated by the Romans as gifted to them by God [3.293], whereas the
Samaritans fall prey to their own heedlessness), but their historiographi-
cal function is identical. The Japha and the Mt. Gerizim accounts provide
representative battle narratives for Galilee and Samaria, respectively,
concluding in statements that tell the number of total casualties and the
date of demise (3.306, 315). Later in Book 4, similar treatments are given
to Perea and Idumea.217 Together they are tangential but important pas-
sages that illustrate the geographical progression of the Roman assault.
Once the dual digression covering Japha and Mt. Gerizim has been con-
cluded, Josephus can resume the main storyline, the defeat of the “Jews”
at the hands of the Romans beginning in Jotapata.
To summarize, there is no indication in these passages that the Galileans con-

stitute a specially recognized separate group as they do in the Life. They are
not primary characters for which Josephus has written a compelling role; they
emerge as a part of the scenery of Galilee.
This particular Galilee, then, is geographical, but it is not Firstspace. Its
spatial dimension is not revealed as boundary lines that can be drawn on a
conventional map, but rather as Josephus’ sphere of activity, the platform
on which he shows himself publicly to be an ideal general of the Jewish
people—intrepid but enlightened, a master of warfare who understands that
the only master of war is God.218 It should not come as a surprise, therefore,
217 Perea is represented by the fate of the Gadarenes, some of whom voluntarily capitulate
to the Romans while others, having fled, are slaughtered later at the Jordan River. The
passage concludes with the total number slain (4.436), but the date is recorded at the
beginning of the account (4.413) rather than the end. The corresponding Idumea narra-
tive is likely 4.552–55, but with some variation in the pattern. Three battles are discussed
(Caphthera, Capharabis, and Hebron), though each with extreme brevity, and there is
neither a summation of the number of casualties nor a date.
218 Cf. Cohen’s “ideal general” ( Josephus in Galilee and Rome, 70, 91–100). Mason ( Josephus
and the New Testament, ch. 3) does not list Josephus’ personal apologetic as a fundamental
reason for writing the war, but the idea is compatible with his more national apologetic
of “preserv[ing] the dignity of a conquered and humiliated people” (88). One looks at
Josephus as an individual, the other at the Jews as a whole.
86 CHAPTER 2
that Josephus relates the fall of Gamala before he announces that all Galilee
had been subdued. Josephus is well aware of the fortress’s Firstspace location
in Gaulanitis (4.2), but in terms of Thirdspace it is subsumed within the sphere
of Josephus’ activity.219 Galilee becomes the ideal stage deliberately con-
structed in the Greco-Roman geographical tradition for Josephus to act out his
role in the play.220 In fact, the Jewish War is acted out on several stages, each
one acknowledged at the time of its subjugation to the Romans: Galilee (4.120),
Perea (4.431), Idumea (4.555), Jerusalem (6.435–42), and finally the rest of the
country (χώρα; 7.408). Of all of these statements, it is only Galilee that receives
praise, being commended for “affording the Romans a strenuous training for
the impending Jerusalem campaign.” The echo of the geographical digression
in 3.35–58, where Galilee alone is described as a bulwark against invasion,
is unmistakable.
219 The inclusion of Gamala in the Galilee narrative is also grounded in cultural factors
that dovetail nicely with Josephus’ commission to oversee the two Galilees and Gamala
together. Eric Meyers (“The Cultural Setting of Galilee,” 693–98) argued that Upper Galilee
had more in common with Gaulanitis than with Lower Galilee. Although he later softened
his view of Upper Galilee’s isolationism (“Galilean Regionalism: A Reappraisal,” in Studies
in Judaism and Its Greco-Roman Context [ed. William Scott Green, vol. V of Approaches to
Ancient Judaism; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985], 115–31), he maintained the cultural link
with Gaulanitis. See also Eric Meyers and A. Thomas Kraabel, “Archaeology, Iconography,
and non-Literary Written Remains,” in Early Judaism and its Modern Interpreters
(ed. Robert A. Kraft and George W.E. Nickelsburg; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 177.
220 There are some parallels between this approach to Josephus’ geography in J.W. and the
Life, and the “apologetic historiography” that Gregory Sterling has identified in Ant.
Sterling argues that Josephus has utilized the form of hellenistic historiography, but filled
it with a content that is specific to his own interests as an apologist for Jewish culture. See
Gregory Sterling, Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic
Historiography (New York: E.J. Brill, 1992), 16. A similar approach was advocated several
years earlier by Harold W. Attridge, The Interpretation of Biblical History in the Antiquitates
Judaicae of Flavius Josephus (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1976): “Josephus transforms
the genre of antiquarian, rhetorical historiography and succeeds in producing a Greek
version of Jewish sacred history with specifically religious implications. Herein lies the
basic achievement of the apologetics of the Antiquities. Greek materials have been made
the vehicles of a profoundly religious and forthrightly Jewish interpretation of history”
(183–84).
Josephus’ Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
Soja’s spatial theory shows, if nothing else, that geography has become a
complex, critical discipline. It follows that geographical analyses of Josephus
should also aspire to a similar level of complexity and criticism. Several impor-
tant implications emerge. First, analytical approaches to Galilee or Galileans
that are couched in terms of “geographical/not geographical” are not only too
binary and too simplistic, they are misleading. In Zeitlin’s thinking, if the term
“Galileans” lacks the geographical consistency that would make them con-
ventionally mappable, only one alternative remains: they must constitute a
historical group that flourishes in the context of the war. Beginning with this
presupposition, Zeitlin sees certain qualities of the Galileans paralleled in
the brigands, the Zealots, and the Sicarii. Once these connections are made, a
new portrait of the Galileans emerges. Josephus, however, never makes these
connections himself. All three of these revolutionary groups are featured
most prominently (in the case of the brigands) or exclusively (in the case of
the Zealots and Sicarii) in J.W., but Josephus confines his special use of the
term “Galileans” to the Life. The overlap is minimal, but more importantly
the explicit association is non-existent. When Josephus refers to the brigand
Judas as “the Galilean” it must be kept in mind that these references are found
not in the Life but in J.W. (2.118, 433); any association of Judas with the
“Galileans” in the Life is hasty at best. The same can be said of the “Galilean
contingent” in J.W. 4.558. To assume that this is the proper name of a separate
revolutionary group is not only misguided, it is a misperception first and fore-
most of Josephus’ geography.
A second implication of analyzing Josephus’ Galilee as Thirdspace pertains
to the conflation of Josephus’ individual writings. The oft-scrutinized conflict,
going as far back as Laqueur,221 between J.W. and the Life regarding Josephus’
commissioning is as much geographical as it is historical. Indeed there are
important historical questions. For example, whether Josephus was forced
to capitulate over time to an unruly mass of Galileans, a factor that eventu-
ally compelled him to transform from a keeper of the peace into a wager of
war, is a legitimate historical dilemma. Giorgio Jossa grapples with this very
221 Richard Laqueur, Der Jüdische Historiker Flavius Josephus: ein biographischer Versuch auf
neuer quellenkritischer Grundlage (Geissen: v. Münchow, 1920), 103–16. Laqueur assumed
the Life to be the more accurate of the two with respect to Josephus’ actual commission,
though in the main Josephus was not to be trusted at all, breaking from the Jerusalem
leadership, usurping power, and eventually becoming the chief of the brigands.
88 CHAPTER 2
question, but his solution to the historical problem is unconvincing.222 In an

attempt to explain the discrepancies between the narratives, he proposes that
the Galileans were a moderate revolutionary faction separate from the more
radical brigands: “They would, therefore, be in the terms (and in the concep-
tion) of Josephus, νεωτερίζοντες, or, as he says in the Life, νεωτερισταί, that is
innovators on the plane of tradition and πάτρια ἔθη, not λῃσταί, that is reb-
els on a political and social level.”223 Their revolutionary behavior is extreme
enough to require Josephus’ presence in the district as per Life, but it is not
extreme enough to justify the commission as characterized in J.W.; thus, for
Jossa, the Life is the more reliable account. Putting aside for the moment what
it means to be an “innovator on the plane of tradition,” the more glaring prob-
lem stems from the fact that in the Life the word νεωτερισταί is never applied to
the “Galileans.”224 In trying to walk the historical tightrope between J.W. and
the Life, Jossa’s argument has become unbalanced. Geography, on the other
hand, provides a different but equally useful lens for analysis. Viewed through
the prism of Thirdspace, the fundamental geographical question is “to which
Galilee has Josephus been commissioned?” Given that each writing creates a
unique platform for Josephus’ actions, the tension between them diminishes.225
Josephus is commissioned appropriately in both works given the distinct pur-
poses of each. Through a critical spatial analysis, the careful reader of Josephus
will be forced to reckon with other questions, equally valid for understanding
Josephus, besides “what actually happened?”
Arguably the most important implication of this study relates to the gen-
eral caution it provides to other assessments of Josephus, particularly those
222 Giorgio Jossa, “Josephus’ Action in Galilee During the Jewish War,” in Josephus and the
History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith (ed. Fausto Parente
& Joseph Sievers; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 265–78.
223 Ibid., 266.
224 The word νεωτεριστής is used only three times in the Life, twice referring to rebel elements
in Jerusalem (22, 28) and once referring to Jesus of Tiberias, one of Josephus’ primary
adversaries (134). It is entirely absent in J.W., where the action of “innovating/rebelling”
(from νεωτερίζω) predominates. In addition to νεωτεριστής, the word νεωτερισμός (“revo-
lutionary movement”) is used four times in the Life, twice referring to activity in Judea
(17, 23) and twice in Gamala (56, 184). The action of “innovating/rebelling” (i.e. the verb
νεωτερίζω) is absent from the Life.
225 Cf. Mireille Hadas-Lebel, Flavius Josephus: Eyewitness to Rome’s First-Century Conquest of
Judea (trans. Richard Miller; New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1993), 69–70. Hadas-
Lebel does acknowledge that historically, the “preparation for war” motive and the “keep
the peace” motive can be compatible but still opts for J.W. as the more reliable.
that apply his corpus to “the quest for the historical Galilee.”226 The fact that
it is a “historical” quest reflects the methodology most commonly applied,
but Galilee is first and foremost a space, and space can be appropriated cre-
atively, deliberately, hegemonically, to the same extent as historical events
or figures. A classic debate within Galilee scholarship is represented by the
running dialogue, sometimes direct, often indirect, between Sean Freyne and
Richard Horsley. Is 1st c. CE Galilee better understood as a Jewish annex where
the Torah is respected and the Temple venerated (Freyne),227 or as the native
homeland of Israelite villagers struggling under the oppression of Roman cli-
ent rulers and Jerusalem elites (Horsley)?228 The discussion ranges far beyond
Josephus,229 but when it surfaces in his writings, the contrasting historical
reconstructions are evident even in the enlistment of minute details. Compare
their descriptions of Herod’s palace destroyed by the “Galileans” in Life 65–67:
New York: E.J. Brill, 1994), 76.
227 Sean Freyne, Galilee, from Alexander the Great to Hadrian 323 B.C.E. to 135 C.E.: A Study of
Second Temple Judaism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1980), 259–97; idem, “Galilee-Jerusalem
Relations in Josephus’ Life,” NTS 33/4 (Oct 1987): 604; idem, “Behind the Names: Galileans,
Samaritans, Ioudaioi,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. Sean Freyne; Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 131; idem, “Archaeology and the Historical Jesus,” in Galilee and
Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. Sean Freyne; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 180–81.
228 Richard A. Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press
International, 1995), 26–33; idem, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee, 15–42.
229 One representative issue is Zvi Gal’s archaeological survey of Galilee (Lower Galilee
During the Iron Age, ASOR Dissertation Series 8 [Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992],
108–109) that showed a significant depopulation after the period of the Assyrian con-
quest. Freyne (“Behind the Names,” 117) enlists Gal’s results in defending a Jewish, as
opposed to “Israelite,” Galilee that was repopulated under the Hasmoneans and shared
a cultural identity with Jerusalem. Horsley, who argues that the Galileans of the 1st c.
were descendants of the northern kingdom and harbored resentment toward the Jews
in the south, disputes Gal’s survey results claiming they “provide a superficial basis for
drawing any conclusions” (Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee, 22). See also Reed,
Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 28–43, who is supportive of Gal’s survey data. More
recently, Uzi Leibner (Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman, and Byzantine Galilee:
An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism
127 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009], 319–326) has also voiced support for Gal’s study,
calling Horsley’s view “pure conjecture” (320). His conclusion is supported by his own
survey data, which shows a marked expansion in settlement during the late Hellenistic
and Early Roman periods, population growth that is best understood as resettlement
following the Hasmonean conquest of Galilee rather than the increased birthrate of its
inhabitants (322).
90 CHAPTER 2
for Freyne, it is the “royal palace with animal decorations and Greek-styled
furniture”;230 for Horsley, it is the “royal palace, symbol of their (‘Galileans’/
villagers) subjection . . . [with] gold and other luxurious furnishings.”231 The
caveat being offered here is that significant aspects of both of these depictions
flow out of Josephus’ Thirdspace. In the Life, Galilee is deliberately portrayed
as the rightful domain of Josephus (“my district [τὴν ἐμὴν χώραν]” Life 154) and,
not coincidentally, of the “Galileans,” whom he characterizes as faithful follow-
ers of Jerusalem’s rightful emissary (as in Freyne) while standing firmly against
his rivals, whether they be power-hungry Tiberians or pro-Roman Sepphorites
(as in Horsley). Nevertheless, for both Freyne and Horsley, it seems that (con-
structed) Thirdspace has too easily become (descriptive) Firstspace, and
Firstspace has too quickly become “historical context.”
The purpose of this survey and analysis of Josephus’ geography of Galilee
is to be deliberately a-historical, not in the sense of ignoring historical argu-
ments, but rather in an attempt to break free from a purely historical analysis
where geography is viewed as an inert and static background. “Social reality,”
whether present or past, “is not just coincidentally spatial, existing ‘in’ space,
it is presuppositionally and ontologically spatial.”232 Scholars are already well
aware of the potential pitfalls in historical analyses of Josephus; the hope is
that this study can provide yet another useful map for navigating his writings
from a consciously different perspective.
230 Freyne, Galilee: From Alexander, 129; cf. 234, 311.

231 Horsley, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee, 129.
Chapter 3
Luke’s Galilee
Introduction
Within the synoptic tradition Galilee has received more than its fair share
of attention, and with good reason. Mark’s gospel, as is well known, devotes
nearly two-thirds of its contents to Jesus’ ministry in Galilee and its immedi-
ate surroundings, and his broadly geographical schema of Galilee/travel sec-
tion/Jerusalem is reiterated, though with modifications, in both Matthew and
Luke. Yet interest in Galilee has been linked to more than just Mark and its
successors. More recently, scholars have found another reason to enter into
the broader discussion over Galilee: a possible Galilean provenance for the
Q material. Q notwithstanding, however, by far the greatest contributions in
the past few decades to the study of the synoptic Galilee have come from the
burgeoning field of Galilean archaeology. The rapid increase in extra-literary
data that continues to emerge from the decades-long excavations at Sepphoris,
the more recent work at Tiberias, and the ongoing operations and surface sur-
veys from the remainder of Galilee have collided with interest in the historical
Jesus, and the result has been a juggernaut of immensely intriguing and fre-
quently conflicting scholarship. Underlying this complex cooperative relation-
ship is a simple foundational concept: to understand Jesus the Galilean one
must first understand Galilee. Alongside Josephus and the Gospel of John, the
synoptic tradition rounds out the literary-historical triumvirate.
Closer evaluation of Galilee scholarship specific to the synoptics, however,
reveals that contributions to the discussion are far from evenly distributed. In
fact, it is the Gospel of Mark that has received the lion’s share of attention, and
again with good reason. There exists a common assumption that Matthew’s
Galilee is, for the most part, passively adopted rather than purposely adapted
in any significant way from Mark’s more deliberately conceived depiction. As
a result, fewer scholars have taken a critical look at what Matthew does with
Galilee given that the author’s interests with regard to Jesus’ story lie more
with the interpretation of the law than the interpretation of the land. There
has been a similar lack of attention directed toward Luke, though for entirely
different reasons. The author has a definite geographical emphasis, but that
emphasis is on Jerusalem over and against Galilee, both as the place of desti-
nation (destiny? Luke 13:33) for Jesus in Luke and as the point of distribution

92 Chapter 3
for the gospel in Acts. Furthermore, those interested in the geography of Luke-
Acts have found much more captivating terrain in the “end of the earth” scope
of Acts than in the more limited, provincial, and ostensibly misconceived
space of Luke. If Luke apparently does not care enough to convey an accurate,
mappable Galilee, then why should we?
Although acknowledging that there is still plenty of room for analysis
of both Mark’s and Matthew’s depictions of Galilee, and that Q is deserving of
attention as well, they are not the primary focus here. The point of this chapter
is to explore the Galilee of Luke, and, as with Josephus, to do so from a deliber-
ately geographical perspective using a consciously spatial analytical method.
This approach is not primarily concerned with amassing data from Luke about
the nature of 1st c. CE Galilee in terms of religious practices, culture, economy,
social relations, or political history.1 The goal is to ascertain how Luke imagines
Galilee within its geographical context and to investigate how Luke’s Galilee
functions within the narrative. Geographical analyses of Lukan material, how-
ever, are not easily reviewable since they are usually found scattered through
commentaries or embedded within larger works. Even where there is discern-
ible interest, the focus often lies elsewhere, whether with Jerusalem, the list
of nations at Pentecost, or the missionary activity of Paul. Furthermore, in
order to investigate the geography of the Gospel of Luke, some consideration
must be given to the broader synoptic tradition, particularly Mark, Luke’s pri-
mary extant source and the one from which he derives his basic geographical
schema. In sum, most synoptic studies of Galilee focus on Mark, and most geo-
graphical studies of Luke focus on something other than Galilee. The review of
scholarship that follows, therefore, takes a somewhat serpentine path, mean-
dering first through the substantial collection of studies pertaining to Mark’s
Galilee and concluding with geographical analyses of Luke-Acts that usually
do not make Galilee their aim.2 Many have blazed trails through Luke-Acts’
1 See Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical
Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 90–115. Although his concerns go beyond
the mere accumulation of details on Galilee culled from Luke and deal also with Luke’s con-
ception of Galilee, his methods are more historical-critical rather than spatial-theoretical.
The hope is that the present study will provide yet another analytical lens.
2 For obvious reasons, Matthew and Q both lie outside the purview of a study of Luke’s Galilee,
but both are deserving of comment. With regard to Matthew, there are relatively few geo-
graphical analyses, especially when compared to Mark. Despite C.C. McCown’s assertion that
“not a single case of correct, independent, and original addition to Mark’s geography can
be ascribed to Matthew” (“Gospel Geography: Fiction, Fact, and Truth,” JBL 60:1 [1941]: 13),
Matthew’s geography was not in fact lifted whole cloth from Mark without any contextualiz-
ing. See, e.g., Donald J. Verseput, “Jesus’ Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and Encounter in the Temple:
Luke ’ s Galilee 93
geography in general, but the route to Luke’s Galilee is neither clearly demar-
cated nor well-trodden. It is largely uncharted territory.
Behind Luke
Any investigation into the synoptic tradition on Galilee necessarily begins with
the Gospel of Mark and, more specifically, with Ernst Lohmeyer’s influential
Galiläa und Jerusalem.3 Mark was not Lohmeyer’s sole interest, but the last-
ing influence of his study had a distinctively Markan orientation. In Mark,
Lohmeyer saw evidence for a Galilee that went beyond literal representation,
A Geographical Motif in Matthew’s Gospel,” NovT 36:2 (1994): 105–21. Verseput contends that
Matthew does indeed adapt Mark by placing greater emphasis on Jerusalem rather than on
the journey. This emphasis highlights Jerusalem’s more starkly negative role, particularly in
comparison to Galilee. See also Steven R. Notley, “The Sea of Galilee: Development of an
Early Christian Toponym,” JBL 128:1 (2009): 183–88. In this short but helpful study, Notley
points to Isa 9:1 (LXX 8:23), the only place in the Hebrew scriptures where ‫ יָ ם‬and ‫ גָ ִליל‬occur
in the same verse, as the original inspiration for the term “Sea of Galilee” found in Matthew,
Mark, and John. He also argues that Matthew 4:13–16 collapses Isaiah’s three distinct geo-
graphical references into a single topos, namely, Capernaum and its immediate surround-
ings, in order to make it relevant to Jesus’ ministry. Cf. Shmuel Ahituv, “Zebulun and the Sea,”
in Studies in Historical Geography and Biblical Historiography: Presented to Zecharia Kallai
(ed. Gershon Galil and Moshe Weinfeld; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 3–7. For a study of Matthew’s
exploration of marginal space, see Paul Hertig, “Geographical Marginality in the Matthean
Journeys of Jesus,” in Society of Biblical Literature 1999 Seminar Papers (Atlanta: Society of
Biblical Literature, 1999), 472–89. The hypothetical sayings source Q lies behind Luke as does
Mark, but it lacks the built-in geography of a narrative structure. This does not mean it is void
of geographical context, however, and recent studies, as alluded to above, have attempted to
identify a Galilean provenance. See John S. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q: The History
and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2000), 214ff; Jonathan L.
Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence (Harrisburg, PA:
Trinity Press International, 2000), 170–96. For a dissenting view on the Galilean provenance for
Q based on archaeological evidence, see David Álvarez Cineira, “La localización geográfica
de Q: Galilea, Jerusalén, Antioquía,” EstEcl 81 (2006), 493–533.
3 Ernst Lohmeyer, Galiläa und Jerusalem (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1936), particu-
larly pages 10–15, 26–36 where he lays out his treatment of Mark. See also Günter Stemberger,
“Appendix IV: Galilee—Land of Salvation?” in W.D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land: Early
Christianity and Jewish Territorial Doctrine (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974;
repr., JSOT Press, 1994), 409–40; Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary (Hermeneia;
Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), 653–67. Both of these helpful résumés of scholarship per-
taining to Galilee begin in earnest with Lohmeyer.
94 Chapter 3
a “broader, so-called churchly (kirchlichen) concept of Galilee,”4 and also for a

Galilee that went beyond traditional mapping, a Galilee encompassing the
surrounding locales of Tyre, Sidon, and the Decapolis (cf. Mark 7:31).5 Two of
Lohmeyer’s important legacies, therefore, became embedded within a strand
of Markan scholarship. First, he argued that Mark’s references to Jesus’ post-
Easter return to Galilee (Mark 14:28; 16:7) should not be read through the lens
of later gospels and thus understood as a future resurrection appearance but
rather as allusions to the Parousia.6 Second, in stark contrast to Jerusalem, the
center of Jewish animosity toward Jesus, Galilee was to be the place where
Jesus’ followers would gather to await Christ’s return. It should be perceived as
“christliche Galiläa.”7
Lohmeyer’s analysis was literary and exegetical, and some of his presuppo-
sitions have been more recently challenged. Yet his influence on subsequent
studies of Mark’s Galilee is difficult to overstate. Following in his footsteps
came a line of scholars espousing variations on Lohmeyer’s two principal the-
ses: R.H. Lightfoot,8 George H. Boobyer,9 L.E. Elliott-Binns,10 J.-M. van Cangh,11
Willi Marxsen,12 and Werner Kelber.13
On the whole, these scholars were supportive of the notion that Mark 14:28
and 16:7 implied a Galilean parousia rather than a resurrection appearance.
Lightfoot claimed that had Mark included a resurrection appearance it would
have occurred in Galilee as the place of revelation,14 but that did not dimin-
ish Galilee’s primary function as the place of eschatological consummation,
indicated by the use of the verb ὁράω, which, in his view, tied together 13:26
4 Lohmeyer, Galiläa, 26.

5 Ibid., 27.
6 Ibid., 13–14.
7 Ibid., 27, 81.
8 R.H. Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine in the Gospels (New York: Harper and Bros. Publishers,
1938)—though Lightfoot did not use Lohmeyer directly.
9 George H. Boobyer, “Galilee and Galileans in St. Mark’s Gospel,” BJRL 35 (1952–53): 334–
48; repr. in Galilee and Galileans in St. Mark’s Gospel (Manchester: John Rylands Library
Bulletin, 1953), 334–48.
10 L.E. Elliott-Binns, Galilean Christianity (Chicago: Alec R. Allenson, Inc., 1956).
11 J.-M. van Cangh, “La Galilée dans l’Evangile de Marc: un lien théologique?” RevBib 79:1
(1972): 59–75.
12 Willi Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist: Studies on the Redaction History of the Gospel (trans.
James Boyce et al.; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1969).
13 Werner Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark: A New Place and a New Time (Philadelphia: Fortress,
1974).
14 Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 52, 70–71.
and 14:62 (both being allusions to the Son of Man coming on the clouds) with
16:7.15 After Lightfoot, the idea of a Markan parousia became foundational
for Marxsen’s redaction-critical analysis. According to Marxsen, geographical
detail within the Gospel of Mark always occurred at the level of earlier tra-
dition except when pertaining to Galilee.16 Galilee, therefore, functioned as
Mark’s own “redactional device” that pulled together otherwise “isolated, dis-
parate pieces” of tradition and created a locale that is theologically rather than
historically significant.17 Mark 16:7, as a redactional element working in combi-
nation with the women’s fear in 16:8, implied a Galilean parousia, not a resur-
rection appearance.18 The place that had become so integral to the Christian
movement had been written back onto the story of Jesus, which was sufficient
for Marxsen to suggest a Galilean provenance for the gospel.19 Similar argu-
ments were put forth by Kelber who characterized the kingdom of God in
Mark as nothing less than a “Galilean Kingdom.”20 This kingdom was broader
than Galilee proper since the symbolism of Mark’s geography indicated Jesus’
inclusiveness of places like Tyre, Sidon, and the Decapolis.21 Like Marxsen, he
suggested that Mark was written in Galilee and not Rome: “So much in sym-
pathy with Galilee is the author . . . that it seems plausible to see in him the
spokesman of Galilean Christians.”22
Despite this enthusiastic support for a Galilean parousia, it has not oth-
erwise been well-received largely due to the dearth of evidence of any prior
historical tradition espousing Galilee as an eschatological space.23 Lohmeyer’s
hypothesis, which was suggestive and tentative to begin with, crumbled w ithout
15 Ibid., 54–55. It should be noted, as both Stemberger (“Appendix IV,” 413) and Collins
(Mark, 665 n.174) report, that Lightfoot later reversed this opinion and instead preferred
to view 14:28 and 16:7 as allusions to Jesus’ resurrection. See R.H. Lightfoot, The Gospel
Message of St. Mark (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950), 116.
16 Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist, 73.
17 Ibid., 92.
18 Ibid., 85.
19 Ibid., 66.
20 Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 11.
21 Ibid., 46, 131. Along these lines, the stilling of the storm (4:35–41) and the subsequent heal-
ing of the demoniac (5:1–20) are misunderstood if they are viewed as manifestations of
Jesus miraculous power rather than an overcoming of the Gentile barrier (51).
22 Ibid., 130.
23 See criticisms in Stemberger, “Appendix IV,” 425–29; Collins, Mark, 660; Davies, The Gospel
and the Land, 222–35; Ernest Best, Mark: The Gospel as Story (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983),
76–77; Robert H. Gundry, Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids:
Eerdmans, 1993), 1007–8.
96 Chapter 3
a substantial historical foundation. Far more enduring, however, has been

Lohmeyer’s idea of a stark contrast between Galilee and Jerusalem. Lightfoot
took a similar approach, characterizing Mark’s Galilee as “the scene and seat
of revelation” and “the area of salvation” in contradistinction to Jerusalem,
“the place of rejection” and “the sphere of sin and death.”24 Although his
study, like Lohmeyer’s, was primarily exegetical, he saw support for a Galilee-
Jerusalem dichotomy in the cultural ethos of the two regions, Jerusalem being a
center for Jewish piety and Galilee, inclusive of surrounding areas, being more
characteristically Gentile.25 Boobyer followed suit with a stringent defense
based on his analysis of pertinent texts in the LXX.26 The dichotomy was also
a major underpinning for Elliott-Binns who maintained that “originally the
Galileans, the folk from whom the first Christians were drawn, were largely
of non-Jewish descent.”27 The resulting Jewish/Christian division, therefore,
corresponded to an ancient rift, but it was also perpetuated by a characteris-
tically Galilean stubborn and independent spirit.28 Galilean Christians “were
all ‘sons of thunder,’ ” which was off-putting to the Jews.29 Kelber went even
further, arguing that Mark presents a northern movement in opposition to the
Jerusalem-based church under the direction of Peter and the apostles.30 Thus,
for Mark, Galilee becomes a “New Jerusalem,” because “the traditional site of
eschatological manifestation had become a broken center, void and empty.”31
Many of these themes continue to echo, although substantial challenges
have been mounted, particularly from the field of archaeology.32 What is
24 Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 28–29, 111.

25 Ibid., 111–12, 122.
26 Boobyer, “Galilee and Galileans,” 335ff; see the detailed critique in Collins, Mark, 660–64,
who shows that Boobyer’s attempt, which is based in part on corrupted texts in the LXX,
to establish a Gentile Galilee in Mark’s day is unfounded.
27 Elliott-Binns, Galilean Christianity, 19.
28 Ibid., 27.
29 Ibid., 25–26; cf. Mark 3:17.
30 Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 64.
31 Ibid., 139.
32 Archaeological evidence suggests a closer relationship between Galileans and the
Jerusalem Temple than what Lohmeyer and others imply. While 1st c. Galilean syna-
gogue remains continue to be speculative and elusive, other material culture (miqva’ot,
stone vessels, aniconic coinage and art) point to a Galilee-wide concern for purity laws
and continuity with Temple authority. See James F. Strange, “First Century Galilee from
Archaeology and from the Texts,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the
Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCollough;
Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 43–45. Others have also argued for an essentially “Jewish”
Galilee based on the archaeological evidence. See in particular Eric M. Meyers, “Galilean
important to note here is the widespread recognition of the emphasis that

Mark places on Galilee, however it is to be interpreted. If the idea of a Galilean
parousia or the reconstruction of a community of Galilean Christians has not
won universal favor, the tendency to read Mark’s geography as symbolic or
heavily theologized has nevertheless endured, even among those who disagree
with Lohmeyer’s approach. The persistent emphasis on Mark’s geographical
symbolism is most evident in the work of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon who
applies a structural analysis of “distinctions and interrelations” to Mark’s geog-
raphy and then rewrites them back onto Mark’s theology.33 The quintessen-
tial “order/chaos” dichotomy is that between land and sea, but other dualisms
are evident as well such as homeland vs. foreign land and Galilee vs. Judea.34
Regionalism: A Reappraisal,” in Approaches to Ancient Judaism, Vol. V: Studies in Judaism

in Its Greco-Roman Context (ed. William Scott Green; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 115–31;
idem, “Jesus and His Galilean Context,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts
in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas
McCollough; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 57–66; Sean Freyne, “Archaeology and the
Historical Jesus,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected Essays (ed. Sean Freyne; Tübingen:
Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 161–82; idem, “Galilee, Jesus, and the Contribution of Archaeology,”
ExpT 119:12 (2008): 573–81; Zvi Gal, Lower Galilee During the Iron Age, (ASOR Dissertation
Series 8; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 108–109; Mark A. Chancey, The Myth of a
Gentile Galilee (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002), 167; idem, Greco-Roman Culture and
the Galilee of Jesus (Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series 134; Cambridge:
Cambridge UP, 2005), 166–220; Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in Hellenistic, Roman,
and Byzantine Galilee: An Archaeological Survey of the Eastern Galilee, Texts and Studies
in Ancient Judaism 127 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009) 319–326. Dissenters to this view
include Richard A. Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press
International, 1995), 19–33; idem, Archaeology, History, and Society in Galilee: The Social
Context of Jesus and the Rabbis (Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1996), 20–23;
Burton L. Mack, A Myth of Innocence: Mark and Christian Origins (Philadelphia: Fortress
Press, 1988), 65–69. Horsley and Mack have different motives, however. Horsley is inter-
ested in showing a strong rivalry between the social elite of Jerusalem and the peasantry
of Galilee; Mack’s concern is the portrayal of Galilee as a region steeped in Hellenism and
Cynic teaching. Ze’ev Weiss (“Greco-Roman Influences on the Art and Architecture of
the Jewish City in Roman Palestine,” in Religious and Ethnic Communities in Later Roman
Palestine [Studies and Texts in Jewish History and Culture 6; ed. Hayim Lapin; Potomac,
Md.: University Press of Maryland, 1998], 246) also contends that, at least in the Jewish cit-
ies of Sepphoris and Tiberias, hellenistic influences were pervasive enough so as to affect
public institutions and administration.
33 Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Galilee and Jerusalem: History and Literature in Marcan
Interpretation,” CBQ 44 (1982): 247; cf. eadem, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in
Mark (New York: Harper & Row, 1986).
34 Malbon, “Galilee and Jerusalem,” 251–52.
98 Chapter 3
The result is a wholesale exchange of historical concerns for literary ones using
a highly symbolized geographical binarism as the primary currency.
Several passages within Mark have contributed to this tendency toward
a symbolic reading of Mark’s geography, but perhaps none more than 7:31
where Jesus takes what can only be described as a “roundabout”35 path from
the regions of Tyre, through the territories of Sidon and the Decapolis, before
returning to the Sea of Galilee. The seemingly unlikely itinerary has given
rise to the notion that Mark is perhaps geographically ignorant when it comes
to Galilee and its immediate surroundings, and only a symbolic reading will
suffice. For Gerd Theissen, the geographical errors in Mark are proof enough
that the author was not from Palestine, and he surmises a Syrian provenance
instead.36 Thus, the journey in 7:31 is “imaginary” for the purpose of bringing
Jesus into the Syrian orbit.37 Others are less comfortable heaping criticism on
Mark’s geography, but a symbolism is still maintained. F.G. Lang identifies the
journey with the “Ursprung” of Gentile Christianity but also acknowledges it
as geographically plausible.38 Despite the varied opinions on Mark the geogra-
pher, symbolic or theological interpretations of Jesus’ journey serve as a com-
mon thread.39
There is less agreement, however, as to the setting of what follows Jesus’
journey, particularly with regard to Mark 8:1–9, and this is important for deter-
mining Mark’s purpose for the passage. The long history of interpretation that
sees the first feeding miracle (6:30–44) as taking place in Jewish territory and
the second feeding miracle (8:1–9) as taking place in Gentile territory has a
number of modern adherents.40 It should be noted that for some commenta-
35 Collins, Mark, 369.

36 Gerd Theissen, The Gospels in Context: Social and Political History in the Synoptic Tradition
(ed. and trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991), 237, 249.
37 Ibid., 249.
38 F.G. Lang, “ ‘Über Sidon mitten ins Gebeit der Dekapolis’: Geographie und Theologie in
Markus 7:31,” ZDPV 94 (1978): 160.
39 Martin Hengel, Studies in the Gospel of Mark (London: SCM Press, 1985), 46; Joel Marcus,
Mark 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 27; New York:
Doubleday, 2000), 472; R.T. France, The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text
(NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 12; Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 60; Collins,
Mark, 369. Gundry may be considered the exception that proves the rule. He takes Mark
7:31 as straightforward narration of Jesus’ itinerary (Apology for the Cross, 382–88), consis-
tent with his overall portrait of the Gospel as containing “no ciphers, no hidden mean-
ings, no sleight of hand” (1).
40 Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark, 59–62; William L. Lane, The Gospel According to Mark: The
English Text with Introduction, Exposition and Notes (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
tors, a locale within Gentile territory is not necessarily tantamount to a Gentile

feeding, much less a full-blown “Gentile mission.”41 For others, however, the
notion of a Gentile setting is wholly precluded by opting to locate the miracle
on Jewish rather than Gentile soil; Jesus’ return εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν τῆς Γαλιλαίας
in 7:31 indicates that he is back in his previous sphere.42 Mark’s introduction to
the pericope includes no spatial references, so the location hinges on the inter-
pretation of 7:31, especially the crux interpretum of the final phrase, ἀνὰ μέσον
τῶν ὁρίων Δεκαπόλεως. If ἀνὰ μέσον is taken to mean “through the middle of,” it
implies that Jesus has returned to Galilee by way of the Decapolis; if it is taken
to mean “in the middle of,” then the location of the feeding miracle would be
opposite Galilee in the predominantly Gentile Decapolis.
Both options have their difficulties, but a setting in the Decapolis is prefer-
able on several counts. First, Jesus’ return “to the sea of Galilee” does not neces-
sarily imply that he is in Galilee. Based on 5:1–20, Mark was aware that the lake
was adjacent to both Galilee and the Decapolis. Second, if the final phrase in
7:31 is understood as a clarification of Jesus’ locale upon reaching the lake, the
structure may be similar to 11:1 where “near (πρός) the Mount of Olives” clarifies
the location of the villages of Bethphage and Bethany.43 Third, Lang’s transla-
tion “through the middle of”44 is not required in this case, despite the lack of
comparable uses of the phrase ἀνὰ μέσον in other NT texts. It occurs only here
in Mark and rarely elsewhere (cf. Matt 13:25; 1 Cor 6:5; Rev 7:17; text variant in
Luke 17:11), but it is extremely common in the LXX where it usually refers to the
space “between” two things, whether those things be material or conceptual.
Movement “through” is not a prerequisite, even in passages describing travel
itineraries. Exod 16:1 provides an intriguing parallel:
ἀπῆραν δὲ ἐξ Αιλιμ καὶ ἤλθοσαν πᾶσα συναγωγὴ υἱῶν Ισραηλ εἰς τὴν ἔρημον
Σιν ὅ ἐστιν ἀνὰ μέσον Αιλιμ καὶ ἀνὰ μέσον Σινα.
1974), 266; Rudolf Pesch, Das Markusevangelium I: Einleitung und Kommentar zu Kap.
1,1–8,26 (HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1976) 403; Walter Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach
Markus (ThKNT 2; Berlin: Evangelischer Verlag, 1977) 204; Robert A. Guelich, Mark 1–8:26
(WBC 34A; Dallas: Word, 1989); Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 54–56.
41 This idea also has a long history. See Benjamin W. Bacon, “The Treatment of Mk. 6:14–8:26
in Luke,” JBL 26:2 (1907): 139.
42 See for example Marxsen, Mark the Evangelist, 69–70; Gundry, Apology for the Cross, 388;
Collins, Mark, 369, 378.
43 Collins, Mark, 512 (cf. 457 n. a), gives a viable alternative, preferring the translation “to the
Mount of Olives.”
44 Lang, “Dekapolis,” 152–54; cf. Heikki Räisänen, The “Messianic Secret” in Mark (Edinburgh:
T&T Clark, 1990), 153.
100 Chapter 3
And they departed from Ailim (Elim), and the whole company of the
children of Israel went to the wilderness of Sin, which is between Ailim
and Sina (Sinai). 45
With the exception of διά, each of the prepositions used in Mark 7:31 also
appears in LXX Exod 16:1, and in the same order.46 Similar parallels can be
found in Gen 13:3–4 where Abram pitches his tent ἀνὰ μέσον Βαιθηλ καὶ ἀνὰ
μέσον Αγγαι and Num 33:49, which locates the Israelite encampment ἀνὰ μέσον
Αισιμωθ. Outside the LXX, parallels may be found in Ant. 14.448, which refers to
Herod’s brother Joseph encamping “(up) in the mountains” (ἀνὰ τὰ ὄρη), and
Strabo’s summary of Posidonius’ three-fold climatic division of the world in
which the central zone (between the “Ethiopian” and the “Scythian/Celtic”) is
simply called τὴν ἀνὰ μέσον.47 Taken together, these texts suggest that ἀνὰ μέσον
can refer to a fixed locale and that Mark 7:31 is best understood as bringing
Jesus “to the Sea of Galilee in the midst of (or perhaps even ‘up in’) the terri-
tory of Decapolis.” It is not necessary to conclude that Mark has erroneously
placed the lake “in the middle of” the Decapolis; he is aware that it is adjacent
to Galilee. His point is to show that Jesus is in Gentile territory.48 Without any
indication that Jesus has moved prior to the feeding miracle, there is no reason
to place the event in Galilee.49 The ramifications of this for Luke, who tends to
minimize Jesus’ exposure to Gentile areas, will be discussed below.
45 My translation. Admittedly, the Exodus passage, by use of an indefinite clause, clarifies
that the two ἀνὰ μέσον phrases are elaborating on the location of the wilderness of Sin,
whereas no such syntactical aid is found in Mark 7:31. The indefinite clause, however, does
show that in this case movement is not implied. From a purely grammatical point of view,
it is Sin that is situated between Elim and Sinai, not the people’s exodus route.
46 According to Joel Marcus, Mark may be using an Exodus motif, which would make this
parallel even more intriguing. See Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis
of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (New York: T&T Clark, 1993, 2004), 80–93, for an
exposition of Mark 9 in light of Exod 24.
48 The explanation of Guelich (Mark 1–8:26, 403) is instructive. The feeding may not have
been exclusively for Gentiles, nor is it necessary to posit a Markan “Gentile Mission,” but
Jesus’ willingness to re-examine defilement laws (7:1–23) appears to set the stage for his
movements in non-Jewish areas, including in this case the Decapolis. On the feeding
being located in Gentile territory, see also Eric K. Wefald, “The Separate Galilee Mission
in Mark: A Narrative Explanation of Markan Geography, the Two Feeding Accounts and
Exorcisms,” JSNT 60 (1995): 12.
49 Contra Collins (Mark, 369) who argues that “ἀνά with the accusative . . . usually expresses
horizontal motion when used locally.” Thus, in her view, Jesus has traveled “through” the
Decapolis and returned to Jewish territory. The point of the somewhat detailed argument
Within Luke
The preceding review of scholarship on Mark’s Galilee is not intended to
be exhaustive, but it does lay important groundwork for an investigation of
Luke’s Galilee. Not only has Luke borrowed Galilean material from Mark, but
just as importantly, he has conspicuously omitted the extra-Galilean material
included in Mark 6:45–8:27a. Yet despite this oft-cited “Great Omission,” Luke’s
Galilee has still been relegated to the shadows in modern studies—and not just
the shadow of Mark’s Galilee. Geography as a whole has had to survive in the
shadow of history. According to François Bovon, since 1950 the most significant
areas of critical inquiry regarding Luke-Acts have centered on Heilsgeschichte:
“Everything began with history and eschatology.”50 When Luke’s geography did
move out of the shadows, it was the geography of Acts that led the way; when
the geography of the gospel was discussed, Jerusalem stole the limelight.
One area of study that brought some attention to Luke’s Galilee was the
central travel section (9:51ff; the close of the section is debated). The emphatic
pronouncement that as the time of Jesus’ ἀνάλημψις approached “he set his
face to go to Jerusalem” is almost universally viewed as a crucial pivot in the
narrative. Beyond that, however, scholars have reached “what may be fairly
called a consensus” on only one thing: that the travel narrative is “primarily
a theological-Christological rather than a geographical entity.”51 The knotty
question of whether to place the journey itself in Perea, Samaria, or elsewhere
has caused some to abandon the notion of a geographically-based itinerary
altogether. For example, William C. Robinson, Jr., claimed that “[t]he trip
has no locale of its own but is constructed with reference to its function as a
transition between . . . Galilee and Jerusalem.”52 Adding to the confusion, pas-
sages like 9:52–56 (emissaries in Samaria), 10:13–15 (woes to Galilean towns),
offered here is to demonstrate that ἀνά with the accusative does not always conform to
this usual sense.
50 François Bovon, Luke the Theologian: Fifty-five Years of Research (1950–2005) (2nd ed.;
Waco, Tex.: Baylor UP, 2006), 11. Cf. W.C. van Unnik, “Luke-Acts: A Storm Center in
Contemporary Scholarship,” in Studies in Luke-Acts: Essays presented in honor of Paul
Schubert (ed. Leander Keck and J. Louis Martyn; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1966), 15–32,
who discusses the related debate over Luke’s identity as a historian or theologian (27).
It is worth noting that the Keck-Martyn volume contains no essays on geography, a
barometer of the mid-60’s status quaestionis with regard to Lukan studies. There are of
course notable exceptions to be discussed below.
51 David S. Gill, “Observations on the Lukan Travel Narrative and Some Related Passages,”
HTR 63:2 (Apr 1970): 199.
52 William C. Robinson, Jr., “The Theological Context for Interpreting Luke’s Travel Narrative
(9:51ff.),” JBL 79:1 (Mar 1960): 29.
102 Chapter 3
10:38–42 (a visit to Mary and Martha), 13:31–33 (Jesus in danger from Herod),
and 17:11–19 (travelling through/between Samaria and Galilee) taken together
obscure where Jesus might be at any given time along the way. Furthermore,
some of the Galilean material in Mark (Luke 11:15–23, 37–54) and some of the
Q material which Matthew situates in Galilee (Luke 11:29–32; 12:22–34) are
placed in Luke’s travel section. For an author so concerned with geographical
concepts and details,53 Luke seems to be notoriously imprecise about place.
Over the last 50 years, virtually every serious discussion of Luke’s geog-
raphy has been forced to reckon with Hans Conzelmann’s The Theology of
St. Luke.54 Ironically for the purposes of this study, its greatest legacy is actually
the subjugation of geography to historical concerns, evident in his 3-fold divi-
sion of redemptive history into epochs corresponding to the time before Jesus
(ending with John the Baptist), the time of Jesus, and the time of the Church.
His emphasis is chronological as the original German title, Die Mitte Der Zeit,
clearly implies.55 Nevertheless, his monograph is divided into five sections,
with the first section devoted to Luke’s geography, and in any investigation of
Luke’s geographical sensibilities Conzelmann is a critical interlocutor. On the
whole, he contends that Luke’s knowledge of Palestine is “in many respects
imperfect,” leading Luke to make use of geography in a symbolic way.56 John the
Baptist is separated spatially from Jesus, which is why “Judea” (as Jesus’ sphere
of activity) is consistently omitted from Luke’s passages pertaining to John.57
Topographical features such as the top of a mountain or the lake are provided
53 Mikeal C. Parsons, “The Place of Jerusalem on the Lukan Landscape: An Exercise in
Symbolic Cartography,” in Richard P. Thompson and Thomas E. Phillips, eds., Literary
Studies in Luke-Acts: Essays in Honor of Joseph B. Tyson (Macon, Ga.: Mercer UP, 1998),
158 n.14, claims that “even after adjusting the results to take into account the fact that
Luke and Acts are much longer than any other NT document, the Lukan writings demon-
strate a higher rate of frequency for spatially related terms than any other NT document.”
Cf. C.C. McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” JBL 57:1 (Mar 1938): 55.
54 Hans Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke (trans. Geoffrey Buswell; London: Faber
and Faber, 1960); trans. of Die Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas (Tübingen:
Mohr, 1954).
55 A rebuttal to Conzelmann’s chronological schema came from William C. Robinson, Jr.,
Der Weg des Herrn: Studien zur Geschichte und Eschatologie im Lukas-Evangelium. Ein
Gespräch mit Hans Conzelmann (TF 36; Hamburg: H. Reich, 1964). As his title indicates, the
emphasis on history is downplayed in favor of something more spatial, but it is far from
an inquiry into Luke’s geography. Robinson’s approach is based upon the concept of “the
way,” but it is heavily theologized so as to become its own expression of Heilsgeschichte
(30–43).
56 Conzelmann, Theology, 19–20.
57 Ibid.
as “theological” rather than “geographical” details.58 With regard to Galilee spe-

cifically, Luke has taken a very different approach from Mark. Whereas Mark
emphasizes Galilee as a place of promise and fulfillment, for Luke it has “no
fundamental significance . . . as a region.”59 Following Lohmeyer, Conzelmann
claims that Mark’s Galilee has been recast in Luke and stripped of eschatologi-
cal meaning.60
Some of his specific observations are deserving of criticism,61 but by far
the most intriguing of his ideas regarding Galilee comes from his comments
pertaining to “The Journey” in Luke. The frustrating perplexity of the journey,
according to Conzelmann, is likely due to the fact that Luke has “an inaccurate
picture of the country.”62 Specifically, Luke has imagined Galilee and Judea as
sharing a common border, with Samaria lying adjacent to both. In defense of this
idea, Conzelmann cites Pliny, Nat. 5.15, and Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34, as evidence
of a similar geographical outlook on the region.63 Related to this, Conzelmann
draws several conclusions.64 First, it is an indication that the entire region is
being viewed “from abroad.”65 Second, the travel section, although developed
to some degree in his sources, is essentially a Lukan construction.66 Third, the
58 Ibid., 42.

59 Ibid., 41.
60 Ibid., 45.
61 A few examples will suffice to illustrate that Conzelmann is not always consistent. The
distinction, for example, between John and Jesus’ spheres can be seen at the level of pre-
Lukan tradition—see Robinson, Der Weg des Herrn, 10–16. Conzelmann also claims that
“the mountain” has been “stylized” in such a way that it is a place of retreat and prayer
for Jesus. “No temptation can take place on it” (29). This works well in light of Luke’s
(presumed) omission of “the mountain” from 4:5, but is a bit inconsistent with Jesus
experience on the Mount of Olives in 22:39–46. In addition, Conzelmann assumes that
Capernaum’s location by the lake is perhaps unknown to Luke: “If one were not familiar
with Mark, one would have the impression that Capernaum was in the middle of Galilee”
(39). But of course Luke was familiar with Mark. Furthermore, this may have more to
do with Luke’s overall geographical agenda, to be discussed below, which consistently
eliminates certain geographical references in his source. Finally, although Conzelmann
views geography as purely symbolic (20), he refuses to view historical events in the same
way (34)—precisely the sort of methodological double standard that this study is arguing
against.
62 Conzelmann, Theology, 66.
63 Ibid., 69.
64 It should be noted that the arrangement of the following conclusions is my own, not
Conzelmann’s.
65 Ibid., 70.
66 Ibid., 62.
104 Chapter 3
journey should not be understood as taking place in Samaria, given that this is
not explicitly mentioned in the text of Luke.67 Fourth, the theory that “Judea”
is applied by Luke in both a broader sense (as the entire region of which
Galilee was a subset) and a narrower sense (the political jurisdiction of Pilate
as opposed to that of Antipas68) is in effect unnecessary. The common border
between Galilee and Judea means that Jesus can freely move between both
without ever setting foot in either Samaria or Perea.69
Of these conclusions, the first pertaining to the provenance of Luke has
been well-received, but this was already the prevailing viewpoint.70 The second
has also attracted adherents. Conzelmann argued that whereas Luke derived
the material within the travel section from his sources, the travel narrative
itself was his own construct. Thus, Luke “stamps the journey on the existing
material.”71 Conzelmann based this on Luke’s use of πορεύομαι to convey Jesus’
movement toward Jerusalem, a specifically Lukan expression as opposed to
the use of ἀναβαίνω in the other gospels.72 Robinson concurred, citing stylis-
tic considerations evident in Luke’s use of Mark, Q, and his special material.73
67 Ibid., 66.

68 Following the death of Herod the Great (4 BCE), Galilee and Perea came under the juris-
diction of Herod Antipas whereas Judea, Samaria, and Idumea were given to Archelaus.
After Archelaus’ was deposed in 6 CE, a succession of Roman governors of equestrian
rank, one of which was Pontius Pilate, ruled in his place. Administratively, Galilee and
Judea were reunited under Agrippa I (41–44 CE), and they continued to be ruled together
as the province of “Judea” by Roman procurators until the time of the Jewish revolt, and
afterwards (presumably at the time of the gospel’s composition) by legates of senato-
rial rank who answered directly to Rome rather than the governor of Syria. The fact that
the term “Judea” had various geographical and administrative applications during the 1st
c. CE adds to the confusion surrounding its use and interpretation.
69 Ibid., 70–71.
70 The place of writing is unknown, but a provenance outside of Palestine (Rome, Achaia,
Antioch) is usually assumed. See Gregory Sterling, Historiography and Self-Definition:
Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography (New York: E.J. Brill, 1992), 328–29;
Martin Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul: Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity
(London: SCM Press, 1983), 99, 126; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke:
Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 28–28a; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1981), 1153;
Dean Bechard, “The Theological Significance of Judea in Luke-Acts,” in The Unity of Luke-
Acts (ed. Jozef Verheyden; Louvain: Peeters, 1999), 675–91. For a placement in Caesarea,
however, see Hans Klein, “Zur Frage nach dem Abfassungsort der Lukasschriften,”
EvT 32:5 (1972): 467–77.
71 Conzelmann, Theology, 72–73.
72 Ibid., 68.
73 Robinson, “Theological Context,” 20–22.
Likewise, David S. Gill in his own study of the Reisenotizen went so far as to
classify πορεύομαι as a Lukan terminus technicus.74
Less convincing has been Conzelmann’s third conclusion, the rejection of
Samaria as the locale for the travel narrative. Interpretations of the geography
in this section are wide-ranging. Its early identification as the “Perean section”
resulted from the attempt to harmonize Luke 9:51 with Mark 10:1 and Matt 19:1.75
In the absence of any reference in Luke to Jesus traveling in the region east of
the Jordan, however, the trend in later scholarship was to place the travel sec-
tion in Samaria76 even if this was done without much critical reflection. Bovon
is more deliberate in placing Jesus’ travel there: “Lukas und vor ihm der Autor
der Sonderguts mußten wissen, daß man Galiläa über Samaria verläßt, um
nach Judäa zu kommen.”77 Joseph Fitzmyer is more ambivalent but also seems
to assume a locale in Samaria.78 By contrast, Robinson and E. Earle Ellis rejected
the idea that the journey went through Samaria, though for reasons wholly dif-
ferent from Conzelmann’s. Both preferred to remove the journey from any map
whatsoever, seeing its significance rooted instead in its rhetorical function. For
Robinson, the key to understanding Luke 9:51ff came from the interpretive lens
given in Acts 13:31; it provides a place for the witnessing of Jesus’ ministry “from
Galilee to Jerusalem.”79 Ellis was so reticent to acknowledge any historical or
geographical elements that he rejected even the nomenclature of “travel nar-
rative” and instead preferred to think of it as a “teaching narrative,” dividing
74 Gill, “Observations,” 201. Others have also recognized a distinctively Lukan use of the
travel material: Robinson, Der Weg des Herrn, 53; E. Earle Ellis, The Gospel of Luke (NCB;
rev. London: Oliphants, 1974), 146–48, refers to the journey narrative as a “scaffolding”
providing structure for Jesus’ teachings, although he disagrees with Conzelmann that it
can be understood chronologically; Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes,
826, refers to Luke’s “christological purpose” in the travel section; Joel B. Green, The Gospel
of Luke (NICNT; Cambridge/Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 411 n.33, maintains that the
phrase “ ‘going toward Jerusalem’ is a metaphorical reference.” A dissenting view can be
found in I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke: A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand
Rapids: Paternoster/Eerdmans, 1978), 401–2, who prefers to think of Luke adopting the
travel motif of his source material without significant alteration.
75 McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” 60–61.
76 E.g., Lohmeyer, Galiläa, 41; Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 132–33.
77 François Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas (EKK; Zürich: Benziger Verlag, 1989–2009),
3.149; cf. 2.26.
78 Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 824; cf. 165 where two options for
reading Lukan geography are given, both of which include Samaria in the central section.
79 Robinson, “Theological Context,” 30; similarly, Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels,
112–15. Note that Conzelmann (Theology, 41) shares this view, but it is not the primary
reason for his rejection of a Samaritan locale as it is for Robinson.
106 Chapter 3
it into six groups of six subsections each, arranged chiastically.80 Similar to

Ellis would be I. Howard Marshall who argued that the assignment by Luke of
any significance to the journey itself must be considered unlikely, and that “the
real importance of the section lies in the teaching given by Jesus.”81
Of Conzelmann’s four conclusions outlined above, the final one pertaining
to Luke’s confusing application of the term “Judea” has been the least popu-
lar. The touchstone for the debate lies in the perplexing Lukan redaction in
4:44, where he changes Mark’s reference to Jesus preaching in the synagogues
“throughout all Galilee” (Mark 1:39) to Jesus preaching in the synagogues “of
Judea.”82 The commonly accepted explanation, namely, that Luke utilized both
a broader and a narrower sense of “Judea,” the former corresponding to Judea
as a geographical region that includes Galilee (1:5; 4:44; 6:17; 7:17; 23:5) and the
latter corresponding to Judea as an administrative district during Jesus’ life-
time exclusive of Galilee (1:65; 2:4; 3:1; 5:17), Conzelmann found unnecessary
due to what he perceived as Luke’s erroneous understanding of geography. If
Luke thought of Galilee and Judea as contiguous, then Jesus’ movements back
and forth across the hypothetical common border would suffice to explain
why he is described as being in Galilee in one instance and Judea in the next.
Yet on this matter, there is virtually unanimous opposition. That Luke is using
the term “Judea” in the broader sense of “all of Palestine”83 or “das ganze
Land”84 in 4:44 is not only commonly recognized among modern scholars,85
80 Ellis, The Gospel of Luke, 148–50.

81 Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, 401.
82 Despite the text critical issues facing Luke 4:44, there is an essentially universal prefer-
ence for “Judea” as the lectio difficilior over “Galilee.” See Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual
Commentary on the Greek New Testament (4th ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft/
German Bible Society, 1994), 114–15.
83 Ellis, The Gospel of Luke, 101.
84 Bovon, Das Evangelium, 1.226.
85 Others opting for Judea in the wider sense include Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine,
134; Robinson, “Theological Context,” 29; Heinz Schürmann, Das Lukasevangelium, T. 1
(1,1–9,50) (HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1969), 261; Martin Völkel, “Der Anfang Jesu in Galiläa:
Bemerkungen zum Gebrauch und zur Funktion Galiläas in den lukanischen Schriften,”
ZNW 64 (1973), 226; Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 165–66, 558;
Charles H. Giblin, The Destruction of Jerusalem According to Luke’s Gospel (Analecta
Biblica 107; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1985), 26; Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the
Gospels, 91; Darrell L. Bock, Luke (BECNT; 2 vols.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1994–96), 1.441;
Bechard, “Theological Significance,” 677; Hans Klein, Das Lukasevangelium (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), 195, 201.
it is assumed by ancient authors as well.86 Within German scholarship there

has been a tendency to see 4:44 as the beginning of a new section. According
to Hans Klein, “Mit diesem Abschnitt schließt sich des erste Haupteil des
Evangeliums . . . [Jesus] wirkt auch nicht nur im Umkreis des Jordans (3,3),
sondern in ganz Judäa (4,44).”87 The Galilean section ended here for Martin
Völkel as well, with the remainder of the gospel up to 9:51 representing a con-
scious expansion of Jesus’ ministry to the entire region of Palestine.88 For most,
however, the Galilean section is understood as extending up to 9:51, the begin-
ning of the travel narrative.89
What is remarkable about these criticisms of Conzelmann is that despite
their variety, they all exhibit a common hermeneutical thread: each one derives
from an unquestioning acceptance of the conventional map. This may seem
obvious for those who apply this map directly to Luke’s general knowledge
of the area, such as Bovon, and provide a narrative location, such as Samaria,
even when Luke does not do so explicitly. Such observations are based on the
assumption that Luke has knowledge of the map that is so commonly taken
for granted. Robert M. Grant, in an explicit critique of Conzelmann, also places
the travel narrative in Samaria, even asserting that Luke’s “geographical pic-
ture must be close to that of the reliable Josephus. . . . Would Luke have contra-
dicted Josephus?”90
Yet the same map also serves as the starting point for those at the oppo-
site end of the spectrum who view Luke’s geography through an a-spatial
lens. Interpretations of Luke’s travel narrative that expunge from it any sense
of geography are engendered by the tension experienced when one plots the
journey with a copy of Luke in one hand and a conventional map in the other.
86 Pliny, Nat. 5.15, to be discussed in more detail below; Tacitus, Ann. 12.54, refers to Felix,
the governor of Judea, whose ineptitude resulted in Galilee being given over to Cumanus.
Bechard (“Theological Significance,” 677) contends that Josephus, who also had an inclu-
sive/exclusive understanding of “Judea,” has been surprisingly overlooked and should be
given more consideration as a “representative voice.”
87 Klein, Lukasevangelium, 195. Cf. Schürmann, Das Lukasevangelium, 256–57.
88 Völkel, “Der Anfang,” 226.
89 Lucien Cerfaux, “La mission de Galilée dans la tradition synoptique,” ETL 27:2 (1951):
369–89; Fearghus O Fearghail, The Introduction to Luke-Acts: A Study of the Role of
Lk 1,1–4,44 in the Composition of Luke’s Two-Volume Work (Analecta Biblica 126; Rome:
Editrice Pontificio Instituto Biblico, 1991), 40; Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 90–91;
Bechard, “Theological Significance,” 685 n.32.
90 Robert M. Grant, “Early Christian Geography,” VC 46 (1992): 106; cf. Annette Weissenrieder,
Images of Illness in the Gospel of Luke (WUNT 2. Reihe; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003),
187–88.
108 Chapter 3
Palestine in the First Century C.E.: Tyre

Caesarea Philippi
The Conventional Map (Paneas)
Lake Huleh
Capernaum Bethsaida
Sea of Galilee
Sepphoris
Tiberias
Gadara
Caesarea
Maritima
Joppa
Jerusalem
Ascalon
Dead
Gaza
Sea
0 10 20 miles
Figure 3.1 The conventional map of 1st c. CE Palestine.
This does not mean that all symbolic or theological interpretations are so
engendered. Such interpretations may be warranted even without geographi-
cal tension. For example, this tension is not required for Ellis to read the mid-
dle section as a “teaching narrative.” His adamant insistence that the journey
be emptied of geography, however, comes not from Luke’s didactic-theological
purposes but from Ellis’ own understanding of the map and the journey’s
incompatibility with it. Thus he states, “[T]he journey references form a part of
a thematic structure and are not markers in a running chronological account.

For example, the Lord is no nearer Jerusalem in 17:11 than in 9:51ff.”91 Add to this
Luke 10:38–42, Jesus’ visit with Mary and Martha, which shows him as “appar-
ently on the outskirts of Jerusalem.”92 Ellis, it should be noted, does not assume
Luke’s knowledge of the area was deficient. Rather, Luke simply had a different
purpose for the central section. The fact that “Luke is not charting any route,
symbolic or otherwise” is a deliberate narrative strategy on Luke’s part.93 Luke
knows the common map; he has written a narrative conflicting with that map;
therefore, he must not have used the map (or, by extension, geography).
For those interpretations of Luke’s geography that fall in between these
two extremes, the same principle holds true: the common map is taken for
granted. The travel motif may be retained in these analyses, but it is character-
ized as everything from “theological-Christological”94 to simply “convoluted.”95
Furthermore, those who prefer to extend the Galilean section of the gospel
to 9:50 also do so on the basis of the map. Both Dean Bechard and Fearghus
O Fearghail insist that 4:44 cannot mark the end of Jesus’ Galilean ministry,
because there are too many clear geographical references to Galilean locales
in subsequent chapters.96 What they do not acknowledge, however, is that the
conventional map can also obscure Luke’s geographical data. Both Bechard
and O Fearghail place the limits of the Galilean section at 9:50 despite other
subsequent geographical references to Galilee, some of which are no less
ambiguous. For example, O Fearghail contends that the reference to Herod in
9:7–9 indicates that Jesus is in Galilee, but he does not apply the same logic
to 13:31–33 where Jesus is warned to flee the area because Herod wants to kill
him. In the same manner, Freyne argues that 5:1, 7:1, 8:2, 22, 26, and 9:7–9 taken
together clearly imply “that the author/narrator wants us to think of Galilee as
91 Ellis, The Gospel of Luke, 147. The use of the term “chronological” as opposed to “geograph-
ical” may seem a bit out of place in the context of this discussion, but it is likely used
deliberately as a critique of Conzelmann’s attempt to understand the journey chronologi-
cally. See Ellis’ discussion on page 148.
92 Ibid., 148. Note, however, that Luke does not situate Mary and Martha in Bethany (cf. John
11:1–44; 12:1–3) but in an unnamed village.
93 Ibid., 209. He is critical of Conzelmann here, asserting that erroneous geography on Luke’s
part is “incompatible with Conzelmann’s view of Luke’s strong geographical interests.”
In other words, if Luke was uncertain of something, he would have asked a Palestinian
Christian who knew the area.
94 Gill, “Observations,” 199.
95 Green, The Gospel of Luke, 398.
96 Bechard, “Theological Significance,” 685 n.32; O Fearghail, Introduction to Luke-Acts, 40.
110 Chapter 3
the actual location of the story up to the major break of 9:51.”97 Based on these
arguments for a Galilean ministry through 9:50, it might come as a surprise to
learn that the only explicit mention of “Galilee” in terms of a possible locale
for Jesus after 4:44 comes in 17:11, near the end of the travel narrative. If Luke
8:26, which places Jesus on the side of the lake “opposite Galilee” is indicative
of his Galilean activity, then why not 17:11, which situates Jesus on the Samaria-
Galilee border?
Ultimately, what sets Conzelmann’s ideas about Lukan geography apart
from those who have come after him is not the set of conclusions discussed
above, but rather his own starting point: a willingness, even for a moment, to
disregard the map. Analyzing the travel narrative, Conzelmann found other
approaches deficient (specifically those situating the journey in Samaria) pre-
cisely because they were “based not on the text, but on the map.”98 Yet, ironi-
cally, the overwhelming trend since Conzelmann has been a general eschewing
of geography as an analytical tool for the travel section, not because scholars
have abandoned the map but because they have continued to embrace it,
whether actively or passively, and found Luke’s geography to be inconsistent
in comparison. This reveals an additional irony embedded in the critiques of
Conzelmann and the interpretations of Luke’s geography that undergird them.
Luke is assumed to be geographically aware and astute prior to the travel nar-
rative, as in 4:44, and after the travel narrative, especially in the book of Acts,
but when discussing the travel narrative itself he becomes geographically apa-
thetic or illiterate. It is safe to say that Luke is not the only one who is poten-
tially inconsistent with geography.
Beyond Luke
The most recent wave of scholarship on Lukan geography has gone beyond the
narrow limits of the gospel, and thus the narrow limits of Palestine, to embrace
the geographical agenda of Luke-Acts as a whole. At the risk of oversimplify-
ing, what holds these studies together is the refusal to look at geography in
97 Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 91. Only one of these passages (7:1), by placing Jesus
in Capernaum, is a clear indication of his presence in Galilee. Luke 5:1 and 8:22 are refer-
ences to the lake and may be safely assumed to be Galilean locales, though Luke is not
explicit. Luke 8:2 is a reference to Mary of Magdala, not a geographical description, and
in 8:26 Jesus is actually in the region of the Gerasenes. Like O Fearghail, Freyne makes no
mention of Luke 13:31–33 in this context.
98 Conzelmann, Theology, 66; cf. 41 n.1.
Luke-Acts in the same way as everyone else—as a theological tool only.99 A key
aspect that distinguishes them from more traditional “theological” analyses of
Lukan geography is their intentional use of methodologies that are often cross-
disciplinary and conversant with theoretical approaches to space.
The “pioneer efforts”100 in this regard came from James M. Scott, whose
extensive 1994 essay,101 followed by his 2002 monograph,102 go beyond merely
footnoting the parallels between Luke-Acts and other ancient writings. Scott
instead sets out to chart the geography of Luke-Acts upon a broader theoreti-
cal landscape, to plot Luke’s “geographical horizon” in relation to other spatial
conceptualities in the ancient world. After an abbreviated review of Greco-
Roman viewpoints on geography and a more extensive study of the Jewish
view of the world, he concludes that Luke’s geographical horizon could be
seen within the confluence of these two broader traditions.103 His primary
thesis is that Luke-Acts derives its conceptualization of the world from the
Table of Nations tradition (Gen 10), particularly as it is conveyed through Jub.
8–9.104 Perhaps the most obvious application of this “geographical horizon” in
Luke’s writings can be seen in the central focus that is placed on Jerusalem that
effectively makes it “the navel of the earth” (Jub. 8:19).105 The Greek tradition
associated with Delphi106 has been co-opted into the Jewish imago mundi and
applied to Jerusalem107 just as it was re-appropriated in the Roman tradition
and applied to Rome.108 Scott also sees the Table of Nations tradition reflected
in Jesus’ ancestry (Luke 3:23–38), the mission of the 70/72 (Luke 10:1–20), Acts’
99 Cf. Dean Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s Socio-Geographical Universalism
in Acts 14:8–20 (Rome: Editrice Pontificio Instituto Biblico, 2000), 83.
100 Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 169.
101 James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its First Century
Setting (ed. David W. Gill and Conrad Gempf; vol. 2 of The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-
Roman Setting; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 483–544.
102 James M. Scott, Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity: The Book of Jubilees (SNTSMS
113; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002). Both of Scott’s works are wider in scope than just
the Lukan materials; the comments here, however, have been limited to observations per-
tinent to Luke-Acts.
103 Scott, “Geographical Horizon,” 543.
104 Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 23–43; idem, “Geographical Horizon,” 507–9.
105 Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 56. Cf. Philip S. Alexander, “Notes on the ‘Imago Mundi’
of the Book of Jubilees,” JJS 33:1–2 (1982), 197–213, who argues that Jubilees is partially
indebted to the Greco-Roman geographical tradition.
106 Strabo, Geogr. 9.3.7; Pausanias, Descr. 10.16.3.
107 Cf. Ezek 5:5.
108 Strabo, Geogr. 6.4.1; Vitruvius, De Arch. 6.1.11.
112 Chapter 3
g eographical structure (Judea/Samaria = Shem; Ethiopia = Ham; Asia/Europe =

Japheth), and the list of nations at Pentecost (Acts 2:5–11).109
At times, Scott’s analysis is, by his own admission, rather tendentious,110 and
it has not been without criticism. Mikeal C. Parsons agrees with Scott that Luke
utilizes a version of the Table of Nations tradition, but whereas Scott empha-
sizes the continuity of Luke-Acts with Jubilees, Parsons argues for a greater
measure of discontinuity. According to Parsons, Luke-Acts occupies a middle
position between the Table of Nations tradition, where Jerusalem is explic-
itly stated to be at the center of the earth, and the adaptation of the Table
of Nations in Josephus, who depicts Jerusalem as the center of Israel only
( J.W. 3.52).111 As such, for Luke, Jerusalem is not the eschatological destina-
tion—it is not the “end” as it often is in the Table of Nations tradition112—but
rather it stands at the beginning of the end.113 Bechard argues that although
Luke does indeed find “an authoritative point of orientation” in the Table of
Nations, his imago mundi was not Jerusalem centered, as substantiated by
the fact that his geographical categories are primarily Roman.114 Gary Gilbert
goes a step further, arguing that, at least with respect to the list of nations in
Acts 2, the Table of Nations tradition had no influence at all. Instead, Acts 2
should be interpreted in light of the Roman tradition of using geographical
lists as political propaganda, such as in the Augustan Res Gestae. As such,
Acts 2 redefines Christianity as an alternative to Roman hegemony over the
oikoumenē.115 Perhaps the most overt criticism of Scott, however, comes from
Matthew Sleeman, who claims that the focalization on Jerusalem via the Table
of Nations tradition is too rigid. Unlike Scott’s other detractors, Sleeman desta-
bilizes earthly geography altogether, both through his use of spatial theory and
his narrative reading of Acts, resulting in (among other things) a destabilized
Jerusalem.116 Sleeman’s study will be discussed in more detail below.
109 Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 44–51, 51–55, 56–62, and 66–84, respectively.
110 Ibid., 21.
111 Parsons, “Place of Jerusalem,” 165–67.
112 Sib. Or. 5.249–50; 1 En. 26:1.
113 Parsons, “Place of Jerusalem,” 167.
114 Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 224, 341–42.
115 Gary Gilbert, “The List of Nations in Acts 2: Roman Propaganda and the Lukan Response,”
JBL 121:3 (2002): 497–529. On the Res Gestae and its propagandistic function, see Claude
Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, Mich.: U of
Michigan Press, 1991), 15–28.
116 Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts (SNTSMS 146;
Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2009) 33–35.
Of all Scott’s specific observations about Lukan geography, the one that is
most pertinent to this study is also one of the more widely accepted. A key
reason for associating the mission of the 70/72 in Luke 10:1–20 with the Table
of Nations tradition is reflected in its own textual history. The evidence, both
internal and external, is evenly weighted regarding whether Jesus sent out 70 or
72 emissaries at the outset of the journey to Jerusalem.117 Yet the tradition itself
is similarly conflicted: the Hebrew text of Gen 10 lists 70 nations whereas the
LXX lists 72, the number also reflected in Let. Aris. 50 and 3 En. 17:8, 18:2–3, and
30:2.118 The connection of Luke 10:1–20 to the Table of Nations is not original
to Scott,119 but he does offer a unique contribution, namely, that the numbers
70 and 72 are rooted not only in the Jewish tradition, but in the Greco-Roman
tradition as well.120
Following Scott, Dean Bechard’s erudite Paul Outside the Walls (2000) on
Acts 14:8–20, Paul’s missionary visit to Lycaonia, provides another foray into
a broader conceptual understanding of Lukan geography. Bechard’s purpose
is to show that Luke has drawn upon an extensive Greco-Roman tradition
which characterizes Lycaonia as a cultural backwater and has incorporated
this tradition into his own narrative world.121 This allows the author to portray
Paul as the apostle extraordinaire who can preach to the urban sophisticates
of Athens and the simple rustics of Lycaonia with equal aplomb.122 Thus, like
Scott, Bechard charts out Luke’s geographical horizon based upon the socially
constructed conceptual maps of his day.
Both Scott and Bechard base their studies on the assumption that geogra-
phy can be a critical discipline, but neither attempts an analysis that is pur-
posefully patterned on a modern spatial-theoretical methodology. Sleeman’s
2009 monograph Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts seeks to do
precisely that using the critical geography of Edward Soja. Sleeman begins by
explaining his project’s indebtedness to the advent of narrative criticism, spe-
cifically in the sense that it has successfully mounted a challenge to historical
critical approaches. The potential for narrative criticism to open itself up to
spatial questions via the analysis of narrative setting, however, was never fully
realized. Plot and action continued to dominate.123 Given that the relegation
117 Metzger, Textual Commentary, 126–27.

118 Parsons, “Place of Jerusalem,” 163; Green, The Gospel of Luke, 412.
119 See, e.g., Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, 415.
120 Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 53–54.
121 Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 243, 278.
122 Ibid., 336–37.
123 Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, 7–8.
114 Chapter 3
of geography to the margins of academic discourse “unjustifiably constrains

a fully critical reading of the text,”124 Sleeman proposes the use of a spatial
critique that will shed light on Luke’s “ascension geography.”125 Utilizing Soja’s
concept of Thirdspace, he argues for a “heavenly Christocentrism”126 in Acts
that serves as a foil for any and all earthly spatialities, constantly challenging,
destabilizing, and deconstructing them. James Scott’s Jerusalem, for example
(see discussion above), is inadequate precisely because it is inherently stable.
According to Sleeman, “Constructions of place are contested, require active
maintenance, and always remain subject to possibly radical realignments.”127
The one exception to this would be “ascension geography” itself. It reflects an
ultimate “heavenly thirdspace,”128 the space by which all other spaces are per-
petually redefined.129 As a thoroughgoing application of critical spatial theory
to the study of an ancient text, Sleeman’s work is groundbreaking.130
Sleeman is more conversant with spatial theory while Scott and Bechard are
more conversant with ancient geography, but they all share a similar desire to
reconstruct a sense of space that is socially produced and reflected in Luke’s
own geographical agenda. In that sense, they distinguish themselves from
those who assume Luke’s geography is subservient to a theological agenda that
is unique to him. Even though these investigations into Luke’s spatial sensibili-
ties have little to do with Galilee directly, they are important precursors to this
study because they are attempting to uncover a Lukan conceptual geography.
Like Conzelmann before them, they have refused to take the map for granted.
Luke and Critical Geography
There are common theoretical underpinnings that tie together the work of
Edward Soja, whose methodology was applied to Josephus in ch. 2, and that
of Edward Said. Both understand geography to be something more than an
accumulation of data or empirical knowledge of the “object.” For both, pro-
ducing discourse about space is a creative enterprise that controls space by
124 Ibid., 22.

125 Ibid., especially ch. 2.
126 Ibid., 59.
127 Ibid., 34.
128 Ibid., 78.
129 Ibid., 259.
130 Perhaps we should expect no less—Sleeman holds two doctoral degrees, one in biblical
studies and one in human geography.
defining it. To both, space is political and polemical. Nevertheless, in one very
important respect, their theoretical approaches are worlds apart. Soja’s con-
cept of Thirdspace rests fundamentally on the appropriation of one’s own
space from within. It is experiential space, “lived” space, ideally with an eye
toward its emancipation. Said’s “imaginative geography” on the other hand
is the appropriation of another’s space from without. It is hegemonic space,
“articulated”131 space, usually with an eye toward its domination. By definition,
“imaginative geography” is the geography of the outsider. It should be obvi-
ous, therefore, why Said’s “imaginative geography” is more appropriate as an
evaluative lens for Luke. With only rare exceptions, Lukan scholarship is in
agreement: “The only thing which we may affirm about the locale in which
[the author of Luke-Acts] wrote is that it was not Palestine.”132
Thus, “imaginative geography” does not correspond to any and every imag-
ining of space. Both Tacitus and Josephus, for example, present an imagined
view of Palestine, but only one of these is an exercise in imaginative geog-
raphy. Said defines imaginative geography as “the invention and construc-
tion of a geographical space . . . with scant attention paid to the actuality of
the geography and its inhabitants.”133 For Said, that space is “the Orient,” but
specifically the Orient as articulated by the West, imagined and invented for
the purpose of establishing a foil for western culture. It is therefore a creative
enterprise that, in the articulation, engenders rather than describes space. In
the case of Orientalism, the imperialism implied is first and foremost ideo-
logical, not a conscious attempt at domination. Orientalism is to be under-
stood as a distributive process that disseminates a particular concept of space
into art, literature, and scholarship.134 The resulting geographical distinctions
may be characterized as “arbitrary” to a certain degree,135 but because they are
the products of a broader social discourse, it is not the same as asserting that
they are nonsensical or irrational.136 In fact, those distinctions carry a “rational
sense,” just one that is “poetically . . . endowed.”137 The conceptuality of space
131 Edward Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978), 57.
132 Sterling, Historiography, 328–29.
133 Edward Said, “Palestine: Memory, Invention, and Space,” in The Landscape of Palestine:
Equivocal Poetry (ed. Ibrahim Abu-Lughod, Roger Heacock, and Khaled Nashef; Birzeit:
Birzeit University Publications, 1999), 9.
135 Ibid., 54.
136 For the derivation of Said’s concept of knowledge as discourse, see Michel Foucault,
The Archaeology of Knowledge (Trans. A.M. Sheridan Smith; New York: Routledge, 1972;
Routledge Classic ed. 2002), 23–33.
116 Chapter 3
can then trump the actuality of space. In other words, “the objective space of a
house . . . is far less important than what poetically it is endowed with.”138 This
is especially true when mapping the space of the Other. The “poetic process”
which converts a “vacant or anonymous” space into a known place can convey
meaning across the greatest of distances.139 The “Orient,” therefore, is not the
space of the inhabitant, but the inhabitant’s space in the eye of the outsider,
who is nothing less than the Orient’s genuine creator.140 “I have no ‘real’ Orient
to argue for,” said Said.141
The issues Said addressed in Orientalism were both political and personal.
As a native of Palestine, he was concerned with the way in which his homeland
had become marginalized through imaginative geographies like Orientalism.
The parallels between Said’s orientalist Palestine, always negatively defined
(defined negatively?) as both a subregion of Israel and as Israel’s “other,” and
the Galilee of Luke, often negatively defined with respect to Judea, are deli-
ciously tantalizing at first glance. However, Said’s polemically situated per-
spective should be kept in mind before blindly assigning a similar perspective
to Luke.142 In other words, as with Soja and Josephus, when viewing Luke
through the lens of “imaginative geography,” it is possible, even preferable, to
remove the political message from the theoretical method. Once this is done,
however, the prospects for analysis have lost little of their appeal. One of the
important lessons learned from Said is that the map is not always the same as
geography. One can hold on to geography while at the same time relinquishing
the “accuracy” of the map, and this is particularly applicable to the geography
of the outsider. As an outsider, Luke is creating a space (in this case Galilee, but
it applies to ancient Palestine as a whole) that has meaning in his own social
world for others who share his imago Palaestinae.143
138 Ibid.
139 Ibid.
140 Ibid., 57.
141 From the Preface (xx) in the 25th anniversary edition of Orientalism published by Vintage
Books.
142 Said, it should be noted, has numerous critics, some of which are non-westerners. See
Robert Irwin, For Lust of Knowing: The Orientalists and Their Enemies (London: Penguin
Books, 2006), 253–54, 277–330.
143 The question of whether Luke is writing to a Christian or a non-Christian audience is not
at issue here. (On this, see Gilbert, “List of Nations,” 524–25, for current trends in scholar-
ship pertaining to this debate.) In either case, his implied Greco-Roman audience would
share his own geographical outlook. They are also “outsiders.”
Luke’s Galilee as “Imaginative Geography”
The purpose of this section is to consider Luke’s Galilee anew, unencumbered

by traditionally accepted mappings of ancient Palestine. Today’s traditional
map owes its existence primarily to Josephus who had extensive firsthand
experience with Galilee. Luke, however, had none. Should it be assumed, as
did Grant, that Luke’s sense of Palestinian geography was comparable to that
of Josephus? If on the other hand Luke’s knowledge of Palestinian geography is
deficient when compared to the Josephan map, should it be assumed that Luke
espouses only a spatially-charged theology and has no functional geography
at all?
“Imaginative Geography” in Conzelmann

To answer these questions requires a return to Conzelmann and his theory of
what is essentially an “imaginative geography” in Luke. Conzelmann’s contro-
versial theory was that Luke’s travel narrative betrays a deficient knowledge of
geography similar to what can be found in other ancient authors such as Pliny
and Strabo. He cites the following:
Supra Idumaeam et Samariam Iudaea longe lateque funditur. pars eius

Syriae iuncta Galilaea vocatur, Arabiae vero et Aegypto proxima Paraea,
asperis dispersa montibus et a ceteris Iudaeis Iordane amne discreta.
Beyond Idumaea and Samaria stretches the wide expanse of Judaea. The
part of Judaea adjoining Syria is called Galilee, and that next to Arabia
and Egypt Peraea. Peraea is covered with rugged mountains, and is sepa-
rated from the other parts of Judaea by the river Jordan. (Pliny, Nat. 5.15)
τοιοῦτοι γὰρ οἱ τὴν Γαλιλαίαν ἔχοντες καὶ τὸν Ἱερικοῦντα καὶ τὴν Φιλαδέλφειαν
καὶ Σαμάρειαν, ἣν Ἡρώδης Σεβαστὴν ἐπωνόμασεν.
[F]or such are those who occupy Galilee and Hiericus and Philadelphia
and Samaria, which last Herod surnamed Sabastê. (Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34)
According to Conzelmann, Luke may have envisioned a map of the area in

which Judea and Galilee shared a common border, which is why Luke portrays
Jesus as going back and forth between the two regions:
From these geographical details we can explain the course of the jour-
ney without difficulty: Galilee—along the border of Samaria—Jericho—
Jerusalem; and also a number of otherwise strange statements. In Luke
118 Chapter 3
Jesus can alternate without difficulty between Galilee and Judaea,

without any thought of journeys to Jerusalem in the Johannine manner.
This explains iv, 44, and also the fact that there is no transition marked
between the stay in Galilee, xii, 31ff, and the arrival outside Jerusalem.
It is popularly assumed—although it cannot be proved—that ‘Judaea’
is used in a narrower and broader sense, but this assumption becomes
unnecessary if the two regions are thought of as adjoining. According to
Luke’s idea, they are a unity from the geographical, national, and religious
point of view and politically they are divided into the Roman province
and Herod’s domain.144
As discussed above, in rearranging the conventional map, few have followed

Conzelmann’s lead.
One of Conzelmann’s most adamant critics in regard to this specific thesis
was I. Howard Marshall.145 Marshall first discusses the passage from Strabo,
Geogr. 16.2.34, which lists Galilee, Jericho, Philadelphia, and Samaria/Sabaste,
in that order. Conzelmann argued that this provided a parallel for Jesus’ jour-
ney which seemed to skip suddenly from Galilee’s border region (Luke 17:11)
to a locale in Jericho (19:1),146 but Marshall is correct that the connection is
somewhat tenuous and probably irrelevant; Strabo’s list is not a travel itiner-
ary, and more importantly there is precious little context that would help to
situate these places within Strabo’s own imaginative geography of the region.
Marshall’s treatment of the Pliny passage, however, quickly devolves into a cri-
tique of Conzelmann, specifically his notion that given Luke’s geography, there
is no need to assume a broader sense of “Judea” which includes Galilee. Yet this
criticism has deficiencies of its own. Marshall focuses on Conzelmann’s appli-
cation of the thesis to Luke 4:44 and argues that a broader concept of “Judea,”
being well attested, is more than enough of an explanation, and a rearrange-
ment of the map is unnecessary. In this respect Marshall is correct. However,
the value of Conzelmann’s thesis does not lie with the interpretation of 4:44
(despite Conzelmann’s own insistence) but rather with the travel n arrative.
144 Conzelmann, Theology, 69–70 (Mitte, 62). It is worth noting that Conzelmann’s separation
of Galilee and Judea is not quite as stark as many have argued, yet the separation is still
evident.
145 I. Howard Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian (Grand Rapids: Academie Books,
1989), 70–71.
146 After Luke 17:11, where Jesus is “on the way to Jerusalem . . . going through the region
between Samaria and Galilee,” the next geographical reference of any kind is 18:31, where
Jesus tells the Twelve, “See, we are going up to Jerusalem . . .” (Mark 10:17’s “As he was set-
ting out on a journey” has been omitted by Luke in 18:18 prior to the episode with the rich
ruler.) By 18:35 they are approaching Jericho; in 19:5, they enter Jericho.
Marshall has not separated out the thesis from Conzelmann’s own misappro-
priation of it; he assumes that by offering a better explanation for 4:44, the
thesis is unnecessary. Where the deficiency of Marshall’s critique becomes
most evident, however, is in his own assessment of the travel section, precisely
where Conzelmann’s theory can be most effectively applied. Marshall is forced
to conclude, with most other scholars, that Luke is accurate in 4:44 but impre-
cise elsewhere:
[I]t is now recognized that it is impossible to construct an itinerary

that runs clearly through this section. . . . What is important is that Luke
cannot have been consciously providing a geographical progress from
Galilee to Jerusalem. The incidents are not tied to specific locations; if in
10:38–42 Jesus is on the outskirts of Jerusalem (assuming that the home
of Mary and Martha was at Bethany, which is admittedly not stated by
Luke), in 17:11 he is apparently still on the border between Galilee and
Samaria, which in any case is strange after the incident in Samaria in
9:52–56. Consequently, it is unlikely that a journey as such is significant
from Luke’s point of view.147
The apologetic for Luke’s broader “Judea” in 4:44 has led to a thoroughly non-
spatial recasting of 9:51–17:11. In defending Luke’s nuanced understanding of
the map, Marshall has denied him geography.
The map in question of course is the conventional Josephan/modern map,
and it is usually taken for granted as the only map which may be compared to
Luke’s travel section. The criticism of Conzelmann by W.D. Davies should also
be read against this backdrop.148 Interestingly, Davies agrees that Luke is an
outsider, evident in the fact that he has no identifiably theological approach
to the land. Therefore, Luke does not develop any sort of intricate land sym-
bolism. In this regard, Davies’ interpretation of Luke’s geography runs counter
to many others, including Conzelmann himself.149 Despite Jerusalem’s cen-
tral role for Christian beginnings, it must be understood as a conduit rather
than a destination, eschatological or otherwise: “Christianity is a Way which
began at Jerusalem, but passes through it.”150 His rebuttal of Conzelmann,
therefore, is ultimately theological. What is noteworthy, however, is that this
rebuttal finds its starting point in Luke’s lack of geographical acumen: “[I]t
is precisely this kind of geographical inconsistency that makes any precise
147 Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, 401.

148 Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 247–51.
150 Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 260.
120 Chapter 3
geographical-theological interest so questionable.”151 Said would no doubt

vociferously disagree. Consistent knowledge is not a prerequisite for imagina-
tive geography.
What is at issue here is not Conzelmann’s broader program regarding Luke’s
use of geography or how deftly he applies it to Luke’s theological agenda. The
fundamental issue for this study is more specific: whether Conzelmann’s pro-
posal of an imaginative geography, specifically one that runs counter to the
conventional map, is a tenable one. To do this requires a closer look at Pliny
and Strabo. What emerges from a more detailed analysis—one closer than
even Conzelmann’s—is a portrait of the outsider’s sense of Palestinian geogra-
phy in which consistency in detail remains elusive but broader trends become
identifiable. This portrait can then be compared to Luke’s own imaginative
geography to see if he holds a similar view.
“Imaginative Geography” in Pliny and Strabo

A good place to begin is Conzelmann’s arrangement of the regions in ques-
tion: “Luke imagines that Judaea and Galilee are immediately adjacent, and
that Samaria lies alongside them, apparently bordering on both regions.”152
He goes on to compare this arrangement to Pliny (Nat. 5.14–15), who, accord-
ing to Conzelmann, “has exactly the same idea of the country.”153 As a point of
comparison for Luke’s imaginative geography, Pliny is crucial: not only is he a
contemporary of Luke, but he is also an outsider.154
151 Ibid., 249. Freyne (Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian 323 BCE to 135 CE [Notre
Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980], 365), citing Davies, uses precisely the
same argument in his rebuttal of Conzelmann.
153 Ibid.
154 It is unlikely that Pliny had ever been to Judea, despite the contention that he had been by
Hartmut Stegemann, “The Qumran Essenes: Local Members of the Main Jewish Union in
Late Second Temple Times,” in Vol. 1 of The Madrid Qumran Congress: Proceedings of the
International Congress on the Dead Sea Scrolls, Madrid, 18–21 March 1991 (ed. Julio Trebolle
Barrera and Luis Vegas Montaner; Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1992), 84–85. See Menahem Stern,
Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and
Humanities, 1974–84), I.465–66. According to Mark D. Smith (“Bethsaida in the Natural
History of Pliny the Elder,” in Vol. 3 of Bethsaida: A City by the North Shore of the Sea of
Galilee [ed. Rami Arav and Richard A. Freund; Kirksville, Mo.: Truman State UP, 2004],
86–87), Pliny used Agrippa’s Geography and other information from the commentaries of
Vespasian and Titus as sources for his knowledge of the area. See also Silvia Cappelletti,
“Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee:
A Region in Transition (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg et al.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 74–75;
Henry Innes MacAdam, “Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy and the Tabula Peutingeria: Cultural
Geography and Early Maps of Phoenicia,” in Archaeology, History, and Culture in Palestine
Palestine in the First Century C.E.:

Caesarea
A Hypothetical Map According to Philippi
Pliny (Paneas)
Caesarea
Maritima
Bethsaida
Joppa Lake of Genesara
Tiberias
Hippos
Gamala
Tarichaeae
Ascalon
Gaza
Jerusalem
Lake Asphaltitis
Machaerus
Not to Scale
Figure 3.2 A reconstruction of Pliny’s view of 1st c. CE Palestine based on his writings.
According to Pliny, how was Judea situated within the region relative to
other districts?155 Pliny first describes the coastal regions from south to north
(Arabia, Idumea, Palestine, Samaria, Phoenicia) then moves inland to Judea.
and the Near East: Essays in Memory of Albert E. Glock (ed. Tomis Kapitan; Atlanta:
Scholars Press, 1999), 285. Just as important is the fact that Pliny apparently did not use
Strabo, whose geography was probably not widely read in the 1st c. CE. See O.A.W. Dilke,
Greek and Roman Maps (London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 1985), 62–64; MacAdam,
“Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy,” 285; Katherine Clarke, Between Geography and History: Hellenistic
Constructions of the Roman World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 344. Since Pliny had
not read Strabo, there is no compelling need to consider them in chronological order.
155 It should be noted that the hypothetical maps included here (Figure 4.2) and subsequently
in this chapter (Figures 4.3 and 4.4) are my own creations based on the descriptions found
in Pliny, Strabo, and Luke-Acts, and I offer them with a healthy sense of trepidation. They
reflect my interpretations alone, and they should not be construed as visuals that these
authors actually or implicitly possessed or conceived. A fundamental point of this study
is to argue against the notion that mapping in the ancient world was the same sort of
visual exercise that we commonly make it out to be today (see ch. 5 below). These maps
122 Chapter 3
The commonly held notion that Pliny’s “Judea” should be understood as the
Roman province156 may be an oversimplification, particularly if this implies
that he always used the term in the same way. “Judea” may have a more gen-
eralized, regional sense in Pliny,157 but he is not always consistent in how he
defines it. Arabia is what separates Egypt and Judea in 12.46, yet Idumea, which
is distinguished from Judea in 5.13, is placed between Arabia and Judea in 5.14;
Phoenicia adjoins Judea in 36.65 (cf. 12.55), yet Samaria is Phoenicia’s neighbor
in 5.14 and is distinguished from Judea in 5.15. In effect, for this part of Syria, a
country that had “a great many divisions with different names” (5.13), “Judea”
seems to function consistently in only one way: as Pliny’s default term.158
With regard to Judea and Samaria, there is additional ambiguity. On the one
hand, Pliny does describe them separately in 5.14 (Samaria and its cities) and
5.15 (Judea and its features), and he never calls Samaria a part (pars) of Judea
as he explicitly does with Galilee and Perea (5.15). On the other hand, he does
seem to imply that Samaria could also be considered an area within Judea.
A look at the city of Joppa demonstrates that this may be the case: it is situ-
ated in coastal Samaria (5.14), characterized as Phoenician (“Iope Phoenicum”
5.14), and listed as one of the ten toparchies of Judea (5.15; cf. 9.5).159 Pliny also
describes the coastal city of Ascalon as being in Judea (19.32) despite having
named it earlier as an oppidum liberum in Samaria (5.14).160 If Samaria is a
part of Judea in some sense, this would explain the omission of Samaria from
the two lists of Syrian territorial divisions in 5.13. But where is Samaria spa-
tially within Judea? According to 5.14 it is the area along the coast in between
are meant simply to help the modern reader remove the lenses of conventional map-
pings, lenses that these authors certainly did not possess.
156 Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 73; Marshall, Luke: Historian and Theologian, 70;
cf. Yuval Shahar, Josephus Geographicus: The Classical Context of Geography in Josephus
(Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 186–87.
157 Not, however, a Talmudic sense as suggested by Stern, Greek and Latin Authors, I.474.
158 Not all references to the region in Pliny have geographical import. In fact, the major-
ity comment on the region’s two most renowned products, bitumen (e.g. Nat. 7.15) and
perfumes (e.g. Nat. 13.4), but Pliny is consistent in referring to the place of their origin
as “Judea.”
159 To complicate matters, Josephus says there were 11 administrative districts in J.W. 3.54–56,
but Joppa, along with Jamnia, are mentioned only after the 11 have been enumerated.
Joppa’s administrative connection to Judea was at times a complicated one ( J.W. 1.396,
2.97; Ant. 13.246, 14.202, 15.217, 17.320).
160 According to Josephus, Ascalon was always an enemy to the Jews ( J.W. 3.9–10).
Gaza161 and Phoenicia, although some of its towns (including Gamala!) lie
inland. According to 5.15, it appears to lie to the west of Judea, or perhaps more
specifically to the northwest, with Idumea occupying the coastal plain fur-
ther south,162 since Judea is situated “beyond (supra) Idumea and Samaria.”163
“Judea” in this sense would be that part of Judea not occupied by Samaria
or Idumea.
Galilee and Perea, however, are included in this sense. Galilee is briefly
alluded to as the “part” (pars) of Judea adjacent to Syria, which for Pliny lies
north. Although aware of its location across the Jordan, he seems to think of
Perea as further south and west: “next to Arabia and Egypt,” than it appears
on the conventional map. In other words, within Judea, Pliny may have envi-
sioned it as being the southern “part.”164 He is aware that it is separated from
the rest of Judea by the Jordan River, but it should be kept in mind that he does
not clearly delineate where or precisely in what direction the river flows. He
places the source at Panias in the Decapolis, which adjoins Judea “on the side
of Syria” (i.e. presumably to the north and east; 5.16), but gives no indication
that it flows through Galilee. He knows the lake by two names, Genesara and
161 The locale discussed just prior to Samaria is actually Mt. Argaris. If this is actually a ref-
erence to Mt. Gerizim, it is geographically out of place. Gaza also presents difficulties.
Going along the coast from Pelusia and Arabia, Pliny mentions Idumea and Palestine,
although Palestine may have been a previous name for that particular area in Pliny’s mind
(“namque Palaestina vocabatur qua contingit Arabas” [5.13]). He next mentions the city
of Gaza (among others) before discussing the region of Samaria, implying that Gaza is in
Idumea/Palestine. Palestine is never accounted a part of Judea or explicitly located within
Judea, although it does seem to be used as a substitute for Judea in 5.17 where it is located
“behind Antilibanus inland” (post [Antilibanum] introrsus). In one of its few other men-
tions (12.40), it is said to be in Syria. However, Gaza is said to be “a city of Judea” in 12.32.
In other words, Pliny is not always entirely clear.
162 Idumea’s location along the coast in Pliny’s mind is confirmed by 5.13 where he states that
it is part (along with Judea!) of the maritime coast of Syria.
163 In a reference to this passage, Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary,
Judean War 2 (vol. 1b of Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary; ed. Steve Mason;
Boston: Brill, 2008), 63 n.577, translated Pliny’s “supra” as “higher than,” but this is not
always the sense that it has in his geographical descriptions. (See Pliny, Nat. 2.87, which
describes the sea as “supra” Memphis.) In this case, Pliny, having covered the coast, is now
moving inland. After Judea (5.15) he discusses the Decapolis region (5.16) before going
“back to the coast and to Phoenicia” (5.17).
164 See the intriguing parallel in LXX Isa. 8:23 (9:1) where “beyond the Jordan” and “Galilee
of the Gentiles” are further described as τὰ μέρη τῆς Ιουδαίας, a qualification not found in
the MT.
124 Chapter 3
Tarichea,165 but not as the “Sea of Galilee” (5.15). The most that can be said is
that Pliny is aware it flows through Judea since it is included in his descrip-
tion of that region. As a boundary, the waters of the Jordan are only applied
to Perea; his description of the Decapolis, which includes other rivers, never
mentions the Jordan itself, only the spring at Panias. Thus, he may have envi-
sioned the Jordan as flowing southwest from Panias through Judea and into
Lake Asphaltitis rather than south—if he was envisioning it at all.166
Much of this is admittedly speculative, but that is precisely the point. For all
of his rich information, Pliny’s Judea, relative to Josephus’ Judea, is still rather
vague. There are still significant questions about his use of the term “Judea,”
and the locations of the various subregions do not exactly correspond to the
conventional map. Most importantly, based on Pliny alone, no one would
have any idea that Samaria lies between Judea and Galilee. Furthermore, his
description implies that one could be in Judea without being in Galilee, but he
shows no awareness that one could be in Galilee without being in Judea. Pliny
had many sources, but it must be acknowledged that Josephus was not among
them. He should be allowed to have his own map.
Strabo actually gives an even stronger confirmation that Judea is located
in the interior. His description of Syria, like Pliny’s, also follows the coastline,
although in the opposite direction. He begins with an overview in which he
mentions Commagene, Syrian Seleucis, Coele-Syria, “and last, on the seaboard,
Phoenicia, and, in the interior (ἐν δὲ τῇ μεσογαίᾳ), Judaea” (Geogr. 16.2.2).167
After this, he covers each region in succession in greater detail, reiterating
this arrangement of territories: the coast “from Orthosia to Pelusium” is called
Phoenicia and “the interior above it” (ἡ . . . ὑπὲρ ταύτης μεσόγαια) between
(μεταξύ) Gaza and Antilibanus is called Judea (16.2.21). Jerusalem is charac-
terized as near the sea (πρὸς θαλάττῃ, 16.2.34), even visible from Joppa where,
according to Strabo, the coastline noticeably changes directions (16.2.28), but
given the narrowness of Phoenicia (16.2.21) and the exaggerated height of Joppa
165 Tarichaeae Pliny situates on the south. He has likely confused the second appellation with
“Tiberias,” the next city in his list, perhaps misunderstanding or misquoting his source.
See Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 74–75.
166 Curiously, he locates Machaerus to the south of the Dead Sea when it was actually east.
If the orientation of the Dead Sea was skewed to the west as perhaps the Jordan was,
Machaerus, relatively speaking, might then be located to the southeast. The obvious par-
allel would be Perea, though Pliny does not explicitly say that Perea was “south” of the
Jordan. Regarding the prevalence of askew geography during this period, see the discus-
sion in ch. 5 below.
167 Cf. Josephus Ag. Ap. 1.60 (“Ours is not a maritime country”), although he contradicts this
in J.W. 3.51–53.
Theuprosopon
A Hypothetical Map according to Lake
Gennesaritis
Strabo
Sidon
Coele-Syria includes:
•Damascene
Tyre
•The Trachones
•Lake Gennesaritis
•Jordan R.
•Chrysorrhoas R.
Ptolemais •Lycus R.
Strato’s
Tower
Judea includes:
Joppa •Galilee
•Jericho
Jerusalem •Philadelphia
•Samaria/Sabaste
Ascalon
Gaza
Lake
Sirbonis
The Lake Sirbonis region includes:

•Moasada
•Sodom (in a previous era)
•Gadaris
•Tarichaeae
Not to Scale
Figure 3.3 A reconstruction of Strabo’s view of early 1st c. CE Palestine based on his writings.
(16.2.28), this should not be understood as evidence for a coastal Judea. Not
only is Judea, in Strabo’s view, indisputably inland, it is inland from Phoenicia.
The region of Samaria is never mentioned, only the city, and even then with-
out much context (16.2.34). The region of Idumea is not named either, but,
Idumeans, who are distinguished from Judeans (16.2.2), are said to live in the
western part of Judea (16.2.34; cf. Pliny, Nat. 5.15).168 Neither is the Decapolis
168 Ze’ev Safrai (“Temporal layers within Strabo’s description of Coele Syria, Phoenicia and
Judaea,” in Strabo’s Cultural Geography: The Making of a Kolossourgia [ed. Daniela Dueck,
Hugh Lindsay, and Sarah Pothecary; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005], 256) argues that
these two references to the Idumeans reflect different time periods in Strabo’s sources.
In 16.2.2, they would have been described as a separate group; in 16.2.34 they would have
been united with the Jews.
126 Chapter 3
mentioned,169 although Decapolis cities such as Philadelphia (16.2.34, 40) and

Scythopolis (16.2.40) are. To put it starkly, there is no indication in Strabo that
separate regions known as Samaria, Idumea, and the Decapolis even exist.170
They have no place in his imaginative geography.
With Galilee, the depiction is downright jarring, especially if Strabo is set free
from conventional mappings. The Galilee region, which goes unnamed in his
primary description of the area, is identifiable due to references to the Jordan
River and Lake Gennesaritis. Yet this description comes within Strabo’s discus-
sion of Coele-Syria,171 not Judea (16.2.16). When Galilee is named (16.2.34, 40),
the context suggests it is in Judea (along with Jericho, Philadelphia, and
Samaria/Sabaste), although its location within Judea is indeterminable. What
is important to realize is that, according to Strabo, the Jordan River and the
Lake of Gennesaritis are not in the place he calls “Galilee.” He explicitly states
that they occupy the plain between Libanus and Antilibanus (16.2.16). The
Jordan River does not flow into the Dead Sea; it flows like the Lycus River into
the Mediterranean (16.2.16).172 The erroneously named Lake Sirbonis, which
169 Beyond Judea and Coele-Syria is Arabia (16.3.1).

170 Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 71 n.12, serves as an example of what can happen when
Strabo is read in light of the conventional map. She incorrectly states that Strabo lists
Idumea as an independent region in 16.2.2. Yet Strabo only refers to the “Idumeans” as
one of four “tribes” (ἔθνη) located in the area. The idea of a separate “Idumea” region can-
not be deduced from Strabo alone, but only when the conventional map is superimposed
upon him. Further underscoring this point, the other three tribes of 16.2.2—Azotians,
Gazaeans, Judeans—can indeed be associated with their corresponding locales discussed
separately in 16.2.29, 16.2.30–32, and 16.2.34–46, respectively. The Idumeans, by contrast,
having joined with the Judeans and having adopted their customs, are merely said to
dwell in Judea.
171 That is, in the narrower sense, defined here by the Libanus and Antilibanus ranges.
In 16.2.21, Strabo explicitly states that “Coele-Syria” also had a broader sense, covering the
entire area from Seleucia (on the coast near Syrian Antioch) to “Egypt and Arabia.”
172 Cf. Let. Aris. 116–17; Conzelmann, Theology, 19 n.1 (Mitte, 13 n.3, a more extensive note than
in the ET). In fact, it may be that Strabo conceives of the Libanus and Antilibanus ranges
as running perpendicular to the coast rather than parallel (as they actually do) since both
are said to terminate at the Mediterranean (16.2.16). If he thinks of the Jordan as running
through this valley, the Mediterranean would be its natural outlet. Cf. Tacitus, Hist. 5.6,
who connects the Jordan to the Libanus range, but explicitly states that it does not flow
into the Mediterranean (regarding his sources, see ch. 2, n. 104 above); Pliny, Nat. 5.17,
who identifies the Lycus as flowing below Libanus toward the coast. Both Robert North
(A History of Biblical Map Making [Wiesbaden: Reichart, 1979], 61–65) and MacAdam
(“Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy,” 287) point out that Ptolemy also assumed the Libanus and
Antilibanus ranges were oriented east-west, much like Strabo.
by location is apparently the Lake Sirbonis of Egypt (16.2.32, 34; cf. 1.3.4) but by
description is the Dead Sea (16.2.42), is never associated with the Jordan River.
Alarmingly, however, it is associated with Tarichaeae. Tarichaeae’s brief men-
tion, which alludes to its location on “the lake” (it is not called Gennesaritis),
its fish-pickling industry, and the asphalt (!) collected there, comes at the end
of the section on Lake Sirbonis (16.2.45). Read by itself, there is more reason
to assume that the unnamed lake is Sirbonis than Gennesaritis.173 Finally, the
one tantalizing bit of ostensibly useful information about Galilee, namely, that
some had characterized it as being of mixed race, is tempered by its immediate
context; according to those same reports, so was the rest of Judea (16.2.34; cf.
Tacitus, Hist. 5.2–3).
As with Pliny, however, to say that Strabo is not following the map is to miss
the point. In fact, he does follow the map. It is not the conventional cartog-
raphy of Josephus and modern scholarship; it is the imaginative geography
of an outsider in the ancient world. If Strabo were evaluated as Luke often
is, his multivolume Geography would be devoid of “geography,” and his read-
ers would be forced to look for meaning in its “symbolism.” Furthermore, as
with Pliny, Strabo does well with enumerating cities on the coast, but becomes
less specific and less accurate as he moves inland. Most importantly, as with
Pliny, there is not a single indication in Strabo that he pictures Samaria as a
region separating Galilee and Judea. Given how different their portraits of
the region are, this is noteworthy common ground. If Pliny and Strabo were
the only sources extant, the only feasible conclusion would be to assume that
Galilee and Judea were in some sense contiguous.
“Imaginative Geography” in Luke

It remains to be seen how Luke’s understanding of the region compares to
those of Pliny and Strabo. There is no intention here of drawing a direct line
of geographical tradition as if Luke had read Strabo or consulted Pliny. Nor is
there any intention of demonstrating that all of Luke’s sources were “outsider”
173 Not surprisingly, Strabo is ambiguous here. He seems to associate “Gadaris,” well known
for its hot springs but in actuality located a few miles SE of the Sea of Galilee, with the
“fiery” (ἔμπυρος) (16.2.44) region of Sirbonis due to its “noxious lake water” (ὕδωρ μοχθηρὸν
λιμναῖον) (16.2.45; cf. 16.2.29 where Gadaris is situated near the coast between Joppa
and Gaza). If this refers to yet a separate body of water, then an alternative location for
Tarichaeae would be at the southern end of Gadaris’ lake, the exact location of which is
unspecified. Other possible locales contributing to Strabo’s concept of “Gadaris” include
Gezer/Gazara near the coastal plain (cf. Josephus, Ant. 12.308) and Gedor/Gadora/Gadara
in Perea (cf. Josephus, Ant. 13.375; J.W. 4.413).
128 Chapter 3
sources; often, the outsider’s and the insider’s data is comparable, even inter-
changeable. Rather, the intent is to show that Luke’s geography is broadly com-
patible with an outsider’s view of the region.174 There are some initial indicators
that this is the case. For example, Luke is the only gospel that refers to the “Sea
of Galilee” as a λίμνη, specifically the Lake of Gennesaret (Luke 5:1). This in fact
was likely the insider’s name for the lake,175 but both Strabo (Geogr. 16.2.16) and
Pliny (Nat. 5.15)176 show that it was the outsider’s designation as well. Luke was
not following Mark, but drew upon another tradition. In addition, Luke’s use
of ὀρεινός to describe the hill country of Judea (1:39, 65) is unique among the
gospels, and although utilized by Josephus, it is also paralleled in Pliny, Nat.
5.15, who lists Orinen (LCL: “the Hills”) among the toparchies of Judea. Finally,
Bechard argues persuasively that Luke has relatively accurate knowledge of
the coastal regions of Asia Minor but is much less knowledgeable about the
interior.177 For Bechard, this sets the stage for Luke’s imaginative concept of
Lycaonia, but it may also help explain why Luke exhibits a respectable com-
mand of the coastal cities of Samaria (Acts 8:26–40) while his geographical
references for the interior (as in the travel section) are more ambiguous. In this
regard, Luke resembles Pliny and Strabo more than the other gospels.
When compared in more detail to the imaginative geographies of Pliny and
Strabo, Luke’s own map seems to be closer to that of Pliny, although there are
a few parallels with Strabo’s as well. Luke’s rehearsal of the geographical refer-
ences in Mark 3:7–8 indicates that he does have an inclusive sense of “Judea”
(cf. Luke 4:44; 23:5) that is roughly consistent with Pliny. Mark says that the
174 See Yuval Shahar, “Josephus’ hidden dialogue with Strabo,” in Strabo’s Cultural Geography:
The Making of a Kolossourgia (ed. Daniela Dueck, Hugh Lindsay, and Sarah Pothecary;
Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005), 235–249. Despite the fact that Josephus cites Strabo in
both Ant. and Ag.Ap., Shahar observes that most scholars still assume that Josephus had
no knowledge of Strabo’s Geogr. (236). Against this consensus, Shahar argues for a “hidden
dialogue” between Josephus and his predecessor Strabo in which Josephus both utilizes
and corrects Strabo’s descriptions of the region. If Shahar’s hypothesis is correct, it would,
at the very least, indicate that Strabo’s Geogr. was known to one of Luke’s contemporaries.
In other words, the geographical traditions of “outsiders” may have been more widely
circulated than many think.
175 Josephus ( J.W. 3.463) reports that the locals called it the Lake of Gennesar, and this is
also his preferred designation. Steven R. Notley’s very helpful article, “The Sea of Galilee,”
183–88, goes off track here. He speculates that Luke’s more accurate characterization of
the Sea of Galilee as a lake may show he has a “more informed” picture (185), but this is
not necessarily the case.
176 Rackham’s LCL translation of lacus as “sea” is misleading.
177 Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 345ff.
Sidon
Tyre
A Hypothetical Map According to
Luke-Acts Ptolemais
Caesarea
Joppa Lake of Gennesaret

Lydda Region of the
Gerasenes
Azotus
Galilee includes:
Jericho
•Nazareth
•Capernaum
•Bethsaida?
Jerusalem •Chorazin?
Gaza
•Nain?
Salt Sea* Near Jerusalem:

•Bethphage
•Bethany
•Mount of Olives
•Emmaus
Not to Scale
Figure 3.4 A reconstruction of 1st c. CE Palestine based on Luke-Acts. Items marked with an
asterisk (*) are mentioned in sources available to the author (Mark, Torah) but do
not appear in Luke or Acts.
multitudes gathered from Galilee, Judea, Jerusalem, Idumea, “beyond the

Jordan,” Tyre, and Sidon; Luke (6:17) is content with Judea, Jerusalem, Tyre,
and Sidon. The Lukan interpolation that qualifies Tyre and Sidon as coastal
(παράλιος) shows an awareness of their location that goes beyond Mark
(regardless of the interpretation of Jesus roundabout itinerary in Mark 7:31),
and it may also be a subtle indication that Judea, which is not so qualified,
lies inland, as it does in Strabo. Luke is aware of Samaria, even though Mark
and Q178 make no mention of it, and may even share Pliny’s sense that it lies
to the west of Judea proper as opposed to the north, particularly if a contigu-
ous Galilee/Judea is assumed for Luke.179 Reconstructing the relationship,
178 Assuming the reference in Matt 10:5 is a Matthean interpolation.

179 Cf. Acts 15:3, where Barnabas’ and Paul’s trip from Antioch to Jerusalem takes them
through Phoenicia and Samaria. The conventional map places Samaria to the north of
130 Chapter 3
a dministrative or otherwise, between Judea and Samaria is a bit tenuous.

Samaria may be closely associated with Judea as in Acts 1:8, but it is also, in
Luke’s view, a separate χώρα (Acts 8:1). That it is not listed as being under
Pilate’s jurisdiction (Luke 3:1) could be taken inclusively or exclusively. He
does, however, conceive of an ethnic difference between Jews and Samaritans
(Jesus, for example, refers to the Samaritan leper as ἀλλογενής in Luke 17:18)
that is not detectable in Pliny and obviously not present in Strabo, though it is
not incompatible with them.180 Luke also has no use for Perea.181 If he thought
of it as lying to the south of Jerusalem as apparently Pliny did and not as a con-
duit for those traveling between Galilee and Jerusalem as Mark did, it would
not only lie far outside of Jesus’ travel route, but more importantly it would
distract him from his goal once he had “set his face to go to Jerusalem” (9:51, 53).
Jericho, which is familiar to both Pliny (Nat. 5.15) and Strabo (Geogr. 16.2.41),
also appears in Luke’s travel section. Admittedly Mark 10:46–52 features Jericho
as well, but Luke may be making use of its reputation for cultivated groves and
orchards, a characteristic of the Jericho plain acknowledged by Strabo but not
Mark, by having Zacchaeus climb a sycamore tree (Luke 19:4).
The most compelling reason for assuming an imaginative, yet functional,
geography for Luke, however, is the travel narrative itself. It may not be nec-
essary to plot out Luke’s conceptualization of the region to the degree that
Conzelmann does, but if Luke is employing the notion that Judea and Galilee
are contiguous, then many of the geographical conundrums disappear. Of the
four journeys between Galilee and Jerusalem (Luke 1:39–56; 2:4–39; 2:41–52;
9:51ff), none are explicitly said to go through Samaria. The final journey at first
glance appears to be the exception, taking Jesus on his way to Jerusalem via “a
village of the Samaritans” (9:52–56), a route that would not be impossible even
for Luke’s imaginative geography,182 but several factors argue against a trans-
Samaria sojourn: 1) Jesus himself does not go and the emissaries sent “before
his face” are not “received” (cf. 9:5); 2) Jesus restrains James and John from
calling down punishment upon the Samaritans because a Samaritan recep-
tion would be at cross-purposes with Jesus’ face being set toward Jerusalem;
Judea (even Conzelmann, Theology, 70, takes it this way), but a Samaritan location on the
west along the coast is just as possible given their itinerary.
180 Cf. Tacitus, Ann. 12.54, who does recognize the distinction.
181 The language in 3:3 referring to John’s baptizing ministry in “the region around the Jordan”
(περίχωρον τοῦ Ἰορδάνου) does not necessarily suggest to the modern reader, particularly
one that sets aside the conventional map, that this is the Perea region. It need not have
done so for Luke, either.
182 Again cf. Acts 15:3; see n.179 above.
yet . . . 3) the subsequent sending of the 70/72 “before his face” into other cities
and villages (10:1) is apparently not at cross-purposes with Jesus’ face being set
toward Jerusalem, since their mission is successful;183 and 4) the parable of the
good Samaritan (10:25–37), told after the return of the 70/72, presupposes a
non-Samaritan setting, as does Martha’s reception of Jesus in her anonymous
village (10:38). Taken together, therefore, Jesus does not appear to be traveling
through Samaria, and given Luke’s imaginative geography, he does not have to
be. News of Pilate’s atrocities toward the Galileans can come to him in Galilee,
as opposed to Samaria (13:1–5). Narrative settings which include Pharisees
(11:42; 13:31; 14:1; 15:2; 16:14; 17:20) and synagogues (13:10; cf. 11:43; 12:11) are con-
sistent with Luke’s Galilee. No elaborate rearrangement or source theories are
necessary to explain why Luke includes the warning about Herod in 13:31–33 if
Luke still thinks of Jesus as being in Galilee. Episodes in Mark that are situated
in Galilee, such as the Beelzebul controversy (Mark 3:22; Luke 11:14–23) or the
Parable of the Mustard Seed (Mark 4:30–32; Luke 13:18–19), as well as Q’s sign of
Jonah passage (Luke 11:29–32) which may presuppose a Galilean setting,184 are
still situated in Galilee in Luke even though they have been placed in a new
literary context. Thus, Jesus can be going along the outskirts of Samaria both
at the outset (Luke 9:52–56) and the conclusion (17:11) of the travel narrative
without doing violence to Luke’s map. Furthermore, and perhaps most impor-
tantly, Luke’s geographical interests, which are everywhere else on display, can
still be recognized in the travel section. He should not be denied his geography
for the sake of a map he did not possess.
A final consideration may be taken into account regarding Luke’s imagi-
native geography: it is compatible with Mark. The language in Mark 10:1, the
only clear geographical reference prior to Jesus’ arrival at Jericho in 10:46,
would not alter Luke’s picture of a contiguous Galilee and Judea, regardless
of the textual variants. The question is whether Jesus went to the region of
a) Judea “and beyond” (καὶ πέραν) the Jordan; b) Judea “beyond” (πέραν) the
Jordan; or c) Judea “through the region beyond” (διὰ τοῦ πέραν) the Jordan.
External evidence alone is not determinative, but the internal considerations
are suggestive.185 Option (c) would create the biggest potential problem for
Luke’s imaginative geography. However, according to Metzger, this reading is
183 The woes to the towns of Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum (Luke 10:13–15) are deliv-
ered in retrospection. In themselves, they are not indicative of a Galilean setting for the
mission of the 70/72. See Green, The Gospel of Luke, 411–12.
184 Reed, Archaeology, 197–211, argues that Galileans would have been aware of local tradi-
tions about Jonah reflected in later rabbinic writings.
185 Metzger, Textual Commentary, 87–88.
132 Chapter 3
“manifestly an explanatory correction introduced by copyists who were per-

plexed by the geographical difficulties involved in earlier readings.”186 Option
(b) likely reflects an attempt to conform Mark 10:1 to Matt 19:1, but even if this
reading is maintained, it is not incompatible with Luke’s concept of a shared
border between Galilee and Judea. Option (a), which likely reflects the ear-
liest known wording, would only reinforce Luke’s picture of the area. Adela
Yarbro Collins notes that the later variants likely stemmed from the ambiguity
of this reading which “seems to imply that he went to Judea first and then to
Perea.”187 Luke may have understood it in precisely that sense. This may suggest
that Luke thinks of Perea as both “beyond the Jordan” and beyond (i.e., to the
south of) Judea; as alluded to above, a sojourn there would not be consistent
with the Lukan Jesus’ focus on Jerusalem. More importantly, however, there is
nothing in the wording of Mark 10:1 that would contradict Luke’s notion that
Galilee and Judea shared a common border.
In fact, Luke’s imaginative geography may have taken it a step further: not
only did Galilee share a common border with Judea, but more specifically
Galilee was a region within Judea. Modern scholarship typically recognizes
that Luke is, as Bechard states, “indisputably inconsistent”188 with regard to
his use of Judea, using it sometimes in the “broader” sense (the entire region
inclusive of Galilee) and sometimes in the “narrower” sense (the administra-
tive district exclusive of Galilee). Nearly always taken for granted, however, are
the spatial implications inherent in this distinction. In the broader sense, Jesus
can be inside Galilee and Judea at the same time. In the narrower sense, how-
ever, he cannot; he must be in one or the other. The broader sense can be
found substantiated in both Pliny and Strabo, but the narrower sense is based
squarely on a conventional geography that is bound to a conventional map.
According to that map, the administrative district of Galilee is spatially sepa-
rated from the administrative district of Judea. Luke, on the other hand, never
operates with any sense that Galilee could be spatially separated from Judea
(even though he is well aware that it is a distinct administrative unit).
Conzelmann argued that the broader vs. narrower distinction was unnec-
essary since Jesus could go back and forth at will across a common border
between Judea and Galilee without ever going through Samaria. According
to Luke’s imaginative geography, however, Jesus does not have to cross the
administrative boundary. To put it another way, Luke knows that Jesus can
be inside of Galilee and at the same time inside of Judea (e.g. 6:17); Luke also
186 Ibid., 87.

187 Collins, Mark, 457.
188 Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 231 n.114.
knows that Jesus can be outside of Galilee and inside Judea (e.g. 5:17); but
Luke knows of no sense in which Jesus can be inside of Galilee and outside
of Judea—precisely the “narrower” sense that modern scholars usually take
for granted. Thus, it may be necessary to propose a third “composite” sense
of Judea, drawn not from conventional mappings but from Luke’s imaginative
geography, in which mid-1st c. Galilee is always a separate district from Judea
administratively but never a separate region from Judea spatially. In fact, this is
precisely the sense that is derivable from both Pliny and Strabo. Neither gives
any indication that Samaria lies between Galilee and Judea. Rather, Galilee is a
“part” of Judea (pars: Pliny, Nat. 5.15; cf. Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.34), in the same way
that Judea is a “part” of Syria (pars: Pliny, Nat. 5.13; μέρος: Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.2):
conceptually distinct and spatially within but not spatially distinct.
Luke’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
For Luke
The implications of positing an imaginative geography for Luke can be far-
reaching. First, it lends perspective to Luke’s de-emphasis of Galilee in com-
parison to Mark. If Luke has an outsider’s view of the geography of Galilee,
then it is reasonable to assume that he also has imported, at least to some
degree, an outsider’s ideology with respect to Galilee. This should be care-
fully tempered with the full realization, however, that he does not share the
outsider’s stereotypically negative views of the Jewish people, especially as
they are presented in Strabo and Tacitus.189 As a reflection of his imaginative
geography of the area, however, Luke displays a systematic minimizing of the
importance of Galilee as a separate region. From the outsider’s perspective,
the perspective not only of Luke but also presumably of his original audience,
Galilee was unimportant.190 This does not necessitate a rejection of Luke’s
theological agenda with regard to Jerusalem but in fact works in conjunction
189 The negative view alluded to here is not to be confused with what many have perceived
as a Lukan “anti-Judaism.” To what degree Luke had a negative view of Judaism, especially
in light of the Christian gospel, is a persistent question and beyond the purview of this
study. It has little in common, however, with disparaging Greco-Roman stereotypes of
Jewish origins, customs, and temple worship. For a discussion of the anti-Judaism/pro-
Judaism tension in Luke, see Daryl D. Schmidt, “Anti-Judaism and the Gospel of Luke,”
in Anti-Judaism and the Gospels (ed. William R. Farmer; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press
International, 1999), 63–96, and responses by David Balch and Allan McNicol.
190 Cf. Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors,” 81.
134 Chapter 3
with it; it was Jerusalem, not Galilee, that played a prominent role in the Table
of Nations tradition. Given the polemical function of imaginative geography
in Said, the irony of its application to Luke’s gospel is that Luke’s depiction
of Galilee is actually less polemical than what is found in Mark. Luke is not
afraid to appropriate his source material in novel ways, and when recasting
the Markan narrative he certainly recasts Galilee.191 Yet while Luke places his
primary emphasis on Jerusalem, he is not anti-Galilee, and he does not set one
up as a foil for the other. Galilee and Judea are not, as Conzelmann argues,
“throughout clearly distinguished as regions.”192 As Galilee is geographically
subsumed within Judea, the importance of Galilee as a locale simply fades.
Luke’s rather systematic elimination of allusions to Galilee in Mark, be they
direct uses of the term193 or references to obviously Galilean locales,194 is read-
ily explainable in light of his imaginative map. In other words, his minimiza-
tion of Galilee is due more to his geography than his theology.
Meanwhile, Jesus’ ministry emerges as a deliberately Judean one. As Galilee
becomes less distinct in Luke as compared to Mark, Judea becomes more pro-
nounced. Tyre, Sidon, the Decapolis, and Caesarea Philippi are not just “extra-
Galilean” territories,195 they are also extra-Judean territories. Episodes from
Mark that take place outside Judea are generally either omitted, such as the
191 Villages such as Nazareth, Bethlehem, Capernaum, and Bethsaida are πόλεις in Luke.
Mark also refers to Capernaum as a πόλις (1:33) but Bethsaida is a κώμη (8:23, 26). In addi-
tion, the thatched roof of Capernaum in Mark 2:4 is replaced by ceiling tiles in Luke 5:19.
On Mark’s accuracy in this regard, see Reed, Archaeology, 159.
193 Luke 4:37||Mark 1:28; Luke 4:44||Mark 1:39; Luke 6:17||Mark 3:7; Luke 9:43b||Mark 9:30
(although in this case the elimination is necessary, since, contrary to Mark, there is no
indication in Luke that Jesus ever left Galilee. Therefore Mark’s reference to Jesus’ return
to Galilee is superfluous.)
194 I.e., locales that are associated with explicit references to Galilee elsewhere: Luke
5:17||Mark 2:1 (“Capernaum”); Luke 5:27||Mark 2:13 and Luke 8:4||Mark 4:1 (“the sea”). The
one possible exception to this rule might be Luke’s Bethsaida-area setting for the feeding
miracle (Luke 9:10–17), particularly in light of Pliny, Nat 5.15, which mentions Bethsaida
being on the east side of the lake. However, this may not have been known to Luke.
Despite Rackham’s translation in the LCL, Pliny actually refers to Bethsaida as “Julias,” the
name Philip assigned to it upon its refounding as a polis (cf. Josephus, Ant. 18.28). Luke
knows of Philip (3:1), but shows no awareness of this connection to Philip’s territory, indi-
cating that he may have thought of Bethsaida as a Jewish city. Its inclusion with Chorazin
and Capernaum in Q’s pronouncements of judgment (Luke 10:13) may have suggested a
Galilean locale to Luke. Furthermore, Luke would not be alone in this placement—see
John 12:21.
195 Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 92–93.
trip through Phoenicia and the second feeding miracle in the Decapolis, or
moved to an ambiguous, implicitly Judean location, such as Peter’s confes-
sion in the villages of Caesarea Philippi (Mark 8:27||Luke 9:18–21). Brief stints
on or just outside the borders—the Gerasene demoniac (Luke 8:26) and the
Samaritan leper (17:11)—only underscore that Jesus’ ministry foreshadows
something broader but for now is performed “throughout all Judea” only (Luke
23:5; cf. 4:44; 7:17; Acts 10:39).196 Galilee is absorbed within Judea, particularly
as Luke progresses into Acts. There is no need to assume that because Galilee
is omitted from Acts 1:8, Luke knew nothing about the Christian movement
there.197 In Luke’s mind Galilee has been grafted into the Judean ministry,
which is likely why it is placed in between Judea and Samaria in Acts 9:31.
Confirmation of this approach to Luke’s imaginative geography becomes
even more evident when it is compared to a completely different imaginative
geography of Galilee that has heretofore gone unmentioned: the one held by
non-Galilean Judeans. A detailed reconstruction of this imaginative geography
will have to remain tentative, but there are hints of it in the rabbinic corpus.
Galilean traditions were often at odds with those of Judea,198 and the reputa-
tion associated with Galileans was not always positive.199 Additional hints of
an anti-Galilean polemic, however, come from the other gospels. The Gospel
of John implies that merely linking someone to Galilee, as the Jerusalem
authorities do with Nicodemus (John 7:50–52), is considered disparaging.200
According to Matthew, Judeans could identify Galileans by their accent (Matt
26:73). This is somewhat cursory evidence, but if there was a polemical imagi-
native geography of Galilee, it seems to have come from within Judea. Luke,
however, knows nothing of it. It is an indication that a comparison of Luke’s
imaginative geography to the likes of Pliny and Strabo is a favorable one. He is
not only an outsider with respect to Galilee, but with respect to all Judea.
The second major implication of a Lukan imaginative geography is that
many of the prevailing theories about the geographical structure of Luke’s
gospel need to be reconsidered. The idea espoused by Schürmann, Völkel, and
Klein that argues for an end to the Galilean section at 4:44 should be revised.
Luke’s map allows him to conceive of Jesus being in Galilee even when it is
196 Cf. Robinson, “Theological Context,” 29.

197 See Ben Witherington, The Acts of the Apostles: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 111.
198 m. Ned. 2:4; b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 23a–b; b. Pesaḥ. 55a.
199 b. B. Bat. 38a-b; b. Ned. 48a.
200 Cf. Nathanael’s negative view of Nazareth in John 1:46, but see also ch. 4 below for a reas-
sessment of John’s geography.
136 Chapter 3
unexpectedly absent or replaced by Judea in the narrative as in 4:44 (Mark

1:39), 6:17 (cf. Mark 3:7–8), and 7:17 (Luke’s special material). Yet the theory
espoused by most others, that the Galilean section ends at 9:50, misunder-
stands Luke’s geographical picture as well. For Luke, Jesus is in Galilee at least
until 17:19 and perhaps beyond. He does not explicitly say when Jesus crosses
the administrative border and exits Galilee, and it was apparently not a con-
cern.201 By extension, the classic debate over Lukan geography as a whole is
also subject to criticism. Fitzmyer summarizes the two primary options:202
1. Galilee (4:14–9:50); Samaria (9:51–17:11); Judea/Jerusalem (17:11–21:38)

2. Galilean ministry (4:14–9:50); the journey to Jerusalem (through Samaria
and Judea, but not through Perea—9:51–19:27); Jerusalem ministry
(19:28–21:38)
The second is an improvement upon the first, but it is unlikely that Luke would
be content with either one. As discussed above, a Galilean setting emerges in
several sections of the “Samaria/journey” section. Only two explicit references
are made to a narrative setting within Judea in the entire gospel, and they both
come from the “Galilee/Galilean ministry” section (4:44; 7:17). In the three geo-
graphical summaries of Jesus’ ministry given by Luke himself (Luke 23:5; Acts
10:37; 13:31), Samaria is never mentioned. The structure, particularly the break
at Luke 9:51, may in fact be commendable. The forced geographical schema,
posthumously imposed, is not.
Finally, and most intriguingly, if Luke indeed employs a “composite” sense
of Judea as described above, he acquires a quality that few in the past have
been willing to bestow upon him: geographical consistency. The idea of being
in Galilee without being also in Judea is foreign to Luke; he never thought of
himself as creating a spatial contradiction when going back and forth between
a “broader” and “narrower” sense. Thus, he can interweave his geographical ref-
erences to Judea and Galilee without feeling like he is disorienting his readers.
Dissonance occurs when the conventional map is superimposed upon Luke’s
imaginative map. The indisputable inconsistency, to echo Bechard, may be an
issue for modern scholars, but it was never an issue for Luke.
201 It may be that Luke thought of Jesus as exiting Galilee when he picks up Mark’s narra-
tive in earnest in Luke 18:15 (cf. Mark 10:13). Luke 18:31 is another tempting possibility,
when Jesus renews his focus on Jerusalem, but Luke gives no geographical references that
would substantiate this. Based on his imaginative geography, however, it is likely that he
had no idea where the border was, and Mark offers him little help.
202 Fitzmyer, Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 165.
For Lukan Scholarship

“In all this Luke can hardly be said to live up to his reputation as a littérateur
and a historian. But it is his geography which is principally at fault.”203
C.C. McCown’s scathing critiques of Luke’s “geographical ineptitude”204 are
rather infamous among those who study the geography of the gospels. He
decries Luke’s “artificiality” and “geographical insensitiveness”205 in what he
insists can only be referred to as the “central section,” since no one would
believe that Jesus could spend weeks walking up and down a Galilee-Samaria
border which is only 12 to 15 miles long.206 He asks with bewilderment how
anyone who is “so fond of geographical terms and settings” can at the same
time be “so indefinite, careless, and even mistaken in their use.”207 In the end,
Luke’s mountain of “geographical crimes”208 can mean only one thing: “He was
a study-table geographer who never did any field work.”209
The impression McCown gives at times is one of apoplectic revulsion, but
his final conclusion about Luke, denigrating and pejorative as it may be, is
essentially correct. Luke was an outsider to the area he wrote so extensively
about; there is no indication that he knew the area personally. In every other
respect, however, McCown’s analysis misses the point. It was Josephus who
wrote, “The province of Samaria lies between Galilee and Judea” ( J.W. 3.49),
not Luke. McCown no doubt read those words many times and frequently con-
sulted maps based upon them. Luke never did.
For Luke to be properly understood, he must be allowed to have his own
imaginative geography, and he should be evaluated against that geography first
and foremost as opposed to a map he did not possess. It is usually assumed
that because Pliny and Strabo have a limited or incorrect picture of the region,
they are of little value as points of comparison. This study argues the oppo-
site: it is precisely their incorrect understanding that makes them so valuable.
Critiques of Luke’s geographical accuracy can come later, but they will likely
prove far less fruitful once an imaginative geography is understood. Evaluated
against his imaginative map, what emerges is the clear sense that Luke is not a
203 McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” 58.

204 McCown, “Gospel Geography,” 15. The phrase is occasionally quoted directly: Fitzmyer,
Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes, 1152 (referencing Luke 17:11); Notley, “The Sea of
Galilee,” 187.
205 McCown, “The Geography of Luke’s Central Section,” 56.
206 Ibid., 60, 65.
207 Ibid., 56.
208 Ibid., 60.
209 McCown, “Gospel Geography,” 18.
138 Chapter 3
careless geographer when it comes to ancient Palestine after all; he is actually

a very careful one. Not only has Luke created an imaginative geography, he is
faithful to it. Few of the interpretive methods employed in Lukan scholarship
recognize this.
None of this, however, need imply that Luke is being purely geographical,
as if his geography somehow precludes a symbolic application or a theologi-
cal agenda. One of the key concepts to emerge from more recent theoretical
approaches to geography is that ideology is necessarily embedded in geogra-
phy in the same way that it is embedded in historiography. This is particularly
true with regard to Said’s imaginative geography. In the case of Luke’s Galilee,
it is not of the pointed, deliberately polemical nature that Said attributes to
Orientalism. Galilee is subjugated to Judea, but this subjugation is primarily
spatial; there is no significant ideologically driven “Galileanism” in Luke that
seeks either to denigrate or to dominate. In fact, the lack of an overt polemi-
cism in Luke is all the more significant given the widespread anti-Semitism of
other Greco-Roman “outsiders.” Luke stands within that tradition geographi-
cally, but theologically, at least to some extent, he should be viewed as cutting
against the grain. Thus even a Galilee that is geographically subjugated can
have a critical function for Luke. It is, as Freyne has recognized,210 the starting
point for the ministry of Jesus, a ministry which is later transferred through
the pouring out of the Spirit to the apostles for its expansion and completion.
The Galileans are to be “witnesses” (Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8, 22; 2:32; 3:15; 10:39–41;
13:31) of all Jesus has done both at home and abroad. Galilee is the ἀρξάμενος
ἀπό to Judea’s καθ᾽ ὅλης (Luke 23:5; Acts 10:37; cf. Luke 7:17; Acts 9:31),211 just as
Jerusalem is the ἀρξάμενοι ἀπό to the earth’s ἕως ἐσχάτου (Luke 24:47; Acts 1:8;
13:47). Galilee may have lost ground in Luke’s geography, but it still has a place
in Luke’s theology.
210 Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 115.

211 To echo Robinson, “Theological Context,” 29.
Chapter 4
John’s Galilee
Introduction
“I would like to begin this study with the unusual confession that I shall be
discussing a subject which, in the last analysis, I do not understand.” So began
Ernst Käsemann’s first Schaffer Lecture at Yale Divinity School in the spring of
1966. The “study” to which he was referring was none other than the Gospel
of John.1 Facing a subset of the same study, specifically, the Galilee of the
Fourth Gospel, if such a confession was appropriate for Käsemann, it is more
than appropriate here. With any study of the Gospel of John, it is usually the
questions that run rampant and the answers that remain elusive. In the very
moment we think we have uncovered a definitive solution to one of its mystify-
ing puzzles, more difficulties spring up in its wake.
The Fourth Gospel was chosen for inclusion in this study specifically for its
widespread symbolism, layers of meaning, and particularly knotty geography.
The problem at first glance lies in John’s narration of Jesus’ travels, an account
that differs remarkably from those recorded in the synoptics. Whereas the syn-
optics essentially depict Jesus’ ministry as beginning in Galilee and making its
way to Jerusalem, John’s travelogue is far more extensive. In addition to the dis-
crepancy with the synoptics, there are internal inconsistencies as well, the most
notable of which can be found at the beginning of John 6. Jesus, in mid-con-
versation in Jerusalem at the close of ch. 5, whisks away suddenly “to the other
side of the Sea of Galilee, or Tiberias” with barely as much as a μετὰ ταῦτα to
serve as a transition. The geography of John is further complicated by its por-
trait of Jesus, which—if Wayne Meeks’ reassessment of Rudolf Bultmann is
right, viz., that Jesus reveals that he is an enigma2—is precisely what this por-
trait is meant to do. The Ioudaioi (a term deliberately left untranslated here3)
1 Ernst Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus: A Study of the Gospel of John in the Light of Chapter 17
(trans. Gerhard Krodel; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 1.
2 Wayne Meeks, “The Man from Heaven in Johannine Sectarianism,” JBL 91:1 (Mar 1972): 57.
3 Literature on the identity of the Ioudaioi in the Fourth Gospel is extensive. See, in particu-
lar, two articles by Urban C. von Wahlde devoted to surveying the research: “The Johannine
‘Jews’: A Critical Survey,” NTS 28:1 (Jan 1982): 33–60; “The ‘Jews’ in the Gospel of John: Fifteen
Years of Research (1983–1998),” ETL 76:1 (Apr 2000): 30–55. A more recent article by Cornelis
Bennema, “The Identity and Composition of ΟΙ ΙΟΥΔΑΙΟΙ in the Gospel of John,” TynBul 60:2

140 Chapter 4
have their most pervasive problem with Jesus’ identity; they sometimes phrase
their questions spatially, particularly in terms of where Jesus is from, all the
while betraying a lack of awareness of Jesus’ true heavenly origins. We are left
nearly as confused as they are, with our geographical sensibilities reeling and
asking the question: just what sort of map is this author using?
The difficulties associated with interpreting John’s use of space and locale
have a long history. Heracleon’s gnostic commentary on the Fourth Gospel, one
of the earliest scriptural commentaries known to have existed, was quoted fre-
quently by Origen in his own Commentary on John.4 While their conclusions
often differed, the methods were similar: Jesus’ travels from place to place
could be understood allegorically as references to spiritual truths. For Origen,
indications of the allegorical meaning became apparent through one of several
interpretive methods. Topography, for example, could be read at a symbolic
level. When Jesus leaves Cana after the wedding miracle, he must “go down to”
Capernaum, rather than “go up to” or “go in to,” indicating that Capernaum was
of lower spiritual status than Cana (Comm. John 10.7). As was typical of alle-
gorical interpretation during that time, Origen also attached great importance
to the etymology of place names, since those place names reflected Jesus’ pur-
poses there (Comm. John 10.6, 10). Perhaps most importantly, Origen saw the
perceived historical discrepancies between the gospel writers as an opportu-
nity for spiritual exegesis, like cracks in the surface of the narrative that led to
deeper elucidation. Thus he maintained that when it came to understanding
(2009): 239–63 (especially pages 239–45), provides a valuable review of the research since
von Wahlde’s 2000 article. The identity of the Ioudaioi is not the primary focus of the pres-
ent study, although the term’s “sense” (that is, how the group functions as an element of
the narrative—see John Ashton, “The Identity and Function of the Ἰουδαῖοι in the Fourth
Gospel,” NovT 27:1 [Jan 1985]: 40–75) is not unrelated, particularly in light of questions sur-
rounding the “sense” of the gospel’s Galilaioi. However, as will be argued below, a strict
dichotomy between Ioudaioi and Galilaioi, one which might define the Galilaioi negatively
as the opposite of Ioudaioi, is not as consistently maintained throughout the gospel as some
have insisted. No attempt is made here to determine whether the Ioudaioi consist of Judeans,
Jewish leadership, Jewish laity regardless of locale, or anyone worshipping the Jewish God
regardless of ethnicity. Bennema (op. cit., 256, 259–64) argues convincingly that the Ioudaioi
were a composite group and, to some extent at least, were divided in their responses to
Jesus. Regarding the difficulties confronting “dynamic equivalence” translations of the term
Ἰουδαῖοι, see the helpful article by Ruth Sheridan, “Issues in the Translation of οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι in
the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 132:3 (2013): 671–95.
4 See the study by Elaine Pagels, The Johannine Gospel in Gnostic Exegesis: Heracleon’s
Commentary on John (SBLMS; Nashville: Abingdon, 1973).
John ’ s Galilee 141
Jesus’ travels from place to place, “the truth of these matters must lie in that
which is seen by the mind” (Comm. John 10.2).
Modern approaches to the interpretation of Johannine geography do
not utilize the same methods, but the association with symbolism persists.
Scholarship is certainly less than monolithic, but despite the geographical
conundrums—inseparable as they are from equally challenging questions
of origins, ethnicity, and theology—this is one area of NT studies where a
discernible path can be traced leading to a family of similar conclusions. To
one degree or another, a majority of scholars interpret the geography of the
Fourth Gospel symbolically, particularly along the lines of a Judea/Jerusalem
vs. Galilee dichotomy.5 This approach has noticeable parallels to the innova-
tive work of J. Louis Martyn6 and Raymond Brown7 (though Brown himself did
not subscribe to such geographical symbolism8). They argued that the Gospel
itself is best understood as operating at two levels, the first being the level of
the narrative action and the second being the level of the Johannine commu-
nity. Applied to John’s geography, the narrative space of the gospel reflects the
experiences and perspectives of Johannine Christians as well as other groups
against which they were (and are still) defined.
This overall solution is intriguing. In a manner similar to the confound-
ing geography of Luke, it allows many scholars to mine John’s geography for
sense, meaning, and ideology without feeling tied to geography itself. Yet as
with Luke, John seems to be truly interested in place and locality. The Fourth
Gospel’s penchant for specific place names such as Cana, Sychar, Ephraim, and
the pool of Bethzatha, all of which are absent from the synoptics, is well known.
Casting a massive shadow over all of them, however, is John’s peculiar inter-
est in a place much more broadly conceived: ὁ κόσμος. In the Gospel of John,
5 The tenability of this view receives support from the many studies on the use of specific
symbols in the Fourth Gospel (even if those symbols are not directly related to geography).
For more general discussions of Johannine symbolism, see Xavier Léon-Dufour, “Towards a
Symbolic Reading of the Fourth Gospel,” NTS 27:4 (July 1981): 439–56; R. Alan Culpepper,
Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983),
180–98; Craig R. Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel: Meaning, Mystery, Community
(Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995).
6 J. Louis Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (3rd ed.; Louisville: Westminster
John Knox Press, 2003).
7 Raymond Brown, The Gospel According to John (AB 29–29A; Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday,
1966–70), 1.LXVII–LXXIX; idem, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist
Press, 1979); idem, The Epistles of John (AB 30; New York: Doubleday, 1982), 71–86.
8 Brown, Community, 39.
142 Chapter 4
“the world” occurs five times more than in the synoptics combined,9 and no one
instance is enough to illustrate its significance. John 17:16–18, Jesus’ prayer for
his disciples, at least pulls together one of the most important juxtapositions:
They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. . . .
As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.
How does John situate Galilee in light of the gospel’s robust symbolism, perva-
sive dualism, and cosmic outlook?
In much the same way that Ernst Lohmeyer stood at the threshold of mod-
ern theorizing about Mark’s Galilee, scholarship pertaining to John’s geog-
raphy is heavily indebted to the 1925 study of Karl Kundsin, Topologische
Überlieferungsstoffe im Johannes-Evangelium. Many of those who are at vari-
ance with his conclusions can trace their lineage back to his groundbreak-
ing work. Kundsin claimed locality had been undervalued in the study of the
formation of Christian tradition. Given how geography has often languished
in the shadow of history, he was ahead of the curve in asserting space into
critical discourse pertaining to the Fourth Gospel. He argued that whereas
Paul and Luke took a chronological approach to developing the tradition of
the church, Mark and John instead employed a topographical approach that
prioritized the value of place (Ortsangabe) over that of time.10 With respect
to John, this was evident in the special attention given to the interweaving of
specific localities into the gospel’s narrative. These geographical details were
not utilized by the evangelist simply to add narrative color but rather to reflect
the traditions of the early church already forming with regard to “holy places.”11
The predominance of place names in the south as opposed to the north led
Kundsin to hypothesize a Judea-centered tradition,12 but he acknowledged
strong northern elements as well, particularly those pertaining to Cana.13 In
fact, so critical were places like Cana and Sychar to the narrative, Kundsin
9 The statistics are as follows for NA28: Matthew – 9; Mark – 3; Luke – 3; Acts – 1; John – 78;
Epistles of John – 24.
10 Karl Kundsin, Topologische Überlieferungsstoffe im Johannes-Evangelium (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1925), 7–8.
11 Ibid., 17–19.
12 Ibid., 76–77.
13 Ibid., 22–25.
posited active Johannine Christian communities in both Galilee and Samaria

when the gospel was written, and especially at those specific settlements.
By way of contrast, the devaluation of Capernaum in the Gospel of John rela-
tive to the synoptics could be explained by the absence of a Johannine com-
munity there.14 In the same way that the Genesis place-traditions reflected the
locales most important to later Jewish communities,15 so the Johannine place-
traditions reflected the locales most important to the Johannine church. In
short, locale does not function at the level of the historical Jesus, nor is it liter-
ary flourish; rather it represents a geography that is pertinent to the Johannine
community’s situation.
The idea of locating Christian communities in those places emphasized or
esteemed within the narrative was adopted as well by Lohmeyer with respect
to Mark’s gospel several years later, and some of the same criticisms that were
applied to Lohmeyer are applicable to Kundsin as well, specifically the dearth
of evidence from this period in support of such communities in Galilee.16
Although few since have used Kundsin as a basis for their understanding of
Johannine geography, a notable exception came in the form of a short article
by Charles H.H. Scobie in 1982.17 Scobie was less convinced of the developing
trend in Johannine scholarship that favored a symbolic interpretation of geog-
raphy. Instead, he preferred Kundsin’s approach, essentially adopting whole
cloth his method of locating Johannine churches in places that are highlighted
in the gospel. Johannine Christians in Bethany, for example, likely would have
venerated places like Mary and Martha’s house or Lazarus’ tomb while reserving
some level of animosity for those of “imperfect faith” in Jerusalem (cf. John 7:5),
i.e. the Christian church under the leadership of James.18 Similar proposals are
made for Johannine churches in Galilee and Samaria,19 and he assumes that
the traditional material containing topological references must date to the ear-
liest period of the Johannine community’s history.20 Like Kundsin, however,
14 Ibid., 30–34.

15 Ibid., 1–3. Kundsin also discusses the cult of Dionysus traditions in the same way (4–5).
16 A similar assessment can be found in Gerd Theissen, The Gospels in Context: Social and
Political History in the Synoptic Tradition (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Minneapolis: Fortress,
1991), 16.
17 Charles H.H. Scobie, “Johannine Geography,” SR 11:1 (1982): 77–84.
18 Ibid., 81; cf. Brown’s communities of “inadequate faith” in Community, 73–81; Francis J.
Moloney, “From Cana to Cana (John 2:1–4:54) and the Fourth Evangelist’s Concept of
Correct (and Incorrect) Faith,” in Studia Biblica 1978, II: Papers on the Gospels (ed. Elizabeth
A. Livingstone; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1980), 185–213.
19 See also Charles H.H. Scobie, “The Origins and Development of Samaritan Christianity,”
NTS 19:4 (1973): 390–414.
20 Scobie, “Johannine Geography,” 82.
144 Chapter 4
Scobie does not go beyond suggestive readings of the text. Meeks, who was
also intrigued by Kundsin’s study,21 had already noted that Kundsin’s theories
lacked substantiating evidence that could only come from further historical
study of Galilee and Samaria in the first two centuries.22
Ironically, it was the work of Wayne Meeks that was instrumental in steer-
ing the trajectory of scholarship away from Kundsin and in a new direction
with regard to Johannine geography. He was preceded in this regard, however,
by the work of R.H. Lightfoot. His commentary on John is often cited, par-
ticularly with regard to his interpretation of John 4:44, but the commentary
devotes much less attention to geography than his earlier monograph, Locality
and Doctrine in the Gospels. In the earlier work, Lightfoot looked for theologi-
cal spin within the topographical traditions of John much as he did with the
other gospels.23 He viewed Jerusalem as the gospel’s primary focus, though
the author approached it with ambivalence, casting it “not only in light, but
shadow,” with its most distinctive feature being that “the cross stood there.”24
With regard to Galilee specifically, he asserted that its function in John’s gos-
pel was minor, but favorable. It did not have the eschatological overtones of
Mark’s Galilee,25 but it had associations of its own. It was a place of secrecy
and retreat for Jesus, but more importantly it was a place of acceptance, where
signs were more fruitfully received than in Jerusalem. Thus, Lightfoot con-
cluded that being “of Galilee” was tantamount to being “an adherent of Jesus
and hostile to the ‘Jews.’ ”26 His view on this would change somewhat in his
later commentary,27 but his theological approach to John’s geography would
set in motion a new line of interpretation effectively replacing Kundsin’s etiol-
ogy with a geographical symbolism.
21 Wayne Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology (Leiden:
Brill, 1967), 314–16.
22 Wayne Meeks, “Galilee and Judea in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 85:2 (June 1966): 169.
23 R.H. Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine in the Gospels (New York: Harper and Bros. Publishers,
1938), 144. See also the short article by another predecessor of Meeks, Donatien Mollat,
“Remarques sur le vocabulaire spatial du quatrième évangile,” in Studia Evangelica 1
(ed. Kurt Aland; Texte und Untersuchungen 72; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1959), 321–28.
Mollat argues for a theological interpretation of spatial references along the lines of
Johannine dualism.
24 Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 158.
25 Ibid., 157.
26 Ibid., 149.
27 R.H. Lightfoot, St. John’s Gospel: A Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956), 34–36.
The change is noticeable in his comments on John 4:44. This passage will be discussed in
further detail below.
Meeks left an indelible mark on Johannine scholarship in general with his

penetrating 1972 essay on Johannine sectarianism, but his 1966 article, “Galilee
and Judea in the Fourth Gospel,” has had a more direct influence on interpreta-
tions of the gospel’s geography. In this respect he continued in the same vein
as Lightfoot, whom he cites favorably. Meeks begins by discussing the issue of
Jesus’ origins. The traditions associating Jesus with Nazareth of Galilee pre-
date the gospel, and the author is aware of them, but when the characters
within the narrative comment on Jesus’ origins their remarks are accompa-
nied by ignorance, misunderstanding, and irony. Such remarks have the effect
of underscoring Jesus’ true origin “from God,” yet Meeks insists that Jesus’
Galilean origins are also emphasized, particularly in contrast to the presumed
non-Galilean origins of the Messiah or “the prophet.” What accounts for this
emphasis on Galilee?
To answer that question, Meeks turns to John 4:44, the saying which appears
(with variations) in all four canonical gospels plus the Gospel of Thomas,
regarding a prophet being without honor in his πατρίς.28 The passage presents
a notorious problem for interpretation; whereas the synoptics assume Jesus’
πατρίς to be Galilee,29 the Fourth Gospel appears to apply it differently. In the
following verse, the Galileans are said to welcome Jesus upon his arrival there
after having traveled from Judea. In light of John 1:11–12, the reception indicates
that Jesus’ πατρίς should not be understood as Galilee but rather Judea, the
place of Jesus’ rejection by the Ioudaioi. Thus, “the Galileans are those who
‘receive’ Jesus.”30 Meeks is aware of the temptation to posit a “purely symbolic”
sense of John’s geography, but in the end he is not comfortable with this view.
Instead, citing Kundsin, he suggests that “historical reasons” may account
for the peculiar emphases placed on Galilee and Samaria.31 Nevertheless, it
was the symbolism that proved to be the more enduring quality of Meeks’
study, and the Jerusalem/Judea vs. Galilee dichotomy, where Jerusalem and
Judea become the place of rejection and Galilee the place of reception, con-
tinues to hold sway as the dominant interpretation of Johannine geography.
It is important to note that much of Meeks’ argument is formulated against
the form critical analysis of the Fourth Gospel by C.H. Dodd. For Dodd, the
“topographical notices” in John derived from traditional material.32 Thus
the geographical framework was not laden with symbolism, and Galilee was
28 Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 162–66.

29 Specifically, Nazareth, a connection made explicit in Luke but not in Matthew or Mark.
30 Ibid., 165.
31 Ibid., 168.
32 C.H. Dodd, Historical Tradition in the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1963), 233.
146 Chapter 4
not considered as important relative to Judea and Jerusalem. In challenging

Dodd, Meeks did not explore the redactional tendencies of the gospel in any
detail, but Robert Fortna, who credited Meeks with bringing Lightfoot’s take
on John’s geography to the fore, did embrace the task. In his 1974 essay, Fortna
argues that references to specific locales are due to the redactional activity of
the evangelist. For example, Jesus’ flight across the Jordan in John 10:40 would
not have been found in the source material, since nothing happened there.
It must have been an editorial insertion, one that toys deliberately with locality
as a symbol for acceptance or rejection.33 As with Bultmann, Fortna’s redac-
tional approach to John’s gospel can be speculative at times. If his analysis
has been successful, it has been predominantly as a countermeasure to Dodd.
His study goes beyond redaction critical analysis, however, and includes an
interpretation of the theological significance of John’s topography. In this
way Fortna follows Meeks, but he does not share Meeks’ view of Kundsin
nor his openness to situating Johannine communities in the gospel’s named
localities. Instead, Fortna is interested in showing how the evangelist sets up
Galilee, which is nearly always depicted favorably, as the primary foil for Judea.
Galilee is the “place of faith, of discipleship,”34 and one who challenges Jewish
opposition to Jesus is “ipso facto no longer a Ioudaios but a Galilean.”35 The
term Ioudaios is better translated as “Judean” since the opposite of Ioudaios
in the gospel is not “Gentile” but “Samaritan” or “Galilean.”36 Whereas Judea’s
depiction is “rarely unambiguously positive,” Galilee is nothing less than “terra
christiana.”37 In the final analysis, locality in John’s gospel “ceases to be mere
topography and becomes instead a symbol for human attitude.”38
Fortna’s symbolism at times is taken to extremes. When Jesus goes to
Jerusalem in John 7:10, the fact that he goes “in secret” has implications for
the gospel’s spatial symbolism: “he is, yet is not, in Judea.”39 Nevertheless, the
utilization of a symbolic filter for spatial references in the Fourth Gospel has
continued to be the preferred interpretive method. Both Meeks and Fortna
tied the symbolism specifically to the regions of Galilee and Judea (and, to an
extent, Samaria). Jouette Bassler followed this same line of interpretation but
33 Robert T. Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale in the Fourth Gospel,” AThRSup 3 (1974): 64.
34 Ibid., 85.
35 Ibid., 87.
36 Ibid., 84, 93.
37 Ibid., 88. Though Fortna does not cite him here, the phrase echoes Ernst Lohmeyer,
Galiläa und Jerusalem (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1936), 28, who character-
ized Mark’s Galilee as “terra christiana.”
38 Ibid., 93.
39 Ibid., 74.
with one significant modification. In her 1981 article, she argued for essentially
the same distinction between acceptance and rejection, but she couched it
in ethnographic rather than geographic terms. The reason for the modifica-
tion grew out of her reading of John 6, in which the Galilean “pattern of posi-
tive response” is broken.40 Here, Jesus receives a much cooler reception; some
begin to complain about his teaching (v. 41), and some even refuse to follow
him any further (v. 66). Yet Bassler notes that at this point in the narrative,
Jesus’ primary challengers are none other than the Ioudaioi.41 The rejection
appears out of place in light of the previously proposed geographical sym-
bolism, but it is consistent with Bassler’s proposed ethnographic symbolism
according to which the Ioudaioi are characterized by their rejection (or inau-
thentic acceptance) of Jesus while the “Galileans” are portrayed as those who
receive and believe.42 In other words, the metaphor is tied to people, not place.
On the whole, Bassler’s modification has been well received, and even Meeks
in a later article cites her correction favorably.43 Since the publication of her
study, most deliberate treatments of John’s geographical symbolism have fol-
lowed the Meeks-Fortna-Bassler approach. The place/people distinction has
not always been as strictly delineated in subsequent analyses, but the pattern
of acceptance in Galilee coupled with rejection in Judea has been maintained.
Craig R. Koester’s 1995 monograph on Johannine symbolism is in general
agreement, although the geography of the Fourth Gospel does not occupy a
major part of his study, and his brief section on “Geographical Symbolism” is
tucked away in the Postscript.44 More important than the acceptance/rejection
pattern for Koester is that the gospel’s intended readers would have conceived
40 Jouette M. Bassler, “The Galileans: A Neglected Factor in Johannine Community Research,”
CBQ 43 (1981): 251.
41 Ibid., 252.
42 Ibid., 254–55.
43 Wayne Meeks, “Breaking Away: Three New Testament Pictures of Christianity’s Separation
from the Jewish Communities,” in Essential Papers on Judaism and Christianity in Conflict:
From Late Antiquity to the Reformation (ed. Jeremy Cohen; New York: New York University
Press, 1991), 92. Others who explicitly cite Bassler in support include Culpepper, Anatomy,
131; Sean Freyne, Galilee, Jesus and the Gospels: Literary Approaches and Historical
Investigations (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 122 n.8; David Rensberger, Johannine
Faith and Liberating Community (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1988), 34 n.64; Koester,
Symbolism, 58; Lawrence M. Wills, The Quest of the Historical Gospel: Mark, John and the
Origins of the Gospel Genre (London: Routledge, 1997), 173; Craig S. Keener, Vol. 1 of
The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Peabody, Mass: Hendrickson, 2003), I.221 n.455, I.228.
44 Koester, Symbolism, 262–64. He is more concerned with how various individuals/groups,
actions, and concepts (such as light or water) function symbolically than with the gospel’s
spatial references.
148 Chapter 4
of individual locales as real places, but they also would have had certain built-
in ideas associated with them. It is a more limited approach, since it presup-
poses information already existing within the reader’s knowledge set, and thus
the evangelist is not necessarily creating the symbolism outright. Nevertheless,
Koester is sympathetic to Bassler, adding only that the symbols associated with
(the people of) Galilee and Judea were reflecting broader traditions already
connected with those regions due to Jesus’ activity in Galilee and his death
in Jerusalem. Interpretation of the gospel does not hinge on such previously
held associations, according to Koester, but an understanding of Johannine
geographical symbolism would certainly be “enhanced.”45
In an article specifically on the Fourth Gospel’s depiction of Galilee, Frédéric
Manns advocates a similar acceptance/rejection dichotomy.46 The article does
suffer from trying to do too many things at once. Manns devotes a substan-
tial subsection of the study to the rabbinic stereotypes regarding Galilee, from
which he concludes that Galilee was in fact rather similar to Judea in terms of
its respect for Jewish law.47 He then discusses Galilee as a symbol for disciple-
ship, concluding that it should be held in juxtaposition to Judea. He softens
the apparent inconsistency, however, by appealing to the people of Galilee in
precisely the same way that Bassler does. Galilee’s role as “terre d’accueil” is
contradicted by the negative reaction to Jesus’ teaching in John 6:41ff, but it
is the “Jews,” rather than the Galileans, who are guilty of the lack of faith.48
One of the most recent studies to take on Johannine geography in earnest is
the essay on “territoriality” in the Fourth Gospel by Jerome H. Neyrey.49 With
Neyrey, any lingering ties to the historical Galilee and Judea that were still vis-
ible in Koester or Manns dissipate completely. Neyrey prefers to analyze the
geography of the gospel through the anthropological lens of “territoriality,”
defined as the assertion of influence or control over a given space, regardless of
whether that space is geographical or “trans-geographical.”50 The “territoriality”
model employed by anthropologists helps to define territory, usually accord-
ing to binary oppositions: public/private, sacred/profane, fixed/fluid, etc.
Neyrey’s application of this model seeks similar dichotomies in the Gospel of
45 Ibid., 264.

46 Frédéric Manns, “La Galilée dans le quatrième évangile,” Anton 72:3 (1997): 351–64.
47 Ibid., 359.
48 Ibid., 363. He does not cite Bassler directly at any point in the article.
49 Jerome H. Neyrey, “Spaces and Places, Whence and Whither, Homes and Rooms,” BTB
32:2 (2002): 60–74; reprinted with very few modifications in idem, The Gospel of John in
Cultural and Rhetorical Perspective (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 58–86.
50 Neyrey, “Spaces,” 61.
John and analyzes how the author vests meaning in them. Beginning with the
Galilee/Judea dichotomy,51 Neyrey distinguishes his approach as “symbolic”
as opposed to “topographical” or “traditional.”52 The regional distinctions are
not spatial but social, and the key to decoding their proper character hinges
on whether Jesus “remains” in a given place or not. Jesus “remains” in Galilee;
he does not “remain” in Judea.53 Thus, although Neyrey’s methods and inter-
pretive models are different, his position on John’s geographical symbolism is
essentially the same as that of Bassler, whom he cites favorably.
The rhetoric of Neyrey’s symbolic interpretation, however, goes beyond that
of his predecessors. He is unabashedly insistent on detaching John’s geogra-
phy from anything involving “real or topological” space.54 When referring to
the theme of “remaining,” Neyrey states that “this happens in ‘Galilee,’ wher-
ever that may be.”55 Regarding the Galilee/Judea dichotomy, he explains that
“no specific geographical space is identified.”56 His conclusion puts it starkly:
“[T]here is relatively little geographical or topological space of concern in the
Fourth Gospel. ‘Galilee’ and ‘Judea’ are not real places, but code names for wel-
come or rejection.”57
Thus, although interpretations of Johannine geography are not completely
uniform, there is an identifiable line of interpretation that has become domi-
nant, particularly among those who have made theorizing about John’s use
of space their aim. The Meeks-Fortna-Bassler approach has become some-
what mainstream; having been adopted in several studies that do not make
Johannine geography their primary focus, it now appears to be the default
position. With that in mind, however, a few additional comments are needed
with regard to those who hold differing views, since not all who look at John’s
geography opt for symbolism as the primary hermeneutical tool. Raymond
Brown, despite his theory that in John’s gospel the history of the Johannine
Community was written back onto the story of Jesus, never accepted the idea
of a pattern of spatial symbols in John, particularly with regard to Judea and
Galilee.58 Commenting on the rearrangement theories spawned by the difficult
51 His study includes a number of other applications of space as well: public/private, fixed/
fluid, whence/whither. They are not necessarily related to one another.
52 Neyrey, “Spaces,” 63.
53 Ibid., 63–64. See the critique of this idea below.
54 Ibid., 64.
55 Ibid., 63.
56 Ibid., 64.
57 Ibid., 71.
58 Brown, Community, 39, citing Fortna (unfavorably).
150 Chapter 4
transition between chs. 5 & 6, he voiced what some commentators who say
nothing at all about Johannine geography probably think: “No rearrangement
can solve all of the geographical and chronological problems in John, and to
rearrange on the basis of geography and chronology is to give undue empha-
sis to something that does not seem to have been of major importance to the
evangelist.”59 In other words, if geography was not a consequential issue for
John, neither should it be for modern interpreters.
The most forceful rebuttal of a symbolic interpretation of the land in John
has come from W.D. Davies.60 His definition of “land” ranges rather broadly,
including virtually all of the spatial markers in John and not just geographical
features such as cities and regions. The centerpiece of his argument is that
Jesus has become the replacement for the Temple and has thus supplanted any
need for a land theology or a spatial symbolism. When Jesus departs from the
Temple in John 8:59, Davies reads this as a deliberate separation from what
was perceived as holy space in order that Jesus himself might become its
substitute.61 The symbolism is therefore misused when applied to geography
rather than Christ and the Temple. For the Gospel of John, “the person of Jesus
becomes the ‘the place’ which replaces all holy places. In light of this, it is,
therefore, not a gospel likely to ascribe theological significance to geographic
entities. To do so, it would seem, would be to contradict much of its concern.”62
In a separate section covering Galilee and Judea, Davies is even more direct.
After spending several pages reviewing and critiquing Meeks’ theory, he claims
that only by a “tour de force” can an acceptance/rejection dichotomy be super-
imposed upon Johannine geography. His exegetical counterarguments are
instructive, but Christology predominates: “To ascribe to John a developed
geographical symbolism would be to run counter to his concentration on the
Word made flesh in a Person.”63 Thus, once again, it is his view of Jesus that
becomes his trump card.
Davies acknowledges Brown as a primary influence with regard to his rejec-
tion of a geographical symbolism,64 and both are, by the standards of critical
geographers today, methodologically suspect in assigning a benign or neutral
59 Brown, The Gospel According to John, 1.236.

60 W.D. Davies, The Gospel and the Land: Early Christianity and Jewish Territorial Doctrine
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974; repr., Sheffield: JSOT press, 1994); see esp.
pp. 321–31 where he deals with “Galilee and Judea” in a separate section.
61 Ibid., 294.
62 Ibid., 318.
63 Ibid., 329.
64 Ibid., 331 n.85.
character to space. The reason Davies’ overarching approach has garnered

fewer adherents is not due to his exegesis, which at times is extremely helpful,
but at least in part to flawed assumptions about space. For example, Davies
claims that when the two disciples of John the Baptist ask Jesus where he is
staying (John 1:38), no “spiritual connotation” is intended, since they are able
to “see” the place “that day,” implying that it was a physical locale.65 He seems to
disregard the idea that actual physical locations can have metaphorical mean-
ings and be used symbolically or even re-created in discourse. Davies may also
be criticized for his idea that Jesus is the only sacred “place” in John’s gospel in
contradistinction to the Temple. As mentioned above, John 8:59, where Jesus is
said to depart from the Temple, is a key passage for Davies’ interpretation. His
attempt to explain John 10:22 (“Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico
of Solomon”) by claiming that the reference to the portico indicates that Jesus
was “outside the Temple proper” is unconvincing.66 Yet even if Jesus is being
presented as a holy space to replace the Temple, it does not preclude the possi-
bility that John’s geography may be critically evaluated in terms of its function
as an ideological vehicle. Both Davies and Brown seem to have been under the
impression that either geography was significant as a deep spiritual metaphor
or it signified nothing at all.
More recently, however, there has been a new take on Johannine geogra-
phy, one which views John’s gospel as a valid source of information, both geo-
graphical and chronological, for the historical Jesus.67 The reasoning behind
such an approach differs considerably from that of Brown or Davies, neither of
whom places much importance on John’s geographical information, but in one
65 Ibid., 328.

66 Ibid., 292.
67 See in particular the work that has come out of the Society of Biblical Literature’s John,
Jesus, and History Group: Paul N. Anderson, Felix Just, S.J., and Tom Thatcher, eds. John,
Jesus, and History, Volume 1: Critical Appraisals of Critical Views (Atlanta: Society of
Biblical Literature, 2007) and John, Jesus, and History, Volume 2: Aspects of Historicity in
the Fourth Gospel (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009). See also D. Moody Smith,
John Among the Gospels (2nd ed.; Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press,
2001; orig. pub. 1992), 205; Keener, The Gospel of John, I.42–47; Richard Bauckham, The
Testimony of the Beloved Disciple: Narrative, History, and Theology in the Gospel of John
(Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007); C. Stephen Evans, “The Historical Reliability of
John’s Gospel: From What Perspective Should It Be Assessed?” in The Gospel of John and
Christian Theology (ed. Richard Bauckham and Carl Mosser; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
2008), 91–119. Rumblings of this can be also be seen in Paula Fredriksen, Jesus of Nazareth
King of the Jews: A Jewish Life and the Emergence of Christianity (New York: Alfred A. Knopf,
2000), 33–34.
152 Chapter 4
f undamental respect they are similar. The evangelist’s interest in specific loca-
tions and the depiction of Jesus’ regular movements between Jerusalem and
Galilee (as opposed to what may be a more stylized Galilee-journey-Jerusalem
schema in the synoptics) are providing an alternative to the predominantly
symbolic readings that have dominated Johannine scholarship for the past
generation. To what extent this reappraisal of the Fourth Gospel’s geographical
and historical value will gain momentum remains to be seen. If nothing else,
it is a subtle indication that the symbolic approach to John’s gospel has been
pushed to an extreme that some find untenable. Is the interpretation of John’s
geography in need of a corrective?
John and Critical Geography
At this point it may be helpful to make an observation concerning one of the

great ironies of current scholarship on Johannine geography. What Meeks
proposed, what Bassler perfected, and what Neyrey beatified has become a
commonly, if not quite universally, agreed upon method for the interpretation
of Johannine space. Not only is a definite pattern identifiable in the organic
growth of the theory, but more importantly the theory itself is essentially an
explication of the pattern to be found in John’s geography. In other words, the
riddle is decipherable. Meeks shows the most reserve; by the end of his 1966
article, he is still looking for the proper place for his theory of a Galilee/Judea
dichotomy to land safely.68 Bassler is more confident. By the end of her study,
admittedly after considerable evidence sifting, she can say, “The symbolism is
obvious.”69 By the time the theory reaches Neyrey, he asserts that the geogra-
phy of John can be readily understood once one “learns the code.”70 Is anything
in John “obvious”? Can anything in John be easily “decoded”?
Despite its twists and turns, what makes John’s geography so readily deci-
pherable for many interpreters is the application to it of a legible map. The
map in question is not a conventional one that outlines boundaries and points
out topographical features. Whereas with Luke scholars still cling to the con-
ventional map (even if Luke does not), with John the conventional map was
68 It should be noted that Meeks’ lens for the interpretation of John changes somewhat by
the time he gets to his now classic essay on Johannine sectarianism. He argues that it is
in fact the heightened sense of misunderstanding in John that makes the message of the
gospel even remotely understandable, a method laden with an irony all its own.
69 Bassler, “The Galileans,” 254.
70 Neyrey, “Spaces and Places,” 64.
discarded long ago. In its place, however, is a conceptual map, a map that situ-
ates symbols like landmarks within a metaphorical landscape and allows the
reader to navigate safely through them. It is a road map for John’s symbolic
geography, a pattern for interpretation. As such, it confers meaning, it gives
definition, and it provides stability.
Central to Geoff King’s theoretical approach to cartography is the notion
of destabilizing maps as objective reflections of territory. In his book Mapping
Reality, he proposes that the mapping process is less of a reflection of the land
itself than most people realize. Maps are ideological tools, at times going “well
beyond the bounds of simple propaganda,” and they have always been used to
bolster existing viewpoints.71 Thus, in this sense, they do not reflect the terri-
tory so much as the culture behind the cartography. They are “cultural produc-
tions” that “owe as much to particular understandings of a territory as to the
territory itself, if not more.”72 It is false, therefore, to conclude that the history
of mapmaking has been characterized by the systematic elimination of subjec-
tive elements or bias, even as cartography has made huge strides in depicting
land more accurately. Maps do not qualify as “neutral phenomena.”73
King’s program does not stop with deconstructing the objectivity of the
map, however. Following Jean Baudrillard’s concept of the “precession of
simulacra,”74 he also sets out to deconstruct the territory itself. Baudrillard,
using cartography as a principal metaphor in his treatise on the nature of real-
ity and signs, claimed that in the absence of objective “real” territory, it is in
fact the map that precedes and engenders space. He contended that we now
live in an “era of simulation” characterized by the “liquidation of referentials”
and the substitution of “the signs of the real for the real.”75 For King, however,
the application of Baudrillard’s “hyperreal” does not require the renunciation
71 Geoff King, Mapping Reality (New York: St. Martin’s Press, Inc., 1996), 30.
72 Ibid., 18.
73 Ibid., 36. See also J.B. Harley, “Deconstructing the Map,” in Writing Worlds: Discourse,
Text and Metaphor in the Representation of Landscape (eds. Trevor J. Barnes and James S.
Duncan; New York: Routledge, 1992), 231–32. Harley laments the “positivist assumptions”
that technological improvements have reinforced among cartographers in recent years,
though without lamenting the improvements themselves.
74 Jean Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation (trans. Sheila Faria Glaser; Ann Arbor, Mich.
75 Ibid., 2; see also the assessment of Baudrillard in Brian Jarvis, Postmodern Cartographies:
The Geographical Imagination in Contemporary American Culture (London: Pluto Press,
1998), 30–41.
154 Chapter 4
of the real existence of territory;76 the territory exists but only in an “always
already” mapped state.77 Since there is no clear line of distinction between
the map and the territory, there is no such thing as “unmapped ground.”78 The
map is always providing the interpretive lens and giving to the territory “carto-
graphic meaning.”79
At first glance, King’s “cartographic meaning” might seem to imply a tidy
theoretical underpinning for moving from territory to the significance of ter-
ritory. What is generally perceived in a modernist sense as a smooth transi-
tion from land to map is made even smoother in the postmodernist sense if
indeed the map is the land. The patterns that emerge should be that much
more identifiable, or so it would seem. But the substitution of the representa-
tion for the referent brings additional complications. Not only is it the map
that confers meaning upon the territory and not the other way around, but
maps, according to King, are also provisional.80 Without an objective reality to
which they are bound, maps can be lifted, replaced, erased, and redrawn. The
cartographer can change the map or lay down multiple maps at a single time.
As a result, what began as a picture of neatly interlocking lines and shapes
becomes altered, discontinuous, distorted.81 The once-hoped-for pattern has
changed. King maintains that the resulting distortion is not only unavoidable,
but critical to the mapping process. Maps communicate through both provi-
sionality and distortion, that is, through the (sometimes deliberate, sometimes
not) manipulation of the image. Usefulness, even accuracy, is not dependent
upon the realistic portrayal of hypothetically un-mapped space. A road map is
far more serviceable to the navigator than a satellite image.
It is important to realize that the provisionality and distortion inherent
in the mapping process is never viewed by King as a reason to discard maps
altogether. His goal is not to dissolve the representation simply because it is
culturally situated and malleable. Maps exist in dialectic relationship to the
map-makers, a relationship that is reflected in the ability to redraw the lines.
The resulting cartographic “palimpsest”82 allows for territory to be understood
as significant and usable. To illustrate his point, King explains that some of the
76 Some of Baudrillard’s comments along these very lines regarding the first Gulf War,
however, unleashed a storm of criticism. Compare King’s position to Jarvis, Postmodern
Cartographies, 10. Despite his postmodern approach, Jarvis also wants to hold on to
“certain spatial raw materials” when doing his analysis.
78 Ibid., 15.
79 Ibid., 18.
80 Ibid., 59.
81 Ibid., 20.
82 Ibid., 73.
most sophisticated early maps were produced by cultures that occupied rela-
tively featureless landscapes, such as the Arctic. The response of such cultures
to their surroundings was “to impose mappings that create meanings and so
make the territory negotiable, both physically and conceptually, rather than
to submit to an undifferentiated existence.”83 Thus, no matter how provisional
maps are, they are necessary for the utilization of space. They provide carto-
graphic meaning.
One of the key implications of King’s study is that cartographies are socially
produced rather than empirically driven. As such, inevitable inconsistencies
emerge from the redrawing of lines or the wholesale exchange of one map for
another. A single, stable map provides a pattern, a template that can be fol-
lowed; multiple maps distort the pattern and may require a change of direc-
tion. In terms of Johannine geography, it is tempting to seize upon a single
map and cling to it for the purposes of a stable interpretation. Yet there is no
reason why the evangelist cannot draw a map and then erase its lines. Doing
so may disrupt the pattern, but it does not necessarily disrupt the conveyance
of cartographic meaning. Changes in the map may communicate just as much
as the maps themselves.
Another important implication of King’s study is that map and territory
are inseparable. For all of the destabilization of both map and territory that
characterizes King’s analysis, he consistently reinforces the fact that they are
inextricably linked. The territory is the map. The postmodernist priority that
he gives to the map over the territory does not mean that the land simply fades
away, but rather that it fades into the map itself. When this principle is applied
to the Fourth Gospel’s use of space, the pervasive question of whether or not
John uses a geographical “symbolism” may be viewed as a misunderstanding
and an oversimplification of the complex process of mapping, particularly if
by “symbolism” one is able to separate the map from the land and leave either
the territory or the symbol behind. Yet in the progressive theorizing about
Johannine geography, this is precisely what has happened. Thus, another
great irony of scholarship pertaining to Johannine geography is that both
primary lines of thought, symbolic and non-symbolic, presuppose the same
thing: the easy dissolution of material world and mapped image. On the one
hand, the line extending from Lohmeyer is basically a theoretical progression
from material space to immaterial symbol. By the time the theory gets to the
end of the line, Neyrey has no use for the land whatsoever. He has thrown
away the territory. On the other hand, the approach of Brown and Davies
precludes any meaningful theorizing about space. The evangelist is too con-
cerned with other issues to assign a deeper symbolic meaning to geography.
83 Ibid., 59.

156 Chapter 4
They have thrown away the map. King would likely be disappointed with both
approaches, not so much because they are both wrong, but because they are
both inconsistent with the process of creating maps. The author of the Fourth
Gospel may not be a geographer by trade, but the fact that he is mapping space
is undeniable.
Before revisiting the geography and, more specifically, the Galilee of the
Fourth Gospel, it is important to comment on the limitations of this (or any)
methodology. An improved method may be a valuable aid in reaching bet-
ter conclusions, but it does not guarantee them. In some respects, of all the
scholars previously discussed it was Kundsin who approached John’s geog-
raphy with the most methodological sophistication (though no doubt he did
so unintentionally), because he held on to both the symbolic significance of
John’s spatial references but never let go of the actual spaces themselves. An
honorable mention goes to Meeks, who, while espousing a different symbolic
interpretation, like Kundsin was uncomfortable assuming that the map and
the territory could be so easily divided. Yet Kundsin’s theory has not been sub-
stantiated, either by its adoption within scholarship or by archaeological evi-
dence of Johannine communities at specific sites. Thus, it is important to go
beyond the mere application of theory and determine its benefit by a careful
analysis of the text itself.
Furthermore, King’s study is specific to cartography as applied to actual
spaces, maps of inhabited or inhabitable territories and not imaginary worlds.
Given this limitation, it may still be argued that the evangelist has created an
entirely symbolic world with no correspondence to actual space. Yet this seems
unlikely given the Fourth Gospel’s interest in both specific locales and broader
regions. The two lines of thought with respect to John’s geography when taken
together are a testimony to this—it is possible to read John’s gospel in dif-
ferent ways. John’s penchant for symbols makes a symbolic approach seem
natural. Likewise, John’s geographical detail lends credence to a non-symbolic
approach. This is precisely where King’s “cartographic meaning” proves so
valuable, however. Not only is it possible for real territory to have meaning as
mapped space, it is unavoidable. Neither the territory alone nor the symbol by
itself will do. Opting for the symbol does not force one to jettison the space.
John’s Galilee and “Cartographic Meaning”
With respect to John’s Galilee, there remains something very appealing about
the notion that the Fourth Gospel, as notorious as it is for its double layers of
meaning, could be read beneficially through the lens of King’s approach to car-
tography. To do this will require a closer look at how the evangelist associates
Galilee with various cartographic patterns, conceived not as reflections of ter-

ritorial space per se but as assignments of meaning. In this sense, the analyti-
cal approach adopted here may be clearly distinguished from that espoused
by Brown and Davies. However, it is also to be distinguished from the Meeks-
Fortna-Bassler approach, because it does not start with the presupposition that
the evangelist is intent on employing a single, consistent map. A careful read-
ing of the text suggests that the evangelist is purposely developing multiple
patterns, yet none with complete consistency. The end result is a palimpsest
of cartographic patterns that create distorted images with the intention of not
only redrawing the map but redirecting the reader. It is through these distor-
tions and misdirections that the author’s most important ideas about space are
communicated.
Galilee as the Place of Acceptance

For the Meeks-Fortna-Bassler approach, which finds its roots in Lightfoot and
its culmination in Neyrey, the ideological centerpiece is the notion that Galilee
can be distinguished from Judea symbolically as the place of acceptance. The
following series of quotations (some previously cited) illustrates how persis-
tent this theory has been:
1938: “To be of Galilee seems almost identical with being an adherent of

Jesus and hostile to the Jews.”84
1966: “The Galileans are those who ‘receive’ Jesus.”85
1974: “Galilee is the place of belief, and Galileans are shown as men of
faith.”86
1981: “[T]he epithet ‘Galileans’ appears as a consistent but flexible posi-
tive counterpart to the negatively charged term Ioudaioi. . . . [I]t evolved
into a tag for those who within or, somewhat later, without the synagogue
responded favorably to the Johannine message about Jesus.”87
1997: “[L]es Galiléens . . . symbolisent ceux qui ont accueilli la Parole de
Dieu. Ils sont disciples de Jésus.”88
2002/2009: “ ‘Galilee’ and ‘Judea’ are not real places, but code names for
welcome or rejection.”89
84 Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 149.

85 Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 165.
86 Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,” 85.
88 Manns, “La Galilée,” 363.
89 Neyrey, “Spaces and Places,” 71.
158 Chapter 4
These statements are not without foundation. John does apparently develop
a pattern of favorable responses to Jesus in Galilee: the calling of Philip and
Nathanael (1:43–51); the miracle at Cana and the disciples’ response (2:1–11); the
welcoming of Jesus by the Galileans (4:45); the healing of the royal official’s son
in Capernaum and the household’s response (4:46–54); the feeding of the 5000
(6:1–14); Peter’s confession (6:67–69); Jesus’ resurrection appearance (21:1–14).
Furthermore, the Galilean pattern stands out all the more when juxtaposed
with the negative responses of those in/of Judea: the skepticism of the Ioudaioi
toward John the Baptist (1:19–28); Jesus’ expulsion of the money changers from
the Temple and the response of the Ioudaioi (2:13–25); the Ioudaioi seeking to
kill Jesus after the healing on the Sabbath (5:18); the accusations about Jesus
having a demon (8:48; 10:20); the attempted stoning of Jesus (8:59; 10:31); the
negative reaction to the healing of the blind man (9:13–41); and, of course,
Jesus’ arrest, trial, and crucifixion (18:1ff).
It is difficult to argue that these patterns are not there. But are they con-
sistent? At the level of the regions of Galilee and Judea, they are not. Bassler
points out that in ch. 6, where Jesus is indeed rejected in Galilee, the pattern
of Galilean acceptance is unquestionably broken. The pattern is likewise chal-
lenged by episodes where Jesus is favorably received in Judea, as in the case of
the blind man of ch. 9. What appear to be insurmountable exceptions to the
rule are explainable, however, once it is realized that the symbolism is not tied
to the regions of Galilee and Judea, but to “Galilaioi (those who accept) and
Ioudaioi (those who reject).”90 In ch. 6, Jesus is rejected, but Bassler contends
that this is precisely why the Ioudaioi make an unexpected appearance there
and serve as Jesus’ primary interlocutors. In fact, there is a “movement from
the category of Galileans (believers)” to Ioudaioi once they become dissatis-
fied with Jesus’ teaching.91 Likewise, according the Bassler, the difficulty pre-
sented by favorable responses to Jesus in Judea is “easily resolved . . . by noting
that although positive responses to Jesus in Judea are recorded, these groups
are not identified as Ioudaioi.” For Bassler, therefore, “the symbolism is obvi-
ous; the dichotomy works well at the level of Ioudaioi and Galilaioi, although
it breaks down if we insist on a rigid distinction between the regions of Galilee
and Judea.”92
In exposing the inconsistencies of the regional distinctions, Bassler has pro-
vided a valuable service. However, her own alternative is unconvincing, mainly
90 Bassler, “The Galileans,” 257, parentheses hers.

91 Ibid., parentheses hers.
92 Ibid., 254–55, emphasis hers.
due to the frequent breaks in what Bassler paints as a consistent pattern.93

A number of these exceptions Bassler recognizes (sometimes in footnotes),
although she considers them inconsequential, each for its own set of reasons.
In order to test Bassler’s theory, it is necessary to look more closely at these
exceptions:
• Bassler argues that the evangelist’s symbolic interest is attached to the

people within the different regions rather than the regions themselves,
but she is forced to admit that “the Galileans are primarily represented by
references to their region.”94 Her theory depends on this, since, as she also
acknowledges,95 the adjective Γαλιλαῖος is used only once in the entire gos-
pel (at 4:45). Thus, it is not unfair to say that her own statements about the
gospel’s “references to Galileans” or “the epithet ‘Galilean’ ”96 are, at the very
least, somewhat misleading.
• Bassler is not clear about how the “Galileans” (outside of the one clear refer-
ence in 4:45) should be identified, but by looking at the characters within
the gospel it is possible to estimate where she draws her lines. If “Galileans”
are those who are specifically mentioned as being “from Galilee,” this would
include Nicodemus only (7:52),97 who is also described as a Pharisee and
93 Since the publication of her article, Bassler has had few dissenters. Scobie would pre-
sumably be critical. Although his article was published a year after Bassler’s, he is appar-
ently not aware of her study, but he is skeptical of both Meeks and Fortna (“Johannine
Geography,” 79–80). Others who show reluctance to adopt Bassler’s theory are few and far
between. David Rensberger, who cites Bassler briefly but favorably in his 1988 publication
is a bit less enthusiastic in a later essay where he contends that her proposal still leaves
some problems unsolved, particularly regarding the categorization of Jesus as a Ioudaios
himself. See David Rensberger, “Anti-Judaism in the Gospel of John,” in Anti-Judaism in
the Gospels (ed. William R. Farmer; Harrisburg, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1999), 124.
See also Bennema, “Identity and Composition,” 256 n.57, who criticizes Bassler’s dichot-
omy for downplaying inconsistencies. Finally, while I am critical of Bassler’s conclusions,
I want to acknowledge the exemplary rigor and overall value of her study. In some ways,
it is easier to be critical of a well-presented, detailed thesis than of one that is poorly pre-
sented or ambiguously formulated.
94 Bassler, “The Galileans,” 253–54.
95 Ibid., 252 n.35.
96 Ibid., 255.
97 John 7:52 does not state that Nicodemus is accused of being a “Galilean” but that he is
accused of being “from Galilee.” Bassler does refer to Nicodemus as a “Galilean” (252, 254)
contrary to the language of the text, although she is well aware of her interpretive move.
In a footnote (253 n.36) she explains that such language is tantamount to calling him a
Galilaios. Referencing the “peculiar form” of the question, she links the phrasing to the
160 Chapter 4
a leader of the Ioudaioi (3:1). A slight expansion of this definition would

result in the inclusion of Nathanael “of Cana in Galilee” (21:2)98 and Philip
“who was from Bethsaida in Galilee” (12:21),99 with Andrew and Peter, who
were also from Bethsaida (1:44), occupying the next tier.100 The royal offi-
cial, whose household finds faith after Jesus heals his son, is a resident of
Capernaum (4:46), and although Capernaum is not specifically said to be
in Galilee, there is no question that it is, given the multiple references to
the Galilean setting (4:46–47, 54).101 Finally, Bassler also appears to include
statement immediately following, that “no prophet is to arise from Galilee.” (Cf. 4:7–9
where the woman at the well is referred to as both a γυνὴ ἐκ τῆς Σαμαρείας and a ἡ γυνὴ ἡ
Σαμαρῖτις, indicating that such a construction was not necessarily “peculiar” to the gospel,
but also that the two phrases could indeed be used interchangeably.) Likewise, Manns
states that Nicodemus “est accusé d’être un Galiléen” (“La Galilée,”363) though without a
similar explanation. Pointing out these inconsistencies may seem like splitting hairs, but
given that both Bassler and Manns insist on a distinction between regions and people
groups, it is necessary to do so.
98 If John 21 is not the work of the evangelist but was added to the gospel by the redactor
at a later date (Brown, Community, 161–62), then Nathanael’s identification as someone
from “Cana of Galilee” might not be an appropriate bit of evidence. In the crucial passage
where Nathanael makes his own confession (1:49), his home is not mentioned, although
the episode does take place in Galilee. For the purposes of evaluating Bassler’s theory,
however, it will suffice to give Bassler the benefit of the doubt and think of Nathanael as
being from Galilee.
99 Technically, Bethsaida was located on the east side of the Jordan in the territory of Herod
Philip, not in Galilee, but due to its Jewish population and close proximity to Galilee and
the lake, it was probably “Galilean” in character if not locale. Again, for our purposes, this
need not be an obstacle to Bassler’s theory.
100 It is appropriate to think of Andrew and Peter as slightly further removed from this hypo-
thetical definition of “Galileans” than Philip. When they are mentioned, Galilee is not.
Only later, in ch. 12, does the reader learn that Bethsaida was, according to John, in Galilee.
It is worth noting that when Peter makes his threefold denial of Jesus in the Gospel of
John, the bystanders make reference to him only as Jesus’ disciple, not as being from
Galilee as in the synoptic tradition (Matt 26:69, 72; Mark 14:70; Luke 22:59).
101 Here too there is another potential obstacle to the theory, although not an insurmount-
able one. Although it is clear that the episode takes place in Galilee and that the royal
official is a resident of Capernaum, it is not clear that he would have been understood
(at the literal level) as being a Jewish Galilean. Though care should be taken not to read
too much of the synoptic tradition into the Fourth Gospel’s account, the official may still
have been considered an outsider culturally and/or ethnically (A. Hugh Mead, “The basi-
likos in John 4:46–53,” JSNT 23 [1985]: 69–72; Keener, The Gospel of John, I.630–31). If this
was the case, the symbolism would need to be clear enough (as with Nicodemus) to over-
come an obstacle at the literal level, but a lack of clarity seems to be the rule.
the crowds present at the feeding miracle in ch. 6,102 given that the later
use of the appellation Ioudaioi depicts “their movement from the category
of Galileans (believers)” to the category of unbelievers.103 It is at this point,
then, that Bassler apparently reaches the limits of her definition. Yet sig-
nificant problems still remain. The crowds present at the feeding do appear
sincere in their reaction to Jesus at first (they acclaim him as “the prophet
who is to come into the world,” 6:14), but it is soon revealed that they have
ulterior motives—they have followed Jesus because they want more of
“the food that perishes” rather than “the food that endures for eternal life”
(6:26–27). Additionally, although it is true that Jesus’ teaching is disputed
by the conspicuously named Ioudaioi (6:41, 52), they are not the only ones
who have such difficulties. Perhaps just as conspicuously, it is those who
are described as Jesus’ “disciples” who struggle with his teachings to the
point that Jesus can recognize their disbelief (6:64) and “many” then decide
to leave him (6:66). It may be argued that, following the references to the
Ioudaioi, these “disciples” should be categorized in the same way, but what
accounts for the change of epithets? If the sudden appearance of the term
Ioudaioi is telling, would not its sudden disappearance be so as well? Given
the mention of Capernaum immediately preceding the reference to the dis-
believing disciples (6:59), there seems to be no clear reason to assume that
these disciples are less “Galilean” than the royal official of ch. 5.
• Another exception to Bassler’s theory would seem to be Jesus’ brothers,
whom Bassler does not discuss. They are residents of Galilee (2:12; cf. 6:42),
and it is when they are conversing with Jesus in Galilee that the author
explicitly states “not even his brothers believed in him” (7:5). Similarly, it is
when the disciples are in Galilee that the betrayal of Judas is revealed (6:71).
None of these are explicitly called “Galileans,” but as demonstrated above,
hardly anyone in the gospel is.
Virtually all of the individuals discussed above, therefore, present some sort of
difficulty with respect to the “Galilean” theory, although in a number of cases
they are not insurmountable. Perhaps each one is explainable and the link to
the theory can be maintained, although only with a rather substantial amount
of interpretive effort. Thus, what is more important than any of the individual
102 Although, see Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,” 87, who insists that the feeding should
not be understood as taking place in Galilee. For Bassler’s theory, however, it is a moot
point, since the same crowd follows Jesus back to Capernaum, and her primary emphasis
is on the people in Galilee rather than Galilee itself.
162 Chapter 4
discrepancies is the overall lack of both consistency and purposefulness that is

needed to establish the pattern that Bassler proposes. If the author is attempt-
ing to portray “Galileans” as those who accept Jesus, he does not appear to have
done so with a clearly recognizable intentionality. Despite Bassler’s insistence
to the contrary, it is unlikely that, with so much symbolic import riding on
the careful use of spatial epithets, the evangelist would see fit to use the term
“Galilee” 16 times and “Galileans” only once.
The flip side of Bassler’s proposal, that the Ioudaioi represent those who
reject Jesus, also has pitfalls. She is aware that there are instances of positive
response in Judea, but, in accordance with her theory, these regional incon-
sistencies are obviated once it is realized that “these groups are not identified
as Ioudaioi.”104 In a footnote, she deals with “the single exception to this state-
ment,” namely, the Ioudaioi at the resurrection of Lazarus who “believed in him”
(11:45; cf. 12:9–11, 17).105 Citing 11:46, she explains that their faith is not genuine
since it is based on “enthusiasm” and “misunderstanding,” yet this seems to be
in spite of the fact that 11:45 says that “many . . . believed” while 11:46 says “but
some” reported him to the Pharisees: Bassler conflates what are, in fact, two dif-
ferent groups of Ioudaioi.106 Similarly, the positive responses of the crowds in
the Temple (7:40–43), the blind man (9:38), and the divided Ioudaioi (10:19–21)
present difficulties for Bassler’s theory. Even if the evangelist were consistent
in not referring to any of these people as Ioudaioi, a significant inconsistency
would remain at the level of the theory itself. According to Bassler’s theory, the
Ioudaioi group includes only those that are explicitly designated as such, while
the Galilaioi group consists predominantly of those who are not specifically
designated as such. If the Galileans are stipulated almost exclusively by link-
ing them to their region, why would the evangelist not develop the Ioudaioi in
the same way? At some point, the frequent breaks in the pattern become too
problematic for Bassler’s theory to remain tenable.
104 Ibid., 254.

105 Ibid., n.39.
106 Bassler’s citation of both 11:46–54 and 12:19 as evidence that the enthusiasm precludes
genuine belief because “[t]he result is to generate official hostility toward Jesus” is uncon-
vincing. It would be more understandable if the believing groups themselves eventually
turned their enthusiasm into hostility, but in both cases, the hostility is displayed by oth-
ers. Oddly, she never cites 8:30ff, which would be more supportive of her view. Bassler also
attempts to bolster her argument by insisting that these references to believing Ioudaioi
should be read in light of 2:23–25, which states that while “many believed in his name”
Jesus apparently knew their faith was insincere. The difficulties with this association will
be discussed below.
There is one other significant piece of evidence that is often cited in sup-
port not only of Bassler’s theory but of the broader concept of a Galilee/Judea
dichotomy as well—the interpretation of John 4:43–45:107
43 Μετὰ δὲ τὰς δύο ἡμέρας ἐξῆλθεν ἐκεῖθεν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν· 44 αὐτὸς γὰρ
Ἰησοῦς ἐμαρτύρησεν ὅτι προφήτης ἐν τῇ ἰδίᾳ πατρίδι τιμὴν οὐκ ἔχει. 45 ὅτε οὖν
ἦλθεν εἰς τὴν Γαλιλαίαν, ἐδέξαντο αὐτὸν οἱ Γαλιλαῖοι πάντα ἑωρακότες ὅσα
ἐποίησεν ἐν Ἱεροσολύμοις ἐν τῇ ἑορτῇ, καὶ αὐτοὶ γὰρ ἦλθον εἰς τὴν ἑορτήν.
43After two days, [Jesus] departed from that place [Samaria] to Galilee.
44For Jesus himself testified that a prophet in his own country has no
honor. 45Therefore, when he went to Galilee, the Galileans welcomed
him, since they had seen everything that he did in Jerusalem at the festi-
val, for they too went to the festival.108
As the only explicit mention of Γαλιλαῖοι in the gospel, this passage is crucial to
any theory that espouses a pattern of Galilean acceptance. The saying itself is
drawn from the pre-gospel tradition (cf. Matt 13:57; Mark 6:4; Luke 4:24; Gospel
of Thomas 31)109 but given the unique way in which the Fourth Gospel con-
textualizes this saying, should Jesus’ πατρίς be understood as Galilee/Nazareth
as in the Synoptic tradition, or as Judea? Although there is no consensus on
this issue, there is actually notable consistency. Without exception, those who
see a Galilee/Judea or Galilean/Ioudaios dichotomy being developed in John’s
Gospel, also interpret Jesus πατρίς in 4:44 as a reference to Judea, the place
of rejection.110 That the Galileans welcome Jesus in 4:45 precludes the notion
107 For what is arguably the most thorough and helpful treatment of this difficult passage
to date, see Gilbert Van Belle, “The Faith of the Galileans: the Parenthesis in Jn 4,44,” ETL
74:1 (1998): 27–44. For a fuller study of Johannine “asides,” see his Les parenthèses dans
l’évangile de Jean (SNTA 11; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985).
108 My translation.
109 The traditional elements of the saying include the use of προφήτης and πατρίς (Gos. Thom.
uses ⲡⲉϥϯⲙⲉ “his town”), but the Fourth Gospel leaves its own stamp, in particular with
the use of ἰδίᾳ as opposed to αὐτοῦ. See Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 165. For other charac-
teristically Johannine elements in the immediate context, see Dodd, Historical Tradition,
238–41.
110 Meeks, Prophet-King, 40; idem, “Galilee and Judea,” 164–65; Fortna, “Theological Use
of Locale,” 72; Bassler, “The Galileans,” 253; Manns, “La Galilée,” 363. See also Lightfoot,
Locality and Doctrine, 145–46, but compare to idem, St. John’s Gospel, 35, where he changes
his view and instead argues, quizzically, that Jesus’ πατρίς is “in heaven, in the bosom of
the Father.” This latter interpretation is no doubt based on the Johannine theme of Jesus
164 Chapter 4
that Jesus is without honor there. Furthermore, the successful faith-inducing

sign of the healing in Capernaum (4:46–54), like the first Cana miracle which
resulted in the faith of the disciples (2:11), confirms that Galileans are recep-
tive to Jesus’ message.111 Likewise, those who understand Jesus’ πατρίς to be
Galilee are generally less receptive to the notion of an elaborate dichotomous
symbolism embedded within Johannine geography.112 The primary reason for
this interpretation is that the gospel makes it clear that Jesus is “from Nazareth”
in Galilee (1:45–46; 18:5–7; 19:19).113 Regarding the apparent contradiction
being “from above,” but it makes little sense in the context of 4:44 since the prophet’s
πατρίς is where he is rejected. Neyrey’s analysis is based primarily on where Jesus
“remains,” and thus he takes no clear position on 4:44. Others who opt for Judea as Jesus’
πατρίς include C.H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge
UP, 1953), 352; idem, Historical Tradition, 238–41; C.K. Barrett, The Gospel According to
St. John (2nd ed.; Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1978), 246; Kikuo Matsunaga,
“The Galileans in the Fourth Gospel,” Annual of the Japanese Biblical Institute 2 (1976):
139–58; Freyne, Galilee, Jesus, and the Gospels, 122; John Ashton, Understanding the Fourth
Gospel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), 301; Koester, Symbolism, 51–52 (tentatively);
R. Alan Culpepper, The Gospel and Letters of John (IBT; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1998),
145 (tentatively); Bruce J. Molina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, Social-Science Commentary
on the Gospel of John (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1998), 106; Keener, The Gospel of John,
I.629. Some identify a more specific locale within Judea: Edwin C. Hoskyns, The Fourth
Gospel (2nd ed.; ed. Francis Noel Davey; London: Faber & Faber, 1947; orig. pub. 1940),
260–61, who opts for Jerusalem only; Barnabas Lindars, The Gospel of John (NCB; London:
Oliphants, 1972), 200–1, who also opts for Jerusalem only while rejecting Lightfoot’s geo-
graphical symbolism; J. Willemse, “La patrie de Jésus selon saint Jean iv,44,” NTS 11:4 (1965):
349–64, who opts for the Temple specifically; Anthony Therath, Jerusalem in the Gospel
of John: An Exegetical and Theological Inquiry into Johannine Geography (New Delhi:
Intercultural Publications, 1999), 117–18, who claims that Jesus’ πατρίς was Jerusalem by
tying the word πατρίς etymologically to the place of one’s πατήρ (i.e., the Temple).
111 Bassler, “The Galileans,” 248–49.
112 Rudolph Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (ed. R.W.N. Hoare and J.K. Riches;
trans. G.R. Beasley-Murray; Philadelphia: The Westminster Press, 1971), 204; Brown, The
Gospel According to John, 29.186–88; idem, Community, 39–40; Rudolf Schnackenburg,
The Gospel According to St. John, Vol. 1 (tr. Kevin Smyth; New York: Herder & Herder,
1968), 462; Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 321–31; Ernst Haenchen and Ulrich Busse,
Das Johannesevangelium: ein Kommentar (Tübingen: Mohr, 1980), 257; George Beasley-
Murray, John (WBC; Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1987), 73; John W. Pryor, “John 4:44 and the
Patris of Jesus,” CBQ 49 (1987): 254–63; Alois Stimpfle, “Das ‘sinnlose gar’ in Joh 4:44:
Beobachtungen zur Doppeldeutigkeit im Johannesevangelium,” BN 65 (1992): 86–96;
Van Belle, “The Faith of the Galileans,” 39.
113 Cf. John 7:41, 52 which also associate Jesus with Galilee, as well as references to Jesus’ fam-
ily being from Galilee in 2:1; 6:42; and 7:1–3.
this creates with the Galilean welcome in 4:45, it is usually assumed that the
response of the Galileans to Jesus’ work is not genuine. Since their faith is tied
to Jesus’ performance of a miracle (4:48114), it should be understood as “bloße
Zeichenglaube.”115
These explanations for Galilee as Jesus’ πατρίς are perhaps not insurmount-
able, but there are a number of other factors that offer a more formidable chal-
lenge to the notion that Galilee/Galileans are symbols of acceptance. Bassler
argues that the omission of any reference in 4:45 to false intentions means that
the Galileans’ faith should not be understood against the backdrop of 2:23–25,
which indicates that faith based on signs may not be genuine or fully adequate.
However, she contends that other passages alluding to the faith of the Ioudaioi
should be read against this backdrop, despite the fact that they also fail to
mention any disingenuousness.116 Regardless, it is difficult to read the double
reference to the Galileans’ presence at the festival in Jerusalem in 4:45 as not
hearkening back to 2:23–25,117 and at the very least the reader is likely to notice
the hints of ambiguity.118 The full import of the festival references are only
borne out completely in what follows.
Meeks’ approach is to read 4:44–45 in light of 1:11–12, given the use of ἴδιος in
both passages. If according to 1:11 Jesus’ “own” do not receive him and yet he is
accepted in Galilee (and Samaria), Jesus’ πατρίς must be Judea.119 This would
seem to be a clear indication as to the proper interpretation of 4:44, but ambi-
guities remain. The connection between 4:45 and 1:12 is not as apparent as it
might at first seem. Whereas 1:11–12 speaks of those who do or do not “receive”
(παραλαμβάνω) Jesus, 4:45 states that the Galileans “welcomed” (δέχομαι) him.120
114 Noting the use of the plural pronouns rather than the singular.
115 Haenchen, Das Johannesevangelium, 257.
116 Bassler, “The Galileans,” 248–49, 254 n.39; similarly, Fortna, “Theological Use of Locale,”
72, 86 n.81.
117 Bultmann, John, 204; Brown, The Gospel According to John, 29.188.
118 It may also be significant that, according to 2:23, “during the Passover festival many
believed in his name.” That the “many” included Ioudaioi may be inferred from 2:18, but
the epithet is not directly mentioned here, of all places. This makes it easier to associate
the Galileans with this group, while at the same time making it more difficult to link it to
subsequent references to the Ioudaioi.
119 Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 165. Meeks is well aware of the primary reason for assuming
Jesus’ πατρίς to be Galilee, namely, that he is “from Nazareth.” He sees this as one of the
great complexities in John that a symbolic understanding of geography helps to alleviate.
120 Davies makes this very point, saying “there was nothing to prevent John from there writ-
ing elabon or parelabon auton hoi Galilaioi rather than edexanto auton hoi Galilaioi”
(The Gospel and the Land, 326). Bassler counters that “Davies’ insistence. . . simply
166 Chapter 4
The two words have an overlapping semantic range, but given the ubiquity
of λαμβάνω/παραλαμβάνω, including its thematic use in key parallels such as
5:43,121 the use of the hapax δέχομαι here is, at the very least, conspicuous.122
Proceeding further through the narrative to the healing of the royal official’s
son, Meeks makes the valid point that signs in the Fourth Gospel should not
be interpreted against the background of the synoptics, but his insistence that
such signs lead to a “genuine” faith, albeit one that is “without understanding
until Jesus’ ‘glorification’ ” may still be an overstatement.123 He argues against
Bultmann124 that the faith of the royal official, being the result of a sign,
implies the legitimacy of Galilean sign faith. Craig Keener, however, stakes out
a middle ground, maintaining that signs in John lead to a faith that is “not bad”
but “by itself inadequate.”125 If Keener is correct, it may be significant that the
official’s faith comes before he sees the sign (contra Jesus’ apparently exasper-
ated statement in 4:48) and is explicitly linked to “the word that Jesus spoke”
(4:50) rather than the sign itself. Thus, the official’s faith might be set up as a
subtle contrast to the Galileans’ response to Jesus, rather than a confirmation
of it,126 in which case his identification as a βασιλικός may function to heighten
reflects a rigid inflexibility with regard to theme-development that fails to do justice to

the e vangelist’s skill and subtlety” (“The Galileans,” 253 n.37). Her rebuttal is a bit thin;
if indeed the author exhibits “skill and subtlety,” it seems more likely that at this crucial
point in the narrative, more consistency with the carefully developed theme would have
been maintained. Meeks does not discuss the Greek.
121 “I have come in my father’s name, and you do not receive (λαμβάνετε) me.” The verse is
mentioned by Davies, also. Its importance lies not with the fact that the Galileans are
being accused here (the accusation is leveled against those in the Temple), but with the
fact that the object of the verb is Jesus himself, as in 1:11–12. At other times, it is the “testi-
mony” (3:11, 32; 5:34) or the “words” (12:48; 17:8) that serve as the object of the verb.
122 Cf. 19:27 and (authorship issues aside) 2 John 10 where δέχομαι might be naturally
employed, but λαμβάνω is used instead. See, however, 3 John 9–10 which does use
ἐπιδέχομαι, but, unlike John 4:45, in the deliberate context of a letter of recommendation
where such vocabulary would be expected. See Abraham J. Malherbe, “The Inhospitality
of Diotrephes,” in God’s Christ and His People (ed. Jacob Jervell and Wayne Meeks; Oslo:
Universitetsforlaget, 1977), 222–32, who lays the groundwork for understanding 3 John as
a typical Greco-Roman letter of recommendation by identifying consistencies in vocabu-
lary, although he stops short of drawing this conclusion himself.
123 Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 164.
124 See Bultmann, John, 204.
125 Keener, The Gospel of John, I.277.
126 Clearly this is not exactly Meeks’ position, but neither is it the position of Bultmann,
which Meeks rightly criticizes. Meeks (“Galilee and Judea,” 164) states that “only by a very
strange logic” can the response of the royal official be construed as rejection of Jesus.
the contrast even further.127 The persistent ambiguity has not really gone away,
and the pattern of Galilean faith that was implied in 2:11 is showing hints of
unraveling.
Yet it will not do to stop at ch. 4. When Jesus returns to Galilee in ch. 6,
the crowd at the miraculous feeding initially seems to fit the pattern of accep-
tance: upon seeing the sign, they declare that Jesus is “the prophet who is to
come into the world” (6:14). Later, however, it becomes apparent that their
response was inadequate, since Jesus accuses them of following him because
of the food they ate rather than the sign itself. Their subsequent request for
an additional sign, particularly one like Moses’ provision of manna in the wil-
derness (6:30–31), is a further indication that they are far from an adequate
faith; having just seen one, the demand for another seems impertinent. When
Jesus declares that he is the true manna (6:35–40) and that they must eat his
flesh and drink his blood (6:49–51, 55–56), not only do the Ioudaioi find Jesus’
teaching difficult (6:41, 52), but so do those who are classified as his “disciples”
(6:60). By the end of the narrative, Jesus is forced to confront the disciples’ lack
of belief (6:64), and as a result many of them desert him (6:66). Even among
the Twelve there is betrayal (6:70–71), and despite the belief of the rest of the
Twelve, full understanding is elusive.128 The Johannine goal is not just seeing
the signs, nor even believing the signs, but true discipleship (8:31), and this is
not always attained, not even among the people of Galilee.
127 This is in contrast to Brown, The Gospel of John, 29.188, who sees the official as a parallel to
Nicodemus, with both possessing inadequate faith based on signs. It may also be helpful
at this point to take note of the plural pronouns in Jesus’ comment in 4:48. The fact that
the statement is not directed specifically to the official may be a further indication of the
contrast being argued here.
128 It may not be necessary to go as far as the theory proposed by Paul Anderson, “The Sitz
im Leben of the Johannine Bread of Life Discourse and Its Evolving Context,” in Critical
Readings of John 6 (ed. R. Alan Culpepper; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 1–59. Anderson views
6:67–71 through the lens of a Petrine vs. Johannine rivalry and asserts that Peter’s confes-
sion of Jesus as “the holy one of God” is not Johannine and therefore disingenuous. Jesus’
reference to one of the disciples being a devil in 6:70 is then, according to Anderson,
properly applied to Peter rather than Judas (see especially pp. 50–59). The Petrine
vs. Johannine rivalry may be evident in other places, but not likely here. It is better to
understand Peter’s confession, standing by itself, as less than adequate rather than false.
Peter may claim to “believe and know” (6:69), but Jesus takes little comfort in it at that
moment, and questions what they truly “know” later (14:9). See also Ludger Schenke,
“The Johannine Schism and the ‘Twelve’ (John 6:60–71),” in Critical Readings of John 6
(ed. R. Alan Culpepper; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 205–19, who disagrees with Anderson’s assess-
ment of Peter’s confession.
168 Chapter 4
However, to deduce from all this that Galilee rather than Judea must be the
πατρίς of 4:44 is not entirely accurate either. Most analyses of this passage tend
to view it in light of two options only, either Galilee or Judea, but in reality
this is a false choice. It may be preferable to posit that Jesus’ πατρίς is both
Galilee and Judea.129 Yet at the same time, it must not be assumed that this
double association is fixed or homogeneously presented throughout the gos-
pel, and the point of this study is to suggest an alternative explanation as to
how the evangelist develops this idea. Scholars on the whole have become too
susceptible to plotting John’s geography according to a single map, in John’s
case almost invariably a symbolic one, and the resulting debates are essentially
disagreements over which map to use. That the gospel must be using a single
map, however, goes unquestioned. A single map presupposes a consistent pat-
tern that can be applied at all points within the gospel, thus making it conve-
niently knowable and navigable. The reason why such approaches prove to be
so tempting has a great deal to do with the fact that a single map has the power
of stabilizing meaning.
Mapmaking, however, is inherently unstable. There is no reason to assume
that John is using a single map when painting his own portrait of Galilee or that
he is only interested in presenting his Galilee according to a pattern that goes
unchanged. The lack of a single map or a consistent pattern does not imply
that the evangelist was careless; the contention of this study is that the Fourth
Gospel assigns a “cartographic meaning” to Galilee by deliberately mapping
and remapping, drawing and redrawing. The pattern of Galilean acceptance
is indeed developed at the outset, but the pattern is broken as the narrative
continues. Thus, with regard to Galilee, the saying in 4:44 is transitional. To
that point, Galilee and Judea have been mapped largely in juxtaposition to one
another, and the πατρίς of 4:44 might most naturally be interpreted as a refer-
ence to Judea (despite the synoptic tradition), where Jesus has already expe-
rienced opposition (2:13–20; 4:1). The reader might assume that Galilee will
continue to function as a place of acceptance, but soon that function begins
to dissipate. Beginning with 4:44, the lines on John’s map of Galilee are erased
and redrawn, at first slowly and subtly, but still perceptibly. As the narrative
continues, the remapping becomes more noticeable. By the end of Jesus’ final
stint there, Galilee looks very much like Judea, complete with Ioudaioi, mixed
129 See Ben Witherington III, John’s Wisdom: A Commentary on the Fourth Gospel (Louisville,
Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 126.
reactions, and inadequate faith. John’s Galilee is not consistent; it is organic.

John’s map of Galilee is not static; it is dynamic.130
Although the fluctuating pattern of Galilean acceptance is arguably the
most significant both to the gospel and to Johannine scholarship, it is not
the only one. The Fourth Gospel also associates other patterns with Galilee
that are likewise mapped onto the territory to the same effect. As cartographic
lines are erased and redrawn, patterns established within the text are broken
by the text itself.
Galilee as the Place of Origin

Another significant pattern associated with Galilee in the Fourth Gospel is the
“whence” of Jesus’ origins. John 4:44 is obviously key to this pattern as well, but
the evangelist goes much further than that one passage. Once again, the pat-
tern seems clear: the evangelist is well aware of the tradition that Jesus hails
from Nazareth (1:45–46; 18:5–7; 19:19) and that his family lives in Galilee (2:1;
6:42; 7:1–3). Furthermore, the crowds and the Pharisees associate Jesus with
Galilee (7:41, 52). The clarity of this pattern is not the issue, however; what
is at issue is its consistency. It is probably deliberate that all such identifica-
tions come from others within the gospel, not Jesus himself. Yet the gospel
also places on the lips of other characters the assertion that Jesus is both a
Ioudaios (4:9, 22) and a Samaritan (8:48). Bassler is correct that these latter
statements are not to be taken literally, but their purpose is not to undergird
130 The rearrangement theory made famous by Bultmann ( John, 209), where he contends
that chs. 5 & 6 were transposed in the earliest stages of the transmission of the gospel, is
intriguing. If this were in fact the case, there would likely be less robust speculation about
a pattern of Galilean acceptance; any positive connotations associated with Galilee as a
result of the healing of the official’s son would be too quickly mitigated by the immediate
transition to the feeding of the 5000 and the additional ambiguities that arise from it. For
the purposes of this study, however, it is not necessary to hold Bultmann’s view. The pres-
ent order allows for a more deliberate development of the characterization of Galilee: in
1:43–2:12, the pattern of Galilean acceptance is established, especially in juxtaposition to
the skepticism of the Ioudaioi; in 4:43–54, the pattern is made more ambiguous, especially
in juxtaposition to the acceptance of Jesus in Samaria; in 6:1–71, the pattern is broken
completely, and the Galileans, like the Ioudaioi of 5:45–47 (cf. 7:19–24; 9:28–29), are char-
acterized by their misunderstanding of Moses. Thus, the obvious geographical problems
notwithstanding, the present order actually enhances the cartographic meaning pro-
posed here, in contrast to Brown (The Gospel According to John, 29.235–36) who does not
favor the rearrangement theory because geography was not important to the evangelist.
Cf. D. Moody Smith, John (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1999), 130, who discusses the
rearrangement theory without coming down firmly on either side.
170 Chapter 4
a rigid symbolism pertaining to acceptance and rejection. Instead, they func-

tion as subverting elements with regard to Jesus’ place of origin, working in
concert with a more subtle pattern of destabilization that is actually built
into the very statements that map Nazareth/Galilee as Jesus’ πατρίς. In other
words, the Nazareth/Galilee pattern is at variance with another map deliber-
ately and simultaneously superimposed upon it.
This other mapping is evident in a series of symbols and symbolic refer-
ences that are all linked by the Fourth Gospel’s use of the word πόθεν.131 The
question of “whence” is applied repeatedly, creating a backdrop against which
Jesus’ own origins can be evaluated. In each case, there is a lack of understand-
ing about the object’s true place of origin: wine in Cana (2:9); wind (3:8); living
water (4:11); bread that sustains (6:5; cf. 6:31–42). The interlocutors assume a
natural explanation, but Jesus knows that such explanations will not suffice.
After the difficult teaching about the true bread that comes down from heaven
(and after Jesus’ last stint in Galilee until after his resurrection), the question
of origins shifts specifically to Jesus (7:27; 8:14; 9:29), and it becomes clear that
Jesus is not really from Galilee, but from the one who sent him (7:29), from
above (8:23), from God (9:30–32). He is not ἐκ τοῦ κόσμου τούτου at all. All of
these references, many laden with double meaning, are sandwiched between
two open ended questions about Jesus’ origins which account for the first and
last occurrences of πόθεν in the gospel. In 1:48, Nathanael asks Jesus, “πόθεν
do you have knowledge of me?” and Jesus gives an indirect response, claim-
ing that he has supernatural foresight and alluding to greater signs.132 At this
point, the reader is only beginning to see the “whence” pattern develop. In 19:9,
πόθεν resurfaces for the last time when Pilate, perplexed by the vitriol heaped
upon Jesus by his own people, asks him, “Where are you from?” and Jesus gives
no response at all. Yet by this point, the reader is fully aware of Jesus’ true ori-
gins. He is not the man from Galilee, but the man from heaven.133
Thus, when addressing the “whence” of Jesus, the evangelist utilizes two
maps at once. On the first map, the map of Jesus’ πατρίς, Galilee plays a unique
131 See Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 162–63; Davies, The Gospel and the Land, 329; Benedetto
Prete, “La particella pothen e il probleme del quaerere Deum nel quarto vangelo,” in
Quaerere Deum: Atti della XXV Settimana Biblica (ed. Nicolò Maria Loss and Luciano
Pacomio; Brescia: Paideia Editrice, 1980), 419–35.
132 Barrett’s explanation of the use of πόθεν here is helpful in understanding the sense of
the question (The Gospel According to St. John, 185). He restates it as “How do you know
me?” based on similar constructions, both Semitic and Greek. This need not preclude the
evangelist’s deliberate usage in 1:48, however, especially given the ubiquitous use of πῶς
throughout the rest of the gospel.
133 The echo of Meeks’ highly evocative 1972 essay is, of course, deliberate.
role that, at the outset, seems distinguishable from Judea. However, the second
map, the map of Jesus’ origins, runs at deliberate cross-purposes with the first.134
On this map, Galilee is subsumed under headings such as “from below” and
“this world” (8:23) in much the same way that Judea is. To argue that Galilee is
Jesus’ πατρίς may be a legitimate position; to argue that Galilee is Jesus’ place
of origin is not. Early in the gospel, the first map sits closer to the surface and is
more easily read, but by the end of the gospel, the second map has obscured it
beyond recognition. Lines that once seemed clear are crossed, then erased, and
finally redrawn. This is visible even in those references that claim Nazareth/
Galilee as Jesus’ homeland, since in each case the association is laced with
ambiguity or paradox. The first identification of Jesus as being from Nazareth
(1:45), is immediately cast in shadow by Nathanael’s question and Jesus’ mirac-
ulous response. Likewise, viewed against the broader question of Jesus’ origins,
the references to Galilee in 7:41 and 52 drip not so much with symbolism as
with irony. Having been asked at his arrest if he is “Jesus the Nazorean,”135 his
response, ἐγώ εἰμι, is only understandable when utilizing both maps (18:5, 8).
He answers affirmatively, but in such a way as to reveal his divine identity and
true origin.136 When Pilate uses the same designation on the titulus (19:19), the
reader has both Jesus’ claim to the divine origin (18:5–6) and Pilate’s exasper-
ated, unanswered question (19:9) echoing in the background.
With respect to Jesus’ origins, therefore, the Fourth Gospel assigns “carto-
graphic meaning” to Galilee through the simultaneous use of multiple maps.
The goal is not to separate these maps from one another and view them sepa-
rately, however. The Johannine Galilee’s full significance arises out of the distor-
tion and dissonance created when using both maps at once. Either map viewed
by itself will not suffice. Getting the whole picture requires simultaneity.
Galilee as the Place of Retreat

Similar to other mappings of Galilee in the Fourth Gospel, another pattern can
be identified in the way the evangelist presents Galilee as a place of retreat,
especially from the ignoble intentions of the Ioudaioi. The first indications
134 Although it is important to consider the two concepts simultaneously, care must be taken
to distinguish between what the evangelist understands as Jesus’ πατρίς and Jesus’ true
origins. Lightfoot’s infamous comment that Jesus’ πατρίς is “the bosom of the father”
(St. John’s Gospel, 35) is not so much wrong as a misapplication of Johannine cartography.
135 Regardless of its derivation, the epithet Ναζωραῖος should be understood as being tan-
tamount to ἀπὸ Ναζαρέτ (1:45; cf. Matt 2:23; 26:71; Luke 18:37; numerous variants). See
Bultmann, John, 639 n.7; Meeks, “Galilee and Jerusalem,” 160 n.6.
136 As is commonly argued. See Keener, The Gospel of John, II.1082 n.120.
172 Chapter 4
of this pattern can be found in 4:1–3, when Jesus retreats to Galilee after the
Pharisees learn of his growing popularity, but it is most clearly stated in 7:1–2
where Jesus avoids Judea because the Ioudaioi want him executed. Closely
linked to this pattern are other connotations, such as Galilee being a place of
privacy/secrecy (ἐν κρυπτῷ, 7:3–4) and a place where Jesus “remains” (μένω, 7:9;
cf. 2:12).137 Again, the primary contrast is with Judea.138
As before, while a definite pattern emerges, it is not always consistent. In
ch. 7, in fact, it is broken rather abruptly: Jesus “remains” in Galilee (7:9), but
only until his brothers leave for the festival in Jerusalem. Immediately there-
after he goes to Jerusalem as well, but he does so ἐν κρυπτῷ (7:10), and even
in the Temple he can hide himself (κρύπτω) from the Ioudaioi (8:59; cf. 12:38).
Then, when Jesus seeks a place to “remain” in retreat from the Ioudaioi, he
does not return to Galilee. Having already “remained” in Bethany beyond the
Jordan (1:38–39; cf. v. 28) and Samaria (4:40), he “remains” beyond the Jordan
once again (10:40–42; 11:6) and also in the city of Ephraim “in the region near
the wilderness” (11:54). Thus, although Jesus does not “remain” in Jerusalem or
Judea, neither does he “remain” exclusively in Galilee.139
Of all the places where Jesus “remains,” however, the most intriguing may
be Capernaum (2:12), because it is this place more than any other that hints
at a disruption of yet another Galilean pattern. First, although the presence
of his disciples might imply fellowship (cf. 1:38–39; 11:54), Jesus’ brothers
“remain” in Capernaum with him also. Admittedly, the reader may not yet
associate the brothers with disbelief (this is not revealed until 7:5), but this is
precisely the point. The map of Galilee is not static; it is drawn and redrawn.
Second, during the only other time in the gospel that Jesus is explicitly placed
in Capernaum (6:59), his teaching is challenged and those who are called “dis-
ciples” desert him. Furthermore, this occurs in, of all places, Capernaum’s syn-
agogue. Not only is this significant in the later context of Johannine Christians
being ousted from the synagogues,140 it also breaks apart the pattern of Galilee
137 Meeks, “Galilee and Judea,” 167–68; Brown, The Gospel of John, 29.510–12; Neyrey, “Spaces
and Places,” 63–64; Keener, The Gospel of John, I.472. The perceived theological impor-
tance of μένω derives from not only the instances when Jesus “remains” in a certain place,
but also in the emphasis that is place on “remaining” in Jesus within the Johannine tradi-
tion. See, for starters, John 6:56; 8:31; 15:4ff; 1 John 2:6; 2:27–28; 3:6; 2 John 9.
138 Jesus’ brothers urge him to go to Judea since that is where he can act with παρρησία and
make himself known to the rest of the world (7:3–4; cf. 10:24), and as Meeks points out,
Jesus never “stays” (μένει) in Judea or Jerusalem.
139 In fact, the gospel only mentions Jesus remaining in Galilee twice, compared to three
times in the Transjordan, and twice elsewhere.
140 Martyn, History and Theology, 119.
as a place of retreat from the Ioudaioi. Jerusalem, in other words, is not the only
place where Jesus appears publicly and where he is publicly confronted. That
the Capernaum synagogue episode is to be understood as a public appear-
ance derives from Jesus’ reply to the high priest in 18:20: “I have spoken openly
(παρρησίᾳ) to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple,
where all the Ioudaioi come together. I have said nothing in secret (ἐν κρυπτῷ).”141
Perhaps it should come as no surprise that immediately after the only mention
of Jesus remaining in “Galilee” (7:9), Jesus leaves Galilee and finds retreat else-
where. Capernaum, the one specific locale in Galilee where Jesus “remains,” is
no place of retreat. If indeed it is mapped as such in 2:12, by 6:59 this mapping
has been erased.
Summary: Galilee and “Cartographic Meaning”

What emerges from this analysis of Galilee in the Fourth Gospel is that any
attempt to assign a singular value or consistent symbolism to John’s Galilee
will likely end in frustration, and caution should be observed before too fac-
ilely portraying Galilee as the place of “fill in the blank.” Despite Bassler’s rig-
orous presentation and the substantial following that she has garnered, the
symbolism she has proposed is too rigid for John’s cartographic process. It is
preferable to view the mappings in terms of the places rather than the people,
with the understanding that the cartography itself takes precedence. In other
words, all territory is mapped, and Galilee in John is no exception. Yet although
the maps of Galilee are mutable and multiple, they are not capricious. The
contention of this study is that the evangelist intentionally constructs maps
and then replaces them, draws lines and then erases them, creates patterns and
then breaks them. We are left with really only one pattern—that all emerging
patterns about Galilee within the text are broken by the text itself. The consis-
tent element is misdirection. If, as Harold W. Attridge put it, the Fourth Gospel
can bend genres,142 perhaps it can also be said to bend geographies, especially
given that geography bending is inherent to the process of mapping. Maps, by
their very nature, bend geography in order to communicate something about
141 That the Johannine Christians were forced to grapple with being ἀποσυνάγωγοι (9:22;
12:42; 16:2) is widely recognized (see Martyn, History and Theology, 46–66). However, 6:59
and 18:20 constitute the only two times that the noun συναγωγή appears in the gospel. The
significance of the unexpected appearance of the Ioudaioi has more to do with the fact
that synagogues are places “where all the Ioudaioi come together” than the author’s need
to maintain a Galilean/Ioudaios symbolism.
142 Harold W. Attridge, “Genre Bending in the Fourth Gospel,” JBL 121:1 (2002): 3–21.
174 Chapter 4
the geography in question. Distortion of the patterns can be integral to the

communicative process.
An intriguing parallel to John’s cartographic meaning can be found in
Michael Scott’s case-study of Strabo’s description of Greece. According to
Scott, scholars of Strabo have too readily marginalized Greece’s role within his
Geography—ironically so, since it occupies the midpoint of the work.143 Like
the entirety of the oikoumenē, Greece is a conflicted space, struggling to find
its place in the new era of Rome. Yet Strabo’s extensive discussion of Greece’s
history and society coupled with the prominent descriptions of Greek cit-
ies would seem to serve as something of an apologetic. Greece’s glory days
lie in the past, but its past refuses to fade away, as if Greece is “suspended in
time (indeed, out of time and above reproach).”144 The result is a simultane-
ous mapping of Greece, one that is characterized by both “importance and
impotence.”145 Embedded within, argues Scott, is also a subtle critique of
Rome itself. Dominant though it may be, next to Greece, it appears transient.146
Similar to Strabo’s Greece, the cartographic meaning of John’s Galilee is
multivalent. Not only can the evangelist assign to it multiple maps simulta-
neously, but those same maps can be altered in the course of the narrative.
At the outset many of these patterns set Galilee and Judea at odds with one
another, but perhaps the most remarkable observation stemming from this
study is how similar Galilee and Judea eventually become, far more similar
than the history of scholarship might lead one to believe: both are places of
belief and acceptance;147 both are places of disbelief and rejection;148 both fea-
ture incomplete faith;149 in both, Jesus divinely sees through insincere faith;150
in both, people are divided over faith;151 both are places of public teaching;152
both are places of personal concealment;153 both can claim to be Jesus’ πατρίς;154
143 Michael Scott, Space and Society in the Greek and Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge
UP, 2013) 144. See Strabo, Geogr. Bks. 8–10.
144 Ibid., 151.
145 Ibid., 146.
146 Ibid., 158.
147 Galilee: 2:11; 4:50, 53; 6:69. Judea: 9:38; 11:45a; 12:11.
148 Galilee: 4:44; 6:52, 64, 71. Judea: 4:44; 5:16; 8:48, 59; 9:22; 10:31; 11:57; 12:37.
149 Galilee: 6:14. Judea: 8:30–33; 12:42–43.
150 Galilee: 6:64. Judea: 2:23–25.
151 Galilee: 6:66–71. Judea: 7:43; 9:16; 10:19–21; 11:45–46.
152 Galilee: 6:59 (cf. 18:20). Judea: 7:26 (cf. 18:20).
153 Galilee: 7:1–4. Judea: 7:10; 8:59; 12:36.
154 Galilee: 1:45–46; 4:44; 18:5–7; 19:19. Judea: 4:9, 22, 44.
neither qualifies as the place of Jesus’ true origins;155 in both places Ioudaioi
are present;156 and, perhaps not coincidentally, Jesus appears to his disciples
in both places after the resurrection.157 What is initially so perplexing about
John’s Galilee is that it does not begin as a counterpart to Judea but as a foil.
To assume that it functions as a foil throughout, however, is to misunderstand
its cartographic meaning.
The stark similarities that eventually do emerge are placed in even greater
relief when Galilee is mapped against other places. When Samaria (or, to
a lesser degree, the Transjordan) is added to the mix, it becomes clear that
Galilee has more in common with Judea than with Samaria. Yet this pales in
comparison to the most important “place” of all for John’s cartography. Jesus’
insistence that he is the “living bread that came down from heaven” (6:51),
that he is “from above” (8:23), that as the true light “coming into the world”
(1:9) he comes “to his own” who do not receive him (1:11), places both Galilee
and Judea on equal footing. Mapped against the kingdom that is “not from
this world” (18:36), the lines of distinction that characterized them at first are
erased, and they function cooperatively as the foil for Jesus’ true place of origin
(1:51; 6:42; 8:23).
John’s Galilee and Critical Geography: Implications
Ernst Käsemann is well known for his view of John’s Christology. In response
to Bultmann, his teacher, he contended that the key phrase in the prologue of
John was not “the Word became flesh,” but rather “and we beheld his glory.”158
The Fourth Gospel was, according to Käsemann, naively docetic,159 and no
Christology of humiliation was to be found in it. The characteristic feature of
the evangelist’s voice was its “other worldly quality,” which had always been
recognized and always esteemed.160 Käsemann’s position has been chal-
lenged, notably by Günther Bornkamm, who was also student of Bultmann.
Bornkamm contended that what Käsemann identified as docetic was actually
155 3:31; 8:23; 18:36.

156 Galilee: 6:41–59. Judea: passim, but especially 7:1; 11:7–8.
157 Galilee: 21:1–23. Judea: 20:1–29.
158 Käsemann, The Testament of Jesus, 8–9.
159 Ibid., 18. “Naïve” not in the sense of uninformed, but rather “not thought through nor
elevated into dogma” (45).
160 Ibid., 2.
176 Chapter 4
pre-Johannine tradition.161 “Docetic” may have been a fair descriptor of the tra-
dition but not the evangelist, who manipulated the tradition so as to avoid what
was for Käsemann a “sacrifice of history.”162 Thus, for Bornkamm, Käsemann’s
insistence that the passion narrative was an embarrassment to the evangelist
was unfounded, since Jesus’ glorification could only be understood in light
of—not in spite of—the crucifixion.163 Following Bornkamm, other studies
have taken on Käsemann’s thesis as well, effectively turning it on its head and
characterizing the Gospel of John as a refutation of docetic tendencies within
the early church.164
It was argued above that the symbolic approach to Johannine geography,
in light of King’s theories about mapping, is guilty of separating the sym-
bol from the space itself, and in analyzing the symbol, the space was often
discarded.165 “Cartographic meaning,” however, does not discard the territory;
it embraces territory as something that is “always already” mapped.166 It views
territory as something to which meaning and significance can be assigned, not
as something from which meaning and significance should be extracted. The
advantage of this cartographic approach, therefore, is that land and meaning
are inextricably bound. It is not comfortable with characterizing Johannine
161 Günther Bornkamm, “Towards the Interpretation of John’s Gospel: A Discussion of The
Testament of Jesus by Ernst Käsemann,” in The Interpretation of John (2nd ed.; ed. John
Ashton; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 111.
162 Ibid., 102. The phrase is Bornkamm’s, not Käsemann’s.
163 Ibid., 107–8.
164 For arguably the most thorough critique, see Marianne Meye Thompson, The Humanity of
Jesus in the Fourth Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988). Other helpful assessments
along similar lines can be found in Paul Anderson, The Christology of the Fourth Gospel: Its
Unity and Disunity in Light of John 6 (Tübingen: Mohr, 1996), 161–62; George L. Parsenios,
Rhetoric and Drama in the Johannine Lawsuit Motif (WUNT 258; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck,
2010), 120. For a somewhat more sympathetic view, see Kyle Keefer, The Branches of the
Gospel of John: The Reception of the Fourth Gospel in the Early Church (New York: T&T
Clark, 2006), 85–89, who calls Käsemann’s reading of John understandable but “naively
Valentinian” (86).
165 In fact, this is not unique to those who espouse a symbolic geography. Brown, who has
no use for a Johannine geographical symbolism also sees very little use for the land
itself. As quoted above, geography was “not of major importance” to the evangelist (The
Gospel According to John, 1.236). Likewise, Davies discounted geographical symbolism not
because he feared the territory of John might be lost, but because he assumed it already
was, having been subsumed under the “holy space” of Jesus (The Gospel and the Land, 318).
g eography as a network of symbols “striding over the earth,”167 and it precludes

the “sacrifice of geography”168 that has become so prevalent in modern criti-
cism. Is it possible that current scholarship on the Fourth Gospel has fallen
prey to a “geographical docetism”169 that, in fact, runs counter to the evange-
list’s own (anti-docetic?) rhetoric with regard to geography?
The assertion being made here is that the Fourth Gospel does not extract
meaning from the territory as the prevailing schema would seem to imply; it
imbues the territory with meaning. Despite the negative connotations persis-
tently associated with “the world” in John, especially when mapped against
Jesus’ kingdom which is “not of this world,” Jesus does not descend there to
reciprocate the rejection that is heaped upon him. The world may not be the
place of Jesus’ origins, but it is his destination, a stark contrast to the synop-
tic tradition which sees his ultimate destination as Jerusalem. When Jesus
prays for the disciples, he does not ask the Father to take them out of the
world (17:15). Instead he sends them into the world, just as he was sent into
the world (17:18), so that the world might believe (17:21) and know the true
“whence” of Jesus (17:23). The evangelist makes use of multiple maps, all of
which provide Galilee and Judea with cartographic meaning in their own way,
but by the end all cartographies pay homage to this one. This ultimate super-
imposition does not smooth over other cartographies; it merely adds the final
layer of dissonance and distortion through which other cartographies must be
viewed. Communication happens through this distortion, not in spite of it.
The result is not only a coalescence of Galilee and Judea but a universal-
izing approach to all territory—not the particularizing one that characterizes
the current analysis of Johannine geography and assigns static and distinct
meanings to each place. In 4:20–21, the Samaritan woman’s comment comes
squarely out of a mapping which subdivides territory: this mountain or that
one? Jesus says neither.170 In 10:16, Jesus says there will be one flock, one shep-
herd, even though at that moment there are other sheep that have not yet been
brought into the fold. In 11:49–51, Caiaphas’ prophecy is teased out to its fullest
167 To borrow a phrase from Käsemann. See Ernst Käsemann, Essays on New Testament
Themes (London: SCM Press, 1964), 58.
168 To paraphrase Bornkamm. See above.
169 See Jeffrey L. Staley, “The Politics of Place and the Place of Politics in the Gospel of John,”
in What is John? Volume II: Literary and Social Readings of the Fourth Gospel (ed. Fernando
F. Segovia; SBLSymS 7; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 265–77, who uses this phrase
although with a different application.
170 Cf. Alain Marchadour and David Neuhaus, The Land, the Bible, and History: Toward a Land
That I Will Show You (New York: Fordham UP, 2007), 76–78.
178 Chapter 4
extent: Jesus is to die not only for the nation, but to gather into one the dis-
persed children of God. The crux of Johannine geography, in other words, does
not lie in deciphering and dissecting regional differences, or in the elevation
of one over another but in the unbounded universal mission. The message of
John is not grasped by detaching it from geography; the message of John grasps
all geography.
In an essay on the function of time and history in the Fourth Gospel, Nils
Dahl argued that the evangelist deliberately keeps Jesus within the histori-
cal land of Israel until his “time” has come.171 When the Greeks visit him in
12:20–23 (cf. 2:4; 7:6–8), it marks the end of his ministry in Israel and the begin-
ning, not of some heavenly reign, but of the universal mission to the world.172
Furthermore, Dahl states that on account of Jesus’ death, the “historical and
geographical limitations of the ministry of Jesus are dissolved” (cf. 12:32–33).
The spatial analysis provided here suggests that this universalizing trend
stems not only from his departure from the world (13:1) but also his advent
(16:28). The perplexing imagery of Jesus as both the ascending and descend-
ing Son of Man serves at the very least to provide cartographic meaning to
the world, not only as a place to be juxtaposed with heaven but also as Jesus’
destination. The key to understanding this motif is its mythic structure,173
which, when applied spatially, ultimately underscores Jesus’ foreignness
in a world that is his πατρίς but not his home. Yet the Prophet seeks it out
regardless (6:14; 7:52). What Meeks applies to Johannine metaphor, so “fraught
with opportunity for misunderstanding,”174 also apples to Johannine cartog-
raphy: “its self-contradictions and its disjunctures may be seen to be means of
communication.”175 There may be something of “Galilee” that can be read into
171 Nils Alstrup Dahl, “The Johannine Church and History,” in The Interpretation of John
(2nd ed.; ed. John Ashton; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1997), 151.
172 Ibid., 150. Intriguingly, it is against this very backdrop that Dahl comments on
John 4:44 and Jesus’ πατρίς. When faced with the two primary options, Judea and Galilee,
Dahl chooses neither. The lack of honor Jesus receives refers to his entire “earthly
ministry” (151).
173 Meeks, “The Man from Heaven,” 48–49.
174 Ibid., 64.
175 Ibid., 68. There is a sense in which my own study takes as its point of departure not a
negative critique of the line of interpretation extending from Meeks (1966) to Bassler, but
a positive critique of an alternative line extending from Meeks (1966) to Meeks (1972).
Many of the questions that Meeks proposed in 1966, questions about the possibility of a
link between Galilee and the Johannine community, have gone unanswered even in the
wake of decades of Galilean archaeology since. Undaunted, in 1972 Meeks embraced the
questions embedded in Johannine literature and concluded that Jesus’ incomprehensibil-
the later history of the Johannine community (just as there may be something
of Judea, Samaria, and the Transjordan), but the social function of Johannine
cartography sets up Galilee as, at best, their πατρίς. It is no more their true
home than it is Jesus’ true home. Johannine Christians are not “Galilean”
because they “receive”; they “receive” because do not “belong to the world” at
all (17:16; cf. 14:16–17; 20:22). As with Jesus, all places have become foreign to
them. Yet just as Jesus was sent to those places, so are they (20:21).
The critique offered here of the current trajectory in the study of Johannine
geography is not that it has misread John. The patterns of geographical distinc-
tion are there. Rather, the critique offered here is that to stop there is to stop too
soon. The Fourth Gospel creates a story with built-in limitations—including
geographical limitations: distinctions, borders, barriers, territoriality—and
then transcends them. It creates patterns, then breaks them. It draws maps, then
redraws them. In John, of all places, when the conclusions we reach detach
us from the earth rather than allow us to invade its sphere, and divide up
its territory rather than transcend its boundaries, perhaps a new method is
needed. When combined with a careful reading of the Fourth Gospel, this new
approach may allow even biblical scholars to opt for heaven while at the same
time not forsake the earth.
ity was part and parcel to the interpretive process, though he did not apply them to John’s
Galilee. My own study is essentially a spatial application of the christological and social
reading proposed in 1972 by Meeks, to whom I am greatly indebted.
Chapter 5
Galilee and Critical Geography: A New

“Spatial Turn”
This study began with a brief look at the mawkish depiction of Galilee by Ernest
Renan in 1863. To Schweitzer’s chagrin, Renan’s biography of Jesus exuded a
sentimentality as unbridled as the book’s sales receipts—it has remained in
print for over 150 years. Of course, Schweitzer is not alone. Another recent
publication on Galilee also features Renan in its opening remarks, and the
assessment is, at the very least, disparaging. The Galilee of Renan is idyllic and
idealized, a “dreamlike never-never-land,”1 and an artificial setting, giving birth
only to an artificial Jesus, simply will not suffice. “What we need,” claim the edi-
tors, “is a more sober appraisal of ancient Galilee,” balanced on the back of the
last 30 years of historical research2—and they are not wrong. Renan’s Galilee is
not the Galilee that we know.
Yet the last 30 years have not only seen a dramatic burgeoning in research
on ancient Galilee, they have also witnessed the transformation of a discipline,
one that lies close to the heart of the region of Galilee itself. It is a discipline
in flux, and it brings a disciplinary perspective that is still in its infancy, but
enough common ground is emerging from the chaotic waters that, by this
point, we might be able to mount a respectful challenge to the historical criti-
cal status quo and say: perhaps Renan was right about something after all.
Without embracing his robust romanticism, his rampant anti-Semitism, or his
racial determinism, Renan does help us to see with full clarity that ancient
Galilee is a construct, a “Thirdspace,” an exercise in “imaginative geography”
and “cartographic meaning.”
Of course, Renan is not alone either. As this study has shown, Josephus,
Luke, and John all qualify as creators of space, and rather than denigrate them
for it, they have been embraced as geographers in their own right. Critical
geographers today may not always be pleased with their creations, but criti-
cal geography, the disciplinary amalgam of a multitude of emerging spatial
criticisms, demands that we give them their due. In fact, those of us who study
Galilee from any perspective are, whether consciously or not, doing something
1 David A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange, “Introduction to Galilee: Volumes 1 and 2,” in Vol. 1
of Galilee in the Late Second Temple and Mishnaic Periods: Life, Culture, and Society (ed. David
A. Fiensy and James Riley Strange; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014) 3.
2 Ibid.

Galilee and Critical Geography 181
similar, namely, creating a space that suits our needs as academics or as activ-
ists, as critics or as clerics. We would all do well to embrace what we are. As the
second edition of the 1562 Geneva Bible erroneously rendered in Matthew 5:9,
“Blessed are the placemakers.”3
Critical geography does not merely bless the process, however. It also cre-
ates avenues for viewing those maps in a new light or, for some readers per-
haps, even for the first time. As stated in chapter 1, this study makes no claim
to being another attempt at recovering the Galilee of history, though hopefully
historians of Galilee will find it useful. Fundamentally, it is an experiment in
applying new, deliberately spatial criticisms to ancient, intrinsically spatial
texts, and therein lie its most important contributions: to a discipline-in-the-
making that challenges the dominance of history and to an ancient space that
continues to be viewed primarily through a historical lens. Each of these areas,
critical geography and the study of ancient space, constitutes a challenge,
especially for those rooted in historical critical methods. What potentially
awaits, however, as scholars of ancient Judaism and early Christianity become
more attuned to the spatialities of the texts we study, is a Galilean “spatial
turn.” The specific implications of applying critical geography to Josephus,
Luke, and John have been summarized at the end of their respective chap-
ters and will not be repeated here. What follows are concluding remarks with
regard to these methodological challenges and the new intellectual spaces they
make accessible.
Challenge #1: Utilizing Critical Geography
Despite several decades of disciplinary development, even the fundamental

concept of “place” has no agreed upon definition.4 This can create obstacles,
even splintering,5 but also opportunities. In the spirit of “multivocality” that
now characterizes human geography and spatial theory,6 no single theory/
theorist forms the basis for the methodology of the preceding chapters.
3 Quoted also in Matthew Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts (SNTSMS
146; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2009), 260.
4 Charles W.J. Withers, “Place and the ‘Spatial Turn’ in Geography and History,” JHI 70:4
(Oct 2009): 638.
5 John Holmes, “Fifty Years of Disciplinary Flux within Human Geography,” Australian
Geographer 40:4 (Dec 2009): 388.
6 Trevor J. Barnes and James S. Duncan, afterword to Writing Worlds: Discourse, text, and meta-
phor in the representation of landscape (ed. Trevor S. Barnes and James S. Duncan; London
and New York: Routledge, 1992), 252.
182 Chapter 5
Multiple voices involved in the mapping process of a single space remind us

that the maps themselves are subject to change, from one writer to the next
and from one map to the next. Michael Scott argues that the study of space can
shake us free from more traditional, “positivist” ways of studying the ancient
world “by underlining the mutability of meaning and the number of partici-
pants active in creating that meaning.”7 What is true of ancient mappers is also
true of modern theorists.
Furthermore, not every useful analytical perspective derives from the great
luminaries of the field. Both Soja and Said feature prominently in standard
overviews of geography’s evolution into a critical discipline, but Geoff King
barely makes the roster. (King, to be fair, is not a geographer in the disciplinary
sense; he has published far more extensively in his primary field of film study.)
Nevertheless, his concept of “cartographic meaning” yields fruitful results in
the analysis of John’s geography, allowing for an alternative reading that cuts
against the status quo of Johannine scholarship. The results may sound capri-
cious (swap out the theory, and you get a different map altogether), but only if
by “results” we mean a single map that accurately reflects reality, a concept that
King, in fact, argues directly against. The theoretical lenses we use, when they
are successful, do not expose the “proper” map; rather, they expose the pro-
cess of mapping, and that has value for any study of any space, be it a spatial
critical analysis or historical critical research. Responding to would-be dissent-
ers, Matthew Sleeman points out that modern critical spatial theory does not
result in anachronistic readings any more than the absence of theory does.
Every modern reader possesses a perspective/bias that does not match the per-
spective/bias of the ancient author.8 We may take it a step further, however,
and affirm that the utilization of spatial criticism brings an added benefit: it
exposes our own mapping process as well—something we often do uncon-
sciously, not unlike the ancient authors themselves. Thus, when we apply
the principles of critical geography to our studies, we become less prone to
reading ourselves into the text, not more. Exposure to and experimentation
with a multitude of critical geographers should be considered beneficial,
not detrimental, and disciplinary obscurity (as in King’s case) certainly does not
preclude utility.9 Even Edward Said was not a geographer per se. Geographical
theorists made him one.
7 Michael Scott, Space and Society in the Greek and Roman Worlds. (Key Themes in Ancient
History; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2013), 9.
8 Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, 50.
9 Idem, “Mark, the Temple and Space: A Geographer’s Response,” BibInt 15 (2007) 338. Here,
while addressing an audience of biblical scholars, Sleeman makes the valid point that, in
For purists, the aggregate nature of the geographical criticism employed in

this study may elicit a certain degree of “theoretical dissonance,”10 but such is
the current state of the field. In fact, the dissonance shows no signs of abating,
due in part to the fact that the theories themselves are, like the discipline as a
whole, notoriously fluid. Michael C. Frank, in an intriguing article tracking the
“itinerary” of Said’s “imaginative geography,” argues that no theory travels from
one discipline to another without being “reshaped,” an idea, incidentally, trace-
able to Said himself.11 In other words, a theory’s malleability is critical to its
mobility. According to Frank, “Theories do not usually travel in their entirety;
in the context of each ‘turn’, they are reduced to those concepts which can best
be adapted to the theoretical needs of the moment.”12 Chapter 1 illustrates the
point: each of the primary theorists utilized in this study arrived at a theoretical
position “by way of” someone else. Another way in which a spatial theory may
become a “traveling concept”13 is by decoupling the theoretical process from
its ideological underpinnings when those ideologies do not suit the targeted
text. Viewing Luke through the lens of “imaginative geography” was helpful in
exposing his mapping process, but the motivations evident in Said’s process
of mapping the Orient were not necessarily shared by Luke, nor would it be
appropriate for modern readers to foist such a position upon him. A rewriting
of Luke’s map according to Said is not the goal.14
In fact, a conscious effort has been made in this study to respect the con-
texts in which our ancient authors conceived space. Analyzing them with the
help of contemporary theoretical approaches can be instructive, but only if we
remember that they will always map in the context of and (at least to a degree)
in accordance with their own cultural discourses. Ancient geography itself was
anything but static. The scientific/mathematical approach to geographical
the study of space, geography as a discipline does not have the final word. Rather, it offers
perspective, “a lens for interpretations.”
10 Derek Gregory, Ron Martin, and Graham Smith, eds. Human Geography: Society, Space,
and Social Science. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994), 105.
11 Michael C. Frank, “Imaginative Geography as a Travelling Concept: Foucault, Said and the
spatial turn,” European Journal of English Studies 13:1 (April 2009): 61.
12 Ibid., 73.
13 A term obviously employed by Frank, but not unique to him. See, for example, the recent
volume edited by Birgit Neumann and Ansgar Nünning, Travelling Concepts for the
Study of Culture. (Concepts for the Study of Culture, volume 2; Berlin and New York: De
Gruyter, 2012).
14 Sleeman, utilizing Soja’s theoretical model, would seem to agree (Geography and the
Ascension Narrative in Acts, 259). For Luke, heavenly geography is ultimate and not open
to endless re-examinations, as Soja might otherwise prefer.
184 Chapter 5
inquiry, under the influence of Eratosthenes of Cyrene (276–194 BCE)

and Hipparchus of Nicea (ca. 180–125 BCE), was replaced for a time with
ethnographic and topographic concerns. It was not until the 2nd c. CE that
Ptolemy picked up the torch of scientific geography once again.15 Josephus,
Luke, and John are sandwiched in between these more scientific forays dur-
ing a time when the “literary” branch of geography16 was gaining momentum
in authors like Polybius, Strabo, and Pomponius Mela. Alexander Lychnos
of Ephesus, likely a rough contemporary of Strabo and cited by him (Geogr.
14.1.27), was actually a geographical poet—two disciplines that we would rarely
put together today.17 It should not surprise us, then, to learn that all three of
the ancient authors considered in this study reflect certain commonplaces
of the literary geographical tradition. In the sense that it shows an awareness
of both geographical criticisms and historical contexts, this project occupies a
methodological space in between scholars like Sleeman, whose focus is on the
former, and James Scott or Dean Bechard,18 whose focus is on the latter. The
balance is achieved somewhat unconventionally, particularly when placed
alongside other studies of 1st c. CE Galilee. Whereas most studies employ a
methodology in the service of research, I have instead employed research
(ancient history, ancient geography, modern scholarship) in the service of
a methodology.
We can do more than merely adapt the methodologies we employ, how-
ever. A unique aspect of this study is its willingness to bring together multiple
theories in the service of a single goal: a better understanding of the processes
ancient authors utilized in the mapping of Galilee. Deliberately summoning
different, even disparate, voices to the same table has resulted in the composite
theoretical category “critical geography,” a term that should be understandable
to spatial theorists even if it is not widely utilized. Due to its composite nature,
15 Alfred Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scientific Perception of Space,” in Space
and the Roman World: Its Perception and Presentation (Antike Culture und Geschichte 5;
ed. Richard Talbert and Kai Brodersen; Münster: LIT Verlag, 2004), 27–28.
16 Following Daniela Dueck (Geography in Classical Antiquity [Cambridge: Cambridge UP,
2012] 3), who divides ancient geography into three branches: literary, mathematical/
scientific, and graphic.
17 Ibid., 29–30.
18 James M. Scott, “Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” in The Book of Acts in Its First Century
Setting (ed. David W. Gill and Conrad Gempf; vol. 2 of The Book of Acts in Its Graeco-Roman
Setting; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 483–544; idem, Geography in Early Judaism and
Christianity: The Book of Jubilees (SNTSMS 113; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002); Dean P.
Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls: A Study of Luke’s Socio-Geographical Universalism in Acts
14:8–20 (Rome: Editrice Pontificio Instituto Biblico, 2000). See ch. 3 above.
it cannot be lifted from these pages and applied elsewhere without undergo-
ing radical reshaping, and no attempt has been made to establish it as the next
fashionable theoretical lens. As a theoretical assemblage, it is yet another “trav-
elling concept.” A main goal of chapter 1 was to re-route two trajectories, criti-
cal geography and Galilee research, so as to make them collide. Here, I offer
some summary remarks regarding the collision of spatial criticisms.
Although the list of concepts below is unavoidably sequential, it does not
correspond to a sequential application in the preceding chapters, nor is there
an underlying hierarchical order. Rather, they should be understood as a con-
stellation of overlapping ideas, each of which functions differently depend-
ing upon the text, map, or territory to which it is applied. In concert with one
another, they give a sense of how the study of critical geography contributes
to and functions as a theoretical exercise, and how the application of critical
geography to Galilee can foster new interpretive strategies through the geo-
graphical reading of ancient texts.
Imagination. If there is any pride of place given to the first of these concepts,
it is due to the fact that, in its privileged position within terms like “imagina-
tive mapping” and “imaginative geography,” it is subject to the most radical
mischaracterizations. To qualify the mapping of Galilee as “imaginative” is not
tantamount to a geographical anarchy or complete free range in designing new
Galilees. It first and foremost conveys the sense that maps of Galilee do not
necessarily reflect an untainted spatial reality or mirror that which is “on the
ground.” Mapping is a creative exercise, and as such, it is not bound to a system
of logical relations that governs the process of production. An imaginatively
mapped Galilee makes sense to those who are able to read the map, even if its
correspondence to the “real” Galilee is minimal.
Provisionality. Maps of Galilee may be lifted, erased, and redrawn, a process
which contributes to the creation of new cultural meanings and new concep-
tions of territory. In the sense that maps are created in accordance with how
they function, their provisionality means that there is no inherent authority
that may be awarded to one map of Galilee over others.
Simultaneity. Geography is fundamentally simultaneous in the sense that
multiple places can exist side-by-side outside of any sequential, chronological
progression. But simultaneity may be applied to maps as well, since maps of
Galilee are not exclusive of one another. Furthermore, the mapping of Galilee
does not take place in a vacuum but in conjunction with the mappings of other
places. Because of this characteristic simultaneity, it is not always easy—or
advisable—to try and view these maps one at a time.
Distortion. The term distortion can also foster misunderstanding in that
it implies the separation of map and territory as well as imperfection or
186 Chapter 5
d isruption in the mapping process. Distortion is not a miscommunication at

the secondary level of representation; it is primary to the mapping process
and something which is as inseparable from the territory as the map itself.
In terms of Galilee, it does not hinder the flow of information about Galilee.
Much of what may be perceived about Galilee in ancient texts is made known
not through an ostensible objectivity but through the distortion of its maps.
Situatedness. The situatedness of maps overlaps with their provisionality
and simultaneity in that their spatial meaning is defined in relation to other
mappings. Thus, maps are situated by their intertextuality. However, mappings
of Galilee do not exist as spatial phenomena only. They are created in trialectic
relation to a specific system of social relations and a particular historical con-
text, and it is necessary to analyze them with a sensitivity to those contexts.
The fact that they are culturally situated means that they are subject to certain
cultural practices that temper the production of spaces and counterbalance
the provisionality of their maps.
Challenge #2: Understanding Ancient Space
Sean Freyne, in one of the few essays devoted to the status quaestionis of Galilee
research, summarizes recent advances in archaeology with what seems to be a
throw-away line: “Gradually the map . . . is being drawn with greater precision.”19
In its context, Freyne’s comment refers to the use of archaeological survey data
in determining the extent to which stone pottery and other Jewish ethnic mark-
ers can be found scattered throughout Galilee and the Golan (to the uninitiated,
hardly a scintillating topic), but left to stand by itself it is a serviceable synopsis
of the primary goal of the modern study of Galilee. Detailed scale maps have
long been useful tools in biblical studies, and as archaeological and literary-
historical techniques are honed by application, testing, and academic scrutiny,
the impression they give is one of ever increasing objectivity and accuracy. No
doubt in some respects this goal is being attained—we have come a long way
from the “T and O” mappaemundi of the Middle Ages.20 Yet these maps were
not striving for accuracy as is often the case with modern cartography, and to
19 Freyne, “Galilean Studies: Problems and Perspectives,” in Galilee and Gospel: Collected
Essays (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 13.
20 Also called “tripartite” maps, these world maps resembled a letter “T” inscribed within a
letter “O” creating a three-fold division of space corresponding to the continents of Asia
(above the crossbar of the “T”), Europe and Africa (to the left and right of the downstroke,
respectively—such maps are oriented toward the east). The dividers, represented by the
“T” itself, mapped the major bodies of water dividing the continents (the Mediterranean,
criticize them as being “inaccurate” is to misunderstand their function. They

were far more interested in depicting territory than reflecting it.
The “T and O” maps themselves are medieval, but their spatial organization
is ancient.21 Such depictions of the world are likely traceable back to a Roman
precursor, the 1st c. BCE mappamundi of M. Vipsanius Agrippa, displayed in
Rome’s Porticus Vipsania,22 the ultimate purpose of which was not merely to
convey geographical information but to impose meaning upon geography. The
world, after all, belonged to Augustus.23 Unfortunately this map did not sur-
vive, and key questions about its nature remain unanswered. Most assume that
it was pictorial, but considerable debate remains over whether any attempt was
made to draw it to scale.24 Kai Brodersen has even argued that Agrippa’s map
was not a map at all, but a lengthy inscription on world geography.25 The point
here is not to ascertain whether pictorial maps existed in the Greco-Roman
period but to show that very little is known about them. It is highly unlikely, for
example, that the maps preserved in the manuscripts of Ptolemy’s Geography
are faithful copies of originals.26 What we do know about Greco-Roman geog-
raphy comes almost exclusively from texts, not pictorial representations.
the Nile R., and the Tanais R.), while the circumscribing “O” represented Ocean, a circular
river flowing around the entire earth.
21 See, e.g., Homer, Il. 21.190–99; Herodotus, Hist. 4.37–45 (who is rather critical of such
ideas); Polybius, Hist. 3.37.3. See also the discussion in David Woodward, “Medieval
Mappaemundi,” in The History of Cartography (ed. J.B. Harley and David Woodward;
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 296–97. These concepts were sometimes rein-
terpreted in the medieval period through a Christian lens, with the result being that the
tripartite divisions reflected the Table of Nations tradition of Gen 10, with Shem occupy-
ing Asia, Ham occupying Africa, and Japheth occupying Europe.
22 Cf. Pliny, Nat. 3.3.
23 O.A.W. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps (London: Thames and Hudson Ltd., 1985), 41,
comments on the map’s propagandistic function.
24 The debate is somewhat involved. See Susan P. Mattern, Rome and the Enemy: Imperial
Strategy in the Principate (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 49, for a helpful
and concise summary.
25 Kai Brodersen, Terra Cognita: Studien zur römischen Raumerfassung (Hildesheim: G. Olms
Verlag, 1995), 275–77. For an opposing viewpoint, see Benet Salway, “Travel, Itineraria
and Tabellaria,” in Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire (ed. Colin Adams and
Ray Laurence; New York: Routledge, 2001), 29. See also the discussion in Evelyn Edson,
Mapping Time and Space: How Medieval Mapmakers Viewed their World (London: British
Library, 1997), 11.
26 Robert North, S.J., A History of Biblical Map Making (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1979), 61–65;
J. Lennart Berggren and Alexander Jones, Ptolemy’s Geography: An Annotated Translation
of the Theoretical Chapters (Princeton: Princeton UP, 2000), 45.
188 Chapter 5
In these descriptions, spaces are sometimes drastically distorted by the

standards of modern cartography. Julius Caesar, Agrippa’s comentarii, Strabo,
and Ptolemy all describe an “oblong world” in which scale and orientation are
skewed to exaggerate the east-west axis.27 As a result, continents are disfig-
ured, and coastlines and mountain ranges are sometimes described as running
almost perpendicular to their actual directions. Agrippa understood Africa to
be far wider (east-west) than it was long (north-south);28 Ptolemy, despite his
scientific advances, still oriented Italy29 as well as the Libanus and Antilibanus
ranges east-west;30 Strabo envisioned the Pyrenees as running north-south;31
Caesar described the coast of Gaul as facing due north and Britain as lying
close to Spain.32 The famed Tabula Peutingeriana, a medieval copy of a pre-
sumably 4th c. CE original, preserves the same strange dimensions to the mod-
ern eye, but to an even greater extreme, since it depicts the entire Roman world
on a narrow manuscript measuring approximately 7 m long and only 34 cm
high.33 This bizarre “map” probably belongs to the Roman tradition of itiner-
aria, which were essentially station lists with intervening distance measure-
ments that helped travelers get from place to place.34 These lists could be given
in either written (adnotata) or graphic (picta) form. Regarding the latter, how-
ever, it is important to note that “there was no concept of scale . . . geographical
accuracy is not sought.” They are rooted far more “in the experience of travel
than the theory of geography.”35 Their characteristic distortion may be due
to the fact that they are not attempts at cartography at all, even if they were
27 Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 51; Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scientific
Perception of Space,” 37.
28 Mattern, Rome and the Enemy, 51.
29 Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scientific Perception of Space,” 37.
30 North, A History of Biblical Map Making, 64; Henry Innes MacAdam, “Strabo, Pliny,
Ptolemy and the Tabula Peutingeria: Cultural Geography and Early Maps of Phoenicia,” in
Archaeology, History, and Culture in Palestine and the Near East: Essays in Memory of Albert E.
Glock (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 287.
32 Ibid., 52.
33 Berggren and Jones, Ptolemy’s Geography, 31.
34 Kai Brodersen, “The Presentation of Geographical Knowledge for Travel and Transport in
the Roman World: Itineraria non tantum adnotata sed etiam picta,” in Travel and Geography
in the Roman Empire (ed. Colin Adams and Ray Laurence; New York: Routledge, 2001), 13.
35 Ibid., 58; Richard Talbert, however, advocates a reduced level of skepticism regarding the
cartographic origins of the Tabula Peutingeriana, insisting that Brodersen has underval-
ued its significance. See Richard Talbert, “Cartography and Taste in Peutinger’s Roman
Map,” in Space and the Roman World: Its Perception and Presentation. (ed. Richard Talbert
and Kai Brodersen; Antike Kultur und Geschichte 5; Münster: LIT Verlag, 2004), 118.
influenced to some degree by ancient maps. Graphic itineraries typically listed

locations in oblique cases (a governing preposition assumed) indicating their
direct descent not from pictorial maps but from narrative description, at times
even betraying dependence upon a particular verb of motion.36 In other words,
the distortion apparent in numerous geographical texts has found its way
onto the drawn map in the form of a “quite remarkable mixture of correct
information, errors, and illusions.”37
Yet the distortion of geography in ancient texts is not spatial only. These
writers infuse space with meaning in a way that is specific to their own expe-
riences and purposes. Dicaearchus of Messana ran the diaphragma, an east-
west latitudinal line that divided the world into equal northern and southern
halves, through not only the Pillars of Hercules (the Strait of Gibraltar) and the
Taurus Mountains (southern Anatolia), as did Eratosthenes after him,38 but
also through Sardinia (his homeland) and the Peloponnese (where he lived).39
Distances in ancient geographical texts were often measured in terms of the
time taken to travel them.40 Unexplored regions, especially those to the north,
were assumed to be much smaller and more compact than they actually were.41
Claude Nicolet argues that even though the Greeks and the Romans who fol-
lowed them had the ability to picture abstract space as a flat plane, their con-
tinued interest in the periplus tradition indicates that they thought of space
36 Salway, “Travel,” 26–27. The Tabula Peutingeriana, interestingly, does use oblique cases for
its place names.
37 Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor,
Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1991), 70. He also discusses how even ancient picto-
rial maps can be understood as deriving from geographical texts, particularly those of the
periplus genre. A periplus account functions as a “visualization (eventually graphic) of
regions so extensive that it becomes a ‘drawing of the world.’ ”
38 Frank William Walbank, Polybius, Rome, and the Hellenistic World: Essays and Reflections
(Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2002), 46.
39 Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps, 30. Eratosthenes’ diaphragma ran instead through Rhodes.
The idea that Josephus was aware of the diaphragma tradition has been argued by Scott,
“Luke’s Geographical Horizon,” 518; and Bechard, Paul Outside the Walls, 208. For a help-
ful analysis of Dicaearchus’ geography, see Paul T. Keyser, “The Geographical Work of
Dikaiarchos,” in Dicaearchus of Messana: Text, Translation, and Discussion (ed. William W.
Fortenbaugh and Eckart Schütrumpf; Rutgers University Studies in Classical Humanities
10; New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Publishers, 2001), 353–72.
40 Katherine Clarke, Between Geography and History: Hellenistic Constructions of the
Roman World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 200. Ptolemy’s distortions may be due in
part to reliance upon this kind of data, particularly outside of the Roman Empire. See
Stückelberger, “Ptolemy and the Problem of Scientific Perception of Space,” 38.
190 Chapter 5
first and foremost in a single dimension only, “a linear vision”42 that takes into
account a succession of localities and the distances between them as if they
are merely points on a line. Their situation in space is of little importance,
resulting in “a grossly distorted universe.”43
Regarding parallel Jewish conceptions of space during this period we
know far less. The difficulty of such a task is illustrated by the yeoman work
of James M. Scott who has argued for the existence of what he calls the Kypros
map.44 His hypothesis stems from his reading of a 1st c. CE epigram by Philip
of Thessalonica describing a tapestry woven by queen Kypros, the wife of
Agrippa I, which depicted “the harvest-bearing earth.” While acknowledging
that the source for such a map might in fact be Roman, he also posits a Jewish
geographical tradition lying in the background. This includes: 1) conjectural
connections to the high priestly vestments, especially in light of Josephus’
cosmological explanation (Ant. 3.183–84);45 2) a shallow bowl from Qumran
which, as Scott argues, gives a schematic imago mundi with Jerusalem at the
center;46 3) decorative elements within the Temple “that point to a strong geo-
graphical orientation”;47 and 4) a letter from Agrippa to Gaius detailing the
extent of the Jewish diaspora.48 The purpose of reviewing Scott’s proposal is
not to be critical—he himself recognizes that “the evidence is tantalizingly
sketchy and highly evocative”49—but to illustrate the challenge of reconstruct-
ing a sense of the abstraction of space within the Jewish tradition.
Numerous studies have taken up the task of investigating “land theology,”
a related but not necessarily identical endeavor. Ironically, however, whereas
the ancient emphasis on land theology in the Jewish tradition seems to have
faded over time,50 it continues to be a driving impetus in modern scholarship
42 Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 70.

43 Ibid. At this point Nicolet also makes a reference to the Tabula Peutingeriana.
44 Scott, Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity, 5–22.
45 Scott attributes this extra-biblical information in Josephus to his first-hand knowledge as
a Jerusalem priest, but it is difficult not to see the hellenizing influence. See, e.g., Plato,
Tim. 32b–c.
46 The bowl features a hole in the center surrounded by groupings of concentric rings. It has
been alternatively interpreted as a sundial, as Scott acknowledges.
47 Specifically the “bronze sea” of 1 Kings 7:23–26.
48 Assuming that the letter, which is preserved in Philo, Legat. 276–329 is not the composi-
tion of Philo, but of Agrippa himself.
49 Scott, Geography in Early Judaism, 21.
50 Betsy Halpern-Amaru, Rewriting the Bible: Land and Covenant in Postbiblical Jewish
Literature (Valley Forge, Pa.: Trinity Press International, 1994), 116.
to the point that it has become a default mode for the analysis of geography
and topography. Jewish and Christian texts from the Roman period are there-
fore read with an eye predisposed to looking for the land’s symbolic meaning.
Such approaches may have great value, but they also have the ability to obscure
other critical approaches to geography within these same texts. The point of
this study has been to elucidate some of those alternative methods and to
show that when theories derived from critical geography are carefully applied,
they can aid in our ability to understand the ways in which these authors con-
ceived space. They provide opportunities to look beyond the bifurcated system
of symbols and referents and allow us to see geography’s apologetic function,
its imaginative qualities, its multiplicity and simultaneity, and most impor-
tantly, the characteristic situatedness that makes each text a unique exercise
in the construction of space.
Modern concepts of ancient geography are based on these very same texts,
but we usually superimpose their information onto our own maps, ones that
have been drawn using modern cartographic methods, satellite imagery, and
global positioning devices, all the while not realizing that we are adding to
the dissonance. In other words, it is the accuracy of modern maps that makes
them “inaccurate,” in that they do not necessarily take their spatial cues from
the ancient texts upon which they are based. H.F. Tozer’s A History of Ancient
Geography attempted in its own way to rectify this problem.51 His rather
infamous “world according to” maps, including those based on Hecataeus of
Miletus, Herodotus, Strabo, and Ptolemy, have been often reproduced, even
though we have no actual maps from these writers and, in most cases, no evi-
dence that they ever drew any. (Herodotus, in particular, seems to have taken a
dim view of world maps generally—see Hist. 4.36—and probably did not use
any himself.52) To redraw the maps as I did for Pliny, Strabo, and Luke-Acts in
chapter 3 may be instructive, but only with the following caveats: 1) they must
not be viewed as substitutions for the complex literary (as opposed to picto-
rial) mapping process embedded in these texts; 2) as we saw with the Gospel of
John, even conceptual or symbolic maps when used unilaterally can be inhib-
iting and restrictive. A hypothetical map of “Galilee according to” Josephus,
Luke, or John would be put to best use not as a replacement for our own maps
of the ancient world, but in conjunction with them. Multiple conflicting
maps can convey more to us than any single map can.
51 H.F. Tozer, A History of Ancient Geography (2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1935).
52 Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps, 57.
192 Chapter 5
Conclusion: The Quest for the Geographical Galilee
The geographies of Galilee found in Josephus, Luke, and John are not spatial
only. They work in tandem with ideologies and agendas that infuse Galilee
with significance in ways unique to each text. To recover the “historical
Galilee”53 from these texts is still a worthwhile pursuit, but given the destabili-
zation of Galilee that emerges from these new approaches, it becomes a much
more challenging task. In fact, the same principles of geographical criticism
that may be applied to ancient texts can be applied to modern ones as well.
Despite his erudition, even Sean Freyne (with whom I tend to agree regard-
ing his reconstruction of a fundamentally Jewish historical Galilee) is suscep-
tible. His invaluable Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 BCE to 135
CE, takes a more spatial approach than the title lets on. Historically, Freyne’s
Galilee was Jewish; spatially, it was a circle. Both of these characterizations
are easy enough to spot, but far more subtle is the cooperation between the
two. Beginning with the book’s opening pages, the circle imagery is deliber-
ately developed, stemming from the etymology of Galilee, ‫גָ ִליל‬, itself.54 Taking
it a step further, Galilee of the Gentiles is to be viewed, according to Freyne, as
a ring of Gentile nations surrounding, but not significantly impacting, a fun-
damentally Jewish core within. The isolation that such a description (map?)
implies is evident not only in its geography and its history, but also its cultural,
religious, and ethnic identity. Thus, he effectively draws a circle around Galilee,
a barrier that is sometimes spatial and sometimes ideological but always sepa-
rating what is outside from what is inside.55 Like every good circle, it also has a
center. It was not Tiberias, which was “withdrawn from the center of Galilean
New York: E.J. Brill, 1994), 76.
54 Sean Freyne, Galilee: From Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 BCE to 135 CE, A Study in
Second Temple Judaism (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1980), 3; cf. Ernest Renan’s “enchanted
circle” in his Life of Jesus (New York: The Modern Library, 1927), 84.
55 Ibid., 102 (“it was precisely in the surrounding circle that Israelite and later Jewish believ-
ers experienced the threat of the outsider”), 107 (“Ptolemais is unlikely to have exercised
any great cultural influence on the interior beyond the borders of its own territory”), 113
(“even though Scythopolis and the interior was very different to that of Ptolemais, there
seems to be no compelling reason to suggest that it ever exercised any great influence
outside its own territory”), 114 (similar statements regarding Philoteria, Antiochia, and
Seleucia), 121 (regarding surrounding cities in general, “the nature of their contacts with
the interior” resulted in minimal cultural change in Galilee).
country life,”56 nor was it Sepphoris, which, despite Josephus’ (geographical)

insistence to the contrary, “never became the natural center.”57 In the middle of
the circle was Jerusalem, “the real cultural center for Galilean Jewish loyalties.”58
Freyne is not alone in theorizing about the space of Galilee. In fact, he is
in very good company. The work of Halvor Moxnes has shown that theoriza-
tion about Galilee has been going on for centuries. In two intriguing articles,
he surveys 200 years of scholarship on Galilee, tracing the way Galilee is con-
structed, deconstructed, and reconstructed for its use within each scholar’s
social setting or ideological outlook.59 Ironically, some of the current debates,
particularly whether Galilee during the 1st c. CE was in sync with Jerusalem,
as with Freyne, or out of sync, as with Richard Horsley, are merely old dis-
cussions in new clothes. Not long after Friedrich Schleiermacher was advo-
cating for the similarities between Galilee and Jerusalem, D.F. Strauss was
arguing for their differences. Moxnes contends that what is generally seen
as true for the current context (including religious and social conflicts) is
assumed to be true for the ancient context: “Both are based on descriptions
characterized by dichotomies that have been regarded as ‘natural’ or ‘given,’
and therefore not questioned.”60 Thus, many of the same modes of analysis are
perpetuated from one generation of scholars to the next.
Some notable overlap exists between Moxnes’ work and my own. Each of
us assumes that Galilee, like any other space, is not neutrally reflected in texts
but ideologically constructed. Methodologically, he is heavily influenced by
David Harvey, who, like Soja, used the critical outlook of Henri Lefebvre in the
formulation of his own approach to space. Yet Moxnes’ emphases are quite dis-
tinct from those of the present study. In rejecting the notion that one can draw
an objective picture of Galilee from the textual and archaeological evidence,
he insists that there “needs to be an attempt at an hermeneutical interpreta-
tion, recognizing the role of the interpreter as well as the role of the ancient
inhabitants of Galilee in encoding their space with meaning.”61 The same dual-
ized approach is echoed in his later monograph, Putting Jesus in His Place:
“To make a picture of an area like Galilee is always an interpretation; it is a
56 Ibid., 133.

57 Ibid., 139; cf. Josephus, J.W. 2.511.
58 Ibid.
59 Halvor Moxnes, “The Construction of Galilee as a Place for the Historical Jesus—Part I,”
BTB 31:1 (2001): 26–37; idem, “The Construction of Galilee as a Place for the Historical
Jesus—Part II,” BTB 31:2 (2001): 64–77.
60 Moxnes, “The Construction—Part I,” 32.
61 Moxnes, “The Construction—Part II,” 75.
194 Chapter 5
ermeneutical task. This places the emphasis first on the interpreter: How do
h
we today create an image of Galilee? But second, it emphasizes also the role of
the 1st c. subject, Jesus, in shaping Galilee.”62 But what is missing? He recognizes
that space is constructed at the two endpoints, first by the inhabitants of that
space and second in its modern interpretation. This study, however, occupies
that space in between the inhabitant at one end and the scholar at the other,
a space with which Moxnes interacts, but which is not his stated aim—the
space of the ancient author. Josephus, Luke, and John all contribute to the con-
struction of Galilee, too, and the utilization of modern spatial criticisms is but
one way to study their techniques. The construction of Galilee takes place on
a variety of different levels, according to numerous blueprints, at the hands of
multiple builders.
Thus, our definitions of the “historical Galilee” derive not only from the his-
torical reconstructions of the ancient authors but also from their geographical
reconstructions. Before proceeding, we must recognize the inherent difficul-
ties of the task and rethink basic assumptions about what it means to find the
“historical” in anything that is, like Galilee, so obviously “geographical.” What is
needed is a Galilean “spatial turn.” It is no longer enough to say, as did Freyne,
that “the quest for the historical Jesus is quickly becoming the quest for the
historical Galilee.”63 Until it is recognized that Galilee is just as spatial as it is
historical, that a quest for the “geographical Galilee” critically conceived is also
a legitimate pursuit, the task will forever lean to one side. Geography also has
its place.
The same cautions that are applicable to studies of the “historical Galilee”
are even more applicable to those that focus on the historical Jesus, with
one additional caveat. Historical Jesus research operates with the underlying
assumption that Jesus is inevitably the product of his rural Galilean upbring-
ing, outlook, and culture, or to put it in more abstract terms, that the person
62 Halvor Moxnes, Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom
(Louisville, Ky.: WJK, 2003), 143. Compare this to his explanation of the plan of his study
on page 3. There he proposes three “places” which must be taken into consideration: his
own place as the modern reader, the place of other modern readers (specifically scholars
from the 19th and 20th centuries), and “finally and foremost, the place of Jesus in his
context.” Yet despite the fact that he delineates three places here, it is consonant with the
twofold structure (ancient inhabitant and modern interpretation) alluded to in other pas-
sages. Cf. Victor Matthews, “Physical Space, Imagined Space, and ‘Lived Space’ in Ancient
Israel,” BTB 33:1 (2003): 12–20. Matthews utilizes Soja in his analysis of the ancient thresh-
ing floor and the ark of the covenant. He discusses how the biblical characters transform
spaces, but he stops short of asking how the biblical authors construct those same spaces.
63 Freyne, “The Geography, Politics and Economics of Galilee,” 76.
is, in effect, an image of the place.64 To understand Jesus we must understand

Galilee. Yet the starting point of critical geography is exactly the opposite:
place is, in effect, an image of the person. Josephus does not just tell us about a
historical Galilee; he tells us about the Galilee of his imagination, as an expert
in stagecraft having constructed a platform for showcasing his wisdom and vir-
tue, evident in his role as both a leader of the Jews and a sympathizer with the
Romans. Luke does not just plot Jesus’ ministry on the conventional maps of
our day; he has first imagined his own map corresponding to the spatial imagi-
nation of his own day. John does not create a single image of Galilee encoded
with a singular meaning; he draws multiple images of Galilee and uses them
simultaneously, even at odds with one another, in order to communicate that
Jesus transcends Galilee. Any placement of Jesus within Galilee will have to
reckon with these portraits of Galilee first, and therein lies the challenge of
critical geography: that the “real” Galilee, reconstructed from our sources, is an
imagined place.
We are creating images from images.
64 My use of the term “image” here is a deliberate echo of Geoff King’s discussion of what
constitutes reality in the medium of digital photography where there is no negative serv-
ing as a final arbiter of the original image. See idem, Mapping Reality: An Exploration of
Cultural Cartographies (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 8–9.
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Index of Modern Authors
Abler, Ronald 4, 4n8 Cangh, J.-M. van 94, 94n11

Adams, John S. 4, 4n8 Cappelletti, Silvia 54n104, 59nn, 67, 67n160,
Ahituv, Shmuel 93n2 120n154, 122n156, 124n165, 126n170,
Alexander, Philip S. 111n105 133n190
Álvarez Cineira, David 93n2 Cerfaux, Lucien 107n89
Anderson, Paul N. 151n67, 167n128, 176n164 Chancey, Mark A. 15, 15n62, 16n70, 32n1,
Applebaum, Shimon 73n181, 74, 74n188 77n200, 97n32
Ashton, John 140n3, 164n110, 176n161, 178n171 Clarke, Katherine 38n27, 41n44, 64n141,
Attridge, Harold W. 86n220, 173, 172n142 121n154, 189n40
Aviam, Mordechai 55n109 Cohen, Shaye J.D. 33n3, 72nn, 75, 75n193,
Avi-Yonah, Michael 34, 34n7 76n197, 83nn, 85n218
Collins, Adela Yarbro 93n3, 95nn, 96n26,
Bacon, Benjamin W. 99n41 98nn, 99nn, 100n49, 132, 132n187
Bahn, Paul 19n81 Conzelmann, Hans 102–107, 102nn, 103nn,
Bar-Kochva, Bazalel 66n151 104nn, 105nn, 109nn, 110, 110n98, 114,
Barnes, Trevor J. 5n12, 18n76, 19n82, 20, 117–120, 118n144, 119n149, 120nn,
20n84, 153n73, 181n6 126n172, 130, 130n179, 132, 134, 134n192
Bassler, Jouette M. 146–49, 147nn, 148n48, Corrigan, John 21n87
152, 152n69, 157–63, 157n87, 158nn,
159nn, 160nn, 161nn, 162nn, 163n110, Dahl, Nils Alstrup 178, 178nn
164n111, 165, 165nn, 169, 173, 178n175 Davies, Graham I. 12n48, 13n54
Baudrillard, Jean 27, 27nn, 153, 153nn, Davies, W.D. 44, 44nn, 93n3, 95n23, 119,
154n76 119nn, 120n151, 150–151, 150nn, 151nn,
Bechard, Dean Philip 5n12, 20n86, 104n70, 155, 157, 164n112, 165n120, 166n121,
106n85, 107nn, 109, 109n96, 111nn, 170n131, 176n165
112–14, 112n114, 113n121, 128, 128n177, 132, Deines, Roland 15, 16nn
132n188, 136, 184, 184n18, 189n39 Dever, William G. 19n81
Bennema, Cornelis 139n3, 159n93 Dilke, O.A.W. 121n154, 187n23, 189n39,
Benoit, Pierre 13n50 191n52
Best, Ernest 95n23 Downing, F. Gerald 16n69
Bilde, Per 32n2, 35–36, 35nn, 36nn, 72n177 Dueck, Daniela 31n135, 41n43, 125n168,
Bock, Darrell L. 106n85 128n174, 184n16
Boobyer, George H. 94, 94n9, 96, 96n26 Duncan, James S. 5n12, 19n82, 20, 20n84,
Bornkamm, Günther 175–176, 176nn, 181n6
177n168
Bovon, François 101, 101n50, 105, 105n77, Eldon, Stuart 9n32
106n84, 107 Elliott-Binns, L. 94, 94n10, 96, 96n27
Brodersen, Kai 184n15, 187, 187n25, 188nn Ellis, E. Earle 105–06, 105n75, 106nn,
Brown, Raymond E. 141, 141nn, 143n18, 149, 108–109, 109nn
149n58, 150n59, 151, 155, 157, 160n98,
164n112, 165n117, 167n127, 169n130, Feldman, Louis H. 32nn, 66n152, 74, 74n189
172n137, 176n165 Fiensy, David A. 180n1
Bultmann, Rudolf 139, 146, 164n112, 165n117, Fitzmyer, Joseph A. 104n70, 105, 105nn,
166, 166nn, 169n130, 171n135, 175 106n85, 136, 136n202, 137n204
Burns, Joshua Ezra 68n167 Fitzsimmons, Margaret 10, 10n36
Index Of Modern Authors 215
Flanagan, James W. 5n12, 19n79 Huitink, L. 44, 44n68

Fortna, Robert T. 146–147, 146nn, 149,
149n58, 157, 157n86, 159n93, 161n102, Inbar, Moshe 51n95
163n110, 165n116 Irwin, Robert 116n142
Foucault, Michel 5, 24–26, 115, 183
France, R.T. 98n39 Jarvis, Brian 8n29, 10n39, 31, 31n134, 153n75,
Frank, Michael C. 5n12 154n76
Freyne, Sean 11, 12n49, 13, 13nn, 14n56, 16–17, Jensen, Morton Hørning 17n73, 75n194
16n70, 17n75, 29n131, 33n4, 68n167, Jossa, Giorgio 87–88, 88nn
72n179, 74, 74n191, 75n195, 79n204, 80,
80n205, 82n211, 89–90, 89nn, 90n230, Kant, Immanuel 5–7, 5n14, 6n15
92n1, 97n32, 99n40, 105n79, 106n85, Käsemann, Ernst 139, 139n1, 175–176, 175nn,
107n89, 109, 110n97, 120n151, 134n195, 176nn, 177n167
138, 138n210, 147n43, 164n110, 186, Keener, Craig S. 147n43, 151n67, 160n101,
186n19, 192–94, 192nn, 194n63 164n110, 166, 166n125, 171n136, 172n137
Kelber, Werner H. 94–96, 94n13, 95nn,
Gal, Zvi 15n63, 89n229, 97n32 96nn, 98nn
Giblin, Charles H. 106n85 King, Geoff 27–29, 27nn, 28nn, 29n130, 46,
Giddens, Anthony 6n15 46nn, 49n87, 153–56, 153nn, 154nn,
Gilbert, Gary 112, 112n115, 116n143 155n83, 176, 176n166, 182, 195n64
Gill, David S. 101n51, 105, 105n74, 109n94 King, Philip J. 14n57, 19n80
Gould, Peter 4, 4n8, 26, 26n116 Klein, Hans 104n70, 106n85, 107, 107n87, 135
Grant, Robert M. 107, 107n90, 117 Kloppenborg Verbin, John S. 17n72, 93n2
Green, Joel B. 105n74, 109n95, 113n118, Koester, Craig R. 141n5, 147–148, 147nn,
131n183 148n45, 164n110
Gregory, Derek 4n11, 6, 6nn, 7n22, 8n28, Kümin, Beat 5n12, 7n25
10n39, 11, 11nn, 28n129, 38n26, 183n10 Kundsin, Karl 142–146, 142nn, 143nn, 156
Groh, Dennis E. 56n110
Grundmann, Walter 99n40 Lane, William L. 98n40
Guelich, Robert A. 99n40, 100n48 Lang, F.G. 98–99, 98n38, 99n44
Gundry, Robert H. 95n23, 98n39, 99n42 Laqueur, Richard 87, 87n221
Günzel, Stephan 5n12 Lefebvre, Henri 8–9, 8n31, 9nn, 21, 22n94,
23–24, 23nn, 47–50, 47n79, 48n81,
Habel, Norman C. 43n54 50n90, 51n94, 60, 50n128, 65, 65nn, 71,
Haber, Susan 15n65 71nn, 193
Hadas-Lebel, Mireille 32n2, 88n225 Leibner, Uzi 15, 15n64 89n229, 97n32
Halpern-Amaru, Betsy 43–44, 43nn, 44nn, Levine, Amy Jill 30n132
190n50 Leyerle, Blake 12nn, 20n86
Harley, J.B. 18, 18n76, 20, 20nn, 153n73 Lightfoot, R.H. 94–96, 94nn, 95n15, 96n24,
Harrison, Thomas 39n30 105n76, 106n85, 144–146, 144nn, 157,
Harvey, David 8, 8n30, 23, 23n98, 193 157n84, 163n110, 171n134
Hengel, Martin 73, 73n180, 98n39, 104n70 Loftus, Francis 73, 73nn
Henten, J.W. van 44, 44n68 Lohmeyer, Ernst 93–97, 93n3, 94nn, 96n32,
Hodder, Ian 19n81 103, 105n76, 142–143, 146n37, 155
Holmes, John 5n12, 181n5
Horden, Peregrine 57n112, 62n135 MacAdam, Henry Innes 120n154, 126n172,
Horsley, Richard A. 16n71, 74, 74n190, 188n30
79n204, 89–90, 89nn, 90n231, 97n32, Mack, Burton L. 16n69, 97n32
193 Magen, Izchak 15, 15n65
216 Index Of Modern Authors
Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers 97, 97nn Parsenios, George L. 176n164

Manns, Frédéric 148, 148nn, 157n88, 160n97, Parsons, Mikeal C. 102n53, 112, 112nn, 113n118
163n110 Pesch, Rudolf 99n40
Marchadour, Alain 43n54, 177n170 Pothou, Vassiliki 40n36
Marcus, Joel 98n39, 100n46 Pred, Allan 6n15, 21n88
Marshall, I. Howard 105n74, 106, 106n81, Purcell, Nicholas 57n112, 62n135
113n119, 118–119, 118n145, 119n147,
122n156 Räisänen, Heikki 99n44
Martyn, J. Louis 101n50, 141, 141n6, 172n140, Rajak, Tessa 33n2, 72n177, 75n193
173n141 Rappaport, Uriel 52n98
Marxsen, Willi 94–95, 94n12, 95nn, 99n42 Reed, Jonathan L. 17, 17nn, 84n215, 89n229,
Mason, Steve 33, 33nn, 74, 74n192, 78n202, 93n2, 131n184, 134n191
85n218, 123n163 Renan, Ernest 1–2, 2nn, 180, 192n54
Massey, Doreen 7n24, 8n28, 11n41, 26n115 Renfrew, Colin 19n81
Mattern, Susan P. 187n24, 189nn Robinson, Jr., William C. 101, 101n52, 102n55,
Matthews, Victor 194n62 103n61, 104–5, 104n73, 105nn, 106n85,
May, J.A. 5n14, 6n15 135n196, 138n211
May, Jon 10, 10n37 Romm, James S. 38n27, 61, 61nn
Mazar, Amihai 13n53 Rose, Gillian 10, 10n38, 49n89
McCown, C.C. 92n2, 102n53, 105n75, 137, Rosenfeld, Ben-Zion 36–38, 36nn, 37nn,
137nn 63n137
Meeks, Wayne A. 139, 139n2, 144–147, 144nn,
145nn, 147n43, 149–150, 152, 152n68, Safrai, Ze’ev 34, 34nn, 35n11, 52n99, 125n168
156–157, 157n85, 159n93, 163nn, 165–166, Said, Edward W. 24–26, 24n105, 25nn, 26nn,
165n119, 166nn, 170nn, 171n135, 172nn, 29, 46, 46nn, 114–116, 115nn, 116nn, 120,
178, 178nn 134, 138, 182–183
Metzger, Bruce M. 106n82, 113n117, 131, Salway, Benet 187n24, 189n36
131n185 Scheffler, Eben 2n4
Meyers, Eric M. 14–17, 14n58, 15n60, 16n67, Schenke, Ludger 167n128
32n1, 53n101, 86n219, 96n32 Schiffman, Laurence H. 68n165
Miller, Vincent J. 26n112 Schmidt, Daryl D. 133n189
Moxnes, Halvor 17n75, 193–194, 193nn, Schmitt, Carl 7, 7n26
194n62 Schürmann, Heinz 106n85, 107n87, 135
Schweitzer, Albert 2, 2nn, 180
Neuhaus, David 43n54, 177n170 Scobie, Charles H.H. 143–144, 143nn,
Neyrey, Jerome H. 148–149, 148nn, 149nn, 159n93
152, 152n70, 155, 157n89, 164n110, 172n137 Scott, James M. 20n86, 67n162, 111–114, 111nn,
Nickelsburg, George W.E. 67, 67n164 112nn, 113n120, 184, 184n18, 189n39, 190,
Nicolet, Claude 3n6, 38n27, 112n115, 189, 190nn
189n37, 190nn Scott, Michael 174, 174nn, 182, 182n7
North, Robert 126n172, 187n26, 188n30 Shahar, Yuval 38, 38n27, 39nn, 40–42, 40nn,
Notley, Steven R. 93n2, 128n175, 137n204 41nn, 42nn, 44, 52n97, 54n105, 57,
Nun, Mendel 51n95 57n113, 122n156, 128n174
Sheridan, Ruth 140n3
O Fearghail, Fearghus 107n89, 109, 109n96, Short, John Rennie 31n133
110n97 Shroder, Jr., John F. 51n95
Oppenheimer, Aharon 68, 68n166 Simpson-Housley, Paul 20n86
Index Of Modern Authors 217
Sleeman, Matthew 20n86, 112–114, 112n116, Thrift, Nigel 10, 10n37

113n123, 114nn, 181n3, 182, 182nn, 183n14, Tozer, H.F. 191, 191n51
184
Smith, D. Moody 151n67, 169n130 Ulrich, Eugene 69n169
Smith, Graham 7n22, 10n39, 11n40, 183n10 Unnik, W.C. van 101n50
Smith, Jonathan Z. 3, 3n7 Usborne, Cornelie 5n12, 7n25
Smith, Mark D. 120n154
Smith, Morton 73, 73n183 Valentine, Gill 26n117
Soja, Edward 5n13, 6, 6nn, 7nn, 8–10, 8nn, Van Belle, Gilbert 163n107, 164n112
9n35, 10nn, 20–24, 20n83, 21n89, 22nn, Verseput, Donald J. 92n2
23nn, 24nn, 28n127, 29, 47–51, 47nn, Villalba i Varneda, Pere 35nn
48nn, 49nn, 51nn, 60, 60nn, 65n147, 70, Völkel, Martin 106n85, 107, 107n88, 135
71nn, 87, 90n232, 113–116, 182, 183n14,
193, 194n62 Wahlde, Urban C. von 139n3
Spalding, John Lancaster 67n161 Walbank, F.W. 41n44, 189n38
Staley, Jeffrey L. 177n169 Weber, Wilhelm 35, 36n16
Stegemann, Hartmut 120n154 Weiss, Ze’ev 97n32
Stemberger, Günter 93n3, 95nn Weissenrieder, Annette 107n90
Sterling, Gregory E. 86n220, 104n70, 115n132 White, Rodney 26, 26n116
Stern, Menahem 120n154, 122n157 Wilken, Robert L. 12nn, 43n54
Stimpfle, Alois 164n112 Witherington, Ben 135n197, 168n
Strange, James F. 15, 15n61, 96n32 Withers, Charles W.J. 181n4
Strange, James Riley 180n1
Zangenberg, Jürgen 53n103, 62n135
Talbert, Richard 188n35 Zeitlin, Solomon 73–75, 73nn, 74n187,
Theissen, Gerd 98, 98n36, 143n16 76n199, 79n203, 80, 83n214, 87
Therath, Antony 164n110
Index of Ancient Sources
Old Testament/Hebrew Bible Pseudepigrapha
Genesis 1 Enoch
10 111, 113, 187n21 12–16 67
13:3–4 (lxx) 100 13:7 67
26:1 112n112
Exodus
16:1 (lxx) 99–100 3 Enoch
24 100n46 17:8 113
18:2–3 113
Leviticus 30:2 113
18–20 43
Jubilees 44n64, 111n105, 112
Numbers 8–9 67, 111
33:49 (lxx) 100 8:19 111
Joshua Letter of Aristeas

11:5 69 50 113
20:7 69 107–18 65
21:32 69 116–17 126n172
1 Kings Liber antiquitatum biblicarum (Pseudo-Philo)

7:23–26 190n47 44n64
Isaiah Sibylline Oracles

8:23 (lxx) 93n2, 123n164 5.249–50 112n112
9:1 93n2
Testament of Job 44
Ezekiel
5:5 111n107 Testament of Moses 44n64
Ancient Jewish Writers

Apocrypha
Josephus
1 Maccabees Against Apion
5 69 1.60 37, 124n167
8:17–32 69 1.60–63 36
9:2 70
9:28–31 70 Antiquities
1.122–47 67
3.183–84 190
5.63 69
Index Of Ancient Sources 219
5.93–98 43n58 2.503 54, 82n210

12.308 127n173 2.511 55, 67, 193n57
12.331–34 69 2.511–12 55
12.419 69 2.547 56n110
12.420–21 70 2.568 53n101, 67
13 41n49 2.569–647 80, 83
13.6 70 2.570–72 81
13.246 122n159 2.573 69n168
13.254f 53 2.573–74 55n109
13.375 127n173 2.592 59
14 41n49 2.593 67
14.202 122n159 2.599 56n111
14.239 54 2.602 81, 81n207
14.415–30 70 2.621 81, 81n207
14.448 100 2.622 80
15.217 122n159 2.629 75n195, 82n208
15.364 57n112 2.639 56
17.318–19 59 3 34, 54
17.320 122n159 3.9–10 122n160
18.27 55 3.32–33 84n216
18:28 134n194 3.34 55
18.36 55 3.35–38 52–53
20.118 53 3.35–39 73n179
20.159 55 3.35–43 35n11, 81–82
3.35–44 61, 63
Jewish War 3.35–58 58, 63, 86
1.1 83 3.37 62
1.21–22 53n101 3.38–40 53
1.29 52 3.39 69n168
1.64–65 53 3.39–40 67
1.128 52 3.41 62
1.180 56n111 3.41–43 62
1.238 54 3.42 82
1.302–15 70 3.42–43 81
1.304–5 67 3.43 82
1.396 122n159 3.44 62n136, 64
2.95 59 3.47 62
2.97 122n159 3.48 53n102
2.118 80n206, 87 3.49 137
2.170 81n207 3.50 59, 64
2.188–91 58 3.51 37n22, 62
2.191 58n119 3.51–53 124n167
2.232 53n102, 84n216 3.52 67, 112
2.232–33 53 3.53 37n23
2.252 35n11, 55–56 3.54 56
2.363 61 3.54–56 122n159
2.433 80n206, 87 3.56 56
2.457–60 54 3.57 34
2.477 54 3.58 58n119, 61
220 Index Of Ancient Sources
Jewish War (cont.) 4.104–5 84n216

3.61 84n216 4.120 86
3.62 59, 81n207 4.413 85n217, 127n173
3.107 62 4.431 86
3.111ff 82n210 4.436 85n217
3.112–13 83n213 4.452–75 58
3.113 83 4.475 58n119
3.129 82n210 4.476–85 58
3.130 83 4.485 58n119
3.132 82n208 4.552–55 85n217
3.142 83 4.555 86
3.157 83n213 4.558 73, 84n216, 87
3.158–60 55–56, 58 5.136–247 58
3.160 58n119 5.247 58n119
3.199 81, 83–84 5.474 82n210
3.229–33 83–84 6.102 84n216
3.271 59 6.107 84n216
3.277 83n212 6.435–42 86
3.289 82n210, 83 7.408 86
3.289–306 84–85
3.293 83, 85 Life
3.301 83 17 88n224
3.306 83, 85 22 88n224
3.307 85 23 88n224
3.315 85 28 76, 78, 88n224
3.320 83 30 75–76, 79
3.355 83 31 77
3.463 128n175 33 56
3.485–91 57 37–38 55
3.486 55 38 55
3.506 51 39 75–76
3.506–21 55, 58 42 56
3.508 57, 59 44 54
3.509–13 55 46–47 76
3.515 62 56 88n224
3.516–19 57 58 59
3.517–19 59 62 78
3.520 59 63 78
3.521 58 64 56, 79
3.522–31 59 65 55, 78
4.2 86 66 75
4.4–8 58 66–67 77
4.54–55 56 69 56
4.54–56 58 71 59
4.54–61 84 77 76
4.57 55 78 52, 67
4.92 84n216 78–79 76n199
79 81 210–11 78
80 78 211 78
84 76–77 213 77, 82
86 77 230 82, 83n215
92 55 230–31 77
99 75–76 232 76n198
100 77 235 55
102 52, 77 237 78
105–6 76 240 55
105–7 76n199 243 78
108 75 244 52, 77–78
112–13 78n201 250–52 77
115 77 256–58 77
118 82n209 257–58 78
119 59 258 77
120 56 259 77
121 56 262 77
123 55 266 78
124 75 270 77
124–25 75 275–79 78n201
125 77 279 56
132 76 284 56
134 56, 56n111, 88n224 294 56
143 75–77 300 56
145 76 307 77
149–54 78n201 311 77–78
154 90 313 56
155 56 318 53
159 78 322 55, 82n210
162 78 338 75
163–69 59 340 75
169 56 341 78
175 76 342 36n16
175–77 76n199 346 55
177 77 352 75
184 88n224 372 84n216
187 54 375 75
187–88 55n109 376–77 75
188 69n168, 70, 82 380 77
190 78 381 56
190–93 78 384 75–77
193 79 392 75–76
198 78 393 78
205 52 395 82
206 76, 76n199 396 75
207 77 412 82
207–10 77 417–18 84n216
Philo 9:30 134n193

De vita Mosis 44 10:1 105, 131–32
Legatio ad Gaium 10:13 136n201
276–329 190n48 10:17 118n146
326 67n163 10:46 131
10:46–52 130
11:1 99
13:26 94
New Testament
14:28 94, 95n15
14:62 95
Matthew 14:70 160n100
2:23 171n135 16:7 94–95, 95n15
4:13–16 93n2 16:8 95
5:9 181
10:5 129n178 Luke
13:25 99 1:5 106
13:57 163 1:39 128
19:1 105, 132 1:39–56 130
26:69 160n100 1:65 106, 128
26:71 171n135 2:4 106
26:72 160n100 2:4–39 130
26:73 135 2:41–52 130
3:1 106, 130, 134n194
Mark 3:3 107, 130n181
1:28 134n193 3:23–38 111
1:33 134n191 4:5 103n61
1:39 106, 134n193 4:14–9:50 136
2:1 134n194 4:24 163
2:4 134n191 4:37 134n193
2:13 134n194 4:44 106–7, 106n82, 109–10,
3:7 134n193 118–19, 128, 134n193,
3:7–8 128–29 135–36
3:17 96n29 5:1 109, 110n97, 128
3:22 131 5:17 106, 133, 134n194
4:1 134n194 5:19 134n191
4:30–32 131 5:27 134n194
4:35–41 95n21 6:17 106, 129, 132, 134n193,
5:1–20 95n21, 99 136
6:4 163 7:1 109, 110n97
6:30–44 98 7:17 106, 135–36, 138
6:45–8:27a 101 8:2 109, 110n97
7:1–23 100n48 8:4 134n194
7:31 94, 98–100, 98n39, 8:22 109, 110n97
100n45, 129 8:26 109–10, 110n97, 135
8:1–9 98 9:5 130
8:23 134n191 9:7–9 109
8:26 134n191 9:10–17 134n194
8:27 135 9:18–21 135
9 100n46 9:43b 134n193
9:50 109, 110, 136 22:39–46 103n61

9:51 105, 107, 110, 130, 136 22:59 160n100
9:51ff 101, 105, 109, 130 23:5 106, 128, 135–36, 138
9:51–17:11 119, 136 24:47 138
9:51–19:27 136 24:48 138
9:52–56 101, 119, 130–31
9:53 130 John
10:1 131 1:9 175
10:1–20 111, 113 1:11 175
10:13 134n194 1:11–12 145, 165, 166n121
10:13–15 101, 131n183 1:12 165
10:25–37 131 1:19–28 158
10:38 131 1:28 172
10:38–42 102, 109, 119 1:38 151
11:14–23 131 1:38–39 172
11:15–23 102 1:43–51 158
11:29–32 102, 131 1:43–2:12 169n130
11:37–54 102 1:44 160
11:42 131 1:45 171, 171n135
11:43 131 1:45–46 164, 169, 174n154
12:11 131 1:46 135n200
12:22–34 102 1:48 170, 170n132
12:31ff 118 1:49 160n98
13:1–5 131 1:51 175
13:10 131 2:1 164n113, 169
13:18–19 131 2:4 178
13:31 131 2:9 170
13:31–33 102, 109, 110n97, 131 2:11 164, 167, 174n147
13:33 91 2:12 161, 172–73
14:1 131 2:13–20 168
15:2 131 2:13–25 158
16:14 131 2:18 165n118
17:11 99, 109–10, 118–19, 2:23 165n118
118n146, 131, 135, 2:23–25 162n106, 165, 174n150
137n204 3:1 160
17:11–19 102 3:8 170
17:11–21:38 136 3:11 166n121
17:18 130 3:31 175n155
17:19 136 3:32 166n121
17:20 131 4:1 168
18:15 136n201 4:1–3 172
18:18 118n146 4:7–9 160n97
18:31 118n146, 136n201 4:9 169, 174n154
18:35 118n146 4:11 170
18:37 171n135 4:20–21 177
19:1 118 4:22 169, 174n154
19:4 130 4:40 172
19:5 118n146 4:43–45 163–67
19:28–21:38 136 4:43–54 169n130
John (cont.) 6:71 161, 174n148

4:44 144–45, 144n27, 163, 7:1 175n156
164n110, 165, 168–69, 7:1–2 172
174nn, 178n172 7:1–3 164n113, 169
4:44–45 165 7:1–4 174n153
4:45 158–59, 163, 165, 7:3–4 172, 172n138
166n122 7:5 143, 161, 172
4:46 160 7:6–8 178
4:46–47 160 7:9 172–73
4:46–54 158, 164 7:10 146, 172, 174n153
4:48 165–66, 167n127 7:19–24 169n130
4:50 166, 174n147 7:26 174n152
4:53 174n147 7:27 170
4:54 160 7:29 170
5 139, 150, 161, 169n130 7:40–43 162
5:16 174n148 7:41 164n113, 169, 171
5:18 158 7:43 174n151
5:34 166n121 7:50–52 135
5:43 166 7:52 159, 159n97, 164n113,
5:45–47 169n130 169, 171, 178
6 139, 147, 150, 158, 161, 8:14 170
167, 169n130 8:23 170–71, 175, 175n155
6:1–14 158 8:30ff 162n106
6:5 170 8:30–33 174n149
6:14 161, 167, 174n149, 178 8:31 167, 172n137
6:26–27 161 8:48 158, 169, 174n148
6:30–31 167 8:59 150–51, 158, 172, 174nn
6:31–42 170 9:13–41 158
6:35–40 167 9:16 174n151
6:41 147, 148, 161, 167 9:22 173n141, 174n148
6:41–59 175n156 9:28–29 169n130
6:42 161, 164n113, 169, 175 9:29 170
6:49–51 167 9:30–32 170
6:51 175 9:38 162, 174n147
6:52 161, 167, 174n148 10:16 177
6:55–56 167 10:19–21 162, 174n151
6:56 172n137 10:20 158
6:59 161, 172–73, 173n141, 10:22 151
174n152 10:24 172n138
6:60 167 10:31 158, 174n148
6:64 161, 167, 174n148, 10:40 146
174n150 10:40–42 172
6:66 147, 161, 167 11:1–44 109n92
6:66–71 174n151 11:6 172
6:67–69 158 11:7–8 175n156
6:67–71 167n128 11:45 162, 174n147
6:69 167n128, 174n147 11:45–46 174n151
6:70 167n128 11:46 162
6:70–71 167 11:46–54 162n106
11:49–51 177 Acts

11:54 172 1:8 130, 135, 138
11:57 174n148 1:22 138
12:1–3 109n92 2 112
12:9–11 162 2:5–11 112
12:11 174n147 2:32 138
12:17 162 3:15 138
12:19 162n106 8:1 130
12:20–23 178 8:26–40 128
12:21 134n194, 160 9:31 135, 138
12:32–33 178 10:37 136, 138
12:36 174n153 10:39 135
12:37 174n148 10:39–41 138
12:38 172 13:31 105, 136, 138
12:42 173n141 13:47 138
12:42–43 174n149 14:8–20 113
12:48 166n121 15:3 129n179, 130n182
13:1 178
14:9 167n128 1 Corinthians
14:16–17 179 6:5 99
15:4ff 172n137
16:2 173n141 1 John
16:28 178 2:6 172n137
17:8 166n121 2:27–28 172n137
17:15 177 3:6 172n137
17:16 179
17:16–18 142 2 John
17:18 177 9 172n137
17:21 177 10 166n122
17:23 177
18:1ff 158 3 John
18:5 171 9–10 166n122
18:5–6 171
18:5–7 164, 169, 174n154 Revelation
18:8 171 7:17 99
18:20 173, 173n141, 174n152
18:36 175, 175n155
19:9 170–71
Greco-Roman Literature
19:19 164, 169, 171, 174n154
19:27 166n122
20:1–29 175n157 Agrippa, Marcus Vipsanius
20:21 179 Geography 120n154
20:22 179
21 160n98 Arrian
21:1–14 158 Anabasis
21:1–23 175n157 5.6 34n8
21:2 160 7.10–12 34n8
Caesar Pliny the Elder

Bellum Gallicum Naturalis historia
1.1 34n8 2.87 123n163
3.3 187n22
Diodorus Siculus 5.13 122, 123nn, 133
Bibliotheca historica 5.14 122
34/5.1.1–5 66n155 5.14–15 120
40.3.1–8 66nn 5.15 66n159, 103, 107n86,
117, 122–25, 123n163,
Epictetus 128, 130, 133, 134n194
Diatribai 5.16 66n156, 123, 123n163
4.7.6 67n161 5.17 58n121, 66n155,
123nn, 126n172
Hecataeus of Abdera 7.15 122n158
Aigyptiaka 66n151 9.5 122
12.32 123n161
Herodotus 12.40 123n161
Historiae 12.46 122
1.75.2–5 39n31 12.55 122
2.19.2 40n34 13.4 122n158
2.21–23 61n133 19.32 122
2.35.2 40n34 36.65 122
2.35.2–3 39n33
2.36.4 39n32 Polybius
4.1–9 34n8 Historiae
4.8 61n133 3.37.3 61n133, 187n21
4.36 61n133, 191 4.38.13 58n116
4.37–45 187n21 5.21.3–9 57
9.122.3 63n138 5.44.1–11 64n143
5.45.1–2 64n144
Hippocrates 5.55.6–8 41n42, 64n145
On Airs, Waters, Places 5.70.3–12 66n157
13.8–17 35n14, 63n139 5.70.5 66n158
16.3–16 63n139 10.1.6 64n146
10.9.8–10.13 41n45, 58n118
Homer 10.11.1 58n120
Iliad 12.25e.1–2 52n100, 54n106
21.190–99 61n133, 187n21 34 41
Pausanias Pomponius Mela

Description of Greece De chorographia 31n135
10.16.3 111n106
Ptolemy
Plato Geographia
Timaeus 1.1 31n135
32b–c 190n45
Res gestae divi Augusti
112, 112n115
Seneca Historiae
Ad Lucilium 5.1 34n8
41.3 57n112 5.2–3 66n154, 127
5.3–5 66n153
Strabo 5.4–5 66n155
Geographica 5.6 54n104, 126n172
1.1.3 61n133 5.6–7 66n156
1.1.8 61n133 5.8 66n153
1.1.15 52n100
1.1.15–16 41n47 Thucydides
1.1.16 42, 59n122 Peloponnesian War
1.3.4 127 1.10.1–3 64n142
2.1.32 52n96 2.102.2 58n117
2.3.1 100n47 4.8.6 40n37
5.1.12 63n140 7.29.4 40n36
6.4.1 63, 111n108
8–10 174n143 Vitruvius
9.3.7 111n106 De Architectura
14.1.27 184 6.1.6–11 63n141
16.2 42 6.1.11 111n108
16.2.2 124–25, 125n168,
126n170, 133
16.2.16 59n123, 126, Rabbinic Works
126n172, 128
16.2.21 124, 126n171 Mishnah
16.2.28 66n153, 124–25 Šebiʿit
16.2.29 126n170, 127n173 9:2–3 53n101, 68
16.2.30–32 126n170
16.2.32 66n156, 127 Nedarim
16.2.34 66nn, 103, 117–18, 2:4 68, 135n198
124–27, 125n168, 133
16.2.34–36 126n170 Babylonian Talmud
16.2.35–36 57n114 Berakot
16.2.35–37 66n155 44a 68
16.2.37 66n153
16.2.40 67n161, 126 Pesaḥim
16.2.41 57n115, 130 49a–b 68
16.2.42 66n156, 127 55a 68, 135n198
16.2.44 57n114, 127n173
16.2.45 57n115, 59n123, 127, Megillah
127n173 6a 59n124, 68
16.3.1 126n169
Moʿed Qaṭan
Tacitus 23a–b 68, 135n198
Annales
12.54 53–54, 107n86, 130n180 Nedarim
48a 68, 135n199
Baba Batra Early Christian Writings

38a–b 68, 135n199
Eusebius
Sanhedrin Onomastikon
11b 53n101, 68 72.18–21 53n101
Jerusalem Talmud Gospel of Thomas

Šabbat 31 163
81a–b 68
Origen
Midrash Commentary on John
Genesis Rabbah 10.2 141
20:6 68 10.6 140
10.7 140
10.10 140
Index of Geographical Features and Locales
Galilee (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24,

124n166, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126–27, 126n172,
Arbel(a) 1, 70, 77 129 (Fig. 3.4), 130n181, 146, 160n99, 172
Asochis 76 Jotapata 55–56, 55n109, 58–59, 58n119, 62,
82–85, 82n210, 83n213, 84n215
Baca 53
Berothe 69, 69n168 (see also Meroth) Kedesh 69
Bersabe 53
Besara 82n209 Magdala see Tarichaeae
Me(i)ron, Mt. (Jebel Jarmac) 1, 14–15
Cana 77, 140–42, 158, 160, 160n98, 164, 170 Meroth (Mero/Ameroth/Berothe?) 53,
Capernaum 12, 93n2, 103n61, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 69n168
110n97, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 131n183, 134nn,
140, 143, 158, 160–61, 160n101, 161n102, Nain 129 (Fig. 3.4)
164, 172–73 Nazareth 129 (Fig. 3.4), 134n191, 135n200,
Synagogue 12, 172–73 145, 163–64, 169–71
Chabulon (Chabolo) 53–54, 77, 82, 82n210
Chorazin 129 (Fig. 3.4), 131n183, 134n194 Philoteria 66, 192n55
Dabaritta 53 Ruma 84
Gabara 55–56, 75, 77, 80, 82n208 Saba 84

Gabaroth 77–78 Sepphoris/Sepphorites 15, 55, 75–77, 76n198,
Galilee see Index of Subjects 79–81, 84n216, 91, 97n32, 108 (Fig. 3.1),
Galilee, Sea of 1, 51n95, 54, 93n2, 98–100, 108 193
(Fig. 3.1), 124, 127n173, 128, 128n175, Simonias 77
134n194, 139, 160n99 (see also Gennesar,
Lake of) Tabor, Mt. 55–56, 58, 58n119, 66, 84
Garis 82, 82n210 Tarichaeae/Tarichaeans (Magdala) 35n11,
Gennesar(et) (Gennesaritis), Lake of 51, 56–57, 56n111, 59, 66, 75–76, 76n197,
55–57, 59, 59n123, 62, 66, 70, 103n61, 78n201, 80, 91, 110n97, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124,
110, 110n97, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24, 125 124n165, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 127, 127n173
(Fig. 3.3), 126–28, 128n175, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Fish-pickling 127
(see also Galilee, Sea of) Hippodrome 56n111
Gennesar(et) (Gennesaritis), Plain of Thella 53
55–59, 68, 70 Tiberias, Lake of 1, 139 (see also Galilee, Sea
Gerasa/Gerasenes 129 (Fig. 3.4) of; Gennesar, Lake of)
Gischala/Gischalans (Gush Halav) 75n195, Tiberias/Tiberians 35, 35n11, 53, 55–56, 66,
77–78, 80, 81, 84n216 68, 75–77, 78n201, 80, 88n224, 97n32,
108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124n165, 192
Hula (Huleh/Semechonitis), Lake 1, 59n123, Antipas’ Palace 55, 77–78, 89–90
108 (Fig. 3.1) Boulē 56
Stadium 55
Japha 77, 82–85, 82n210, 83n215
Jordan River 1, 35n11, 37, 52–53, 55–56, Xaloth 53
55n107, 62, 66, 70, 85n217, 105, 107, 108
230 Index Of Geographical Features And Locales
Outside Galilee Cispadana 63

Coele-Syria 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 126n171
Achelous River 58 Commagene 124
Aesimoth 100 Croton 64
Africa 61n133, 186n20, 187n21, 188
Ai 100 Damascus (Damascene) 125 (Fig. 3.3)
Anatolia 189 Dan 67
Antilibanus range 123n161, 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), Dead Sea see Asphaltitis, Lake
126, 126nn, 188 Decapolis 54, 66, 94–95, 98–100, 100n48,
Antiochia 192n55 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–26, 129
Antioch, Syrian 126n171, 129n179 (Fig. 3.4), 134–35
Arabia 108 (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121–23, 121 (Fig. 3.2), Delphi 111
123n161, 126n171
Arctic, the 155 Egypt/Egyptians 39–40, 117, 122–23, 126n171,
Argaris, Mt. 123n161 127
Artabazanes 41n42, 64 Elim (Ailim) 100, 100n45
Ascalon 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122, Emmaus 129 (Fig. 3.4)
122n160, 125 (Fig. 3.3) Ephraim 141, 172
Asia 61n133, 64, 112, 186n20, 187n21 Ethiopia 100, 112
Asia Minor 128 Euphrates River 61–62
Asphaltitis, Lake (Dead/Salt Sea) 58, 58n119, Europe 25, 61n133, 112, 186n20, 187n21
66, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124,
124n166, 126–27, 129 (Fig. 3.4) Gadara/Gadarenes (Gadaris) 53, 56–57, 62,
Athens 64n142, 113 85n217, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 125 (Fig. 3.3),
Azotus/Azotians 126n170, 129 (Fig. 3.4) 127n173
Gades 61
Bethany 99, 109n92, 119, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 143 Gamala 56n110, 58, 58n119, 83–84, 86,
Bethany-beyond-Jordan 172 86n219, 88n224, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123
Bethel 100 Gaul 188
Bethlehem 134n191 Gaulanitis (Golan) 14, 35n11, 53, 56n110, 59,
Bethphage 99, 129 (Fig. 3.4) 62, 86, 86n219, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 186
Bethsaida (Julias) 35, 66, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 Gaza 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123–24,
(Fig. 3.2), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 131n183, 134nn, 123n161, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126n170, 127n173,
160, 160n99 129 (Fig. 3.4)
Bethzatha, Pool of 141 Gedor (Gadora/Gadara; in Perea) 127n173
Britain 188 Gerasa/Gerasenes 110n97, 135
Byzantium 57 Gerizim, Mt. 85, 123n161
Gezer (Gazara) 127n173
Caesarea Maritima 54, 104n70, 108 (Fig. 3.1), Gilgal 70
121 (Fig. 3.2), 129 (Fig. 3.4) Ginae(a) (Gema) 53, 53n102
Caesarea Philippi 55n107, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 Greece 38–40, 40n35, 63, 174
(Fig. 3.2), 134–35 (see also Paneas)
Canaan/Canaanites 69 Halys River 39
Capharabis 85n217 Hebron 85n217
Caphthera 85n217 Hellespont 58
Carmel, Mt. 52–53 Hermon, Mt. 67
Chrysorrhoas River 125 (Fig. 3.3) Hippo(s) 53, 56, 62, 66, 121 (Fig. 3.2)
Index Of Geographical Features And Locales 231
Idumea 85–86, 85n217, 104n68, 108 (Fig. 3.1), Mycenae 64n142

117, 121–23, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123nn, 125–26,
125n168, 126n170, 129, 129 (Fig. 3.4) New Carthage 41n45, 58, 58n120
Israel/Israelite 36, 89, 89n229, 100, 112, 116, Nile River 40n34, 61n133, 187n20
178, 192n55
Ister (Danube) River 61–62 “Ocean” 61–62, 61n133, 187n20
Italy 63, 70, 188 Oeniadae 58
Olives, Mount of 99, 99n43, 103n61, 129
Jamnia 122n159 (Fig. 3.4)
Jericho (Hiericus) 13–14, 57–58, 58n119, Orinen 128
117–18, 118n146, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 129 Orthosia 124
(Fig. 3.4), 130–31
Jerusalem 1, 12, 12n45, 17, 45, 58, 58n119, Palestine 29, 32n1, 34, 36, 41, 45, 70, 98,
76–78, 81n207, 83, 84n216, 86, 87n221, 106–7, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 110, 115–16, 121,
89n229, 91–92, 93n2, 94, 96, 97n32, 101, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123n161, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129
104, 105n74, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 109, 111–14, (Fig. 3.4), 138
117–19, 118n146, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124, 125 Paneas (Banias/Panias/Panion) 55, 55n107,
(Fig. 3.3), 129–30, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 129n179, 57, 57n112, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2),
132, 134–36, 136n201, 138, 139, 141, 123–24 (see also Caesarea Philippi)
143–44, 146, 152, 163, 164n110, 172–73, Temple of Augustus 57n112
190, 193 Parthia/Parthians 64
Jezreel Valley (Plain of Esdrealon) 1, 53 Peloponnese 64n142, 189
Joppa 37, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122, Pelusium (Pelusia) 123n161, 124
122n159, 124, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 127n173, 129 Perea (“beyond the Jordan”) 61–62, 62n136,
(Fig. 3.4) 64, 85–86, 85n217, 101, 104–5, 104n68,
Judea 36–38, 54n104, 57, 58nn, 59, 61–62, 64, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 117, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122–24,
66, 68, 73, 81n207, 83, 83n214, 88n224, 124n166, 127n173, 129–32, 129 (Fig. 3.4),
102–7, 104n68, 106n85, 107n86, 108 130n181, 136
(Fig. 3.1), 112, 116–18, 118n144, 120–37, Persia/Persians 39n31, 64
120n154, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122n158, 123nn, Phiale, Pool of 55
125 (Fig. 3.3), 126n170, 129 (Fig. 3.4), Philadelphia 117–18, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126
130n179, 141–42, 145–46, 149–50, 152, Philistia/Philistines 69
157–58, 163, 164n110, 165, 168, 172, Phoenician Sea 121 (Fig. 3.2) (see also
174–75, 177, 178n172, 179 Mediterranean Sea)
Phoenicia/Phoenicians 37n25, 52, 54, 108
Libanus range 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126, 126nn, 188 (Fig. 3.1), 121–25, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 125
Libya 61–63 (Fig. 3.3), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 129n179, 135
Lycaonia 113, 128 Pillars of Hercules (Strait of Gibraltar) 189
Lycus River 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126 Ptolemais 37, 52–54, 58, 58n119, 62, 69, 125
Lydda 129 (Fig. 3.4) (Fig. 3.3), 129 (Fig. 3.4), 192n55
Pylos 40n37
Machaerus 121 (Fig. 3.2), 124n166 Pyrenees Mountains 188
Masada (Moasada) 57, 58n119, 83, 125
(Fig. 3.3) Qumran 190
Media 64, 70
Mediterranean Sea 108 (Fig. 3.1), 125 Rhine River 62
(Fig. 3.3), 126, 126n172, 129 (Fig. 3.4), Rhodes 189n39
186n20
232 Index Of Geographical Features And Locales
Rome 63n141, 69, 76n198, 77, 104n68, Sirbonis, Lake 66n156, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 126–27,
111, 174, 187 127n173 (see also Asphaltitis, Lake)
Sodom 125 (Fig. 3.3)
Samaria/Samaritans 52–53, 53n102, 54n104, Spain 188
59, 61–62, 64, 84n216, 85, 101–5, 104n68, Sparta 56–57, 64n142
105nn, 107, 108 (Fig. 3.1), 110, 112, 118n146, Sphacteria 40n37
119–22, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 123n161, 125–26, Strato’s Tower 125 (Fig. 3.3) (see also
128–33, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 129n179, 135–37, Caesarea Maritima)
143–44, 146, 160n97, 163, 165, 169, Sychar 141–42
169n130, 172, 175, 177, 179 Syria 52, 54, 76, 98, 104n68, 108 (Fig. 3.1),
Samaria (Sebaste) 117–18, 125–26, 125 117, 121 (Fig. 3.2), 122–24, 123nn, 129
(Fig. 3.3) (Fig. 3.4)
Sardinia 189
Scythia 100 Tanais (Don) River 61n133, 187n20
Scythopolis 52, 62, 66–67, 126, 192n55 Taurus Mountains 189
Seleucis (Seleucia), Syrian 124, 126n171, Theuprosopon 125 (Fig. 3.3)
192n55 Thrace/Thracians 40n36
Sharon, Plain of 129 (Fig. 3.4) Trachonitis (Trachones) 78n201, 125
Sidon 69, 94–95, 98, 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129, 129 (Fig. 3.3)
(Fig. 3.4), 134 Transjordan 172, 175, 179 (see also Perea)
Sinai (Sina) 100, 100n45 Tyre 52–54, 62, 69, 94–95, 98, 108 (Fig. 3.1),
Sin, Wilderness of 100, 100n45 125 (Fig. 3.3), 129, 129 (Fig. 3.4), 134
Index of Subjects
Acceptance/rejection pattern 144, 146–50, Eratosthenes of Cyrene 184, 189, 189n39

157–69, 174, 179 Ethnography 39–40, 40n36, 41n42, 42,
Agrippa I 67, 104n68, 190, 190n48 45–46, 63, 84, 147, 184
Agrippa II 34, 35n11, 53, 57, 61, 76
Agrippa, M. Vipsanius 120n154, 187–88 Felix 54n104, 107n86
Alexander Lychnos of Ephesus 184 “Firstspace” 24, 47, 51–60, 61, 65, 70–71, 73,
‘Ammei ha-aretz 68 80, 85–86, 90
Andrew 160, 160n100 Form criticism 145
Anti-Judaism 133n189
Antiochus III (the Great) 64, 66 “Galileans”
Antipas 17, 35n11, 55, 59, 77–78, 89, 102, 104, in John 147–48, 157–63, 159n97, 160nn,
104n68, 109, 131 165, 165n120, 166, 166n121, 169n130,
Archelaus 104n68 173n141
Augustus 57n112, 112, 187 in Josephus 72–85, 87–88, 90
Galilee
Boustrophēdon 54 Agricultural produce of 57, 59–60, 62,
62n136, 66, 68, 70, 81, 127
Caesar, Julius 34n8, 188 Archaeology of 13–16, 19, 19n81, 32, 32n1,
Caiaphas 177 34, 77n200, 84n215, 89n229, 91, 93n2,
Caligula (Gaius) 190 96, 96n32, 156, 178n175, 186, 193
“Cartographic meaning” 27–29, 46, 154–156, Borders of 1, 52–54, 61–62, 67, 117–18, 120,
168, 169n130, 171, 173–75, 176–178, 180, 130–32, 137
182 Brigands in 67, 70, 76, 76n199, 79, 87–88,
Cestius Gallus 76 87n221
Chorography 31, 31n135, 57 Early Christian pilgrims in 12
Christology 101, 105n74, 109, 150, 175–76, 179n Ethnicity and 14–17, 32n1, 77n200,
Claudius 54n104 89n229, 96, 96n32, 192–93
Crispus of Tiberias 56 Fortification of 55–56, 55n109, 69
Critical Geography 4–11, 18, 29–30, 113, Historical study of 11–17, 30, 34, 72,
150–51, 180–82, 184–85, 190, 195 (see also 89–90, 92n1, 144, 180–81, 192, 194
Space, Theoretical approaches to) Jerusalem/Judea in contrast with 17,
John and 152–56, 175–79 77–78, 89–90, 89n229, 94, 96–97,
Josephus and 46–50, 87–90 96n32, 140n3, 141, 145–46, 148–49, 152,
Luke and 114–116, 133–38 157–69, 172, 174, 178n172, 193
Croesus 39 Natural features of 1, 54–55
Cumanus 54n104, 107n86 “of the Gentiles” 123n164, 192
Cynics 16, 97n32 Rabbinic views of 13, 67–68, 131n184,
135, 148
Diaphragma 189, 189n39 Samaria’s rivalry with 53–54, 54n104
Diaspora 44, 190 Upper and Lower 14, 52–53, 53n101,
Dicaearchus of Messana 189, 189n39 67–69, 86n219
Docetism 175–77 Urban/rural rivalry in 17, 79, 81, 83
Dualism, Johannine 142, 144n23 Geography
Apologetic 71, 77, 79–81
234 Index Of Subjects
Geography (cont.) Historiography 34, 35n14, 38, 40, 45, 48–50,

Askew 124n166, 126n172, 188–89 54, 56, 72, 85, 86n220, 138
Climate and 35, 39, 57, 63, 63n141, 100 “Hyperreal” 27n123, 153
Critical see Critical Geography
Discourse (critical, social, spatial) and 4, “Imaginative geography” 24–26, 29, 46,
6–8, 10–11, 19n82, 20–22, 21n88, 24–26, 115–38, 180, 182, 185
47–49, 60, 65–66, 68, 70–71, 82, 114–15, Imago mundi 111–12, 190
115n136, 142, 151, 183 Ioudaioi 139–40, 139n3, 145–48, 157–58,
Excursuses on 12, 34–36, 35n12, 36n16, 159n93, 160–63, 162n106, 165, 165n118,
38–41, 41nn, 45, 55–59, 61, 63–64, 66, 167–69, 169n130, 171–73, 173n141, 175
66n151, 68, 72, 81–82 Itineraria 39n28, 188–89
Feminist 10–11
Greco-Roman 38–41, 45, 65, 70–71, 81, 86, Jerusalem delegation 77–78
111–13, 111n105, 187–90 Jesus (son of Sapphias) of Tiberias 56, 80,
Human 10–11, 19n79, 21, 26, 114n130 88n224
Kant, Immanuel and 5–7 Jews, Greco-Roman views of 66–67, 66nn,
Linear 39, 39n28, 190 133, 133n189, 138
Literary 184, 189, 189n37, 190 Johannine Community 141, 143, 146, 149, 156,
Marxist 7–11, 8nn, 10n39, 21–22, 48–49 172, 173n141, 178n175, 179
(see also “Spatial Turn”) John of Gischala 75n195, 76, 78, 80–81,
Military 40–42, 57–58, 64, 81 84n216
Physical 1, 10, 17–18, 19n79 John the Baptist 102, 103n61, 130n181, 151, 158
Positivism and 6–7, 17–18, 20, 30, 51, Judas Iscariot 161, 167n128
153n73, 182 Judas Maccabeus 69
Postmodernism and 9–10, 10n39, 11, Judas “the Galilean” 80n206, 87
19n79, 27, 30–31, 154–55, 154n76 Justus of Tiberias 74–77, 79–80
Regional 40, 41n42, 57–58, 60–61
Social theory and 6–11, 18, 22–23, 48 κόσμος 141–42, 161, 167, 170–71, 173, 175,
Symbolism in 20n86, 24, 44, 60, 71, 73, 177–79
75, 95, 97–98, 102, 103n61, 105n74, 108, Kypros map 190
119, 127, 141, 143–52, 155–56, 159, 164n110,
168, 170, 173, 176–77, 176n165, 190 Landnahme 7
Text as metaphor for 19–20, 19n82, Land theology 20n86, 42–43, 45–46, 119, 150,
25–26 190–91
Hasmoneans 15, 53, 69–70, 89n229 Mappaemundi 186–87, 186n20

Hecataeus of Abdera 66, 66n151 Mapping
Hecataeus of Miletus 38, 191 Conventional 47–48, 51–52, 63, 65, 72,
Heilsgeschichte 101–2, 102n55 87, 94, 107, 108 (fig. 3.1), 109–10, 117–20,
Heracleon 140 121n155, 123–24, 126–27, 126n170,
Herod Antipas see Antipas 129n179, 130n181, 131–32, 136–37, 152–53,
Herod the Great 54, 70, 100, 104n68, 117–18 195
Hipparchus of Nicea 184 Distortion in 28, 154, 171, 173–74, 177,
Historical criticism 2, 13, 18, 29, 34, 92n1, 113, 185–90
180–82 Imaginative 5n12, 84n215, 185, 190, 195
Historical Jesus 2n4, 16–17, 32, 34, 91, 143, Instability of 153, 155, 168, 170, 192
151, 194–95 “Palimpsest” as metaphor for 28, 49–50,
49n87, 154, 157
Index Of Subjects 235
Provisionality of 28–29, 154–55, 168, 171, Sabbath 78, 78n201, 158

174, 179, 182, 185 “Secondspace” 24, 47, 60–70, 71, 73, 81
Simultaneity of 19, 28–29, 49, 155, 157, Sicarii 73, 87
168, 170–71, 173–74, 185, 190–91, 195 Sign faith 164–66, 170
Situatedness 26, 186, 191 Simulacra 153
Meiron Excavation Project 14–15 Space
μένω 149, 164n110, 172–73, 172nn Conceived 24, 47, 50, 60, 183, 191
Miqva’ot 15, 15n65, 96n32 Lived 24, 47–48, 50, 71, 80, 115
Molon 64 Perceived 24, 47, 50–51, 60
Moses 57, 167, 169n130 Power and 49, 49n89
Theoretical approaches to 3, 5, 8–10,
Narrative Criticism 44–45, 113 21–24, 47, 49, 60, 87–88, 92n1, 111–14,
Nathanael 135n200, 158, 160, 160n98, 170–71 142, 181–86, 193–94 (see also Critical
Nero 35n11, 55–56 Geography)
Nicodemus 135, 159, 159n97, 160n101, “Spatial Turn” 8–10, 18, 22, 181, 194
167n127 Synagogue 12, 14, 96n32, 106, 131, 157, 172–73,
173n141
Oikoumenē 38–39, 39n31, 40n41, 42–43, 52,
61, 61n133, 63, 112, 174 Table of Nations tradition 67, 111–13, 134,
Ortsangabe 142 187n21
Tabula Peutingeriana 188, 189n36, 190n43
Parousia 94–95, 97 Temple 15, 89, 96n32, 150–51, 158, 162,
πατρίς 45–46, 84n216, 145, 163–65, 163nn, 164n110, 166n121, 172–73, 190
164n110, 165n119, 168, 170–71, 171n134, Terrestrial history 59 (see also Galilee,
174, 178–79, 178n172 Agricultural produce of)
Pentecost 92, 112 Territoriality 148–49
Periplus tradition 189–90, 189n37 “Thirdspace” 21–24, 29, 47–50, 49n89,
Peter 96, 135, 158, 160, 160n100, 167n128 70–86, 87–88, 90, 114–15, 180
Pharisees 15, 131, 159, 162, 169, 172 Titus (Roman general and emperor)
Philip (disciple of Jesus) 158, 160, 160n100 120n154
Philip of Thessalonica 190 Travelling concept 183, 183n13, 185
Philip (tetrarch) 35n11, 55, 59, 134n194, Travel narratives
160nn in John 139–40
Phormio 58 in the Synoptics 91, 98, 98n39, 101–10,
Pomponius Mela 31n135, 184 105n74, 117–19, 128–31, 134n193, 135, 139
Pontius Pilate 104, 104n68, 130–31, 170–71
πόθεν 169–170, 170n132, 177 Vespasian 35, 36n16, 69, 84n216, 120n154
Ptolemy 4, 31, 126n172, 184, 187–88, 189n40,
191 Zealots 73–74, 87
Q 17, 91–92, 92n2, 102, 104, 129, 131, 134n194

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Mapping Galilee in Josephus, Luke, and John

Ancient Judaism and

Martin Hengel † (Tübingen)

Cilliers Breytenbach (Berlin)

Lutz Doering (Münster) – Pieter W. van der Horst (Utrecht)

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ajec

John M. Vonder Bruegge

Names: Vonder Bruegge, John M., author.

Copyright 2016 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

1 Galilee and Critical Geography: The Lay of the Land 1

5 Galilee and Critical Geography: A New “Spatial Turn” 180

This study is an adaptation of my 2011 Yale University dissertation and happily

3.1 Palestine in the first century CE: The conventional map 108

Galilee and Critical Geography: The Lay of the Land

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004317345_002

freedom, mildness, and tenderness, and at the time of Jesus it overflowed

Renan backed up his description by citing Josephus.

Trajectory #1: Critical Geography

The Roots of “Involution”

the chorological science of geography and the chronological science of history,

21 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 38.

The Spatial Turn

on to produce one of the most important manifestoes of spatial theory under

The New Human Geography

“human.” Although the field of “Human Geography” is hardly a recent develop-

Trajectory #2: Galilee in History

Whereas geography has embraced a critical and theoretical discourse about

Early Exploration of Galilee

The Archaeology of Galilee

work at Jericho became apparent.55 Archaeology was asserting itself as a dis-

55 Ibid., 48–50.

The Historical Jesus in Galilee

of economics, social structure, hellenization, language, culture, affinity for

The Point of Intersection

improvements” go hand-in-hand with “neutrality,” or that neutrality is even a

a linear flow of language, a sequential succession that is inherently tied to

Galilee, by Way of Critical Geography

83 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2; cf. Harley, “Deconstructing,” 238.

perspective.87 What follows is a sampling of voices, some of which belong to

Soja, by Way of Lefebvre, and Thirdspace

My objective . . . can be simply stated. It is to encourage you to think dif-

Relations with two elements boil down to oppositions, contrasts or

96 Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding,” 268.

effect of dematerializing space, of relegating it to the realm of “pure ideation.”101

If Firstspace is explored primarily through its readable texts and contexts,

Thirdspace is the lens by which space is shown to be inherently political,

Said, by Way of Foucault, and Imaginative Geography

imperialistic endeavors, conceived for the purpose of maintaining control over

Imaginative geography . . . legitimates a vocabulary, a universe of repre-

Read as geographical texts, these vocabularies are generative. Or, to put it

characterization of knowledge as discourse, recognizing that an understand-

King, by Way of Baudrillard, and Cartographic Meaning

In the modernist experience, it is argued, the notion of representation in

124 King, Mapping Reality, 18.

Nevertheless, because of the power of maps to influence and to affect change,

This study is not an exercise in historical geography as it relates to Galilee but

institutionalized. All the apparatus of the academy—teachers, courses, journals, texts,

a danger in the corresponding “triumphalistic”133 tone which characterizes

Interpretations of Josephus are subject to pitfalls and difficulties even without

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���6 | doi ��.��63/9789004317345_003

each of which recognizes Josephus’ frequent contradictions and the confound-

It is no coincidence that interest in Josephus’ geography has paralleled two

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004317345_002

21 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 38.

55 Ibid., 48–50.

83 Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2; cf. Harley, “Deconstructing,” 238.

96 Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding,” 268.

124 King, Mapping Reality, 18.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004317345_003

22 Josephus, J.W. 3.51.

62 Halpern-Amaru, “Land Theology in Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities,” 229.

69 Ibid., 205.

90 Lefebvre, Space, 65.

91 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 76.

116 Polybius, Hist. 4.38.13.

122 Strabo, Geogr. 1.1.16.

126 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 10–11.

130 Ibid., 41.

147 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 11.

160 Cappelletti, “Non-Jewish Authors on Galilee,” 81.

170 See the note by Marcus (LCL; Ant. XII–XIII, 220).

171 Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys, 163.

187 Zeitlin, “Who Were the Galileans,” 193.

205 Freyne, “The Galileans,” 34.

230 Freyne, Galilee: From Alexander, 129; cf. 234, 311.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ��6 | doi ��.��63/9789004317345_004

4 Lohmeyer, Galiläa, 26.

24 Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 28–29, 111.

35 Collins, Mark, 369.